- Phil Moscowitz
- Feb 19, 2007
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If blood be the price of admiralty,
Lord God, we ha' paid in full!
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Last day of the bar exam tomorrow.
Don't let legal writing kill your prose!
Here are some comments on the prologue:
Prologue
Rain lashed the windows relentlessly, rattling the panes. Lightning blazed across the heavens [a little trite here] and thunder rumbled like some ancient evil. General Braunschweig trembled at every noise under his covers. Veteran of a dozen campaigns over his long and illustrious career but, never before had he felt a fear like this. The howling wind played the chimney like a whistle [if it's whistling, we don't need the howling] while the familiar creaks and groans of his family seat taunted him. It was the waiting he couldn't bear - too much for an old soldier like himself.
He wrenched the duvet aside and dropped his feet into his bedside slippers. Ridiculous in nightgown and cap he shuffled to the umbrella stand where he kept his old sabre. As his fingers settled into their well-worn grooves on the hilt he felt some calm return. It looked like tonight was going towould be another sleepless vigil. It had beenHe'd made a grave mistake getting involved with those ambitious upstarts.[I know this is a prologue and presumably we will learn more about these upstarts, but it's a throwaway line.] He ambled across to his oft-visited liquor cabinet and poured himself a generous brandy. '54 Leipzburg Reserve, his secret weapon for occasions such as these. He figured it might go some way to stopping the tremors, but even if it didn't; he took a long slug from the tumbler and wiped his mouth . Butter-smooth, as always. He had once joked, half-seriously, that Leipzburg was the only friend he could truly rely on.[More cliché — oh alcohol, my only real friend...]
He sunk down into his old armchair. It creaked and the red leather cushions wheezed and surrendered with a sigh to accommodate him accommodated him with a sigh. The Firelight played through the amber liquid in his glass, casting warm scythes of light [ehhh] across his trembling hand. He watched it shake detachedly [Is his hand shaking so hard it's about to fall off??] . It was, a sobering window into his own past. The missing chunk from his index finger - shrapnel from a misfiring cannon had ripped that away at Alacampha. The dark lateral scar from when that Tarkan officer had gone for him with one of their brutal scimitars. The permanent purplish powder scorch from when a mortar had exploded mere feet away from him at Belkos. Even still, those wounds were slight compared to the savaging time had wrought upon his hands. Yellowing skin, black liver spots and gangrenous-looking veins ruptured up from inside [ruptured implies broken skin, but I doubt that's what you meant], all vying for prominence. His physical appearance was abhorrent to him. [I think you could remove this or otherwise improve its passivity.]
Time. One enemy he couldn't fight with conventional means. Perhaps if he hadn't been so averse to aging gracefully he wouldn't have got into this mess into the first place. Hubris and fear had brought him here. He had once remarked Once, he'd known that there was nothing more pathetic and undignified than an old man begging for his life. True words – was what he was doing soWas this hubris any different?[¶]
Maybe not, he thought. But show himme a man hismy age who wouldn't have taken the opportunity if it had presented itself.[¶]
Or perhaps hismaybe your principles hadhave simply crumbled into dust., he considered darkly.[Terrible adverb use, he thought elucidatingly]. He really had grown old. With that, heHe necked the rest of the brandy.
The brandy [repetition - maybe use "booze" or another term] worked its magic and his sabre stopped rattling in its scabbard. Steadiness regained, if not his total composure, he walked to the door.
“Report, Corporal,” he barked at the man he had stationed at his door.
There was no reply.
“Corporal, report,” he spoke a little louder, the tremors edging back into his voice.
Still there was no reply.
Sabre at the ready, he swallowed, and slowly turned the door-handle until the latch clicked.. He jerked the door open in a quick motion, hoping to catch off-guard anybody lying in wait. But the corridor was empty. No guard, no phantom assassin. Just the sound of the rain on the windows and the glow from the gaslamps. [one word] Perhaps the Corporal had merely gone to relieve himself. If he had abandoned his post, by God, hethe General would see him cleaning latrines for a full year. [more cliché. why not peeling potatoes? I'm sure there are more interesting and painful punishments that could be meted out to guards who abandon their obviously endangered officers. The sabre in his arm drooped as he untensed.
Then, the gaslamp at the furthest end of the corridor was snuffed out. The General blinked, unsure if his aged eyes were playing tricks on him. He [/s]gripped his sword tightly[/s] tightened the grip on his sword once more and strained to see into the murky distance. The next gaslamp along flickered out of existence, and then another. as he watched. And then like dominoes they died, each in turn faster and faster, one by one, until they had all ceased burning. He took several steps backwards, panic seizing his heart and squeezing tight. He felt short of breath. A cold draft blew in from the end of the hall, giving him goosebumps.
“Oh God...” he whispered to himself. Whatever good prayers might do for him now.
The light disappeared - theThe fire in his bedroom suddenly extinguished and he was plunged him into total darkness.[In addition to being passive, another cliché. Maybe some other verb besides plunging?] He drew his sabre with a metalline aspiration [No idea what this means.] and dropped the scabbard with a loud clatter. [Is there another kind of clatter?]
“Who's there!” he shouted, bravado the last refuge from terror. His words were eaten by the blackness. The only sound was that of the wind and rain. Lightning flashed. In the brief brilliance, something appeared at the end of the corridor. A hunched silhouette of a man, swaying. The light from the flash died away but he could still see something there. A man-shaped illuminance. A peal of thunder grumbled. The silhouette lurched from side to side like a drunkard.
Then it moved. [I thought it was already swaying, lurching from side to side?] It staggered towards him, horribly slow yet with inexorable intent.[I really don't think so.] General Braunschweig was rooted to the spot, hypnotised by what he was witnessing. The light from the figure grew brighter and it became harder and harder to look at directly. The carpet beneath it began to scorch and smoke. As it got closer, the outer edges became indistinct, less and less human with every step. It began to bubble and drip liquid light. The curtains ignited at its passing. [There is really so much good here that it's painful to see the bad. Igniting the curtains, scorching the carpet, dripping liquid light, growing bright and indistinct--all good. Too much "began to" and "became," though.]
“I'm not the one you want!” screamed the General towards it “It wasn't me, I was dragged into this. I don't care about the box or its miserable secrets! Leave me be!”
At his shout reverberated throughout the house, the apparition flickered and disappeared like a snuffed candle. The General blinked, agog. Blue and white wraiths danced before his eyes from the sudden absence. For a cruel moment, relief washed over him. Had it left him in peace? He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. As he did, he felt an unnatural warmth behind him. And he knew it was not the warmth of his rekindled fireplace. He turned slowly, dreading. [You can do much better with this realization that death is imminent. And is he really not going to open his eyes before turning around?] He opened his eyes and was face to face with an abomination. It groaned and burbled, a bright white molten man. The neon effervescence of its skin gave off an oppressive heat and hissed like a snake.Just no. Oppressive heat? The General stared, going blind, into the area where its eyes ought to be. [Something about this doesn't work. He's going blind! That's insane and awesome; scary, visceral poo poo. Make it feel that way!]
“What are you?” he whispered.
The nightmare-being didn't speak. It emitted a tortured screech.[Is it a computer or something? Why is it emitting sound?] The volume and dissonance of it conjured up a storm in the room, ripping books from the shelves and smashing bottles and glasses in a deafening fury. In the eye of the storm stood the General and the monster, stock still. General Braunschweig couldn't see, couldn't hear, but he felt the thing wrap him in its liquescent [Umm...] grasp. In a seething column of smoke and fire, the General burned. [Nice.]
[Not one use of "immolation" in this whole thing? You left that one on the table.]
It might not seem like it, but I like this. The apparition is good and disturbing. The way it approaches is a little clichéd in general and I have no idea who the General is or why I should care about him, despite some characterization you put in there.
How does the box have anything to do with anything? Does he recognize the immolated man? Did he always know that this would happen to him, that the monster would come for him? Seems like it but he's oddly surprised by it all. Great way to kill someone though.
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Feb 27, 2013 21:31
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May 15, 2024 11:19
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- Phil Moscowitz
- Feb 19, 2007
-
If blood be the price of admiralty,
Lord God, we ha' paid in full!
|
Also, Jeza, don't talk about saber rattling in a literal sense. It's a well-known idiom and looks silly when you use it to mean the guy is actually shaking his sword and making a noise with it.
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Feb 27, 2013 22:06
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- Phil Moscowitz
- Feb 19, 2007
-
If blood be the price of admiralty,
Lord God, we ha' paid in full!
|
I've rattled a saber in its scabbard before.
Oh I see your edit. Mine was ceremonial so...yeah.
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Feb 27, 2013 22:08
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- Phil Moscowitz
- Feb 19, 2007
-
If blood be the price of admiralty,
Lord God, we ha' paid in full!
|
I'm not going to nitpick. I think it's better, but I still don't get why you have him asking about himself in the third person.
quote:He clutched his tumbler a little tighter. Perhaps his principles had wasted away like the rest of him. Perhaps our dignity withers and fails like the rest of us. Was he then to be blamed? He felt bitterness rise. Show him the man in his place who wouldn't have done the same, he wanted to shout. Show him what the better man would have done. He necked the rest of the brandy in anger, then sagged. It was too late now for regrets and remonstrations. His dignity knew that much at least.
Why would he want to shout, "Show him the man in his place who wouldn't have done the same?"
Wouldn't he shout, presumably to himself or to God or whatever, "Show me the man in my place who wouldn't have done the same? Show me what the better man would've done!"
I like these rewrites:
quote:The silhouette lurched from side to side like a drunkard. Then it began to stagger towards him, horribly slow yet with inexorable intent. General Braunschweig was rooted to the spot. It was hypnotic. The light from the figure grew brighter and brighter until he had to shield his eyes. The carpet beneath it began to scorch and smoke. As it got closer, the outer edges became indistinct, less and less human with every step. It bubbled and dripped liquid light. The curtains ignited at its passing.
(Except the inexorable intent stuff, but hey...your prerogative.)
quote:“Leave me be!“ screamed the General as he backed away “I don't have it, I never had it!”
At his shout, the apparition flickered and disappeared. The General blinked. Blue and white wraiths danced before his eyes from the sudden absence. For a cruel moment, relief washed over him. Had it left him in peace? He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. As he did, he felt an unnatural warmth behind him. And he knew it was not the warmth of his rekindled fireplace. Dread filled him. He turned, and was face to face with an abomination. It was a nightmare. It looked like man who had fallen into boiling lead. It stumbled towards him groaning and burbling, thick white gobs of its skin sloughing off onto the floor. It was a living furnace. The General felt his skin begin the blister and his eyes drying in their sockets. The sheer intensity of the light rendered him blind.
Much cooler. "I don't have it, never had it," is intriguing to me. I also think the disappearance works here--has it left him alone, now that he's denied ever having it? It may not be totally unique but I like the way it's done.
Also much more brutal, the way he goes blind--his eyes are drying in their sockets! loving great. You don't even have to tell me he's going blind, I get it! MAYBE YOU CAN MAKE HIS EYEBALLS BLISTER. Now that's an image--eyelids crackling, lashes singing off; eyeballs blistering in their sockets.
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Feb 28, 2013 01:47
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- Phil Moscowitz
- Feb 19, 2007
-
If blood be the price of admiralty,
Lord God, we ha' paid in full!
|
I laughed at the payoff, but I figured out where it was going too soon. If you hold off with the "dinner" stuff you can lead us along a little more.
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Mar 13, 2013 22:39
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May 15, 2024 11:19
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- Phil Moscowitz
- Feb 19, 2007
-
If blood be the price of admiralty,
Lord God, we ha' paid in full!
|
Maybe writing fiction's just not your thing.
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Apr 11, 2013 18:29
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Feb 27, 2013 21:31
