The Farm 2013. Flash Fiction and Snippets Critique Hub (<1000 Words)

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minstrels: Nov 15, 2009

Wrote this a few years ago and short of letting a few friends read it I never really found out if it was actually any good.

John

Word count: 674

The bank was quiet. It was 10am and there was only one customer: an elderly woman withdrawing money for her grandson�s birthday card. Two clerks were on duty; a woman in her 40s who had worked in the bank for 20 years, and a 19 year old university student who worked there 3 days a week to help pay for her studies. The elderly woman was just putting her purse back into her bag and getting ready to leave when three men casually strolled into the bank. As soon as the veteran clerk saw the men she knew exactly what was about to happen, and readied herself. The three men were dressed in black from head to toe. They had balaclavas on. One was carrying a double-barrelled shotgun, which he pointed at the elderly woman, the other two men were carrying AK-47s, now aimed directly at the clerks.

The man with the shotgun had a large sports bag on his shoulder, and he threw it to the older clerk. �Fill the bag.� The clerk filled the bag with startling pace, emptying all the cash drawers in less than a minute. When she was done she zipped the bag up and threw it back to the man with the shotgun. He unzipped it and looked inside, rummaging around a little. His face lit up. He was clearly satisfied with the results. Suddenly, as he was zipping the bag back up, he dropped the shotgun and fell onto the floor, blood pouring from his head. One of the men with an assault rifle swung round to see where the shot had come from and was met with the same fate. As if it was nothing, the remaining man dropped his gun, picked up the bag and exited the bank.

* * *

The van rounded the corner so fast it almost tipped over. The man driving was a professional, the two men in the back didn't worry at all. They were all professionals. Today the Boss had them snatching a man off the street. They didn't know why, all they knew was that he was called John and that he had done something the Boss didn't like. They had his picture, and knew where he was going to be.

They rounded another corner, this time slower. They didn't want to alert the man they just drove past. The driver got a good look and knew it was John. He drove round the block once and was once again a few yards away from John. This time the van sped alongside him and stopped abruptly. In a matter of seconds the door was flung open and John was snatched off the street. Quick, easy. The way the Boss likes it.

* * *

John was tied to a chair. It was dark. His mouth was swollen and covered in dried, congealed blood from the beatings. He was stinking of blood and sweat, the black eyes already beginning to form. Suddenly the single light fitting in the tiny, windowless room turned on, and it stung his eyes. He couldn't remember the last time the light had been on, or whether he'd slept. All he could remember was black.

A dark figure appeared in front of him, wielding a pistol. "It could be the Boss, but the Boss didn't like to get his hands dirty so it was probably just one of his goons," John thought. The man spoke. His voice was raspy, clearly a heavy smoker. John's hearing was shot from all the blows to the head, but he didn't need to hear the question, they'd been asking him it since the moment he woke up in the room: "Where's the money?" "gently caress you." The man raised the gun to John's forehead. "Last chance." John cleared all the phlegm from his throat and spat. Directly onto the shoes of the man with the gun. A shot rang out, and as the blood flowed from the wound in John's head the Boss realised he'd never see that money again.

# ? Dec 21, 2013 21:46

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# ? May 28, 2024 11:34

Helsing: Aug 23, 2003; DON'T POST IN THE ELECTION THREAD UNLESS YOU JOE BIDEN

minstrels posted:

Wrote this a few years ago and short of letting a few friends read it I never really found out if it was actually any good.

John

Word count: 674

The bank was quiet. It was 10am and there was only one customer: an elderly woman withdrawing money for her grandson�s birthday card. Two clerks were on duty; a woman in her 40s who had worked in the bank for 20 years, and a 19 year old university student who worked there 3 days a week to help pay for her studies. The elderly woman was just putting her purse back into her bag and getting ready to leave when three men casually strolled into the bank. A "casual stroll" seems redundant. As soon as the veteran clerk saw the men she knew exactly what was about to happen, and readied herself.Does it really take a veteran to understand what is happening when three masked men with guns enter a bank? The three men were dressed in black from head to toe. They had balaclavas on. One was carrying a double-barrelled shotgun, which he pointed at the elderly woman, the other two men were carrying AK-47s, now aimed directly at the clerks.

The man with the shotgun had a large sports bag on his shoulder, and he threw it to the older clerk. �Fill the bag.� The clerk filled the bag with startling pace, emptying all the cash drawers in less than a minute. When she was done she zipped the bag up and threw it back to the man with the shotgun. He unzipped it and looked inside, rummaging around a little. His face lit up. He was clearly satisfied with the results. Suddenly, as he was zipping the bag back up, he dropped the shotgun and fell onto the floor, blood pouring from his head. One of the men with an assault rifle swung round to see where the shot had come from and was met with the same fate. As if it was nothing, the remaining man dropped his gun, picked up the bag and exited the bank. This heist makes no sense to me. If all they wanted to do was clear out the registers at the front then why even bother to flash a gun? An exgirlfriend of mine worked at a bank that got robbed this way and she didn't even know what happened until it was over. The guy just walked up to the teller with a note and the teller gave him $700, which is about the maximum amount you can expect to get from a till. When you walk in with a sports bag and heavy firepower you're presumably going to want to hit the safe. It also makes no sense to bring two extra guys and then kill them before making your escape. If the cops had showed up quickly then that guy really could have used two extra guns during the ensuing shootout. He also just ensured that if he gets caught he's now facing a double murder rap. Also why wasn't there a guard on duty in the bank, and if there wasn't a guard and he didn't intend to use them to help him during the getaway then why did this guy even bother to bring two extra men along for a job that only would have taken one person to begin with? Finally, your description of the men getting shot is supremely unexciting.

* * *

The van rounded the corner so fast it almost tipped over. The man driving was a professional, the two men in the back didn't worry at all. Yawn. They were all professionals. Today the Boss had them snatching a man off the street. They didn't know why, all they knew was that he was called John and that he had done something the Boss didn't like. They had his picture, and knew where he was going to be. How do they know?

They rounded another corner, this time slower. They didn't want to alert the man they just drove past. The driver got a good look and knew it was John. He drove round the block once and was once again a few yards away from John. This time the van sped alongside him and stopped abruptly. In a matter of seconds the door was flung open and John was snatched off the street. Quick, easy. The way the Boss likes it.

* * *

John was tied to a chair. It was dark. His mouth was swollen and covered in dried, congealed blood from the beatings. He was stinking of blood and sweat, the black eyes already beginning to form. Suddenly the single light fitting in the tiny, windowless room turned on, and it stung his eyes. He couldn't remember the last time the light had been on, or whether he'd slept. All he could remember was black. I can't quite put my finger on it but your descriptions feel so weird, like you're just listing off facts in sequence. It isn't a terrible exciting way to be describing what should be a very tense scene.

A dark figure appeared in front of him, wielding a pistol.So generic "It could be the Boss, but the Boss didn't like to get his hands dirty so it was probably just one of his goons," John thought.Is this really the way somebody about to die sounds, even within their own head? The man spoke. His voice was raspy, clearly a heavy smoker. John's hearing was shot from all the blows to the head, but he didn't need to hear the question, they'd been asking him it since the moment he woke up in the room: "Where's the money?" "gently caress you." You need a paragraph break between each line of dialogue The man raised the gun to John's forehead. "Last chance." John cleared all the phlegm from his throat and spat. Directly onto the shoes of the man with the gun. A shot rang out, and as the blood flowed from the wound in John's head the Boss realised he'd never see that money again.

After reading this I really have no idea what happened. I assume John was the guy who burned his two associates and that he did it so that he could take money that should have been kicked up to the boss, but the main reason I'm putting that together is because everything here is a stale cliche. The writing style is pretty flat.

# ? Dec 22, 2013 01:45

Mercedes: Mar 7, 2006; "So you Jesus?"

"And you black?"

"Nigga prove it!"

And so Black Jesus turned water into a bucket of chicken. And He saw that it was good.

I'm not going give you a line by line. But I tell you this: The opening is sooo important. If you have a solid opening, one that pops at the reader and pulls their attention in right away, you get much more leeway if the rest of the story sucks.

For example.

quote:

The bank was quiet. It was 10am and there was only one customer: an elderly woman withdrawing money for her grandson�s birthday card. Two clerks were on duty; a woman in her 40s who had worked in the bank for 20 years, and a 19 year old university student who worked there 3 days a week to help pay for her studies.

loving boooooooring. I don't give a poo poo. The old lady is never mentioned and the clerk is a throwaway character to introduce what's really gonna happen. You should have started your story guns blazing; literally."

quote:

Three masked and armed men burst into the bank etc

poo poo like that grabs your reader by the loving balls.

# ? Dec 22, 2013 05:49

Helsing: Aug 23, 2003; DON'T POST IN THE ELECTION THREAD UNLESS YOU JOE BIDEN

So here's a short little piece that is supposed to be the introduction of a story I'm working on. I'll warn people that right now it ends pretty abruptly, this isn't a finished piece of fiction, it's just the intended opening for a short story.

Any feedback is welcome but what I want to know, most of all, is whether reader's finder this griping or intriuging. Basically does it pass the most basic of all tests: do you want to keep reading when you're done? If you find it boring from the very opening let me know. If there's a specific line where you suddenly lost interest please say so. What I'm really trying to do here is just get a feel for whether these first few hundred words are doing a sufficient job of drawing the reader in and making them interested in finding out what happens next:

Running on Empty

She know something is wrong within seconds of Tom picking up the phone. After fifteen years she can read his face. His mother, she thinks, the old witch is finally dead. They will have to get plane tickets, of course, and hotel accommodations for at least a week. Knowing Tom�s sister they�ll end up arranging most of the funeral as well.

�They need you back at the hospital,� says Tom as he sets the phone back into the receiver. �Somebody just blew up half the down-town.�

She looks at the half empty glass of Chardonnay that is still clutched in her hand. She has spent nine hours today on her feet and this is her third glass since getting home. But they wouldn't be calling her unless it was bad. In a voice that feels like it�s coming from some distant place inside of her she asks Tom to get the car keys and then she goes to the kitchen sink and splashes cold water on her face.

Five minutes into the drive she asks him to turn off the radio. More than a hundred dead, twice that number maimed and disfigured by the blast. They�re saying that half of Main Street is gone; the rest is on fire. She doesn't need the radio to tell her that though, she can see the massive plume of black smoke rising over the tree line, its underbelly lit up red by the flickering lights of the emergency vehicles.

She tells herself that the shaking in her hands is nerves, not wine. As a girl she watched her father operate on dogs and horses when he was six drinks deep. Until the day that a Mustang kicked the front of his skull in she never once saw him make a mistake.

The trauma ward she left two hours ago is unrecognizable; the midsized small town hospital she remembers has been replaced by an abattoir. The blood-and-poo poo smell of death is overwhelming; the excess patients are stacked on the linoleum floors like discarded cordwood.

# ? Dec 27, 2013 23:59

Mr_Wolf: Jun 18, 2013

I've written a little piece which i hope would fall under the "comedy" section. It's about 1500 words though so would i be thrown into a corner and forced to gargle sulfuric acid if i posted it here? I don't really think it's worthy of a new thread. It's not part of a bigger story it's just a new style of writing i tried out and would love to hear some first impressions on it from someone.

# ? Dec 28, 2013 15:40

Mr_Wolf: Jun 18, 2013

Helsing posted:

Running on Empty

She knows something is wrong within seconds of Tom picking up the phone. After fifteen years she can read his face. His mother, she thinks, the old witch is finally dead. They will have to get plane tickets, of course, and hotel accommodations for at least a week. Knowing Tom�s sister they�ll end up arranging most of the funeral as well.

�They need you back at the hospital,� says Tom as he sets the phone back into the receiver. �Somebody just blew up half ~~the~~of down-town.�

She looks at the half empty glass of Chardonnay that is still clutched in her hand. She has spent nine hours today on her feet and this is her third glass since getting home.Boring details that keep me from the whole city is a crumbling inferno incident But they wouldn't be calling her unless it was bad. We got that from Tom's last sentence. Get to the action. In a voice that feels like it�s coming from some distant place inside of her she asks Tom to get the car keys and then she goes to the kitchen sink and splashes cold water on her face.

Five minutes into the drive she asks him to turn off the radio. More than a hundred dead, twice that number maimed and disfigured by the blast. They�re saying that half of Main Street is gone; the rest is on fire. She doesn't need the radio to tell her that though, she can see the massive plume of black smoke rising over the tree line, its underbelly lit up red by the flickering lights of the emergency vehicles. If 5 minutes into a drive they can see the black smoke surely they would have heard the explosion earlier?

She tells herself that the shaking in her hands is nerves, not wine. As a girl she watched her father operate on dogs and horses when he was six drinks deep. Until the day that a Mustang kicked the front of his skull in she never once saw him make a mistake. Was he drinking too much? Are you going to link in with her Father's drinking history at some stage? If not i don't see why that sentence or the sentences earlier describing her drinking are there at all.

The trauma ward she left two hours ago is unrecognizable; the midsized small "midsized small" Pick one. town hospital she remembers has been replaced by an abattoir. The blood-and-poo poo smell of death is overwhelming; the excess patients are stacked on the linoleum floors like discarded cordwood. Is it a little quick to have so many bodies at the hospital? You mentioned "half of down-town" was gone earlier wouldn't a place like this have more than one hospital? I'm British so i don't really know how small a city that has a down-town could be to be honest.

It's an OK start. For me i don't really get that feeling that i have to know what happens next. So far it's a generic disaster story with characters that don't really escape from "WOMAN" and "BOYFRIEND". I think the story of her Father could be interesting if it relates to her in this situation; someone who slowly sinks into a drinking habit and is suddenly clawing back their skills when under pressure.

I also feel their entrance to the hospital could be more brutal. You said there are hundreds of people burned and maimed, i feel this could hold a bigger emotional reaction than the - all too quick in my view - body stacking imagery.

Man, this is my first time critiquing and i felt so bad doing it! Hope i wasn't too harsh mate.

Mr_Wolf fucked around with this message at 16:07 on Dec 28, 2013

# ? Dec 28, 2013 16:03

crabrock: Aug 2, 2002; I

AM

MAGNIFICENT

Mr_Wolf posted:

Hope i wasn't too harsh mate.

unpossible

# ? Dec 28, 2013 18:46

sebmojo: Oct 23, 2010; Legit Cyberpunk

crabrock posted:

unpossible

Correct. Drop your 1500 words here, noone will mind.

# ? Dec 28, 2013 20:58

Mr_Wolf: Jun 18, 2013

I wrote this for a writing exercise. Basically i'm trying to write something everyday and this came out. There are a few examples of British slang in here too (Sound = OK, slag = Whore/slut). I apologise in advance for the horrifying abruptness of the ending.

First Date

I stepped up to her door. I checked my breath for the 23rd time in the 5 minute walk from my house. I did the hand-iron for the last time: that brilliant teenage gift of believing flattening your clothes down hard with your hands would eliminate the creases.

Ok, This is it.

I knocked.

All time slowed down as she opened the door. I almost initiated a last minute breath test but it was too late: there she was.

Jenny Talton was a b-lister at school. Some days she would be higher as she hung around with her cousin who is one of the most popular girls at school. When i say popular i of course mean she is a slag. You knew that anyway didn't you?

Luckily i caught her in her b-lister stage. I'm a firm d-lister. Fairly popular within certain circles. Mainly the circles that comprise of nerds and virgins.

I plucked up the courage to ask Jenny out after an English lesson 3 days ago. We had sat next to each other and i made her laugh by drawing a detailed penis on my hand. It had veins and shading on the balls. It was almost beautiful.

As she turned to answer me i half expected her to gob in my mouth and slap me in the throat for even suggesting going out with someone in a lower listing than her, but to my surprise she smiled at me and accepted.

I focused in on my arm as she scrawled her number along it. It wasn't just an arm anymore; it was a wonderful slab of meat with a load of numbers in just the right order that if i dialed them i would hear a beautiful girl's voice on the other end - a thing i usually have to pay �1.99 a minute for. The added heart at the end of it was a touch of pure class and almost got me fully erect.

For the rest of that week i didn't speak to her. Weird? Of course. Necessary? Of course.

So i did what any normal teenage boy did when an attractive girl looked at you: i nodded in her direction and did a weird "trying to be cool but also could be having a violent stroke" smile at her.

As she stood there in the doorway i saw she was wearing black knee high socks, a short denim skirt, a black, sparkly shirt with rips at the bottom with rebel written across her boob area and a grey hoodie. I almost blurted "Jesus Christ you're so fit" but luckily my brain stopped me. I won't tell you what my penis was thinking.

"You alright?"

I desperately tried to compose myself, straining with every fiber of my being not to commit the ultimate embarrassment a teenage boy could face: the voice break halfway through a sentence.

I cleared my throat in my head..."Yeah sound, you alright?"

YESSSSS!! I sounded like a man! An actual human man. With a normal, consistent tone! This, this is the single greatest moment of my life.

"I'm going Mum. I'll be in by 11"

She slammed the door shut and shoved her arm under mine and linked my arm with hers. She let out an exaggerated shiver and blew out. I watched the cold air catch her breath and spiral it off into the night.

"Come on then you"

I didn't hesitate.

As a teenager your choice of destination for a date is severely limited. Especially in the small town we live in. I'm not saying it's backward but i wouldn't be surprised if a large number of them still worship the sun. The huge, life-giving star not the paper. Although saying that...

Anyway, as we headed towards the bowling alley - or THE BOWLING PALACE as they optimistically call it - i realised something: I hadn't said a word in nearly 5 minutes. I have to talk. I have to. I don't want her thinking i'm a rapist. Or even worse: boring.

Normal voice. Normal voice. Please let me use my normal man voice and not the one that sounds like a gorilla is squeezing my windpipe at sporadic intervals. Ok, don't let me down...

"School's poo poo isn't it?"

She zipped her hoodie up and looked at me. I quickly looked at my shoes like a mental.

"Nah, it's alright. Better than my old one"

"Yeah it's alright isn't it?"

Genius. What a genius i am. I'm surprised she hasn't dropped her knickers and beckoned me in with that show of my conversational skills. I hate myself so much right now. School. Bloody school is a crap topic on a date, especially with someone like Jenny. I may not even masturbate tonight as a punishment.

I totally will. I'm so weak.

Thankfully we approached the neon, noise factory that was THE BOWLING PALACE. Yeah right, "palace". If your palace has a row of stinking bins near the front door and an alleyway that is known locally to be a "fingering hotspot" you mean.

We walked in and i scanned the room hoping to see every single person i have ever known, looked at or even imagined being here to see me with a woman. A real woman with boobs, a face and a deep, suppressed vicious anger ready to be unleashed on a pathetic man at any point.

Unfortunately i counted 6 people. Us included.

"I'll set up our game, will you buy me a drink please?"

She handed me a crumpled �5 and as she walked off her fingers gently brushed mine as i took her money. It was better than sex. I watched her walk over to an alley and begin to type away on the screen. I looked at her bum. It was perfect. I didn't even think sexual thoughts i just wanted to cry as i rested my face on it.

Is that sexual? It's probably Japanese sexual.

Is she a Coke girl? Nah, it's too mainstream for her. She is far too cool for that. Irn Bru? Pepsi? poo poo. I hate making decisions. It takes me about an hour to settle on one porno to watch. All those little thumbnails look so appealing.

I looked up to stare at her bum again and i saw him looming over her. Him.

Danny Ranger.

He is the size of an oak tree, has arms so muscular that i want to be scooped up by him as i tell him my secrets whilst sobbing gently as he gently squeezes my troubles away.

Basically a bastard. A bastard who needs to piss off immediately.

Also his eyes. Did i tell you about the eyes? They are so blue it makes me want to kill myself. I looked into them once and almost had a period. In his spare time he volunteers at the old people's home. Yep, using his own free will he enters a building full of wrinkles and piss.

What. A. Prick.

Oh really?! If it couldn't get any worse Gary Sinnott is there. Wonderful! I may as well poo poo myself. This night couldn't get any worse.

Me and Gary - or Sinno as he likes to be known - have a little history. A few weeks ago in DT he was spinning a coping saw around using a file. It was not only dangerous it was disrespecting the noble profession of the carpenter. I respectfully told him to stop it. First mistake.

"You're a gay human being and so is your Dad"

I was going to comment on the unnecessary tautology of the "gay human being" insult but let it slide.

"You need to learn to have a bit of respect, i could be your Dad i've had your Mum so much"

I was going to comment on the scientific impossibility of him siring a child at 6 months old but i again let it slide.

"Yeah, your Dad doesn't say anything as i plow into your Mum. Just sits there watching"

Wait a minute. Did i just hear that correctly?

"You say my Dad sits and watches?"

"Yeah"

"But you said he was a "gay human being" earlier"

"Yeah he is. A proper mincing one an' all"

His pack laughed as their leader said some words.

"So who is he watching then?"

"What?"

"When he is sitting there watching you have intercourse with my wonderful Mother. . . surely he is watching you? You like having sex with women as silent gay men watch you."

The silence was joyous. I had won! Not using violence. Or through petty insults. I had won by sheer... and that's when the file hit me in the face. My eye socket took around 60% of the force, my cheekbone the other 40%.

As i lay sprawled out on the sawdust covered floor i realised something: a little sliver of poo had escaped my shocked sphincter on impact. I think i also pissed myself a little bit when my pathetic body hit the floor.

Well isn't this fantastic i thought; not only did i get hit in my face with a metal tool but my body had decided to just start secreting bodily fluid from most of my orifices! Nice one for that, brilliant.

# ? Dec 28, 2013 22:51

sebmojo: Oct 23, 2010; Legit Cyberpunk

Mr_Wolf posted:

I wrote this for a writing exercise. Basically i'm trying to write something everyday and this came out. There are a few examples of British slang in here too (Sound = OK, slag = Whore/slut). I apologise in advance for the horrifying abruptness of the ending.

First Date

I stepped up to her door. I checked my breath for the 23rd time in the 5 minute walk from my house. I did the hand-iron for the last time: that brilliant teenage gift of believing flattening your clothes down hard with your hands would eliminate the creases.

Ok, This is it.

I knocked.

All time slowed down as she opened the door. I almost initiated a last minute breath test but it was too late: there she was.

Jenny Talton was a b-lister at school. Some days she would be higher as she hung around with her cousin who is one of the most popular girls at school. When i say popular i of course mean she is a slag. You knew that anyway didn't you?

Luckily i caught her in her b-lister stage. I'm a firm d-lister. Fairly popular within certain circles. Mainly the circles that comprise of nerds and virgins.

I plucked up the courage to ask Jenny out after an English lesson 3 days ago. We had sat next to each other and i made her laugh by drawing a detailed penis on my hand. It had veins and shading on the balls. It was almost beautiful.

As she turned to answer me i half expected her to gob in my mouth and slap me in the throat for even suggesting going out with someone in a lower listing than her, but to my surprise she smiled at me and accepted.

I focused in on my arm as she scrawled her number along it. It wasn't just an arm anymore; it was a wonderful slab of meat with a load of numbers in just the right order that if i dialed them i would hear a beautiful girl's voice on the other end - a thing i usually have to pay �1.99 a minute for. The added heart at the end of it was a touch of pure class and almost got me fully erect.

For the rest of that week i didn't speak to her. Weird? Of course. Necessary? Of course.

So i did what any normal teenage boy did when an attractive girl looked at you: i nodded in her direction and did a weird "trying to be cool but also could be having a violent stroke" smile at her.

As she stood there in the doorway i saw she was wearing black knee high socks, a short denim skirt, a black, sparkly shirt with rips at the bottom with rebel written across her boob area and a grey hoodie. I almost blurted "Jesus Christ you're so fit" but luckily my brain stopped me. I won't tell you what my penis was thinking.

"You alright?"

I desperately tried to compose myself, straining with every fiber of my being not to commit the ultimate embarrassment a teenage boy could face: the voice break halfway through a sentence.

I cleared my throat in my head..."Yeah sound, you alright?"

YESSSSS!! I sounded like a man! An actual human man. With a normal, consistent tone! This, this is the single greatest moment of my life.

"I'm going Mum. I'll be in by 11"

She slammed the door shut and shoved her arm under mine and linked my arm with hers. She let out an exaggerated shiver and blew out. I watched the cold air catch her breath and spiral it off into the night.

"Come on then you"

I didn't hesitate.

As a teenager your choice of destination for a date is severely limited. Especially in the small town we live in. I'm not saying it's backward but i wouldn't be surprised if a large number of them still worship the sun. The huge, life-giving star not the paper. Although saying that...

Anyway, as we headed towards the bowling alley - or THE BOWLING PALACE as they optimistically call it - i realised something: I hadn't said a word in nearly 5 minutes. I have to talk. I have to. I don't want her thinking i'm a rapist. Or even worse: boring.

Normal voice. Normal voice. Please let me use my normal man voice and not the one that sounds like a gorilla is squeezing my windpipe at sporadic intervals. Ok, don't let me down...

"School's poo poo isn't it?"

She zipped her hoodie up and looked at me. I quickly looked at my shoes like a mental.

"Nah, it's alright. Better than my old one"

"Yeah it's alright isn't it?"

Genius. What a genius i am. I'm surprised she hasn't dropped her knickers and beckoned me in with that show of my conversational skills. I hate myself so much right now. School. Bloody school is a crap topic on a date, especially with someone like Jenny. I may not even masturbate tonight as a punishment.

I totally will. I'm so weak.

Thankfully we approached the neon, noise factory that was THE BOWLING PALACE. Yeah right, "palace". If your palace has a row of stinking bins near the front door and an alleyway that is known locally to be a "fingering hotspot" you mean.

We walked in and i scanned the room hoping to see every single person i have ever known, looked at or even imagined being here to see me with a woman. A real woman with boobs, a face and a deep, suppressed vicious anger ready to be unleashed on a pathetic man at any point.

Unfortunately i counted 6 people. Us included.

"I'll set up our game, will you buy me a drink please?"

She handed me a crumpled �5 and as she walked off her fingers gently brushed mine as i took her money. It was better than sex. I watched her walk over to an alley and begin to type away on the screen. I looked at her bum. It was perfect. I didn't even think sexual thoughts i just wanted to cry as i rested my face on it.

Is that sexual? It's probably Japanese sexual.

Is she a Coke girl? Nah, it's too mainstream for her. She is far too cool for that. Irn Bru? Pepsi? poo poo. I hate making decisions. It takes me about an hour to settle on one porno to watch. All those little thumbnails look so appealing.

I looked up to stare at her bum again and i saw him looming over her. Him.

Danny Ranger.

He is the size of an oak tree, has arms so muscular that i want to be scooped up by him as i tell him my secrets whilst sobbing gently as he gently squeezes my troubles away.

Basically a bastard. A bastard who needs to piss off immediately.

Also his eyes. Did i tell you about the eyes? They are so blue it makes me want to kill myself. I looked into them once and almost had a period. In his spare time he volunteers at the old people's home. Yep, using his own free will he enters a building full of wrinkles and piss.

What. A. Prick.

Oh really?! If it couldn't get any worse Gary Sinnott is there. Wonderful! I may as well poo poo myself. This night couldn't get any worse.

Me and Gary - or Sinno as he likes to be known - have a little history. A few weeks ago in DT he was spinning a coping saw around using a file. It was not only dangerous it was disrespecting the noble profession of the carpenter. I respectfully told him to stop it. First mistake.

"You're a gay human being and so is your Dad"

I was going to comment on the unnecessary tautology of the "gay human being" insult but let it slide.

"You need to learn to have a bit of respect, i could be your Dad i've had your Mum so much"

I was going to comment on the scientific impossibility of him siring a child at 6 months old but i again let it slide.

"Yeah, your Dad doesn't say anything as i plow into your Mum. Just sits there watching"

Wait a minute. Did i just hear that correctly?

"You say my Dad sits and watches?"

"Yeah"

"But you said he was a "gay human being" earlier"

"Yeah he is. A proper mincing one an' all"

His pack laughed as their leader said some words.

"So who is he watching then?"

"What?"

"When he is sitting there watching you have intercourse with my wonderful Mother. . . surely he is watching you? You like having sex with women as silent gay men watch you."

The silence was joyous. I had won! Not using violence. Or through petty insults. I had won by sheer... and that's when the file hit me in the face. My eye socket took around 60% of the force, my cheekbone the other 40%.

As i lay sprawled out on the sawdust covered floor i realised something: a little sliver of poo had escaped my shocked sphincter on impact. I think i also pissed myself a little bit when my pathetic body hit the floor.

Well isn't this fantastic i thought; not only did i get hit in my face with a metal tool but my body had decided to just start secreting bodily fluid from most of my orifices! Nice one for that, brilliant.

I haven't got time for a line by line right now, but there's a lot to like in this. You have a good eye for the right details, and the anguished omigod horniness of the teenage goon is really well evoked. Nothing actually happens, but you know that. I'd also cut back the meta commentary by about half. Ground us a bit more in his experiences, and less in the internal commentary.

# ? Dec 28, 2013 23:06

angel opportunity: Sep 7, 2004; Total Eclipse of the Heart

Work on your basic English stuff, like capitalizing the pronoun 'I'.

I didn't think I was going to like the story but it ended up being fairly funny. You shift tenses a few times, for example: "Ok, This is it." (and again, why is 'This' capitalized?)

The biggest issue with the story is that the "First Date" story turns into him remembering something that happened in shop class, and it ends during that memory. I'm guessing the story isn't over? Try to finish it next time you write, and wrap up the date. Make sure this dude that threw the thing at him causes conflict etc.

Overall I enjoyed it though.

# ? Dec 28, 2013 23:06

Mr_Wolf: Jun 18, 2013

Thanks for the input fellas. I know it's rough - OK, very rough - but i ended up liking the story and will try to finish it.

One question i'd love advice on how would you go from writing in the present day, then to a memory in the past and then switching it back without it looking like a mess, or confusing the reader?

# ? Dec 28, 2013 23:18

Feste: Apr 7, 2009

Mr_Wolf posted:

Thanks for the input fellas. I know it's rough - OK, very rough - but i ended up liking the story and will try to finish it.

One question i'd love advice on how would you go from writing in the present day, then to a memory in the past and then switching it back without it looking like a mess, or confusing the reader?

Pretty much any David Sedaris short story does that, so I'd highly recommend picking some (all) of his memoirs. The later ones especially use a present day encounter as a frame for a memory of his childhood. And there also all hilarious and easy to read, so I really can't recommend them enough.

# ? Dec 29, 2013 19:36

Erogenous Beef: Dec 20, 2006; i know the filthy secrets of your heart

Mr_Wolf posted:

Thanks for the input fellas. I know it's rough - OK, very rough - but i ended up liking the story and will try to finish it.

One question i'd love advice on how would you go from writing in the present day, then to a memory in the past and then switching it back without it looking like a mess, or confusing the reader?

So, a flashback, then? There's plenty of ways. The two simplest ones are tenses and scene breaks. In both cases, you'll want to signpost YOU ARE NOW IN A FLASHBACK with a lead-in phrase like "Back when XYZ happened..."

For tenses, you use the appropriate tense to distinguish stuff that happened in the past from the stuff in the present. If you're writing the present in present tense ("We do this, I eat ham" - see: Yiddish Policeman's Union), write the past in the simple past tense ("We did that, I ate ham"). If your story is written normally in the past tense, then the flashback goes in the pluperfect/past-perfect tense ("We had done this, I had eaten ham").

The latter form can tire readers if it goes on for more than a few sentences. I try to avoid using the pluperfect if I need over one paragraph of it; in that case, I prefer to use scene breaks.

For scene breaks, simply put your flashback in its own scene. Lead into that scene with the appropriate cueing phrase, and then in the scene after immediately show us something that informs the reader that we're back in the past. A cueing phrase or an action/description that picks up where the pre-flashback scene left off. Quick off-the-cuff example:

quote:

I sat at a computer typing an example about tenses. It was terse.

#

Earlier that morning, I ate a good bagel.

#

I finished typing the example and went to get a coffee. Elsewhere, a goon read my words.

The hashmarks are from standard manuscript format. They indicate an extra blank line between the paragraphs, were your story to be printed on real paper, which provides a visual cue that a scene break has occurred. (Some variations on manuscript format prefer the asterisk. Your choice.)

# ? Jan 3, 2014 12:16

Martello: Apr 29, 2012; by XyloJW

This is an old Thunderdome entry and I'm thinking of cleaning it up for submission somewhere. Any thoughts?

The Big Jump

812 words

"What's this?" Detective Baylor held up a sun hat. Child-sized, silk and wire ivy woven through the straw.

"A hat," Leo said.

"I can loving see that." Baylor spun the hat on the table. The straw was broken in places, brittle with age. The silk ivy leaves were frayed and tattered. "Why was it found in your heap, is my loving question?

"Left it on the seat." Leo leaned back in his chair.

"Goddamnit, listen here." Baylor leaned forward on his end of the metal table, a long finger up. "I love breaking up tough mugs like you. Just give me an excuse." Red veins pulsed in his melted-candle nose. Baylor liked his six Budweisers a night.

"You want me to shoot straight, stop playing games." Leo's tan eyes were dead.

"Shot fuckin straight enough last night, didn't you?"

Leo showed him all his teeth. "Sure I did. I was aiming to kill."

"So you admit you whacked her on purpose?" Baylor licked his thumb and opened his notebook. His pig-eyes were sodium flame, his pen poised above paper like a dagger ready to strike.

" 'Whacked,' like I'm a mafioso."

Baylor cut the air with his pen. "You're related to enough of 'em. Half you Martellos are mobbed up in this burg."

Leo waved a hand. "Sure. You wanna know about the hat?"

Baylor squinted. "I thought we were getting to you knocking off the old broad?"

"One and the same." Leo pointed. "That hat, it was my kid sister's. When I got sent to the home in Paterson -- after my parents were killed, you understand -- she got sent over to the nice place for little girls in Englewood."

"Mrs. Varner's joint." Baylor smiled to show how clever he was.

"I can see why they promoted you," Leo said.

Baylor exploded out of his chair and was around the metal table in a second. He grunted like a hog as his fist smashed into Leo's jaw. Leo's head snapped to the right, his neck wrenching. "Watch your loving yap, baby."

Leo strained against his cuffs for just a second, then relaxed. He rotated his head, made sure his neck wasn't broken. "I'll watch it, I guess."

"I hope you don't," Baylor said. He went back to his chair and sat down, his face redder than before. "So she was at Varner's joint."

"Yeah, Varner's hellhole." Leo focused on a spot just above Baylor's left eyebrow. His throat was full of cement and his vision was swimming. "The old lady, she liked little girls all right. Too much. Maria told me stories over the years, plenty of them."

Baylor's eyes went wide. "You're telling me Melinda Varner played with those little girls?" He wiggled an index finger.

"Not just that. She had friends, older men." Leo paused to spit on the floor. "She'd bring them around sometimes, only for the girls she really liked. Maria was one of them."

Baylor scratched his chin and shut his notebook. "Who'd a thought that nice-looking old jane was a pimp?"

Leo shook his head. He didn't trust his voice to hold

"So you finally up and shot the bag. Why wait so many years? You're what, twenty-five?"

"Twenty-six." Leo swallowed hard. "You don't keep up with the obits, huh?"

"Not unless they're homicides," Baylor said. He laced his fingers over his gut.

"Maria always told me to leave her alone. As much as she hated that devil oval office, she didn't want me doing anything to get in trouble." Leo spit another wad on the floor. "A week and a half ago, she finally couldn't take it anymore. Maria tried to fly out her fifteenth-floor window in Hoboken."

Baylor shook his head but made no sound.

"So I went over to Varner's last night, and did what someone else should have done twenty years ago. And I'll tell anyone else who wants to hear it."

The detective planted his elbows on the table and set his chin in his hands. "That's quite the story. I don't want to believe you, but somehow I do. Heard a hundred yarns from a hundred clever hoods. Yours is the only one I'd buy for a couple dimes."

"I guess that means something," Leo said. A drop of blood fell from his chin to his lap.

"Trouble is, your story won't mean anything to any jury or judge. It's the big jump for you, and the quick swing."

"I know it." Leo closed his eyes for a few seconds. "What more is there anyway?"

Baylor's pig-eyes went soft. "There's always something more. Not for you now, I guess. Sorry about the chin-music a few minutes ago, bo. I'll have the lock-up nurse take a look at it."

"Why bother? Pain is an old friend to me. A little more is nothing. At least it'll be over soon enough."

# ? Jan 5, 2014 01:17

hot salad: Jun 25, 2005; Did you just say
the word 'scoff'?

Martello posted:

This is an old Thunderdome entry and I'm thinking of cleaning it up for submission somewhere. Any thoughts?

I really like this piece, I think the old-timey noir detective feel works well here. I have made a few comments below (in bold) and crossed out a couple lines here and there that I think you could probably drop. Of course, I'm a CC nobody so: grain of salt, etc. etc.

quote:

The Big Jump

812 words

"What's this?" Detective Baylor held up a sun hat. Child-sized, silk and wire ivy woven through the straw.

"A hat," Leo said.

"I can loving see that." Baylor spun the hat on the table. Maybe instead of just spinning the hat on the table, give Baylor more of a violent reaction so we can get an idea of how much Baylor's mood goes up & down. The straw was broken in places, brittle with age. The silk ivy leaves were frayed and tattered. "Why was it found in your heap, ~~is my loving question?~~ Could be overdoing it with two �gently caress�s in one paragraph. It just jumped out at me in this section, later on he drops a few more F-bombs and they seem to be perfectly within the flow of conversation.

"Left it on the seat." Leo leaned back in his chair.

"Goddamnit, listen here." Baylor leaned forward on his end of the metal table, a long finger up. "I love breaking up tough mugs like you. Just give me an excuse." Red veins pulsed in his melted-candle nose. Baylor liked his six Budweisers a night. Only six? Kind of kidding, but I think the number short sells Baylor's rage-y alcoholism. See: pretty much every cop in �The Wire.� Those guys can drink all night and then come back and be rear end in a top hat cops the next day. I think Baylor is built from this mold.

"You want me to shoot straight, stop playing games." Leo's tan eyes were dead. I can't figure out if I like the "eyes were dead" description or not. After reading through the story once, it totally makes sense. However, in the current context Leo is being a smart-rear end more than he is expressing the severity of the issue, so to me it doesn't totally fit.

"Shot fuckin' straight enough last night, didn't you?"

Leo showed him all his teeth. "Sure I did. I was aiming to kill."

"So you admit you whacked her on purpose?" Baylor licked his thumb and opened his notebook. His pig-eyes were sodium flame, his pen poised above paper like a dagger ready to strike.

" 'Whacked,' like I'm a mafioso."

Baylor cut the air with his pen. "You're related to enough of 'em. Half you Martellos are mobbed up in this burg."

Leo waved a hand. "Sure. You wanna know about the hat?" Minor nitpick, but: later, Leo is described as being handcuffed. Come up with a different gesture or just drop it. Also, you could break up Leo's line here with a gesture, since he is dismissing Baylor's off-topic assumptions and then getting back to the main subject, i.e.: �Sure,� Leo rolled his eyes (or whatever). �So, you wanna know about the hat?�

Baylor squinted. "I thought we were getting to you knocking off the old broad?"

"One and the same." Leo pointed. "That hat, it was my kid sister's. When I got sent to the home in Paterson -- after my parents were killed, you understand -- she got sent over to the nice place for little girls in Englewood."

"Mrs. Varner's joint." Baylor smiled to show how clever he was.

"I can see why they promoted you," Leo said.

Baylor exploded out of his chair and was around the metal table in a second. He grunted like a hog as his fist smashed into Leo's jaw. Leo's head snapped to the right, his neck wrenching. "Watch your loving yap, baby."

Leo strained against his cuffs for just a second, then relaxed. He rotated his head, made sure his neck wasn't broken. "I'll watch it, I guess."

"I hope you don't," Baylor said. He went back to his chair and sat down, his face redder than before. "So she was at Varner's joint."

"Yeah, Varner's hellhole." Leo focused on a spot just above Baylor's left eyebrow. His throat was full of cement and his vision was swimming. "The old lady, she liked little girls all right. Too much. Maria told me stories over the years, plenty of them."

Baylor's eyes went wide. "You're telling me Melinda Varner played with those little girls?" ~~He wiggled an index finger.~~ I think this gesture is a little too casual/lighthearted for the subject that just came up, maybe he just points at Leo instead � so Baylor's shock gives way to accusation.

"Not just that. She had friends, older men." Leo paused to spit on the floor. "She'd bring them around sometimes, only for the girls she really liked. Maria was one of them."

Baylor scratched his chin and shut his notebook. "Who'd a thought that nice-looking old jane was a pimp?"

Leo shook his head. He didn't trust his voice to hold

"So you finally up and shot the bag. Why wait so many years? You're what, twenty-five?"

"Twenty-six." Leo swallowed hard. "You don't keep up with the obits, huh?"

"Not unless they're homicides," Baylor said. He laced his fingers over his gut.

"Maria always told me to leave her alone. As much as she hated that devil oval office, she didn't want me doing anything to get in trouble." Leo spit another wad on the floor. "A week and a half ago, she finally couldn't take it anymore. Maria tried to fly out her fifteenth-floor window in Hoboken."

Baylor shook his head but made no sound.

"So I went over to Varner's last night, and did what someone else should have done twenty years ago. And I'll tell anyone else who wants to hear it."

The detective planted his elbows on the table and set his chin in his hands. ~~"That's quite the story. I don't want to believe you, but somehow I do.~~ Heard a hundred yarns from a hundred clever hoods. Yours is the only one I'd buy for a couple dimes." This is a great line, and it does everything that the first sentence does (and more).

"I guess that means something," Leo said. A drop of blood fell from his chin to his lap.

"Trouble is, your story won't mean anything to any jury or judge. It's the big jump for you, and the quick swing."

"I know it." Leo closed his eyes for a few seconds. "What more is there anyway?"

Baylor's pig-eyes went soft. "There's always something more. Not for you now, I guess. The previous sentence feels awkward, maybe �There's always something more, but not for you. Not now, I guess.� Sorry about the chin-music a few minutes ago, bo. I'll have the lock-up nurse take a look at it."

"Why bother? Pain is an old friend to me. A little more is nothing. At least it'll be over soon enough." The �old friend to me� bit sounds a little awkward to me. Obviously it's not gramatically wrong, just a choice of style/syntax. If it were me, I would change it to something like �Why bother? Pain is an old friend of mine. What's one last visit? At least it'll be over soon enough.� Of course, the final line (especially in a piece this short) is supposed to be a punch in the gut so it's however you want to deliver that punch.

Where are you thinking of submitting it? Just curious which publications you're looking at for a crime/noir story. Anyway, cool story & hope my crits help a little. Good luck!

# ? Jan 7, 2014 19:45

Baudolino: Apr 1, 2010; THUNDERDOME LOSER

Can I get some feedback on a story i never finished?
I have no idea where to take story from here. Any tips would be appreciated.

"It had been a long time since Richard had been to a party. Time kept slipping away, there were always more work to be done. He was very happy to receive a invitation to the High School Reunion. Happily he managed to find time in his calendar for sleeping off the hangover he had every intention off inflicting upon himself.
Checking in the mirror , he was glad his XL pants still fit around him with some room to spare. The suit and shirt were italian and handsown, he hoped his old friends would be impressed. For all they knew he could be a sucessfull lawyer or peddling loans in a bank. Richard had no plans to disabuse them of this notion."

# ? Jan 10, 2014 00:10

Mr_Wolf: Jun 18, 2013

Erogenous Beef posted:

Boss advice...

Cheers for that. I'm still useless at staying in a consistent tense - as my horrific first Thunderdome entry can attest to - but this will definitely help.

# ? Jan 10, 2014 00:50

sebmojo: Oct 23, 2010; Legit Cyberpunk

Baudolino posted:

Can I get some feedback on a story i never finished?
I have no idea where to take story from here. Any tips would be appreciated.

"It had been a long time since Richard had been to a party. Time kept slipping away, there ~~were~~ was always more work to be done. He ~~was~~ had been very happy to receive a invitation to the High School Reunion. Happily he managed to find time in his calendar for sleeping off the hangover he had every intention off inflicting upon himself.
LINE BREAK
Checking in the mirror , he was glad his XL pants still fit around him with some room to spare is he wearing them like a loincloth. The suit and shirt were italian and handsewn, he hoped his old friends would be impressed. For all they knew he could be a sucessfull lawyer or peddling loans in a bank. Richard had no plans to disabuse them of this notion."

I suggest you take it to the High School Reunion then have something happen.

sebmojo fucked around with this message at 01:14 on Jan 10, 2014

# ? Jan 10, 2014 01:07

DreadNite: Nov 12, 2013

Martello posted:

This is an old Thunderdome entry and I'm thinking of cleaning it up for submission somewhere. Any thoughts?

I like the story, but it didn't capture my attention until the part where the Detective says he believes him, and the big drop comes about what happened.

When Baylor says "I hope you don't", it had me confused because of the immediate contradiction from "watch your mouth" to "I hope you don't", but then I realized it may be sarcasm after reading it again. Maybe touch up that comment slightly to convey the meaning more clearly.

The story is a LOT of dialogue, 100% actually. I'm not sure if this was a dialogue only Thunderdome, (We've all seen much worse prompts come from there :P ) but personally it would have been a nice break to be able to see a mix of dialogue and narration. For about the first half of the piece, I felt blind to what was going on besides the two characters speaking to each other. (Felt almost like these two were talking to each other in a dark closet or something!

)

I really liked the ending. It reveals much about the personality of the characters while tinging it with trajedy to end the story on a note that makes the reader continue thinking even after its' close. If that was what you were going for, rock on!

These are just my thoughts, I was an engineering major in college so same thing, grain of salt, etc etc.

Good luck with wherever you send it!

# ? Jan 10, 2014 03:54

DreadNite: Nov 12, 2013

minstrels posted:

Wrote this a few years ago and short of letting a few friends read it I never really found out if it was actually any good.

John

Word count: 674

The bank was quiet. It was 10am and there was only one customer: an elderly woman withdrawing money for her grandson�s birthday card. Two clerks were on duty; a woman in her 40s who had worked in the bank for 20 years, and a 19 year old university student who worked there 3 days a week to help pay for her studies. The elderly woman was just putting her purse back into her bag and getting ready to leave when three men casually strolled into the bank. As soon as the veteran clerk saw the men she knew exactly what was about to happen, and readied herself. The three men were dressed in black from head to toe. They had balaclavas on. One was carrying a double-barrelled shotgun, which he pointed at the elderly woman, the other two men were carrying AK-47s, now aimed directly at the clerks. The opening definitely has me interested. I like it. However, when you say "she knew exactly what was about to happen", you leave the reader out to dry because in your narration, you're already inside the woman's head. If she knows whats going to happen, you have to tell it. If you write from inside someones head, you can't hide thoughts from yourself, so write like it. Maybe add a little of what shes feeling, fear etc.

The man with the shotgun had a large sports bag on his shoulder, and he threw it to the older clerk. �Fill the bag.� The clerk filled the bag at a startling pace, emptying all the cash drawers in less than a minute. When she was done,she zipped the bag up and threw it back to the man with the shotgun. He unzipped it and looked inside, rummaging around a little. His face lit up. He was clearly satisfied with the results. Suddenly, as he was zipping the bag back up, he dropped the shotgun and fell onto the floor, blood pouring from his head. One of the men with an assault rifle swung round to see where the shot had come from and was met with the same fate. As if it was nothing, the remaining man dropped his gun, picked up the bag and exited the bank. Same thing here, it seems as if you went from being inside the clerk's mind to 3rd person and outside it. In this paragraph, you don't reveal any of the the clerks emotions which takes away from the emotional gravity of the entire scene.

* * *

The van rounded the corner so fast it almost tipped over. The man driving was a professional, the two men in the back didn't worry at all. They were all professionals. Today the Boss had them snatching a man off the street. They didn't know why, all they knew was that he was called John and that he had done something the Boss didn't like. They had his picture, and knew where he was going to be.

They rounded another corner, this time slower. They didn't want to alert the man they just drove past. The driver got a good look and knew it was John. He drove round the block once and was once again a few yards away from John. This time the van sped alongside him and stopped abruptly. In a matter of seconds the door was flung open and John was snatched off the street. Quick, easy. The way the Boss likes it.

* * *

John was tied to a chair. It was dark. His mouth was swollen and covered in dried, congealed blood from the beatings. So good. Nice imagery. He was stinking of blood and sweat, the black eyes already beginning to form. Suddenly the single light fitting in the tiny, windowless room turned on, and it stung his eyes. He couldn't remember the last time the light had been on, or whether he'd slept. All he could remember was black.

A dark figure appeared in front of him, wielding a pistol. "It could be the Boss, but the Boss didn't like to get his hands dirty so it was probably just one of his goons," John thought. The man spoke. His voice was raspy, clearly a heavy smoker. John's hearing was shot from all the blows to the head, but he didn't need to hear the question, they'd been asking him it since the moment he woke up in the room: "Where's the money?" "gently caress you." The man raised the gun to John's forehead. "Last chance." John cleared all the phlegm from his throat and spat. Directly onto the shoes of the man with the gun. A shot rang out, and as the blood flowed from the wound in John's head the Boss realised he'd never see that money again.I like where you took this at the end, but same concept here. You jump around a LOT with the perspective you're narrating from. Instead of jumping around by stating "the Boss realized...again", maybe reference the distress or anger of the boss (something you can see from the outside) when he was shot

This is a really nice piece that can be really cool if some inconsistencies just got cleared up. You painted a great picture of what was actually happening though, and drew me in with the power of your setting. Keep it up!

# ? Jan 10, 2014 04:14

Martello: Apr 29, 2012; by XyloJW

the wildest turkey posted:

I really like this piece, I think the old-timey noir detective feel works well here. I have made a few comments below (in bold) and crossed out a couple lines here and there that I think you could probably drop. Of course, I'm a CC nobody so: grain of salt, etc. etc.

Where are you thinking of submitting it? Just curious which publications you're looking at for a crime/noir story. Anyway, cool story & hope my crits help a little. Good luck!

Your feedback was great, thanks.

Not too many semi-pro to pro markets I could find for this type of thing, right now Plan B is my plan A ( :downsrim:

DreadNite posted:

I like the story, but it didn't capture my attention until the part where the Detective says he believes him, and the big drop comes about what happened.

When Baylor says "I hope you don't", it had me confused because of the immediate contradiction from "watch your mouth" to "I hope you don't", but then I realized it may be sarcasm after reading it again. Maybe touch up that comment slightly to convey the meaning more clearly.

The story is a LOT of dialogue, 100% actually. I'm not sure if this was a dialogue only Thunderdome, (We've all seen much worse prompts come from there :P ) but personally it would have been a nice break to be able to see a mix of dialogue and narration. For about the first half of the piece, I felt blind to what was going on besides the two characters speaking to each other. (Felt almost like these two were talking to each other in a dark closet or something! )

I really liked the ending. It reveals much about the personality of the characters while tinging it with trajedy to end the story on a note that makes the reader continue thinking even after its' close. If that was what you were going for, rock on!

These are just my thoughts, I was an engineering major in college so same thing, grain of salt, etc etc.

Good luck with wherever you send it!

I plan on expanding this story significantly, most importantly by starting the story off with the murder scene of Mrs. Varner. That will reduce the dialogue telling and actually start the story with a bang.

# ? Jan 10, 2014 18:04

tango alpha delta: Sep 9, 2011; Ask me about my wealthy lifestyle and passive income! I love bragging about my wealth to my lessers! My opinions are more valid because I have more money than you! Stealing the fruits of the labor of the working class is okay, so long as you don't do it using crypto. More money = better than!

Fixed formatting. Not sure if it makes things worse.

Updated story after feedback from some of you. Sincere thank you by the way.
I'm still not entirely pleased with some of the dialog or scene transitions.
Looking forward to your feedback. Make it rough, it helps me to improve.

The Box of Hate

I hit the lights and slide into bed with a sigh. It has been a very long day. I am just drifting off, but the phone rings. Maybe it�s one of my students. Glancing at the clock, I decide to make this a really short call. I pick the phone up and bark, �Professor Mason here.�

�Mason! Mason! Is that really you?�

I snap awake. I know that voice, even after all these years. I almost drop the phone. It�s Williams. What the hell does he want?

We had been students together, then colleagues. But something strange had happened to Williams. At first it was subtle, but like a gnarled tree growing over time, Williams had become more and more bizarre.

I knew many things about Williams. He could still hear the screams of his sister being raped in the next room, the pop and crunch of his mother�s bones broken if she failed to wash the dishes or prepare a meal just right.
As a child he went to bed shaking with hunger, nursing the searing agony of a broken nose, broken fingers, broken ribs. The lies his mother told to enable his father. Williams would limp for the rest of his life. His nose off center and his fingers permanently twisted.

Yet Williams could have carried on, but more setbacks awaited him. A dead child, divorce, attempted suicide, a constant battle with depression; It wore him down, burned the hope from him. Williams decided if there was a god, it was worthy of hate, and nothing else. He confided to me that he used this hatred as fuel. But I saw something very different. The hatred used Williams.

A brilliant man, but very defensive. He�d gone into a wild rage the few times when someone dared to correct him. He seemed to take mistakes very personally. On the other hand, Williams was the first to arrive in the lab and the last to leave and could be very personable when he wanted to. He never forgot a birthday and would always take us out for a drink.

I miss him.

I swallow, force the trembling out of my voice. �Williams! Williams! Dammit, man! Ten years! I thought you were dead!�

Ten loving years.

Williams cuts me off, �My lab! Tonight! I�ve done it Mason! It works. It actually works!�

I glance at the clock again. drat. But he is an old friend. I also owe him. I can�t believe he�s finished it. I leap out of bed and rush to his lab, anxious and excited.

Williams opens the door and embraces me. I freeze and then half-heartedly return the hug. The Williams I know hates physical contact. What the hell?

He yanks the lab door open. �I�ve done it. I�ve finished the Box of Hate.�

The Box of Hate was the reason we had parted ways.

Years ago, he wanted to teach a computer how to feel. Williams had suggested a direct transfer of emotions. I argued such a thing impossible.
Somehow he�d secured a grant for his research. I thought it was a waste of time and a waste of money. After many very heated arguments, I�d finally gone to the board.
A few weeks later, Williams was expelled. At the time I was so sure I was right.

I feel like such an rear end in a top hat right now.

The Box of Hate sits in the middle of the lab, surrounded by diagnostic equipment and server racks. Huge electrical cables crown the box and snake into the ceiling.
It�s an incredible, impressive achievement. I�m skeptical, but I must respect all the hard work that�s gone into it.
As I walk around it, the Box appears so dark that I can�t tell where it ends and the shadows begin. I tap on the Box. It�s hollow and there�s a door on the side.

Williams walks towards me, �I know you went to the board. You had me expelled. I hated you for that. You betrayed me, like all the other people I trusted.�

poo poo.

The lab door is too far away, �I�ve regretted that for many years, my friend.� Which wasn�t actually true. I�d aggressively buried the regret under work or alcohol or sex with one of my students.

�Get in.� He grabs my arm and twists.

�Williams, what the hell are you doing? Stop it!�, I yell and struggle.

He shoves me toward the Box. I can feel my arm going numb as he twists harder. I sigh. I�m not convinced that the Box really works. Get seriously hurt or humor him. Fine.

I open the Box with my free hand and climb into the chair. Williams seals me in.

Total darkness.

Williams tries to sooth my concern. �When I built The Box, I knew that I had to make sure it worked. So I did.�

Sitting here in the dark, I�m really scared and angry now, �You crazy bastard! You idiot fool! What have you done? Let me out, drat you!� I kick the door over and over, but it won�t move.

I feel the Box of Hate. I begin to hurt. I betrayed my friend. I denounced him to the University board. But, I thought I was so right.

So right.

So right?

So wrong?

No!

Yes!

I betrayed my friend. He trusted me and I, no, I had to.

I HAD TO!

No!

It was wrong.

It was wrong!

WRONG!

NO!

The more I try to rationalize, the more it hurts. The Box rips away all illusion. I am crying now and pleading for Williams to forgive me. The pain is incredible. It�s my pain, the pain I inflicted on my closest friend.

Then, the pain is gone. The Box opens. Williams smiles and extends a hand.�I forgive you, Mason.�

I cry again, but they are joyful tears, cleansing tears. My burden is gone. I stare at the Box, �It really works.�

�Yes. Yes it does. I needed you to see it. You needed to feel it working. You understand. I need your help.�

I grab his arm and squeeze. �Anything my friend, just name it.�

�My father needs to pay a visit to the Box of Hate.�

I smile. This is justice. This must be done.

tango alpha delta fucked around with this message at 20:37 on Jan 11, 2014

# ? Jan 11, 2014 05:08

Mercedes: Mar 7, 2006; "So you Jesus?"

"And you black?"

"Nigga prove it!"

And so Black Jesus turned water into a bucket of chicken. And He saw that it was good.

Dear lord man. Why is there a paragraph break after every sentence?!

# ? Jan 11, 2014 06:07

DreadNite: Nov 12, 2013

tango alpha delta posted:

Fixed formatting. Not sure if it makes things worse.

The Box of Hate

This is really great. At first, I wasn't sure where it was going and the paragraph spacing really distracted me, but you kept me interested through your back-story at the beginning by showing how the abusive father impacted your protagonist and his development rather than just telling it. The entire plot is very well written and driven, and I loved your illustrations like the box of hate with "Huge electrical cables crown the box and snake into the ceiling".

On top of that, your characters were believable and I was easily pulled into the mind of your main protagonist. I loved how you progressed the plot through your main characters' internal dialogue, without having to add "He thought this, believed that, etc etc" every two seconds.

Great piece, I really enjoyed it!

# ? Jan 11, 2014 07:35

angel opportunity: Sep 7, 2004; Total Eclipse of the Heart

If you post something in SA, DO NOT manually break the lines. You have to just keep typing and let it wrap on its own. Better yet, put it in a google doc.

# ? Jan 11, 2014 08:22

Mercedes: Mar 7, 2006; "So you Jesus?"

"And you black?"

"Nigga prove it!"

And so Black Jesus turned water into a bucket of chicken. And He saw that it was good.

tango alpha delta posted:

Fixed formatting. Not sure if it makes things worse.

Updated story after feedback from some of you. Sincere thank you by the way.
I'm still not entirely pleased with some of the dialog or scene transitions.
Looking forward to your feedback. Make it rough, it helps me to improve.

The Box of Hate
I hit the lights and slide into bed with a sigh. It has been a very long day.
I am just drifting off, but the phone rings. Maybe it�s one of my students. Glancing at the clock, I decide to make this a really short call.
I pick the phone up and bark, �Professor Mason here.�
�Mason! Mason! Is that really you?�
I snap awake. I know that voice, even after all these years. I almost drop the phone.
It�s Williams. What the hell does he want?
We had been students together, then colleagues.
But something strange had happened to Williams. At first it was subtle, but like a gnarled tree growing over time, Williams had become more and more bizarre.
I knew many things about Williams. He could still hear the screams of his sister being raped in the next room, the pop and crunch of his mother�s bones broken if she failed to wash the dishes or prepare a meal just right.
As a child he went to bed shaking with hunger, nursing the searing agony of a broken nose, broken fingers, broken ribs. The lies his mother told to enable his father. Williams would limp for the rest of his life. His nose off center and his fingers permanently twisted.
Yet Williams could have carried on, but more setbacks awaited him. A dead child, divorce, attempted suicide, a constant battle with depression; It wore him down, burned the hope from him.
He decided that if there was a god, it was worthy of hate, and nothing else.
He confided to me that he used his hatred as fuel. But I saw something very different. The hatred used Williams. A brilliant man, but very defensive. He�d gone into a wild rage the few times when someone dared to correct him. He seemed to take mistakes very personally.
On the other hand, Williams was the first to arrive in the lab and the last to leave and could be very personable when he wanted to. He never forgot a birthday and would always take us out for a drink.
I miss him.
�Williams! Williams! Dammit, man! Ten years! I thought you were dead!�
Ten loving years.
I swallow, force the trembling out of my voice.
Williams cuts me off, �My lab! Tonight! I�ve done it Mason! It works. It actually works!�
I glance at the clock again. drat. But he is an old friend. I also owe him.
I can�t believe he�s finished it.
I leap out of bed and rush to his lab, anxious and excited.
Williams opens the door and embraces me. I freeze and then half-heartedly return the hug. The Williams I know hates physical contact. What the hell?
He yanks the lab door open. �I�ve done it. I�ve finished the Box of Hate.�
The Box of Hate was the reason we had parted ways.
Years ago, he wanted to teach a computer how to feel. Williams had suggested a direct transfer of emotions. I argued such a thing impossible. Somehow he�d secured a grant for his research. I thought it was a waste of time and a waste of money. After many very heated arguments, I�d finally gone to the board. A few weeks later, Williams was expelled. At the time I was so sure I was right.
I feel like such an rear end in a top hat right now.
The Box of Hate sits in the middle of the lab, surrounded by diagnostic equipment and server racks. Huge electrical cables crown the box and snake into the ceiling.
It�s an incredible, impressive achievement. I�m skeptical, but I must respect all the hard work that�s gone into it.
As I walk around it, the Box appears so dark that I can�t tell where it ends and the shadows begin.
I tap on the Box. It�s hollow and there�s a door on the side.
Williams walks towards me, �I know you went to the board. You had me expelled. I hated you for that. You betrayed me, like all the other people I trusted.�
poo poo.
The lab door is too far away, �I�ve regretted that for many years, my friend.� Which wasn�t actually true. I�d aggressively buried the regret under work or alcohol or sex with one of my students.
�Get in.� He grabs my arm and twists.
�Williams, what the hell are you doing? Stop it!�
He shoves me toward the Box.
I can feel my arm going numb as he twists harder.
I sigh. I�m not convinced that the Box really works. Get seriously hurt or humor him. Fine.
I open the Box with my free hand and climb into the chair. Williams seals me in.
Total darkness.
Williams tries to sooth my concern. �When I built The Box, I knew that I had to make sure it worked. So I did.�
I�m really scared and angry now, �You crazy bastard! You idiot fool! What have you done? Let me out, drat you!� I kick the door over and over, but it won�t move.
I feel the Box of Hate. I begin to hurt.
I betrayed my friend. I denounced him to the University board. But, I thought I was so right.
So right.
So right?
So wrong?
No!
Yes!
I betrayed my friend. He trusted me and I, no, I had to.
I HAD TO!
No!
It was wrong.
It was wrong!
WRONG!
NO!
The more I try to rationalize, the more it hurts. The Box rips away all illusion.
I am crying now and pleading for Williams to forgive me. The pain is incredible. It�s my pain, the pain I inflicted on my closest friend.
Then, the pain is gone.
The Box opens. Williams smiles and extends a hand.
�I forgive you, Mason.�
I cry again, but they are joyful tears, cleansing tears. My burden is gone.
I stare at the Box, �It really works.�
�Yes. Yes it does. I needed you to see it. You needed to feel it working. You understand. I need your help.�
I grab his arm and squeeze. �Anything my friend, just name it.�
�My father needs to pay a visit to the Box of Hate.�
I smile. This is justice. This must be done.

Oh god, no. this is worse. Let me try to fix your parsing a bit here...

tango alpha delta posted:

Fixed formatting. Not sure if it makes things worse.

The Box of Hate

I hit the lights and slide into bed with a sigh. It has been a very long day. I am just drifting off, but the phone rings. Maybe it’s one of my students. Glancing at the clock, I decide to make this a really short call. I pick the phone up and bark, “Professor Mason here.”

"Mason! Mason! Is that really you?”"

I snap awake. I know that voice, even after all these years. I almost drop the phone. It’s Williams. What the hell does he want?

We had been students together, then colleagues. But something strange had happened to Williams. At first it was subtle, but like a gnarled tree growing over time, Williams had become more and more bizarre. I knew many things about Williams. He could still hear the screams of his sister being raped in the next room, the pop and crunch of his mother’s bones broken if she failed to wash the dishes or prepare a meal just right. As a child he went to bed shaking with hunger, nursing the searing agony of a broken nose, broken fingers, broken ribs. The lies his mother told to enable his father. Williams would limp for the rest of his life. His nose off center and his fingers permanently twisted.

Yet Williams could have carried on, but more setbacks awaited him. A dead child, divorce, attempted suicide, a constant battle with depression; It wore him down, burned the hope from him. He decided that if there was a god, it was worthy of hate, and nothing else. He confided to me that he used his hatred as fuel. But I saw something very different. The hatred used Williams. A brilliant man, but very defensive. He’d gone into a wild rage the few times when someone dared to correct him. He seemed to take mistakes very personally. On the other hand, Williams was the first to arrive in the lab and the last to leave and could be very personable when he wanted to. He never forgot a birthday and would always take us out for a drink.

I miss him.

“Williams! Williams! Dammit, man! Ten years! I thought you were dead!”

Ten loving years.

I swallow, force the trembling out of my voice.

Williams cuts me off, "“My lab! Tonight! I’ve done it Mason! It works. It actually works!”"

I glance at the clock again. drat. But he is an old friend. I also owe him. I can’t believe he’s finished it. I leap out of bed and rush to his lab, anxious and excited. Williams opens the door and embraces me. I freeze and then half-heartedly return the hug. The Williams I know hates physical contact. What the hell?

He yanks the lab door open. "“I'’ve done it," he says. "I'’ve finished the Box of Hate.”"

The Box of Hate was the reason we had parted ways.

Years ago, he wanted to teach a computer how to feel. Williams had suggested a direct transfer of emotions. I argued such a thing impossible. Somehow he’d secured a grant for his research. I thought it was a waste of time and a waste of money. After many very heated arguments, I’d finally gone to the board. A few weeks later, Williams was expelled. At the time I was so sure I was right. I feel like such an rear end in a top hat right now.

The Box of Hate sits in the middle of the lab, surrounded by diagnostic equipment and server racks. Huge electrical cables crown the box and snake into the ceiling. It’s an incredible, impressive achievement. I’m skeptical, but I must respect all the hard work that’s gone into it. As I walk around it, the Box appears so dark that I can’t tell where it ends and the shadows begin. I tap on the Box. It’s hollow and there’s a door on the side.

Williams walks towards me. "“I know you went to the board. You had me expelled. I hated you for that. You betrayed me, like all the other people I trusted.”"

poo poo.

The lab door is too far away, “I’ve regretted that for many years, my friend.” Which wasn’t actually true. I’d aggressively buried the regret under work or alcohol or sex with one of my students.
“Get in.” He grabs my arm and twists.

“Williams, what the hell are you doing? Stop it!” I say.

He shoves me toward the Box. I can feel my arm going numb as he twists harder. I sigh. I’m not convinced that the Box really works. Get seriously hurt or humor him.

Fine.

I open the Box with my free hand and climb into the chair. Williams seals me in.

Total darkness.

Williams tries to sooth my concern. “When I built The Box, I knew that I had to make sure it worked. So I did.” "I’m really scared and angry now, “You crazy bastard! You idiot fool! What have you done? Let me out, drat you!” I kick the door over and over, but it won’t move."

I feel the Box of Hate. I begin to hurt.

I betrayed my friend. I denounced him to the University board. But, I thought I was so right.

So right.

So right?

So wrong?

No!

Yes!

I betrayed my friend. He trusted me and I, no, I had to.

I HAD TO!

No!

It was wrong.

It was wrong!

WRONG!

NO!

The more I try to rationalize, the more it hurts. The Box rips away all illusion.
I am crying now and pleading for Williams to forgive me. The pain is incredible. It’s my pain, the pain I inflicted on my closest friend.

Then, the pain is gone.

The Box opens. Williams smiles and extends a hand. "“I forgive you, Mason" he says.

I cry again, but they are joyful tears, cleansing tears. My burden is gone. I stare at the Box.
“
It really works.”

Yes. Yes it does. I needed you to see it. You needed to feel it working. You understand. I need your help.”

I grab his arm and squeeze. “"Anything my friend, just name it.”"

“My father needs to pay a visit to the Box of Hate.”

I smile. This is justice. This must be done.

Woo... this is rough. Really rough. There are many spots where people are speaking but there are no dialogue tags. Then when I went through and added dialogue tags for you, I had a hard time differentiation between said words and thoughts. It's way late, and I don't have the time right now to go and give you a line by line, but at least you have something to look at.

Mercedes fucked around with this message at 08:33 on Jan 11, 2014

# ? Jan 11, 2014 08:22

Yue: Jun 3, 2012; CUT, CUT, CUT! I said MORE prancing, damnit!

The stomping. That's what he missed most. His mother, his roommates, his mother again, when someone's walking, Gordon's used to hearing each footstep resound with the force of a car hitting your local variety of woodland creature. Here, he has to listen to hear someone coming. For a moment, the test subject found himself missing it, and then there was relief of a sort. The clacking footsteps of someone in heels on the hallway's tile floor could be heard easily from his new office.

"His office..." the thought repeated itself in his mind. He has an office. He has a proper job. His guidance counselor was wrong!!

"Suck on that, Mrs. Schechterly!" Gordon nodded firmly to himself, assured that right now, he was an absolute badass.

"...What?"

That was someone else in the room! Those footsteps were coming for him! Someone heard it! That moment of coolness evaporated as he scrambled to sit upright and get his papers in order. When he admitted defeat at acting like the sort of person who ought to have his own office, he took notice of the visitor. A woman in a black suit, black tie, with heels and sunglasses.

There are two things that are difficult to describe without risking someone, quite rightly, taking offense: A beautiful woman and a character whose race needs to be noted. For the former, your words have to be chosen carefully, to get across her appeal without seeming perverted, or single-minded. The pitfalls of describing one's race are doubly frightening. Failure in this department could mean accusations of racism. With that in mind, let us simply say that Makoto Shiranui is Japanese, and move on to the first challenge.

One could, of course, simply say "beautiful" and leave it at that, maybe check a thesaurus if you're feeling flowery. The problem is you don't get across why the character is so stunning, why Gordon was left frozen for a moment upon meeting his partner. Something could be said about the perfect symmetry of her face, the dark, reflective eyes, the perfectly styled, yet short and utilitarian chestnut hair, or perhaps something about her body? The toned build that doesn't yet reach 'muscular'? The flawless skin radiating warmth? Something in her attidude, a daring smirk, staring down her counterpart with the previously-stated eyes? Or maybe she just has a fantastic pair of tits. Gordon Martel is, if nothing else, a shallow man.

There is a certain line from a certain popular stealth video game from the nineties that sprung to poor Gordon's mind. I dare not repeat it, both for fears of copyright infringement and fears that repeating it may imply I somehow support his thoughts regarding Ms. Shiranui's first impression. Those of you that have played this game know exactly what I refer to, and are presently cringing. For those of you left confused, rest assured those in the other category are deeply jealous of the fact that you missed the joke.

# ? Jan 27, 2014 09:31

Martello: Apr 29, 2012; by XyloJW

What the gently caress is this supposed to be? Seriously. I can't figure out if this is supposed to be a story or if you posted in the wrong thread or some poo poo.

# ? Jan 27, 2014 19:48

Guiness13: Feb 17, 2007; The best angel of all.

Yue posted:

The stomping. That's what he missed most. His mother, his roommates, his mother again, when someone's walking, Gordon's used to hearing each footstep resound with the force of a car hitting your local variety of woodland creature. There is a lot going on with this sentence. First, you have a weird coma splice going on. Second, you switch tenses. I'd go with Gordon grew up with the sound of plates clattering in the cupboard as his mother walked through the house. Here, he has to listen to hear someone coming. Again, this is present tense. For a moment, the test subject What? found himself missing it, and then there was relief of a sort. The clacking footsteps of someone in heels on the hallway's tile floor could be heard easily from his new office.

"His office..." This shouldn't be in quotes. When I think about my own office, I don't think, "Guiness13's office..." the thought repeated itself in his mind. ~~He has an office.~~ We get it, he has an office. He has a proper job. His guidance counselor was wrong!! Ok, just see below.

"Suck on that, Mrs. Schechterly!" Gordon nodded firmly to himself, assured that right now, he was an absolute badass.

"...What?"

That was someone else in the room! Those footsteps were coming for him! Someone heard it! That moment of coolness evaporated as he scrambled to sit upright and get his papers in order. When he admitted defeat at acting like the sort of person who ought to have his own office, he took notice of the visitor. A woman in a black suit, black tie, with heels and sunglasses.

There are two things that are difficult to describe without risking someone, quite rightly, taking offense: A beautiful woman and a character whose race needs to be noted. For the former, your words have to be chosen carefully, to get across her appeal without seeming perverted, or single-minded. The pitfalls of describing one's race are doubly frightening. Failure in this department could mean accusations of racism. With that in mind, let us simply say that Makoto Shiranui is Japanese, and move on to the first challenge.

One could, of course, simply say "beautiful" and leave it at that, maybe check a thesaurus if you're feeling flowery. The problem is you don't get across why the character is so stunning, why Gordon was left frozen for a moment upon meeting his partner. Something could be said about the perfect symmetry of her face, the dark, reflective eyes, the perfectly styled, yet short and utilitarian chestnut hair, or perhaps something about her body? The toned build that doesn't yet reach 'muscular'? The flawless skin radiating warmth? Something in her attidude, a daring smirk, staring down her counterpart with the previously-stated eyes? Or maybe she just has a fantastic pair of tits. Gordon Martel is, if nothing else, a shallow man.

There is a certain line from a certain popular stealth video game from the nineties that sprung to poor Gordon's mind. I dare not repeat it, both for fears of copyright infringement and fears that repeating it may imply I somehow support his thoughts regarding Ms. Shiranui's first impression. Those of you that have played this game know exactly what I refer to, and are presently cringing. For those of you left confused, rest assured those in the other category are deeply jealous of the fact that you missed the joke.

I have absolutely no idea what's going on with this and why I should care about any of it. Is it supposed to be funny? You spend more time talking about describing this woman than you actually spend describing her. The tense and point of view are all over the place.

The whole thing feels like a joke that went sailing over my head.

# ? Jan 27, 2014 19:51

Nettle Soup: Jan 30, 2010; Oh, and Jones was there too.

Can I get some basic advice on this? It was a 3 random words ~500 word challenge to myself. It's grown to about 700 now so I'm going to stop editing it and just post. I'm heartened the thought that it can't possibly be as incomprehensible as that mess of words above.

---

3 seed words: Necklace, integrity, defy.

It was, I thought, a very pretty necklace. Whether she'll like it or not I have no idea, but with what little time I'd had, I thought I'd done very well.

It, the necklace I mean, is in a little red velveteen box. Yes it's a little worn around the edges, but it's still solid, and when you close it it gives a nice, satisfying click. The lining inside the box is cream, and in a specially made recess sits the necklace, a yellow gold chain with a fairly big pendant in the center, set with a large green emerald.

Like I said, a pretty thing. If you prise your fingernails into the edge then it opens up, and there's a yellowed picture and some hair inside, but I don't know who they belonged to, it's not old Joan.

Maybe somebody loved it once, but right now it's in the drawer in the kitchen, shoved right to the back so that nobody finds it when they need a spoon or something. When I was a girl I had a false-back in my knicker drawer where I used to store that kind of thing, but that was quite a time ago now.

I didn't steal it, in case you're wondering. I know I'm hiding it but it's not like that.

It's not... Is it stealing if nobody will ever know? If nobody cares? If there's nobody left to claim it? It's stealing from the state maybe, death duties and unclaimed wills and all that, but don't talk to me about wills... Bloody government owns everything nowadays, if they don't own it while you're alive then they certainly own it after you're dead.

And it's not stealing if she'd have wanted me to have it, right? Because when I say there was nobody left, I guess that's not strictly true either.

They came only once, the Family. Not long after she died, they came round. I watched through the curtains and I listened through the window as they banged all her doors, as they shouted out her windows. I watched as they sifted through all her things, took what they wanted and disdained all they didn't. I watched as they filled the skip and as they dismantled her entire life bit by bit, piece by piece. It's amazing how fast you can destroy 80 years of work. Two, three hours, and all signs of the person are erased. A few days, a couple of coats of paint, and it's like they never existed at all.

They saw me, I saw them gesture in my direction, lower their voices, look away, oh yes, they saw me and they knew who I was. If they'd come over, if they'd asked maybe, if they'd shown the slightest bit of sympathy... But they didn't, so I, as they used to say, kept mum. Then they left and it was too late anyway. Maybe if they'd come back I would have said something, but they never did. A man came to empty the skip, somebody came to take the last of the furniture, a builder, a decorator, and that was it. All signs of old Joan were gone, and she may as well have never even existed at all. I don't think they even bought her a headstone...

Anyway. There's a woman living there now, young, I've heard her shouting at her kid and seen her busying in and out, but she seems a good sort. She hasn't been over to say hello yet but that's ok, that's how the young live nowadays. I keep meaning to bake her something, to go over there and introduce myself, but it's too late for me to making friends again now. I think about it, and then I stop. I put the cake back in the cupboard, put the extra mug away again and tell myself I'll do it tomorrow instead.

But this time I mean it, I am going to go over there tomorrow, cake or no cake. I'm going to tell her the stories and I'm going to give her the necklace, whether she wants it or not.

And maybe when I die, and they shuffle through my jewelry box and they look behind my television and they curse their lack of Inheritance, they'll know it served them right.

# ? Jan 28, 2014 01:25

Klayboxx: Aug 23, 2013; Please pay attention to me

This is my first real shot at creative writing in a good long while. It seems unfinished because it is, but I'd like opinions on it just to see if how I'm writing is working or not.

- - -

A man sat alone at a small square table. He leaned upon it with one elbow, his hand in the crook of his neck. With his other hand he swirled an iced drink and he looked about with his nervous brown eyes which were rimmed with dark black circles. He leaned and took a sip, and then slumped back in his chair, which gave a muffled creak at his weight. The man�s nervous eyes darted about the restaurant. Waiters sauntered busily about carrying large trays topped with colorful Mexican dishes, patrons ate and talked all around him, their collective voices mixing into a droning cacophony that surrounded him, and dug unpleasantly at his ears. He grimaced and took another sip at his drink.

�Sir, would you like to order?�

The man looked up and blinked as if shaken from a daze, �Uh, no. Not yet. Thanks.�

�Very well sir.� The waiter turned and strode off, rounded a corner and was lost from view.

The man sighed and leaned back once again, he lowered his head into his hands and he pinched the bridge of his nose, took another sip at his drink, and stood shakily. He unhooked his woolen coat from the chair he was sitting in and slipped it on. He had always enjoyed with his fingers the silken lining on the inside of his jacket as he put it on, but this was lost upon him now. He frowned down at the table, seeming unsure whether to pay for his drink. His shoulders sagged and he reached down into the back pocket of his pants and grabbed his wallet and threw a wrinkled five down onto the pitted table and then sulked out of the restaurant with his head down. On the way out his waiter stopped him and asked,

�Sir, is something the matter?� the waiter cocked his head and raised an eyebrow.

The man sighed out an answer, �No. The money for the drink is on the table.�

Before the waiter could reply the man turned away and took the few steps to the large glass door, and leaned into it. Frigid wind flew against his face and he squinted his eyes against the assault as he stepped through the threshold. He stuffed his hands deep into his coat to spite the cold and he looked down the cracked sidewalk and began to walk. Small trees lined the narrow street, and small brick buildings lined the sidewalk shoulder to shoulder, held apart only by the occasional dark alley. Snow glittered from the sides of the sidewalk and in gutters in the street and small trickles of water ran off of the white collections and flowed into the sewer feeds, and grubby children ran down the opposite side of the street and they screamed and leapt with simple childhood joy. None of this went unnoticed by the man.

# ? Jan 28, 2014 03:39

Nettle Soup: Jan 30, 2010; Oh, and Jones was there too.

Klayboxx posted:

This is my first real shot at creative writing in a good long while. It seems unfinished because it is, but I'd like opinions on it just to see if how I'm writing is working or not.

Is English your first language? You use "he" and "his" way, way too much, a lot of those could just be cut out and have no impact on readability. You also have quite a bit of redundant description, and full stops where you really need a comma and joining-word.

Don't lean so much, your character is on a permanent slant, read it out-loud to yourself and see if it makes sense.

Also, a minor thing, you take a sip "of" a drink, not "at", unless you're just sipping air somewhere close by.

I think the main thing you need to do is go through all your writing and remove the word "he" or "his" or "the man" as much as possible, and make sure you really need to end that sentence, I tried it below to illustrate my point.

Klayboxx posted:

A man sat alone at a small square table. He leaned upon it with one elbow, his hand in the crook of his neck~~. With~~ while his other hand he swirled an iced drink. ~~and~~ He looked about with ~~his~~ nervous ~~brown~~ eyes ~~which were~~, rimmed with dark black circles,~~. He leaned and~~ then took a sip of his drink, and ~~then~~ slumped back in his chair.~~, which gave a muffled creak at his weight~~. ~~The man’s~~ His ~~nervous~~ eyes darted about the restaurant., waiters sauntered busily about carrying large trays topped with colorful Mexican dishes, and patrons ate and talked all around him, their collective voices mixing into a droning cacophony that ~~surrounded him, and~~ dug unpleasantly at his ears. He grimaced and took another sip ~~at his drink~~.

“Sir, would you like to order?”

~~The man~~ He looked up and blinked as if shaken from a daze, “Uh, no. Not yet. Thanks.”

“Very well sir.” The waiter turned and strode off, rounded a corner and was lost from view.

The man sighed and leaned back once again, he lowered his head into his hands, and he pinched the bridge of his nose. He took another sip at his drink, and stood shakily,~~. He~~ unhooked his woolen coat from the chair ~~he was sitting in~~ and slipped it on. He had always enjoyed ~~with his fingers~~ the silken lining on the inside of his jacket ~~as he put it on~~, but this was lost upon him now. He frowned down at the table, seemingly unsure whether to pay for ~~his~~ the drink.then his shoulders sagged and he reached ~~down~~ into the back pocket of his pants, ~~and~~ grabbed his wallet, ~~and~~ threw a wrinkled five ~~down~~ onto the pitted table and ~~then~~ sulked out of the restaurant ~~with his head down~~. On the way out, ~~his~~ the waiter stopped him ~~and asked~~,

“Sir, is something the matter?” the waiter asked ~~cocked his head and raised an eyebrow.~~ Is he a dog?

The man sighed ~~out an answer,~~ “No. The money for the drink is on the table.”

Before the waiter could reply ~~the man~~ he had turned away and ~~took~~ taken the few steps to towards the large glass door, ~~and leaned into it.~~ Frigid wind flew against his face and he squinted ~~his eyes~~ against the assault as he stepped through the threshold. He stuffed his hands deep into his coat to spite the cold, ~~and he~~ looked down the cracked sidewalk and began to walk. Small trees ~~lined the narrow street,~~ and ~~small~~ brick buildings lined the sidewalk shoulder to shoulder, held apart only by the occasional dark alley. Snow glittered ~~from the sides of the~~ off the sidewalk, and in gutters ~~in the street and~~ small trickles of water ~~ran off of the white collections and~~ flowed into the sewer feeds, full stop ~~and~~ Grubby children ran down the opposite side of the street and ~~they~~ screamed and leapt with simple childhood joy. None of this went unnoticed by the man.

Nettle Soup fucked around with this message at 04:42 on Jan 28, 2014

# ? Jan 28, 2014 04:33

sebmojo: Oct 23, 2010; Legit Cyberpunk

Also: have something happen.

# ? Jan 28, 2014 04:52

ReptileChillock: Jan 7, 2014; by Lowtax

sebmojo posted:

Also: have something happen.

Clearly, the man leans.

Seriously, though, you could have condensed all that into one paragraph or even one sentence. Nothing happens, but you use a ton of words to describe surroundings that ultimately add nothing to the story. We still know absolutely sweet gently caress all about this dude after he's done his nightly leanings.

# ? Jan 28, 2014 04:57

Klayboxx: Aug 23, 2013; Please pay attention to me

Nettle Soup posted:

Is English your first language? You use "he" and "his" way, way too much, a lot of those could just be cut out and have no impact on readability. You also have quite a bit of redundant description, and full stops where you really need a comma and joining-word.

Don't lean so much, your character is on a permanent slant, read it out-loud to yourself and see if it makes sense.

Also, a minor thing, you take a sip "of" a drink, not "at", unless you're just sipping air somewhere close by.

I think the main thing you need to do is go through all your writing and remove the word "he" or "his" or "the man" as much as possible, and make sure you really need to end that sentence, I tried it below to illustrate my point.

No it's not, it's just the first time I've really taken a crack at creative writing because I wanted to. I was trying to emphasize that you don't know his name, but now that you've pointed that out I clearly did that and more, and probably could have left it with the first 'the man'. Thank you for the feedback!

ReptileChillock posted:

Clearly, the man leans.

Seriously, though, you could have condensed all that into one paragraph or even one sentence. Nothing happens, but you use a ton of words to describe surroundings that ultimately add nothing to the story. We still know absolutely sweet gently caress all about this dude after he's done his nightly leanings.

He's a professional leaner, clearly.

Seriously though, my intention is for something (other than leaning) to happen. I'm trying to set the setting and tone before getting into the story. I'll work on inserting some of the guys thoughts so there is more interesting development. I dunno though, while writing it I was on the edge of my seat deciding on whether or not he'd lean again.

# ? Jan 28, 2014 05:14

ReptileChillock: Jan 7, 2014; by Lowtax

Klayboxx posted:

Seriously though, my intention is for something (other than leaning) to happen. I'm trying to set the setting and tone before getting into the story. I'll work on inserting some of the guys thoughts so there is more interesting development. I dunno though, while writing it I was on the edge of my seat deciding on whether or not he'd lean again.

dude no! no, bro! brooooo don't

The LAST thing you want is to open a story with someone's ruminations in a bar. DON'T DO IT. Set the pace with some ACTION. You have to have :siren:

SOMETHING HAPPEN :siren:

You can't set the tone in 300 words of leaning and self-reflection, unless you want the tone to be boring as gently caress. Start us off with a scene, like, how he got to the bar - show us why he's there drinking. We won't sit through a loving tired self reflective scene unless we give two hoots about Leany Leansman.

# ? Jan 28, 2014 05:22

elfdude: Jan 23, 2014; Mad Scientist

Klayboxx posted:

This is my first real shot at creative writing in a good long while. It seems unfinished because it is, but I'd like opinions on it just to see if how I'm writing is working or not.

- - -

A man sat alone at a small square table. He leaned upon it with one elbow, his hand in the crook of his neck. With his other hand he swirled an iced drink and he looked about with his nervous brown eyes which were rimmed with dark black circles.Ok let's take a break here, waaaaaaaay too much description and not enough action. Don't get me wrong it's great description, I can picture exactly what he's doing, the issue is that my picture has been sitting around for quite awhile while I try and finish the description, in other words your description has lost me He leaned and took a sip, and then slumped back in his chair, which gave a muffled creak at his weight.There's some awkwardness here, gave should be 'made' perhaps more action but more description on top of it undoes the feeling of movement in the story The man�s nervous eyes darted about the restaurant.Oh poo poo, he's nervous? I wouldn't have guessed that. The tone of your previous description is bored or sullen not nervous. You need to speed up the prose if you want to come across as nervous Waiters sauntered busily about carrying large trays topped with colorful Mexican dishes, patrons ate and talked all around him, their collective voices mixing into a droning cacophony that surrounded him, and dug unpleasantly at his ears.Fewer commas please, I don't know the rules for grammar here well but commas have the effect of making the point go on and on and on then it's lost and it still goes on etc. Use sentences. Don't use so many clauses. He grimaced and took another sip at his drink. [Ok, so he's bored nervous and slightly disgusted? That's the sense I'm getting thus far

�Sir, would you like to order?�

The man looked up and blinked as if shaken from a daze, �Uh, no. Not yet. Thanks."Why would you even bother to write out the dialog here, simply saying the waiters tried to take his order would be more effective. Think about description in the way that when you're watching something or reading something everything else falls away, it's trivial. You know it's there but only because your mind fills it in afterwords if you spend your time describing all of these trivial instances the mind gets lost and the story starts to grate on the head.

�Very well sir.� The waiter turned and strode off, rounded a corner and was lost from view.

The man sighed and leaned back once again, he lowered his head into his hands and he pinched the bridge of his nose, took another sip at his drink, and stood shakily.Does he have a headache? Why is he pinching his nose? Why use the word pinch? He unhooked his woolen coat from the chair he was sitting in and slipped it on. He had always enjoyed with his fingers the silken lining on the inside of his jacket as he put it on, but this was lost upon him now.Over description still on something that doesn't seem to be important, his characterization is now a bored, nervous, disgusted man who is uninterested in ordering and likes the softness of his coat... quite empty He frowned down at the table, seeming unsure whether to pay for his drink.Hey some real characterization! Great. His shoulders sagged and he reached down into the back pocket of his pants and grabbed his wallet and threw a wrinkled five down onto the pitted table and then sulked out of the restaurant with his head down.Ack, you were doing well but then you got lost in describing the action. Use fewer words to describe the action. Describing things in the middle of an action like that interupts it, which is good if that's your intention in a high paced story but bad when the story has nothing to pay attention to yet On the way out his waiter stopped him and asked,

�Sir, is something the matter?� the waiter cocked his head and raised an eyebrow.

The man sighed out an answer, �No. The money for the drink is on the table.�

Before the waiter could reply the man turned away and took the few steps to the large glass door, and leaned into it.the man has so many conflicting emotional ques that I'm having a difficulty figuring him out, it seems disjointed. Try and go for one type of characterization and bend your description to fit that Frigid wind flew against his face and he squinted his eyes against the assault as he stepped through the threshold. He stuffed his hands deep into his coat to spite the cold and he looked down the cracked sidewalk and began to walk.My mind is all over the place, it's like you as the writer are saying, hey audience pay attention to this, then you move on. You're giving the text equivalent of blue balls Small trees lined the narrow street, and small brick buildings lined the sidewalk shoulder to shoulder, held apart only by the occasional dark alley. Snow glittered from the sides of the sidewalk and in gutters in the street and small trickles of water ran off of the white collections and flowed into the sewer feeds, and grubby children ran down the opposite side of the street and they screamed and leapt with simple childhood joy. None of this went unnoticed by the man.I mean placing the things don't go unnoticed by this man at the start would be a good way to tell the reader, hey reader I'm gona describe a ton of crap you don't care about because I'm viewing things from his mind although you'd probably need to rework the story a bit but at least this makes a bit more sense. However I shouldn't need to read this much to figure out the character. The best way to describe someone is to use an archetype then slowly refine on that throughout the story through the character's interaction with the environment. If you want us to pay attention to something in the environment focus on it but don't focus on everything. You need to be the photographer here and set your lens to only bring the important pieces into view.

Overall you had some quality description. I would avoid run on sentences. Try to avoid using ands. Don't bother with dialogue that goes no where because everyone is very capable of understanding that. Only describe what you want the reader to focus on. Make sure to remain focused in your own description so that your character comes off as a person rather than someone suffering from multiple personality disorder.

# ? Jan 28, 2014 07:43

doug fuckey: Jun 7, 2007; hella greenbacks

If the actual words being said aren't important, just write "The bartender asked him for his order." I imagine that a lot of people (myself definitely included) imagine scenes as if they were happening in a movie and thus require ourselves to include dialogue in the "script" for EVERY spoken line, even if it's just a necessary movement of the plot that those words get said.

# ? Jan 28, 2014 19:07

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# ? May 28, 2024 11:34

Lead out in cuffs: Sep 18, 2012; "That's right. We've evolved."

"I can see that. Cool mutations."

E: Apparently when I posted this I committed the cardinal goonsin of not reading the OP. My quid pro quo review is in the next post, over the page.

OK, here goes. This is a little something I'm eventually planning on submitting to Nature for their Futures section. The brief is 850-950 words words of hard sci fi. However, since I wrote this based somewhat on my own experiences in data science, which even I find a little dry at times, I'm particularly interested in knowing whether a) the jargon-o-metre is in the right place between understandability and hard sciencey-ness, b) the story is compelling, and c) the character is relatable to. All other comments are welcome.

Deathwatch (944 words)

Daniella drove down the cracked, too-wide street in the barren Detroit neighbourhood housing the United Credit data centre. Some days, she wondered why , but the response came quickly: the enormous salary premium. The money UC saved by using a disused telephone exchange left them with more than enough to afford it, and protecting profits through cost-savings was the whole point, wasn't it? Besides, the work was too interesting, the data too big, for her to possibly pass it up. In fact, she suspected that part of UC's decision to base their main data mining centre in a run-down corner nobody wanted to visit was precisely to keep it low key. She had the full purchase histories, credit records, demographics (actual and inferred) and online activity logs on every one of UC's nearly fifty million customers at her fingertips, and already she had worked magic with it.

She reminisced over her achievements as she passed the discrete but formidable perimeter security and into the Faraday-caged office area, her phone bleating plaintively about the lack of signal. Marriage had been her greatest success to date. With the right combination of features -- certain purchases, subtle changes in credit rating indicative of emotional distress, income for striation -- all normalised to county-level census data and trained with the right classifier, she could predict when a customer was about to marry (with cross-validated PPV of 0.98), or divorce (PPV=0.97). Working with the production team, she had optimised the classifier for speed, validated on a follow-up cohort, and rolled it out as a secure internal service to account managers country-wide. She'd had some doubts about the sales execs' idea of increasing credit limits to cover wedding or divorce costs, but UC did also offer preferential rates on florists, catering, honeymoon vacation packages, divorce lawyers and psychotherapy. Besides, the intellectual challenge of the problem was what really moved her.

The latest project, now that was a challenge: suicide prediction, or "deathwatch", as they'd begun to call it. She had no idea where UC had dug up the training data -- data sharing agreements with life insurance companies, probably -- but that had been the least of her problems. She'd had to cast her net wide for inputs, and feature selection had been tricky. Still, the right types of credit card payments, web browsing trails winding through suicide prevention websites, and social media posts both from the imminently deceased and their "friends" could be most revealing when sifted from the noise. She'd even run literature miners over the suicide research corpus. And finally, it had worked. She had a developed a rock-solid, tightly bounded score for six-month suicide risk. For a while, after UC had rolled it out and the first lives had been saved by trained (credit) counsellors, she had begun to feel like she was changing the world.

But this morning, as she sat at her plush, three-monitor workstation, something had been bothering her. She had been running diagnostics on the deathwatch predictions since the interventions, and the positive effect was quite visible. Yet, quite a few of the predicted suicides seemed to happen anyway, and she was determined to find the pattern. As she set up the analysis on the compute cluster, she idly flipped through some of the other data scientists' code on the network drive, her eye stopping on a folder titled "Suicide Cost-Benefit Analysis". Determining exactly what the main script was doing would take some time, but the main function took in a personal identifier, and spat out a score. She had a hunch, and set up a quick run over a subsample of the suicide predictees. The score gave an almost perfect stratification.

She stormed into her manager's office.
"You're just letting them die!"
"Daniella, Daniella, "
"I found the cost benefit script. I know. When they aren't valuable enough to UC, they don't get an intervention."
"Come now, the counselling costs money, and we have an obligation to our shareholders to turn a profit. We have to know when the cost of the counselling exceeds the predicted future lifetime profit from the customer. And it's not like we're heartless; we send them a letter suggesting they get counselling. You should know ..."
Her mind numbing as the impenetrable miasma of business jargon enfolded her, she nodded, meakly, in compliance.

Eventually she shuffled back to her desk in a daze, and too drained for real work, opened her inbox to an email from Mom which turned her blood cold. Dad had received a strange letter from the credit card company, suggesting he look into counselling.

Suddenly, she was alert again. The records were de-identified, but picking Dad out was easy enough. Her palms sweated as she began running him through the suicide risk predictor, adding a new refinement she'd been working on to predict time of suicide. Her clenched fingers slipping on the keys, she started the cost-benefit script in parallel.

The prediction confirmed her fears -- his suicide risk was through the roof. The cost-benefit analysis hardly surprised either. Dad had always been careful with his money. Eyes transfixed to the screen as the time predictor churned away, Daniella's thoughts raced. Should she run to the smoking balcony so she could call home? The sudden flicker of the script completing decided her, as it predicted a single day. That day.

She floated to the balcony, her damp fingers slipping on the touchscreen as she dialled home. Each ring drew the knot in her stomach tighter, and Mom's frenzied voice rang out like a gong.
"Daniella? Daniella! It's horrible.... your father ... shotgun ... outside ... shed ..."
"He's dead, Daniella! Dead!"

Lead out in cuffs fucked around with this message at 04:20 on Feb 1, 2014

# ? Jan 30, 2014 07:23

The Something Awful Forums > The Finer Arts > Creative Convention > The Farm 2013. Flash Fiction and Snippets Critique Hub (<1000 Words)

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