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Critique away. I've no real experience writing, but I want to improve. I’m digging through the dumpster, throwing poo poo this way and that when something moves outside. I freeze, but I know it’s too late. I’m expecting a male voice to start yelling at me, but there’s just silence. I clamber out of the bin and brush off things that are stuck to me. Some of them crawl away when they hit the ground. Standing in front of me is a girl with purple hair and black clothes. Not sure how old she is. I’m thankful for the sudden wind that hopefully pushes my stench away. She stares at me, at my clothes and then smiles. At least I think it’s a smile. I’m not sure anymore. “Are you hungry?” Her voice is light and playful. It makes me feel good and ashamed at the same time. I nod. I’m finding it hard to speak. She yells out to someone else. “Bring some food over here.” A young man climbs up onto the parking lot. He stands close to the girl and holds out a tall cup and a brown bag. “Here you go. Take it.” I slowly reach out for the food and, finally grasping it, shove it down as fast as possible. The coffee tastes so good. I rip the bag open and inhale the sandwiches. The young man and the girl walk away. “Uh, thanks! Thanks a lot!” I manage to choke out. “We’ll see you tomorrow.” They wave goodbye and walk down the hill. I watch until their heads disappear. I wave and then finish my meal. Today has been a good day. At least until I get really sick. I guess I ate too much, too fast. It’s a long night and I’m hiding under the bridge, puking my guts out when the light blinds me. tango alpha delta fucked around with this message at 06:54 on Jul 8, 2013 |
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Jul 8, 2013 06:30
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Jagermonster posted:I've no real experience editing fiction, but here're my impressions: Thanks for the feedback. Here's the story again, with some changes: Father's Day My stomach is so tight with hunger that the dumpster looks like an open mouth, an invitation to a banquet. I struggle between a gnawing stomach and the bruises that I'll have to nurse if the security guard catches me. I've got to eat something. The parking lot looks clear, so here goes. I slip in without making a sound. I've had lots of practice. As my feet ease onto the contents of the dumpster, the garbage shifts unexpectedly and I grab at the sticky walls to brace myself. My own stench masks the odor of the garbage. Desperately, I dig through the waste, throwing junk this way and that, when something moves outside. I freeze, but it's probably too late. Breathing slowly, I brace myself for a tirade, but there's just silence. Puzzled, I clamber out of the bin and brush off things that are stuck to me. Some of them crawl away when they hit the ground. A girl is standing in front of me, staring. Her eyes open wide and then tears slowly roll down her face. She manages to squeeze out a smile, a genuine honest smile. It's something I haven't seen in a long time. A breeze plays with her purple hair and hopefully pushes my stench away. "Are you hungry?" Her voice is light and playful. It makes me feel good and ashamed at the same time. I'm shaking all over, but manage a nod. She yells out to someone else. "Bring some food over here." A young man crosses the parking lot but, as soon as he sees me up close, moves closer to the girl, like a shield. He holds out a tall cup and a brown bag. "Here you go. Take it." I slowly reach for the food. When I realise that he's not trying to trick me, I grab the food quickly and feast. The coffee is hot and creamy and sweet. It's absolutely perfect. My favorite. I rip open the bag and tear the paper wrap off the sandwich. Greedily, I feast on the soft bread, the crisp vegetables and juicy chicken. I can't remember when I've eaten this well. Days? Months? I don't honestly know. They watch to make sure I finish my meal, then the young man and the girl walk away. I find my voice "Uh, hey!" They stop and face me. "Uh, thanks. Thanks a lot" I manage to sputter. "We'll see you soon." They wave. I sit down and lean against the dumpster, watching as they disappear. That girl sure looks familiar.
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Jul 12, 2013 02:30
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QuoProQuid posted:Looking back, it is bad advice. I work more on articles and academic papers rather than fiction and applied those rules to the story. It was a bad decision on my part because fiction and non-fiction are really not the same thing at all. I got ahead of myself. No need to apologize. You've given specific feedback, which is always helpful. I bought Elements of Style and can see now that I've got work to do. If anyone else is interested, the ebook is only a dollar on the App Store. Any reason why some people seem to dislike Elements of Style?
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Jul 17, 2013 01:29
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Critique away: 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!” I snap awake. I know that voice, even after all these years. 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 tree growing over time, Williams had become more and more twisted. I knew many things about Williams. His father was a drinker and a terror to the household. Williams had paid dearly as a child. His father made him drink deeply from a bitter cup. William’s broken nose and fingers were remnants of those terrible days. It was the hatred that Williams carried. He confided to me that he used his hatred as fuel. I saw something very different. The hatred used Williams. It consumed him. But, I miss him, “Williams? Yes, Mason here. How are you?” Williams cuts me off, “Come to my lab! Tonight! Yes, tonight. There’s no time to lose. You’ll stop by, won’t you, for old times sake? I’ve something very important to show you.” He speaks rapidly. I glance at the clock again. drat. But he is an old friend. I also owe him. “Alright. I’ll be there.” He gives me the address. I call a cab, get dressed and head downstairs to wait outside. I wonder if he finished it? I shake my head. A fools dream. The cab ride doesn’t take very long. At first I think the address is wrong. I’m in some kind of suburbia. Not at all where I’m used to seeing a lab. The street is dark, but I find the house and knock on the door. The door snaps open and Williams welcomes me in. Yet not Williams, not the one I remember. He seems to be happy. I must be imagining things. I shake his hand. “Man, it’s good to see you.” “Professor, eh?” he smiles. “I always thought you would do well.” I snort and Williams chuckles. He stares at me for a long time, “Notice anything different?” “Well, yes, now that you mention it. In all the years I’ve known you, you’ve never smiled. In fact, you used to mope around like you were carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders.” Williams grins. “I’ve done it! I’ve finished the Box of Hate!” He’s almost bouncing with excitement. The Box of Hate was the reason we had parted ways. Years ago, he wanted to teach a computer how to hate. We had argued often about teaching some of the positive emotions as well, but Williams refused. It seemed so obvious to me that combining artificial intelligence and hatred was a terrible combination, but he just couldn’t see it. Williams had been filled with hatred for his father. But now, something strange had happened. The hate was gone. I saw it in the way he walked and talked. I follow him into the basement, into his lab. There it is. The Box of Hate. It 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. The Box is so dark that it appears to be a shadow. I shake my head and the box snaps back into a three dimensional object. It’s big enough for a man to sit inside. I turn around and Williams points a gun at me. “Get in.” He waves the gun. “What the hell is this?” He waves the gun again. “Get in.” I sigh. I’m not convinced that the Box really works. Get shot or humor him. Fine. I open the Box and climb into the chair. Williams chuckles and seals me in. Total darkness. “Williams! What’s going to happen to me? I demand-“ I feel the Box of Hate. I begin to hurt. I betrayed my friend. I denounced him to the University board. 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. Then, the pain is gone. The Box opens. Williams smiles and extends a hand. The gun is gone. “I forgive you, Mason.” I cry again, but they are joyful tears. My burden is gone. I stare at the Box and whisper, “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.” “What do you need?” “I want to put my father into the Box of Hate.” I look at his broken nose and twisted fingers, gifts from his father. This is justice. This must be done.
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Aug 10, 2013 08:30
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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 |
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Jan 11, 2014 05:08
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Working on backlog of audio book style critique:
tango alpha delta fucked around with this message at 05:22 on Oct 14, 2015 |
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Oct 13, 2015 21:29
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