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2014/01/30 10:33:42
Subject: Some writing exercises I am completing - anyone fancy joining me?
I have not yet have a novel published, but I've written 2 sci-fi-type novels and am working on a third, as well as some shorter pieces and a lot of poetry. If everything goes to plan, I hope to have something published (either my first novel or a poetry anthology) published in the next year or so. But yes, I do write a lot, as after wargaming its my second biggest hobby.
Now, onto your own piece: I like the premise, one wound triggering flashbacks to another is something that is certainly possible on a psychological level, so the flashbacks make sense. I also like the switch to 3rd person for the flashbacks, as it really does serve to differentiate the past and present.
One thing I noticed is that you start the opening paragraph writing in the present tense, but within a line you've gone into first person past tense. I don't know whether this was deliberate or if you just slipped out of the style (something very easy to do when experimenting in a new style). So cleaning up that would be a good place to start the edit. I'd recommend going for keeping the present tense style, as it puts the reader in the thick of the action and serves to differentiate the past more.
One thing I might suggest is perhaps making the piece a little longer. You're currently at around 360 words, and I believe 600 were suggested for this piece. Regardless of the suggested amount, I do think that the piece would benefit a lot from being a little longer, as that would allow you to do far more, particularly with the 'present' scenes. At the moment, both aspects are quite narrative-heavy, maybe you could think about adding more of an emotional/sensational level to the present bits, while leaving the past truly narrative, to truly separate the two pieces. I think you've already done this, but adding in a bit more would really help cement that in place.
As for the ending, I'm not sure I got the impression you were going for. Partly due to the length, I think, you don't really have enough time to build up that false sense of security. It's a great idea, but I think it needs a little more development.
I hope I haven't been too critical, it goes without saying that the first draft will always be a little rough around the edges. There are some great themes and ideas in here, and I think that with a bit of a rework this will end up being a fantastic piece.
This message was edited 1 time. Last update was at 2014/02/03 18:23:22
2014/01/30 12:51:05
Subject: Some writing exercises I am completing - anyone fancy joining me?
I started it around quarter past 4 in the morning and it's now half 5, so you'll have to excuse any minor mistakes and chalk them up to my currently being too tired - and glad to be finished - to care.
Some of the tasks seem a little strange, but I was able to convince my slightly sleep-deprivated self to attempt the Deja-vu one. Hopefully I understood it correctly.
Spoiler:
Annete stood before the defiant Life’s Sap Willow; thin, wispy branches raking the ground with every passing breeze. There had been a time when the willow had been strong and healthy. Thick branches festooned with new spring blossoms reached reverently towards the sky, as if to thank to Gods for blessing such beauty upon the land. No blossom was truly the same colour; vibrant reds faded to pink and white; blues and purples gathered in groups; young green shoots poked their heads through the gaps like verdant punctuation scattered throughout a paragraph of colour. Every warm breeze plucked a choice few blossoms, and Annete watched them glide along the waves and eddies of the wind, spreading spots of colour against the cloudless sky.
Annete’s eyes were wide, and her mouth hung open in awe. She could think of no more fitting of a tribute. Essa’s arm slipped around her waist, and she let the shoulder of her Bondmate carry the weight of her head; full as it was of hopes, and wishes, and dreams to come.
Essa pulled Annete closer as the chill wind swept across the hilltop. Neither of them - swaddled as they were in thick cloaks – would have been affected much by the breeze. Essa was afraid. Grim legions of monotone grey clouds marched across the sky, spitting icy rain upon those below. In their wake, servants of the Fel sowed death and destruction upon the land. So much death. So much.
Something dripped against her forehead and she looked up from her perch on Essa’s shoulder. The heavens must have been shedding tears, although no rain yet fell upon the hilltop. At least one angel, however, wept. Annete straightened and wiped the tears from Essa’s eyes.
“What’s wrong, Ess?”
Essa sniffed, staring with a motherly look at the thick green sprout protruding from the loam. “Nothing.” She smiled. “Nothing could ever be wrong." A platinum ringlet slipped down and danced in front of Essa’s face. Annete made to tuck it back behind her Bondmate’s ear, but ended up intercepting Essa’s hand. They shared an ageless look that surpassed the boundaries of love. Annete’s Warmancy cooled inside her at the touch of Essa’s sorcery. A Bond was a rare and sacred joining of magicks and spirits. Bondmates could build entire nations on a whim; or destroy them with a thought.
Annete lightly held her Bondmate’s hand – their fingers interlaced – and directed her Warmancy forth. A Bond could create or condemn; their bond did both. Enhanced, strengthened, Annete’s warmancy bolstered the green sprout Essa had created, encouraging it to grow, and also condemning it to live. Their Bond created, and condemned, life.
Now it stooped low – bowed and ravaged by time and corrupted by the Fel. Branches snapped; leaves torn; bark split. No warmancy or sorcery could sustain it.
Foreheads touching, the Bondmates accepted their fates together. For the first last time, Annete’s lips brushed against her Bondmate’s. Their bond flared faltered. Together – embracing – they chose life death.
I'm not happy with some aspects of it but I won't say which yet. I'll probably give it a read over in the morning afternoon and rewrite the entire thing/love it and choose to have its babies depending on my mood at the time. Writing this post has taken about 10 minutes - time I could've been spending in bed, tossing and turning and criticising my life choices - and I've no further motivation to do anything but sleep, so I'm afraid you'll have to put up with this rough first draft until then.
This message was edited 2 times. Last update was at 2014/01/31 05:53:38
Mandorallen turned back toward the insolently sneering baron. 'My Lord,' The great knight said distantly, 'I find thy face apelike and thy form misshapen. Thy beard, moreover, is an offence against decency, resembling more closely the scabrous fur which doth decorate the hinder portion of a mongrel dog than a proper adornment for a human face. Is it possibly that thy mother, seized by some wild lechery, did dally at some time past with a randy goat?' - Mimbrate Knight Protector Mandorallen.
Excerpt from "Seeress of Kell", Book Five of The Malloreon series by David Eddings.
"You need not fear us, unless you are a dark heart, a vile one who preys on the innocent; I promise, you can’t hide forever in the empty darkness, for we will hunt you down like the animals you are, and pull you into the very bowels of hell." Iron - Within Temptation
2014/01/31 15:04:34
Subject: Some writing exercises I am completing - anyone fancy joining me?
Nice story! I'm not too sure of the context of it. Some kind of fantasy, I think, but beyond that I dont know. You really captured the essence of the deja vu challenge.
There was one particular line:
"They shared an ageless look that surpassed the boundaries of love."
That really did it for me. I'm not really sure I can express why, I guess it's down to the emotional intensity of the moment(?).
Welcome, Avatar. and what a way to make an entrance! A great piece of work there, and as mentioned above, the context is a brilliant'y intriguing mystery. I'd love to see more of this world/setting, especially with writing like that. Great stuff, and I look forward to more.
Some of the tasks are a little strange, but as these aren't being examined or anything there's plenty of scope to deviate/change the brief (I know I have in some of my pieces). The complete freedom with these is what makes them so enjoyable.
I have decided to entirely redo my piece on 'home'. I spent an hour doing it earlier and then decided it was a load of rubbish. So with any luck that one will be up later tonight. Until then, keep writing.
2014/01/31 22:44:42
Subject: Re:Some writing exercises I am completing - anyone fancy joining me?
And, as promised, it's done. This is actually the second one I've done for the exercise (Home) , but the first was so terrible that it wasn't worth even attempting to edit. So instead I went back to my original idea, which is a direct sequel to my earlier piece on Deja Vu: Last Ship to Mars on the last page, so if anyone new is reading this, head back to that before reading this or it won't make much sense. As usual, the piece and notes:
Spoiler:
Homecoming /2117 part II
At last, he was home. Miles and miles and miles over the broken wasteland that was once England, past towns still burning and villages already razed to the ground in an effort to stave off the cold and the dark. The horizons had glittered every night with the embers that now consumed the planet, and on the third day, after the great ship had lifted off and begun the voyage into the long dark of space, fire seemed to consume everything. Every house, every office block, every shop and bank.
London had been the greatest of the bonfires, a never-ending cascade of flames that, from close-by, seemed to span the entire world. Every so often, over the roar of the flames, he could hear screams and cries as one of the hopeless, deluded or just careless survivors caught alight. Some relished it, the final burning escape, and some would roar and howl at the pain. Humanity was now united in only one thing- that ancient desire to fight off the dying of the light. Now, as they had centuries and millennia before, the last surviving men and women would sit, huddled around glowing embers in the cold of night, throwing ever more kindling into the flames. Books and boxes, cabinets and cars, anything that could be burned was slowly turning to ashes.
And after the horror and heat that was London, came the long, slow walk across the southern counties, where woods and fields sheltered the cowering remnants of a once-mighty species. Every night, they would look to the stars, and the mad would laugh and the lost would cry. Every day, they would spend searching for more fuel for this greatest of fire, humanity’s funeral pyre. Every man and woman he passed would beg him to stay, to join the relative safety of their various groups and gatherings, but he refused them all.
Through it all he had walked, and finally, after an age, he was home. As he drew closer, he began imagining the scene with an ever-growing anticipation working its way through him. He would walk down the street he had crossed so many times before, still glancing out of habit though no car would come. He would give a friendly nod to anyone he passed, though there would be no one there. And finally, he would open that old oak door and he would see her again and everything would be well.
He would sit down at that table like he hadn’t done for years, he would eat from the finest plates and bowls they had, and he would clear it away like he never did. His apology would come in the arch of the living room door, the explanation would wait until he was settled in that plump leather chair. After that, it all depended on her. He tapped the ring in his pocket, then clutched it tighter.
And, at last, he came to that street. The burnt-out remains of cars littered the roadway, covered in ash, and more fell constantly, the dusty snow that would provide the shroud for mankind’s cremation. Windows had long-since been smashed, houses emptied of their now-worthless contents. Gold, silver, jewels. None of them mattered now. They couldn’t burn. Not a single building stood intact, all since stripped of anything that would ward off the cold. He didn’t look too closely at the old school or the bank, or any of the shop windows. All that mattered was that he got home.
He rounded the corner and turned onto his old street, again greeted by a vista of burning detritus, and as he made out the shape of his house through the ash cloud, a timid hopeful joy began to blossom inside him. Kicking up yet more dust, he ran towards the building, not bothered by the choking ash or the stinging heat or the blinding light. He only cared about home and her.
And there she was, silhouetted against the flames, walking towards him, crying in the heat and throwing her arms around him. Trying to hold him back, almost dragging him away from the home he had spent so long coming back to. Dragging him away from the safety he so longed for. And then he realised, understood the words she cried in his ears, and stopped dead, cursing himself for being so foolish. Because this was the end.
And at the end, everything burned to stave off the cold and the dark. Everything.
Author's Notes:
- With this, I enjoyed going my back to my earlier setting and playing with it a bit more. It's always fun being able to continue themes and ideas, and world-building is something I do a lot of in my longer work.
- I'm not sure what I've made of the brief with this one. I've stuck to it in terms of making the setting at large a key part of the story, hopefully laying hints for the ending throughout if you're reading carefully, and I've also focused on what 'home' means, but to a lesser extent. I almost feel this needs another sequel to properly tie it up. That, and 'The 2117 trilogy' has a nice ring to it. I think it merits a sequel that is far more focused on character, which took something of a sideline in this section.
- I hope the ending wasn't too obvious, but at the same time I hope there's enough clues in the rest of the text to give you a nagging sense of doubt throughout, so that when the ending reveal comes, you almost feel annoyed for not seeing it coming, or pleased at having guessed it.
As always, any comments are welcome. Feel free to criticise/suggest/pick apart to your hearts' content.
2014/02/01 02:18:09
Subject: Some writing exercises I am completing - anyone fancy joining me?
Nice story! I'm not too sure of the context of it. Some kind of fantasy, I think, but beyond that I dont know. You really captured the essence of the deja vu challenge.
There was one particular line: "They shared an ageless look that surpassed the boundaries of love." That really did it for me. I'm not really sure I can express why, I guess it's down to the emotional intensity of the moment(?).
Thanks. ^_^
The context was indeed 'some kind of fantasy'.
I'm still working it out myself; right now it's an amalgamation of several settings I've been playing around with in my head for the past few weeks. I've found I can replace bits that didn't work in their own setting my fusing them with aspects of others. I guess the best way I can describe it is sort of like a game of Tetris; some blocks fit better into gaps than others, or can allow more blocks to fit better. Of course, if too much clutter is added on then it starts tripping over itself until it hits that "y'know what, let's start again" ceiling.
I might even expand on the universe a little at some point.
As for the line you quoted, I was actually a bit unsure of it. It sounded a little too cliché, but by that point I was fast running out of word space.
Paradigm wrote:Welcome, Avatar. and what a way to make an entrance! A great piece of work there, and as mentioned above, the context is a brilliant'y intriguing mystery. I'd love to see more of this world/setting, especially with writing like that. Great stuff, and I look forward to more.
Some of the tasks are a little strange, but as these aren't being examined or anything there's plenty of scope to deviate/change the brief (I know I have in some of my pieces). The complete freedom with these is what makes them so enjoyable.
I have decided to entirely redo my piece on 'home'. I spent an hour doing it earlier and then decided it was a load of rubbish. So with any luck that one will be up later tonight. Until then, keep writing.
Cheers
As I said above, hopefully I can expand on it a little more in the future; that piece was one of few that I've been genuinely pleased with after completing, so it'd be nice to carry on with the setting.
For the moment, I'm not sure how to alter the tasks to be do-able for me, never mind choose another vanilla one. The little catches and quirks of them start feeling unnecessary, like they're just in there to add novelty value. It seems like I could create a similar task by specifying that the protagonist be a lime and that the word 'obfuscation' must appear at least three times. 500 words. However, that's just me; my eyes start to glaze over a bit reading the other tasks, and my brain delights in questioning bits of them and the examples given - like the Synaesthesia example: "A creamy blur of succulent blue sounds smells like week-old strawberries dropped into a tin sieve..." ... What? If I came across that in a novel I wouldn't know what the hell they were on about. It might make sense to some people, but I just can't imagine it at all. Any and all magic of the story has been broken for me at this point; I'm not laughing at the story or a character's joke - I'm laughing at the writing.
If that's what the Synaesthesia exercise is looking for, then I'm afraid I can't provide it. If I can't picture it and feel it myself then I don't write about it - I wouldn't know how. I can imagine emotions and light touches; I can describe what my character would feel watching a beautiful sunrise over sparkling seas, the vivid blue surface tinted with broad strokes of amber and glinting like stars in a clear night-sky because I understand how it'd look and sound and feel to them. I cannot for the life of me understand or picture how blue sounds 'creamy' or 'succulent', nor how it smells like week-old strawberries in a tin sieve. Whatever was meant to be conveyed by that has flown right over my head; gone South for the Winter; found a partner, a new job, and moved in together; got married, and now has 3 kids called Benny, Lisa, and George.
*Re-reads the last paragraph*
I think I might be going on a bit of a tangent, so I'll just say I can't seem to make most of the other exercises work for me.
Yeah, that can be the [TL;DR].
*ahem*
I'll probably get around to reading some of everyone's work tomorrow; maybe see if I can't get my head around the other exercises.
This message was edited 4 times. Last update was at 2014/02/01 02:20:56
Mandorallen turned back toward the insolently sneering baron. 'My Lord,' The great knight said distantly, 'I find thy face apelike and thy form misshapen. Thy beard, moreover, is an offence against decency, resembling more closely the scabrous fur which doth decorate the hinder portion of a mongrel dog than a proper adornment for a human face. Is it possibly that thy mother, seized by some wild lechery, did dally at some time past with a randy goat?' - Mimbrate Knight Protector Mandorallen.
Excerpt from "Seeress of Kell", Book Five of The Malloreon series by David Eddings.
"You need not fear us, unless you are a dark heart, a vile one who preys on the innocent; I promise, you can’t hide forever in the empty darkness, for we will hunt you down like the animals you are, and pull you into the very bowels of hell." Iron - Within Temptation
2014/02/01 10:14:10
Subject: Some writing exercises I am completing - anyone fancy joining me?
I agree that some of the tasks do seem a little odd, which is why there are a few I've skipped. The way I' look at them is kind of hard to explain, but I generally take the approach that if parts of the brief have to go to hell to tell a decent story, then so be it. I'd much rather do something interesting and engaging than stick rigorously to the brief. You do have to kind of stick to the task a little otherwise you might as well just write anything, but at the end of the day, a good piece of work is better than blindly following the task.
I see what you mean about synaesthesia; it comes naturally to some people and is entirely alien to others. To be fair, the example in the task description is a little over-the-top, you might find it clearer in fifty's, Zambro's and my attempts on the last page. On the other hand, it may just be too odd, which is appreciable. I've been describing sounds as colours and smells for most of my life without knowing there was a word for it, so it came naturally to me, but if it doesn't to you then I wouldn't worry about it, just pick another task.
Good luck with finding one that you can get on with, and don't be afraid to alter the brief a lot if you need to.
2014/02/02 20:53:10
Subject: Re:Some writing exercises I am completing - anyone fancy joining me?
Corporal Smith watched as each of the men in turn got the news, the word of impending slaughter winding its way inexorably down the trench in a wave of panic. Men reached for rifles before putting them aside, and fishing in their pockets for trinkets and memories of home. Some curled into balls or sunk into silent prayer, and a few, just a few, just stood, resolute and unthinking, by the firing step, rifles in hand and faces vacant..
He made out Johnson and Robson among the mess of khaki and mud and dim light, and each of them gave a wordless nod, not meeting his eyes. Johnson nervously tapped a rhythm on the butt of his rifle, while Robson just went back to staring at that old faded photograph he had carried for so long. Smith knew that if he could see into Robson’s eyes, there would only be tears for youth wasted and love lost.
He checked his watch, that old watch handed from friend to friend that charted the course of this never-ending war. Marne, Ypres, and now the Somme. This watch had seen more than he had. As much and old soldier as any one of them, and now, counting down the seconds until…
Five minutes.
The hand seemed to move slower with each tick, counting the moments that took longer and longer. He felt a presence behind him, and turned slowly, still not pocketing the old watch, fingers sliding round and round the glass face in ever-decreasing circles.
He brought his eyes up to the sergeant, who made no sound, just proffered a hand which Smith shook, and moved on down the line. Wherever he went, men stood and salute; parade-ground manner marching its way into the battlefield. Smith rolled his eyes and looked back down at the watch.
Four minutes. Time passed, but so slowly, and he turned his gaze back to the waiting men, knowing it was becoming blanker by the second. He tried to force a smile, but it didn’t go far before it developed into a tick at the corner of his mouth, a grim contortion of a smirk. A ghost of a smile, waiting to die.
Silently his batman, Anders, approached and handed him his pistol. Out of nothing more than instinct, Smith checked each loaded round, tapping each in turn and then snapping the gun back up. The snap broke through the otherwise-silent morning like a gunshot, and every eye turned to him, suddenly alert. Then, one at a time, they went back to what they had been distracted from, and after a few seconds, there might well have been no sound at all.
Anders looked up expectantly, needing to know his job was a satisfactory one. Smith nodded, almost imperceptibly, but it was enough. Anders had done all that he could. As he turned to leave, Smith placed a hand on his shoulder and the batman turned, puzzled. Without a word, Smith unclipped the watch from his uniform, folded the chain, and pressed the now-cold metal into Anders’ hand. Anders looked back at him, understanding enough to know what this meant, and said nothing, did nothing. Then, wordless, he gave one last salute and crawled back into the dugout, a rabbit hiding from an oncoming storm.
With no watch to check, Smith began counting the seconds, one by one.
One hundred and nine. One Hundred and eight.
The beat Johnson was tapping increased in pace, building to a rapid-fire staccato, a hail of impacts in the early morning air.
Sixty. Fifty nine. Fifty Eight.
Robson lifted the photograph to his clean-shaven face, kissed it once, and folded it back into his pocket. He wiped tears when he thought no one was looking.
The sergeant, a statue of discipline and correctness, suddenly seemed to wilt, his shoulders sagging and lip beginning to tremble. His fingers clawed at his holster like a rat, trapped in a cage.
Smith waved his pistol forward and the army moved as one, each placing a single foot on the firing step. There was a brief jostle around the ladders, men shoving one another aside to get to the spot they thought would save them.
Six. Five. Four. Three. Two. One.
I thought it was fantastic. I am not really sure I can suggest anything in that one that I didn't like. I don't think it matters at all to go off-brief slightly, as the point is to inspire by putting you under restrictions, not to restrict you by adding restrictions.
I think I have one major comment, and one minor comment, actually. Minor - is batman a military term I don't know? I feel that you mean batsman, as in cricket, which would evoke some of the flavour in its own right, but I am not sure it is not just some terminology I don't know. Slightly more major - the bit where the numbers start counting down seems a tiny bit hurried. Maybe because you were feeling that word limit, or maybe because it was meant to speed up?
Also, I would suggest some shouted command at the very very end, as a way of breaking the tension. As you are reading, it feels like you are under the same spell as the characters, and some spoken word would, I think, tell you that the spell is broken both for them and for you, the reader.
Excellent!
Though guards may sleep and ships may lay at anchor, our foes know full well that big guns never tire.
Reyvos was falling. And he knew it. Jaron was running to the front. To the last stand. The final barrier. The razor thin edge between good and evil, life and death, victory and defeat. Men stood, shoulder to shoulder, as one. Guardsmen, Planetary Defence Forces and civilians, united by the fear of defeat. And fear there was. It hung in the air, rank and grey.
Jaron understood. Death was coming. But he was curiously calm. There was no paralysing fear of the inevitable, just clarity. He observed his actions in third person. Watching from a distance, somewhere above him. Somewhere safe. Somewhere where physical harm could not touch him. Forward he went. To the perimeter. Pushing though the grey fear and wounded men, he arrived.
He could hear them before he saw them. Challenging battle cries and crude machinery that churned and chugged. Orks. Resentment built in his gut. Then hatred. Then anger. He raised his lasgun, and shot. 1 down. 2. 3… ‘It’s not enough.’ He thought, as he looked down on the canvas of war from his heavenly safe zone. ‘We need grenades’. He glanced down toward a fading guardsman, whose sole interest was to cling onto the very last beams of the light of life. He shook through the pouches and rifled through the pockets of the dying man. When he found what he was looking for, he pulled it free. But before he returned to the tempo of battle, he took a last lingering look.
Death was ugly. Indignant. Unprejudiced. Dispassionate. The boy lay in the dirt, with sloped shoulders trying to take ragged breaths. But the more air he sucked in, the more blood wept through the cavity in his chest. Death was patient with this one. Sadistically offering him more time. Jaron lent in closer and placed a hand on the boy’s face. He gave him a look. A soft look. Almost comforting. They locked eyes. The boy smiled a wan smile. He understood the look. It said, with sympathy, calm and compassion, ‘Time to let go’.
Jaron eased himself back into the flow of battle. A shot here, a few snaps there. Then he saw it. The opportune moment. A dense cluster of about 8 Orks rushing forward, using pieces of debris as shields. He took the grenade, pulled the pin, glanced at his dead comrade, and threw the grenade. It was spectacular. A dance of light. A violent vibration of sound. More colour spread on the canvas of war. The smallest of victories.
From his seat in the sky, he could see a horizon of Orks. A dirty green replacement to the blissful green hills that had once owned the land before either of them. Now he felt the fear. As he slowly acclimatised to the ambiance of war, his heavenly position above faded. He was seeing the carnage through his own eyes. Doubting every move. Questioning every shot. The illusion faded. This was death’s trick. It’s final bit of fun. It liked to watch the panic slowly set in. Watch you claw and grasp your way out of it. But the truth is, it’s death’s decision. Occasionally, one would be spared. But in the feeding frenzy that is war, that wouldn’t be the case. Death was coming. For you all.
Jaron was recovering from the explosion. The shockwave send him to a knee. As he stood, it hit him. In the chest. Punching right through the armour, the fatigues, the skin… the heart. It took him. The pain, the intensity… the finality. It replayed in his head a thousand times before he hit the ground. There was no logic. No justice. No light. Only death, the end of all days.
That was really good. I like th emiddle paragraph where Death was sadistically offering more time.
I like the fear hanging in the air and being rank and grey. I am not quite sure it is synaesthesia, as that is a swapping of the senses, rather than assigning a sense ot a specific emotion, but i think it fulfils the spirit of the instructions anyway, even if not 100% the letter of them.
I think you are right about the flow. Whatever Word tells you, it scans fine. I dare say an editor could improve the grammar without losing the flow, but sometimes you just have to write what sounds/feels right and sod the rules. Fix them later if you can, but leave the grammar broken and the feel right if not.
I feel the first paragraph doesn't quite live up to the quality in the rest of the piece. It feels as if it is trying to be too dramatic. It is the one section that probably doesn't scan quite as it should, and I feel, for example, that the first two sentences would be better as one, with a comma. Some use of semi-colons might help, but I am not certain. For example; "And fear there was; It hung in the air, rank and grey."
This message was edited 1 time. Last update was at 2014/02/02 21:11:38
Though guards may sleep and ships may lay at anchor, our foes know full well that big guns never tire.
Right, after a very busy spell, I just had time to read a couple of pieces, and I hope the comments above are useful, encouraging and not (my biggest fear) patronising.
I should have time to get the phone tag conversation one done very shortly, and read the other contributions and give comments tomorrow evening.
In addition to being busy, I had a complete lack of inspiration for the phone tag exercise. I've now had an idea of how to do it very differently, but still maintain the point of the exercise. Counsellor Troi and her mother, Lwaxana, sat in Ten-Forward on the Enterprise, looking across and discussing Captain Picard at some formal social occasion. Lwaxana will obviously be speaking directly into Deanna's mind and Deanna will be scolding her and speaking back out loud. I hope to include some synaesthesia and body language in it too. It will certainly be a very light-hearted piece.
I may do another version, set in the 40K universe with an astropath and/or sanctioned psyker and some other folks about and make it far more Grimdark, and possibly with Laen and his brother again.
The actual telephone conversation itself left me completely uninspired.
This message was edited 1 time. Last update was at 2014/02/02 21:08:26
Though guards may sleep and ships may lay at anchor, our foes know full well that big guns never tire.
Corporal Smith watched as each of the men in turn got the news, the word of impending slaughter winding its way inexorably down the trench in a wave of panic. Men reached for rifles before putting them aside, and fishing in their pockets for trinkets and memories of home. Some curled into balls or sunk into silent prayer, and a few, just a few, just stood, resolute and unthinking, by the firing step, rifles in hand and faces vacant..
He made out Johnson and Robson among the mess of khaki and mud and dim light, and each of them gave a wordless nod, not meeting his eyes. Johnson nervously tapped a rhythm on the butt of his rifle, while Robson just went back to staring at that old faded photograph he had carried for so long. Smith knew that if he could see into Robson’s eyes, there would only be tears for youth wasted and love lost.
He checked his watch, that old watch handed from friend to friend that charted the course of this never-ending war. Marne, Ypres, and now the Somme. This watch had seen more than he had. As much and old soldier as any one of them, and now, counting down the seconds until…
Five minutes.
The hand seemed to move slower with each tick, counting the moments that took longer and longer. He felt a presence behind him, and turned slowly, still not pocketing the old watch, fingers sliding round and round the glass face in ever-decreasing circles.
He brought his eyes up to the sergeant, who made no sound, just proffered a hand which Smith shook, and moved on down the line. Wherever he went, men stood and salute; parade-ground manner marching its way into the battlefield. Smith rolled his eyes and looked back down at the watch.
Four minutes. Time passed, but so slowly, and he turned his gaze back to the waiting men, knowing it was becoming blanker by the second. He tried to force a smile, but it didn’t go far before it developed into a tick at the corner of his mouth, a grim contortion of a smirk. A ghost of a smile, waiting to die.
Silently his batman, Anders, approached and handed him his pistol. Out of nothing more than instinct, Smith checked each loaded round, tapping each in turn and then snapping the gun back up. The snap broke through the otherwise-silent morning like a gunshot, and every eye turned to him, suddenly alert. Then, one at a time, they went back to what they had been distracted from, and after a few seconds, there might well have been no sound at all.
Anders looked up expectantly, needing to know his job was a satisfactory one. Smith nodded, almost imperceptibly, but it was enough. Anders had done all that he could. As he turned to leave, Smith placed a hand on his shoulder and the batman turned, puzzled. Without a word, Smith unclipped the watch from his uniform, folded the chain, and pressed the now-cold metal into Anders’ hand. Anders looked back at him, understanding enough to know what this meant, and said nothing, did nothing. Then, wordless, he gave one last salute and crawled back into the dugout, a rabbit hiding from an oncoming storm.
With no watch to check, Smith began counting the seconds, one by one.
One hundred and nine. One Hundred and eight. The beat Johnson was tapping increased in pace, building to a rapid-fire staccato, a hail of impacts in the early morning air.
Sixty. Fifty nine. Fifty Eight.
Robson lifted the photograph to his clean-shaven face, kissed it once, and folded it back into his pocket. He wiped tears when he thought no one was looking.
The sergeant, a statue of discipline and correctness, suddenly seemed to wilt, his shoulders sagging and lip beginning to tremble. His fingers clawed at his holster like a rat, trapped in a cage.
Smith waved his pistol forward and the army moved as one, each placing a single foot on the firing step. There was a brief jostle around the ladders, men shoving one another aside to get to the spot they thought would save them.
Six. Five. Four. Three. Two. One.
I thought it was fantastic. I am not really sure I can suggest anything in that one that I didn't like. I don't think it matters at all to go off-brief slightly, as the point is to inspire by putting you under restrictions, not to restrict you by adding restrictions.
I think I have one major comment, and one minor comment, actually. Minor - is batman a military term I don't know? I feel that you mean batsman, as in cricket, which would evoke some of the flavour in its own right, but I am not sure it is not just some terminology I don't know. Slightly more major - the bit where the numbers start counting down seems a tiny bit hurried. Maybe because you were feeling that word limit, or maybe because it was meant to speed up?
Also, I would suggest some shouted command at the very very end, as a way of breaking the tension. As you are reading, it feels like you are under the same spell as the characters, and some spoken word would, I think, tell you that the spell is broken both for them and for you, the reader.
Excellent!
Thanks for the comments, glad you liked it. To answer your points, a batman is a kind of military servant/PA. The term has gone out of use these days for obvious reasons, but it was pretty common for an officer to have one in WW1. Think what Baldrick is to Blackadder and that should clarify it.
I hadn't noticed that is sped up towards the end. I was certainly trying to build tension, but was thinking that by adding one more counted number in each line actually served to drag it out. I kept each of those last paragraphs quite short, to evoke a sense of several nervous, acute observations, never focusing on one thing for too long. Maybe that didn't come across as well as I thought.
It certainly wasn't the word limit, as while I've been working through these, I've found that it's best to let the story tell itself rather than truncating it due to some limit. Before doing these, I actually struggled to write anything under 2500 words and feel I'd actually done something meaningful, so these 'snapshot' exercises have certainly been new territory for me. So I think I'm getting better at letting the length of the piece work for me, and it's easier now than before to keep it within (or close to) the limit.
I'm not sure about adding in something at the end, I kind of like the idea but I also wanted to go for the unspoken uncertainty at the end. I'll think in it and may add something in.
Interesting idea using telepathy in the phone call piece, should be fun, and Star Trek is always good (assuming I continue to pretend Into Darkness never happened).
I should really have got a couple more done today (as I have ideas for about the next 4-5) but I ended up churning out 4 poems instead. Hopefully I can get some more of these up soon.
This message was edited 1 time. Last update was at 2014/02/03 20:43:02
2014/02/05 17:05:26
Subject: Re:Some writing exercises I am completing - anyone fancy joining me?
After a brief lapse and a jaunt with some poetry, I've got back to the exercises and managed to get the one on interior spaces done. I must admit I'm really unsure about it, I almost feel that I'm losing the initial immersion and emotion I was managing to get from these and just not doing as good a job. Still, more on that after the piece itself, which is a direct sequel to the Phone Tag one.
Spoiler:
As the Bombs Fall (Belly of the Beast)
The dark, Ella decided, was safe. In the dark, he couldn’t see when she cried, couldn’t see the sorrow that fell like a veil over her face whenever he looked away, couldn’t see the way she stared back at him, that poor, lonely child who had nothing left. She could hide, and was free to fear, to regret, to think.
But he could still hear her, she remembered, and clasped a hand to her mouth to restrain the sob that was about to burst forth as the thoughts once more overtook her. Desperate to distract herself from those terrors that crept up in the silence, she flicked on the torch, giving no thought for the waste of battery, and swept the beam over the rough ceiling of the shelter, before swooping low and crossing the floor. Stan’s eyes followed it the whole way, and she could only dream what he was seeing.
What was there left to see? The corrugated iron of the roof, riddled with imperfections, was nothing more than a testament to the danger they were both in. The book of fairy tales that had dropped to the dusty floor served only to reminder her that the world they now lived in was so, so real. The thing that was once a mouse she tried so hard not to illuminate brought back only that same old word, that word that had seemed so inconsequential, distant, impossible only a few days (or was it just hours?) ago; Death.
She stared once more into the boy’s eyes, red from the tears she had never seen him shed, and wondered what it was that those eyes were seeing as she swung the narrow beam of torchlight from side to side. To him, she marvelled, the beam was a searchlight, and he searched wildly for enemy planes to shoot down. To him, the inch-thick dust on the floor was a canvas for drawings never to see the light of day, traced with a finger of a hand never raised in anger. To him, this shelter, this huddling and hiding the dark was a game they played, where he would wait for hours, a game of hide-and-seek with life-or-death stakes he knew nothing of.
To her, the shelter was fear incarnate. The dark kept her safe from his searching eyes, giving her a brief respite in which to drop the façade adopted for his sake. But every second she was replaying that phone call, every second she saw herself, as if from a distance, telling that poor child those words, over and over again. Failing in her one task, to protect him. And every resonating blast that shook the roof reminded her of the few inches of earth above their heads, earth just waiting to become a grave. She could almost hear it calling out to her, shouting and whispering, just as it must have to them.
Another blast shook the shelter, sending a haze of dust falling to the floor. To him, it was a shower of falling stars, to her another layer of protection stripped away. The sudden jolt threw the torch from her hand, and the light flickered then died, darkness rushing in to fill the vacuum. Another blast came, closer now, and the air seemed suddenly closer. It was hot, too, somewhere nearby something was burning. For all she knew, the whole world was burning. But there was no light, nothing now to break through the blackness, the pressing, clinging darkness that rushed in, suffocation, asphyxiating, burying them alive.
Something moved in the dark, a child tentatively reaching out for something to hold onto. Ella found his hand and seized it, anchoring herself in this grim reality before the thoughts and the terrors snuck up again for another attack. She gripped his tiny hand tighter. As long as he needed her there, she was safe, but if he let go, even for a second, then there was no telling what the dark and the silence might do. Resigning herself to this new role, this second chance to protect that most precious of things, Ella closed her eyes and began the long, slow wait for dawn.
Author's notes: - Like I said above, I'm really very unsure about this one. I can't shake the feeling that I've missed something with it, and to a certain extent the last one as well. Not only does nothing really 'happen' in this one, but also I feel like the characterisation isn't as strong as I'd like it to be. I almost feel it's a little boring and bland. Any thoughts on this, as I think anyone else will be able to give a better answer than my own nagging doubts.
- I'll be honest, I've kind of blown the brief to hell on this one. It specified focusing on all the little details in a confined space, and instead I went with focusing on the psychology and perception of first the confined interior and then the effect darkness (which effectively becomes the setting) has. I like the angle I've taken, but it's not entirely on-topic. Still, that doesn't bother me as much as the quality (or lack thereof) of the piece itself.
- I'm also wondering if there's a lack of 'power' to the piece. While it's not as openly tragic or shocking at some of my other bits (although it is still quite sad in tone and context) I'm thinking that might actually be a detriment, as it lacks that sort of impact. Again, any thoughts appreciated.
Thanks for reading, all comments welcome.
This message was edited 1 time. Last update was at 2014/02/05 17:05:48
2014/02/25 19:38:46
Subject: Re:Some writing exercises I am completing - anyone fancy joining me?
So, it's been a couple of weeks since this thread saw any activity, but in the last couple of days I've got back into the swing of productivity, and have come up with two more pieces, both related to the characters previously used in my World War One pieces.
The first (actually the second one I wrote) is for the Ways of Seeing task, and is intended as a prequel to the other pieces. I haven't got a specific setting in mind for this one, but it's certainly in pre-Somme. Without further ado, the piece, and my thoughts below:
Spoiler:
No Man’s Land/ The Poet’s War (Ways of Seeing)
Nine o’clock. Smith clicked shut the freshly-cleaned watch and climbed to his feet, noting with sudden alarm the chaotic mess his desk had become as he worked. Hastily, he shuffled the papers into some kind of order, and gave a dissatisfied grunt. It would do for now, he concluded. Grabbing his rifle from where it lay by the narrow exit, he made his way up into the trench.
At this late hour, the trench was all but deserted, only a few stragglers and the watchmen not at liberty to return to their dugouts where they would huddle for cover as the night dragged on. The setting sun cast long shadows, plunging the entirety of the trench into darkness, broken only by flashes of blinding light where the last rays pierced gaps in the sandbags. Smith noted the major openings as he walked, and decided he would place a detail on repairs as soon as it was light enough to work.
Smith reached the watchman’s post and tapped the current guard on the shoulder three times, a routine they had perfected over the long months of service together. Johnson turned on the third tap, saluted and marched back to the dugout, breaking step as soon as he was out of sight. Smith stepped up into the alcove and put his eye to the periscope, surveying the wasteland that was set out before him.
Every day it was the same, and yet different. New shelling had created a barren landscape entirely different from what he had seen only yesterday; mounds stood where there were craters, craters where there had been a rare patch of level earth. Rivers of rainwater, unable to seep into the saturated ground, that had run away to the left yesterday now wound their way to his right, dripping slowly down into the ever-filling-and-draining trench.
The words came to Smith unbidden, as they did every night, and again he fought the urge to prise his eyes away from the glass lens to commit them to paper. Instead, he let them dance in his head like so many fireflies.
Today’s world is falling dead; tomorrow’s unborn,
Greyness yet to find a form,
These hills and gullies, crested with the sunset
Will stand, will die, and we will forget.
As his eyes became more accustomed to the light, the sharp shadows and glaring lights adopting more mellow tones, Smith was greeted with the same horrors he saw every day and dreamed of every night. Men lay in the mud, dead, their uniforms rotting away, their faces grey and pale, their flesh eaten away by the maggots and rats that paid no heed to allegiance. All these dead men, so far from home, were meals to those things that crawled in the dark and were consumed with ravenous hunger.
Dead among the dying they sit, these pale husks of men
Who cannot fight or die again
Their too-young bodies rent and torn
Will disappear before the dawn.
Smith’s vision became clearer, this vision of a daily hell, and the more he looked, the more he saw. Morbid curiosity drew him in, calling seductively, ordering him to look closer, and closer, and closer until…
A man still moves in this too-still world
Face scarred, eyes bloodshot, lips curled
In a cry for home
To the crows and the sky
Above
The ghostly figure crawled, inch by inch, across the wasteland, driven by some desperate force that defied injury and reason. He was bloody all over, shot several times in the chest, and his left arm hung useless, handless at his side. Smith could not look away. For a moment, he considered ordering out a party of men to retrieve this moving cadaver from the field, but he knew it would be a futile effort. The man’s groans, coming to him now through the sunset, belied what little time he had left, his ever smaller and weaker movements were a death warrant. At the very least, Smith could end his misery, but he was somehow paralysed, unable to move until this ghastly play had its final act.
He cries for death, this dying man
That sweet relief that ends us all;
And cries not tears but floods
To drown himself in mud and blood
If none will answer his fatal call.
The sun set, and the crawling corpse groaned on and on into the night, Smith charting his progress and losing sight as darkness fell. Flares, sent up intermittently, would give him another brief chance, a glimpse as this horrible visage came closer, and then it would fade, those ghostly eyes and torn face haunting Smith in the dark between them.
Why does he crawl? Why does he call
For home, when he is alone
So alone among the dead?
What thoughts, what promises,
What secrets never told are pounding,
Marching round inside his head?
At two o’clock, a flare was again sent up and Smith realised with some horror that the creature -for he was no longer a man with those howls and that grimace- was moving ever towards him, now only a dozen yards from the edge of the trench. Another fifteen minutes at most, and he would reach that precipice, and tumble down to lie among the sandbags or be consumed by the muddy water.
Come home, old soldier,
Come back to your ranks and be seen.
Be seen that they might know who you are
What you are and where you have been.
Tell your tale now, or a hundred years hence,
It make no difference till the warlords relent.
Author's notes:
- First off, a confession: on this piece and the one below, I've gone well over the word count, but I've found that these characters have just run away with me somewhat. I feel I'd rather take a little longer and do the setting/character/message justice rather than truncate it just to meet the word count. As always, I hope to have treated the subject well and respectfully.
- The brief for this taskasked for a character to have a unique way of seeing a traumatic event, and the focus for this was the poetry in this piece. I've always been facinated by the War Poets, (Wilfred Owen, Siegfried Sassoon, Rupert Brooke et al) and in poetry in general, so this was very interesting to write and experiment with mixing in poetry with prose. If anyone reading this is a poet, then I imagine you'll know what it can be like when words just spring into you head and change the way you see the world. I hope that's worked in this piece.
- The poem itself I think works as a standalone piece, although I do feel the context of this piece improves it. It lacks a coherent rhyme, structure or style, but that is intentional as it highlights the confusion and lack of surety from the narrator.
- At the end of the day, this piece is about character, so I hope to have made that the focus of it. With any luck, this piece and the other WW1 bits will give you a good sense of Smith's character and those of his comrades. I'm pretty sure I'm not yet done with this cast, and will almost certainly return to them.
And now for the second piece, on creating absent characters. This piece is again in the WW! setting, this time post-Somme (and hence after all the other pieces in that setting so far). Again it's over the word limit, and I've taken a bit of liberty with the brief, focusing more on the effect of the absence on a character present. The first 500 words or so do work on building the non-present characters, but after that it really is the story of the protagonist himself.
Spoiler:
Absent Friends/After the End
The Somme, France, 3rd July 1916
The dugout was silent, Robson’s reverberating full-belly laugh conspicuous by absence. The pile of papers on Smith’s makeshift desk uncharacteristically scattered, July snow fallen in sheets on the surface. Next to them, neatly perched on the edge, a parcel that had arrived too late, unopened.
Anders lit the candle as night fell, and turned for a moment to ask what time the lads wanted waking. The words were halfway from his lips when they stumbled and slid to a halt. The sound seemed to echo for an age before fading, as if waiting for a reply that would never come. He forced out a choked cough, shattering the spell before it could fully take effect. Too long in this ghostly silence and he’d start hearing voices.
No, that wasn’t it. He would never stop hearing them. Smith barking orders, a compassion behind the barbed commands. Johnson would never stop complaining about the way the lintel hung too low on the left or the constant but gradual trickle of water from the leaking roof of the dugout. As the watch hit nine, he almost heard Robson’s cheery daily announcement he was heading off for duty. Anders turned to wish him good luck before he could stop himself.
After an eternity of the echoing voice calling back, the silence gathered and stalked back in, the ticking of the old watch the only noise keeping it at bay. Anders pulled out the watch, the brass case glinting in the candlelight, and watched the hand tick round, seeming not to count seconds but hours in the never-silent half-light. Tick, tock. Tick, tock.
For the thousandth time, Anders heard Smith telling that same story, how this watch had been pressed into his hands as a comrade lay dying in the mud, how he had kept it safe across the breadth France, and when home on leave, had paid a small fortune to have engraved into the polished brass casing, a dead man’s words.
When all is burnt and all is dead
When all the world is blood-stained red,
When all our wars come to an end
Then will Death be called our friend.
An epitaph, he’d called it. An epitaph to a good man.
‘Bloody poets,’ Johnson didn’t say as Anders traced the tiny words with a finger, ‘if they’d spend as much time with a rifle as a pen we’d be a damn sight closer to winning this damned war.’ The tirade continued for some time, silently writhing in Anders’ head, over and over and over and over and…
He stopped still, frozen but for his eyes, darting from place to place, looking for any sign of life. Had the plates moved from the table where they had taken a last supper? Had a shadow passed over the door as an old friend returned? No. There was no one and nothing, Anders reminded himself, all those lives were stilled, those pulses dead, those laughs, cut off mid-stream and lying decaying in mud. Nothing in here but him and the ghosts. All night, he sat there, not sleeping, not moving, just him and the ghosts, the candle becoming a puddle of wax, until the first lights of day dispelled the thoughts for another brief respite.
In that instant, he could take it no longer. There was nothing to be done but sit and grow old, and he wasn’t meant for that. He was without purpose. As menial as his tasks had been, Anders had always performed them to the best of his ability, not out of a sense of forced duty or pride, but because every meal, every mud-filled mug of tea, every almost-clean uniform he laid out for them could be their last. Everything he did, he did out of respect for these better, braver men who would surely die, and now they all had, there was nothing left. No service or small favour freely given could help them now.
And then the thought came to him, a flash of clarity that would haunt him for the rest of his life. Hurriedly, he grabbed a pencil and paper, and scrawled a brief message onto it, childlike enthusiasm infecting his ageing frame. He placed the watch in the paper, folding it twice, and left it on the desk, before climbing to his feet with more vigour than he had felt in a long while, and walking slowly towards the early morning sunlight and beyond.
He passed through the trench unnoticed, just another batman on an errand, until he found a space filled only with the dead that had been cut down before they could leave the muddy slit.one hand after another, he clawed his way up the ladder and over, and out into the wasteland that stretched for miles, a world of the dead where nothing grew.
He did not know how long he walked among the dead, and the almost-dead, who reached out and called for home and family, or uttered streams of curses and unintelligible babblings. Across mountains and valleys of that scarred land he walked, waiting for the shot that only came when every last drop of his sanity was torn away. Silhouetted against the rising sun, Anders slumped to the sniper’s welcome bullet, and died, staring into the clear blue sky.
***
Author's Notes:
- This is very much a tragedy, a story of loss and madness and ultimately suicide. As always, I hope not to have mistreated the context or content. It is also undoubtedly the end of the story of these men, although as I said before there are many tales still untold. I do hope this provides a sense of conclusion, though.
- The last part I'm not sure on. Part of me wants to spend more time on the conclusion, but I feel with the previous piece I have done all I can on No-Man's-Land without needless repetition, given that I eventually intend to combine them all into a single longer piece. I do like the almost desensitised feeling of the last couple of paragraphs, but I also feel the need to redo them. In my head, I had a scene from Sebastian Faulks' novel Birdsong (a great book, by the way) in which a character goes 'over the top' and experiences a moment of outstanding clarity, seeing the world as almost beautiful for a split-second before all hell breaks loose. I wasn't intending to copy this, but there were a couple of bits I wanted to try and convey. I may well re-read that scene and then re-draft this ending, as I really do like the contrast he manages to achieve.
And finally, there is an epilogue to these collective pieces that, while not specifically part of the exercise, I thought I'd post here.
Spoiler:
Epilogue:
The watch now sits, quite lost, among thousands of other artefacts recovered from those hellish places. The face is cracked, the mechanism muddied and jammed up, the time frozen at some moment from another age. The inscription is barely readable, only a few thin lines on the battered case. You might see it one day, small and insignificant, a piece of useless metal amidst a sea of others.
What you will not see is the paper it was wrapped in, an unassuming white sheet with a few lines of scribbled text. It has decayed, fallen apart, become scattered on the wind. Words that were forgotten.
Better men that me have died. I go to join them. Remember us.
Wow, that was a long post. As always, and comments/criticism is welcome, and thanks for reading.
