r/WritingPrompts • u/Arch15 /r/thearcherswriting • Jun 24 '15
Off Topic [OT] Writing Workshop #6: Critiquing
Welcome to the weekly Writing Prompts writing workshop! This workshop, part of the schedule on /r/WritingPrompts, will be held each Wednesday!
Workshop Highlights:
| Writing Workshop #3: Prompt Positivity | Writing Workshop #4: Self-Editing | Writing Workshop #5: Confidence
Critiquing writing is one of the biggest steps in becoming a successful writer. It helps with editing your own works, and seeing what could have been improved in others. Coming from somebody who's generally new to the critiquing scene, I've improved and grown from it more than I ever expected. Editing is easier, as is writing. Critiquing brings confidence- and confidence brings great writing.
Exercise
For today's exercise, you're going to post a recent prompt reply that you have completed, then critique someone else's work. It can be your best one, or your worst. Length isn't the most important thing here, and I'm going to be lax about it, but have at least a 750 word max. This makes for enough time to build and tell your story, and gives the critiquer a good sized portion to write about. Too long of a story, and we could be here all day.
How to Critique
There's no right or wrong way to critique. Well, yes, there is a wrong way, but if you read the story properly and give your all into the crit, then there's no right or wrong way. I've compiled a list below of things I usually talk about or do while critiquing.
Start off with how you liked the story. Don't overdo it, and be completely honest. If you didn't like the story, then talk about another part that you liked. Be honest and truthful, don't lie that you liked the story, that doesn't help the person writing it, wanting a critique. You start off with a compliment to assure the person reading that you did read the story, and enjoyed at least portions of it. It assures them that you're not attacking them or tearing their work to shreds. I've had several occasions where I've given my time to critique, forgetting the compliments at the beginning, and ended up wasting my time, because they left in either a fit of rage, or upset. It's more worth your time if you tell them at the beginning. Makes the authors more willing to hear your suggestions.
Plot. Plot is a huge part of a story, although if I don't find something huge ('worthwhile) to mention, then I usually just leave it out almost completely. I substitute the full plot description with "Plot was good, and easily followed." It's not always needed to go into full detail, and can be unnecessary.
Grammar and sentence structure. How's the grammar? Is there enough long and short sentences to equal out them both, and make it sound more natural? How are those semicolons, or commas? These are the questions you should ask yourself, then type out the answer within your critique. You'll find, a lot of the time, grammar and sentence structure either make or break a story. These two things are usually more important than plot, which is why I focus more on it.
Spelling. You should point something out here and there, but as long as you mention it, there's not much need to go into full detail about which 'your' is supposed to be used within that sentence. Once they get your crit, they should go back and reread their work, editing it as they see fit. I've found that it's nowhere close to how important sentence structure and grammar is.
Flow. With this part of a critique, you answer questions like "Does it work within the story?", "Is it choppy?", go into detail about how the story is too fast or too slow, talk about how the improper usage of their semicolon really takes away from the story. Basically, anything that doesn't fit, or disrupts this 'flow' is described under this category. Be as nitpicky as you want in this section, but don't focus too much on the unimportant things.
Dialogue and realism. The big question: "Would this actually happen in real life?" If you answered no, explain how the dialogue is cliched, and would never work. Tell them how their dialogue has too many head gestures. Realism is what we base our stories on, description of the person's body movements can make a story go from great, to amazing. Proper dialogue can reel a reader in, and immerse themselves in your world, your character. Understanding this makes a story unbelievably great.
BE HONEST. I warn those who I critique because I'm not about to give a lesser, unhelpful critique to spare their feelings. It looks like I'm being harsh, but I'm not. It's being honest that people want, yet dread. That is one thing you must do if you critique; be honest. Say whatever you feel should be said to the person, drift away from the points above, then focus back. It's about making somebody's skills improve. That's what you're there for. Have just as much fun as they had writing it.
A Note to the Authors
- Don't be a poor sport. Write a critique as well, and learn from other's writing you one.
- Don't be afraid to post anything as long as you're ready for the critique.
- Don't take help the wrong way. It doesn't get one anywhere.
REMINDERS:
IF YOU POST A PROMPT REPLY HERE, IT WILL BE CRITIQUED. BE PREPARED.
IF YOU HAVE POSTED A PROMPT REPLY, PLEASE CRITIQUE SOMEONE ELSE'S WORK AS A COMMENT REPLY TO THAT STORY.
What's that delete comment that you see? That's our WritingPromptsRobot, on a trial period and created for the purpose of posting off topic comments on prompt replies. This is so that top level comments can stay poems or stories, and that off topic comments don't rise above the writing. More info here.
1
u/MajorParadox Jun 25 '15
[WP] You are about to test NASA's first FTL manned space craft. Your first mission is a quick ride to Neptune. (Original prompt was deleted).
"Was that it?" asked Trenton, stretching his arms apart. "It didn't even feel like we moved."
"We definitely did," answered Jenson, as she typed away at her terminal. "We've lost all communications with Earth."
"I don't see Neptune anywhere," said Trenton, scanning the view port terminals.
"Forget Neptune," said Sanders. "I don't see any constellations that suggest we're even in our own solar system anymore."
Trenton walked over to Sanders' station. "What are you saying? We overshot Neptune?"
"It would seem that way," he answered.
"So we just turn around and go back, right?" asked Jenson, uneasily.
"It's not that simple," said Sanders. "Neptune was a tiny fraction of a light-year away from Earth. Let's say, for sake of argument, our journey brought us a thousand light-years away. If our reverse journey is off by even the slightest distance, we could still end up light-years away from Earth in another direction."
"So we just come back here and try again?" asked Trenton.
"No, Sanders is right," said Jenson. "If that journey back is off at all, we could end up somewhere light-years away from here."
"Exactly," said Sanders.
"What other options do we have?" asked Trenton. "We have to trust our navigation systems can chart our reverse course home."
"Of course," started Sanders. "These are the same navigation systems that brought us out here in the first place."
"We don't know what went wrong here," said Trenton. "Chances are there was a miscalculation in the faster-than-light math. If we're using the same math to get home, that should work, right?"
"I'm as unsure as you seem to be," answered Sanders.
"Likewise," said Jenson.
Trenton paced around the ship, deep in thought.
"Trenton?" asked Jenson.
"I'm thinking," he answered.
"Well, when you come to a decision, let me know," said Sanders. "The reverse journey has been calculated and charted. If you give the word, we'll engage."
"Do it," said Trenton.
Sanders pushed a button and a blue light shone from the terminal for a moment before fading away as quickly as it appeared.
"Did it work?" asked Trenton.
Sanders didn't respond. He just stared as his monitor.
"I don't have communications back with Earth," said Jenson. "But I'm picking up some kind of feedback that I don't understand."
"Sanders?" asked Trenton. "Report."
"Um, it looks we're back, but..."
"But what?"
"Earth is... different."
"Different?" asked Jenson.
"The continents don't look anything like they did when we left," answered Sanders. "And the satellites. They're all gone. And the- are we moving?"
"The feedback," said Jenson. "It's getting louder and more erratic."
"We are moving," said Sanders. "We're being pulled toward Earth."
"Are we caught in Earth's gravity?" asked Trenton.
"No," answered Sanders. "We're decelerating as we approach. it's almost as if we're being pulled into the atmosphere."
"What do we do?" Trenton asked in a panic. "Just let them drag us?"
"I don't think we have a choice," said Sanders.
"Jenson," said Trenton. "Could the feedback be some kind of communication coming from the planet?"
"Possibly, but I can't make sense of it. While there appear to be patterns, the rest just sounds like noise."
The crew waited as their ship slowly entered the atmosphere and descended toward the ground. Giant glass buildings could be seen in all directions, waves of light zooming between them.
"This place is incredible," said Jenson.
"Incredible or not," started Trenton. "We have no idea who these people are and what they want with us."
The ship finally landed and the three crewmembers shared an uneasy glance. A section of the wall disappeared, and a stairway of light appeared at the base.
An uncomfortable silence followed, until Sanders finally spoke up. "Do we walk down the light stairs?"
Before anyone could answer, footsteps could be heard ascending the stairs. A figure resembling the human form, but glass-like in appearance, entered the ship.
"Oh, thank god it's not an ape," said Trenton.
"This isn't a time for jokes," said Jenson.
"It wasn't a joke."
The figure opened its mouth and let out a sharp squeal, prompting the crewmembers to grab their ears.
"Sorry about that," said the figure in a soft, mellow voice. "We should now be able to communicate." The three crewmembers dropped their hands, but nobody said a word. The figure spoke up again. "Welcome to Earth."
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u/mnwerner Jun 25 '15
Invisible Friends Union
“Hello,” a handsome German Sheppard greeted from the front steps of the building. I was slightly thrown off not by his verbal ability, but by his friendly disposition. I was under the impression that his was a standoffish breed. I nodded to the beast; he leapt up to open the swinging door with his front paws. We walked through the entrance that led to a large open space resembling a foyer. The ceiling looked as though it had been painted as homage to Michelangelo if the fan had been six years old. The halls were lined with similar artwork, a collage of clouds, stick figures, and geometrically incorrect houses stretched from the front doors to the back of the foyer. I looked down at the German Sheppard as he trotted behind the desk directly in front of the front doors. “So,” he began nudging a large ledger open with his nose. “What brings you to the Invisible Friends Union?”
“I was told this was an excellent support system for those whose visible friend has passed on.” The dog nodded his condolences, still pouring over the pages. Of course I did not mean my visible friend, or VF, had ceased living. ‘Passed on’ is a term widely understood by the invisible community meaning the VF no longer understands our world. The beast stopped nudging pages about halfway: “First name?” He inquired. “Ron. Ron…Wiggles.” The German Sheppard shot me a look. “How old was your VF when you met? “ “Six. He’s nine now.” “And approximately when did he pass on?” I was not accustomed to watching a German Sheppard take notes. It was amusing to watch him juggle a pen between his teeth. I pondered his question. “About six months ago, I think.” I remembered the day well. My VF and I were walking in the park, when all of a sudden, he turned to me and said: “I don’t think we should hang out anymore. My friends think I’m too old for this.” I was crushed. My VF and I had become so close and this breakage had come out of nowhere. Since cutting me loose, I’d wandered the streets, unable to be seen by the many adult passersby, devastated that my only friend to that point no longer wanted contact with me. This dog was my first real conversation in months. He dropped the pen from his mouth. “Okay, you have an appointment now with the President…now it appears. Follow me.”
We walked together down the long hallway. Once we cleared the foyer, doors lined another, longer hallway on either side. Many appeared to be offices, complete with nameplates on the doors. At the end of the hall was a large wooden door with the words ‘President Peace’ plated in gold on the front. The German Sheppard nudged the door open to reveal a large office with bookshelves on either side of a larger wooden desk. A small man with wild red hair sat behind it, reading a magazine upside-down. “Mr. President, a Mr. Wiggles has an appointment with you.” The man, refusing to put down his reading material, stated: “Very well, thank you Norman.” The dog took his leave. “Thank you.” I called after him as he trotted away. I now stood awkwardly in front of President Peace’s desk, contemplating whether it was polite to sit without permission. My answer came instantaneously: “Sit.” The President commanded. I obeyed. “So,” he began, finally putting down the magazine. President Peace was probably the oddest-looking person I’d seen up to that point.
His wild hair was matched by even more unkempt bright red eyebrows, which shielded eyes, purple in color, from possible debris. His eyes were able to see me clearly through giant round tortoiseshell glasses. President Peace was also covered in what I hoped were freckles. He wore a white dress shirt with two ties, stacked on top of one another. I felt oddly underdressed in my black hoodie and jeans. “What brings you here?” He asked. “Uh, my VF passed on. I was told this was a safe space for individuals like us.” “You would be correct. The Invisible Friends Union is a space for beings like you and I to feel a sense of community with one another. We offer various support groups for beings whose VF’s have passed on. We also offer individual sessions for those who feel uncomfortable in groups.” President Peace stood from his desk, barely at eye-level with it. I had expected him to at least be taller than the furniture. He continued: “We also offer temporary room and board for those who are unable to find new VFs.” “I’m sorry, do you mean to say I will be reassigned?” I asked. I had been afraid of this. Because my kind was typically only seen by young children and the occasional schizophrenic, the turnover rate among us was staggering. My last VF had been my first, so the idea of having to start over only to be reassigned again in a few years terrified me. President Peace gave me a concerned look. “It has to happen eventually. When you’re ready of course.” “Will I be able to choose the new VF?” I inquired. “I think you know well that we do not choose them. They inevitably choose us.” I understood. I had met my VF because I’d been wandering the park while he’d been playing there one afternoon. I wished so badly he hadn’t grown up. I missed playing with him.
“Are you in need of counseling at this time?” President Peace asked. I shook my head ‘No’. He checked a box in his magazine. “Do you require temporary housing?” “That would be great.” I answered. Another box was checked.
“Okay Mr. Wiggles that’s all I need from you. Do you have any other questions?” I did, but I was already exhausted from the afternoon’s events. All I really wanted was to go to sleep. “I don’t think so. I would love to take a nap though.” President walked around his desk to meet me. We were at eye-level while I sat. “Very well. I’ll have Norman show you upstairs to the living quarters. NORMAN!” I waited until President Snow was in the doorway, back to me before standing. He strangely intimidated me, and I felt it would be insulting if I flaunted my height by standing in front of him.
Norman met us in the hallway and took President Peace’s instructions with a nod. I thanked the President for meeting with me, confused by how quickly it had ended. I followed Norman back the hallway to the foyer. We ascended a large, winding flight of steps to my temporary home. I could not wait to connect my body to a mattress and pillow. Tomorrow would bring new questions, for now, sleep was what I required.
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u/SpinATaleForMe Jun 24 '15
Okay this is one I just wrote. It's a reply to A bomber plants a cellphone detonated bomb in a crowded building. He calls the number and watches the building explode on cue, but then someone answers his call.
(If I did that right.)
The story:
Marc checked his watch. 8:52 AM. Impatiently, he drummed his fingers on the arm of the rounded plastic chair. His eyes wandered to the computerized schedule of arrivals and departures on the screen above his head. No delays. His foot slid back and forth on the cold marble tiles. As it did, his heel tapped the overnight bag. Tap. Tap. Tap. The bag slid further and further beneath his seat. He checked his watch again. Still 8:52. Tap, tap. This time, when his foot slid, his heel did not touch the bag.
It was tempting to glance at the cameras. To check for observers. He knew he must not. Instead, he let his eyes roll again to the arrivals and departures, and then to his watch. 8:53 AM. With an expression of alarm at the late hour, he leapt from his seat. With one hand, he grabbed the strap of the laptop case beside him, and strode off.
At the doorway, he paused, and looked over his shoulder, as if at someone calling his name. The bag, with its concealed bomb and cell-phone trigger went unnoticed under the seat. Perfect. He strolled calmly toward his car. 8:54 AM.
"Mommy?" Marc had just reached his ordinary-looking Ford Taurus, when he heard the voice.
In the next car, a woman -- he assumed it was a woman, nothing was visible but her hindquarters as she dug for something in the back seat -- mumbled something from within a blue SUV.
"Is Daddy really coming home forever?"
Another mumble. Not one to be overcome with sentimentality, Marc unlocked his door, and slid behind the wheel. A billboard ad warned against the dangers of terrorism. The image of a Metro, a hundred times larger than life, with a woman speaking to the driver of the bus. Her hand gestured to an enormous black duffle bag with wires hanging out. "If you see something, say something," it read. Marc chuckled. His bag was much less obvious, and no one ever spoke up anyway. Unconcerned, he left the lot, driving to a spot a few blocks from the terminal.
He parked the car again, and pulled out a disposable phone. Then he checked his watch again.
8:55.
With nothing left to do but wait, Marc turned on the stereo. It was tuned to some 'oldies' station. Eighties and nineties hits playing, for the most part. 'Oldies'. The thought made him feel old, though he'd just turned forty. He lit a cigarette and took a slow drag, letting the menthol flood his throat. Warnings be damned; he'd be dead long before he could get cancer anyway.
The song ended and a DJ read off an ad for some local furniture store with "low, low prices!" as Marc flicked ash out the window.
8:56 AM.
Commercial break over, Marc leaned back and inhaled again. This job would cover his debts, with enough left over for a decent living.
The Jacksons crooned at him from the radio. "Daddy's home. Your... Daddy's home. To stay..."
Maybe, after, he'd buy a house. Find a girl, start a family. Have a little sprat like the one in the parking lot. Thinking of having his own kid sent a twinge through him. That little girl would be inside when he made the call. Who knew how many other children were in there. Could he ever raise a kid, after, knowing what he'd done?
He shook the thought away. 8:57.
The cigarette was nearly gone, the ash long and dark. He'd been pulling too hard; usually a smoke lasted a few minutes. Tossing the butt, he flipped another out of the pack.
"Is Daddy really coming home forever?"
He wondered where her Daddy had been. Overseas, maybe? Away at war? Maybe they'd been separated, and unlike most families, had decided not to rip their child's life apart over petty differences.
Maybe he'd been in jail.
"I'm not a thousand miles away," the radio sang. "Daddy's home to stay."
Frustrated, Marc switched the stereo off, and stepped out of the vehicle. He leaned his back against the car and stared over at the terminal.
He couldn't back out now, even if he wanted to. They'd kill him if he did. Even if they didn't kill him for not making the call, he wouldn't get paid, and Ganji would kill him for not having the money.
He had to do this. He had no choice.
The tune of the song stayed with him, overlapping with the girl's voice in his mind. He shrugged, shaking his back, and kicked at some roadside gravel.
8:58 PM.
The parking lot at the terminal was full. Somewhere in there, right now, a bad man was descending from a plane, making his way inside. A man who'd murdered hundreds of innocent people. A drug dealer. A liar and a thief.
Hundreds of cars in the lot, though. How many of those were innocent people? Families. College kids. Some guy trying to pay the rent.
Marc wondered, for a moment, if he was any better than his target.
He checked his watch. 8:59. He clutched the disposable phone. Dialing all but the last number, he tossed his half-finished cigarette to the street. He wasn't enjoying it anyway.
Last chance to back out, he told himself, knowing he wouldn't. Couldn't. Ten. Nine. Eight.
He raised the phone, finger hovering over the button. Three, two. One. He pushed the final number, ironically it was '0', just as the clock changed to show 9:00 AM.
The phone rang once in his ear, then the force of the explosion, even here, was enough to make him lose his feet. He lost his footing and fell to the street. His hand landed on the still-burning cherry of his discarded cigarette. He swore, pulling the hand up to suck on his palm.
From this vantage point, he could see the building fall, crumbling into itself, dust and debris rising into the air.
He'd dropped the phone. He didn't need it, but he couldn't leave it here, either. He'd pitch it in a dumpster on the way to collect his money.
"Hello?"
Marc stared at the phone. "Hello?" the voice said again, faintly. "Is anyone there?"
He pulled the cell to his ear. "Hello, who's this?"
Must be a wrong number.
"You called me, Marc," the voice said. "Don't you know who I am?"
It was a man's voice, deep and thrumming. In the background, Marc could hear voices, and music.
No, the music was in his head.
"I didn't call anyone," he said. "You must be mistaken." How does he know my name?
"Is Daddy really coming home forever?" that voice was unmistakable.
"Who is this?" Marc asked again. "Where are you? How did you know my name?"
The man tsked at him. "That doesn't matter, Marc," he said. "Would you do it again?"
Marc tensed. His eyes scanned the hill above him, and below. Someone had to be watching. Maybe his contact pulling a prank.
On the other end of the line, voices were overlapping. Screams, cries. People calling out the names of loved ones.
They couldn't be in the terminal. He stared down at the wreckage. No one survived that.
"I don't know what you mean," he insisted.
The man laughed. "Would you do it again?"
"Is Daddy really coming home forever?"
"No," Marc said. "I did what you're paying me for. I wouldn't do it again."
"I'll hold you to that." The line disconnected.
Marc climbed back into the Taurus, tossing the cell onto the seat beside him. He leaned back and lit a cigarette, wincing at the pain in his palm. He closed his eyes. Opened them.
The molded plastic chair pressed against his back. Above him, a screen displayed a computer generated list of arrivals and departures. He checked his watch.
8:52 AM.
Marc grabbed the bag from beneath his seat. He carried it, heart thumping loudly in his airs, outside of the airport. He paused in the doorway, looking over his shoulder. He needed the money. They would kill him.
A little boy was hugging an elderly man, chattering about fishing on some lake. A teenage girl threw herself into the arms of a boy in a near-identical outfit. They kissed as he twirled her in the air.
A man and woman holding hands. A young girl caught at the security checkpoint Marc had never needed to pass through.
He walked outside.
A woman near his car was taking a blue-eyed girl out of an SUV. She set the child on her feet and turned back to the vehicle.
Marc knelt before the child. "Yes," he answered her as-yet-unspoken question. "Daddy's coming home to stay."
He strode to his own car and unlocked the door.
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u/Syraphia Jun 24 '15 edited Jun 24 '15
She heard. Of course she did. It wasn’t like we were quiet. I don’t know why I expected anything different. In this tiny house, there is no way that she couldn’t hear without plugging her ears. And even then. I gather her trembling body up against mine, ignoring the pain that shoots across my face when her head presses against my cheek.
“It’s all right.” I try to keep my voice low, and struggle to keep it from wavering. It doesn’t work very well. I kiss her head, the cold linoleum biting into my knees. he nuzzles up against me even more and I shut my eyes tightly, willing my body not to ache, not to shake.
She whimpers.
“Hush, hush. It’s all right.” Kissing her head again, I squeeze her tightly. Then I pick her up, she gets heavier every day, and silently pad my way towards her room. “Hush sweetie. Mama loves you.” Her small arms wrap around my neck tightly.
“Can you sleep with me?” Her voice is quiet, directly in my ear.
“Yes sweetheart, of course.” I shut her door behind me as quietly as I can. I hope it’s quiet enough.
“Thank you mommy.” I set her down onto her bed, tucking the blankets in around her before joining her on her tiny bed. It creaks with the strain of my added weight.
My eyes flash to the door immediately, waiting with baited breath. She’s silent beside me. We both wait and I count. I get up to thirty Mississippi. He would’ve been here by now. Maybe he’s fallen asleep.
I return my attention to her. She still watches the door, eyes focused like lasers. I kiss her head again with another shot of pain through my face, adjusting slightly to lie with her on the twin-sized bed. The bed squeaks quieter this time and I stare at the door once again. Thirty Mississippis. No sound, other than her strained breathing.
“Go to sleep sweetie. Mama will stay with you the rest of the night.” I speak quietly, tearing my gaze from the door and looking at her again. She looks from me to the door more than once. “I won’t let nothing happen to you. I love you.”
Eventually, she nods and settles down, closing her eyes. She doesn’t sleep for a long time though. I don’t either.
My most recent and slightly edited from the original text I posted. Can't have it critiqued without attempting to edit it some first.
EDIT: Fixed up some awkwardness thanks to u/Christopher_Michael's help.
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u/Christopher_Michael Jun 24 '15
First of all, ouch. That's not an easy topic to write about, so kudos for that. What stuck me the most is what you didn't say in the story, and also what you only alluded to.
There were a few sentences that came across as a bit awkwards, such as I try to keep my voice quiet, the shake out of it and She nestles more against me. It was on the shorter side so there were no issues with the flow of the story, and the length actually works for this piece I think, because it seems like something the woman would say to someone instead of a short story.
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u/Syraphia Jun 24 '15
Thank you very much, I'm glad it came across well.
You have no idea how hard I stared at specifically those two sentences and tried to fix them. I have some bad problems with verb tense and I think those two sentences suffered for my attempt to fix the original tense problem that was there.
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u/Roganjoshua Jun 24 '15
The Nameless One awoke, a whirring headache stirring away. He surveyed his surroundings from his sitting position, leant against a wall: drab beige wallpaper, bland décor and generic furniture. He assumed he was in some kind of hotel or motel. Why was he in this room? What business did he have here? Why was he knocked out on the floor? Had he been sleeping, or was he intentionally put unconscious? Many questions flew around his head, but there was one more pressing and blatant, standing out from the others like red on white. Who was he?
When the Nameless One gained consciousness, he had lost more than just his recent memories; he had also forgotten basic things like his family, his job, his past interactions...and his name. As clichéd as it seemed to him at the time, he had undoubtedly contracted a case of amnesia. The Nameless One pushed aside an empty pill bottle propped beside him, stood up and searched for some kind of hint as to his identity. His search however was fruitless. He decided to check with the receptionist for clues. It was after all the only lead he had, as well as the most logical thing to do. He was puzzled to find that the whole hotel was empty and pretty badly wrecked. Scraps of cloth were all across the floor, bits of scrap and litter covered the halls, suspiciously negative messages were written on the walls, and every now and then there were little patches of blood: some quite fresh. It seemed like the whole place had been raided and pillaged of all its supplies and people. The Nameless One was very confused, to say the least. Music was still playing in the main lobby, creating a spooky atmosphere, as though someone the Nameless One could not see was watching him. The Nameless One searched the reception desk until he found the check-in book. He filed through the pages until he found his room. Room 237 supposedly belonged to a J.G, which didn’t help much in the Nameless One’s case. The Nameless One wondered what he should do next. He had no real goal, except maybe to find out his true name.
He exited the hotel and felt a very similar vibe as the abandoned building. Emptiness. Loneliness. Danger. But empty definitely was the prominent feeling. The dusty road in front of him seemed to be long untouched. The very few cars parked by the hotel were rusty and breaking apart. For seemingly miles on end there was no sign of life. For a short while, the Nameless One thought the maybe this was some kind of sick practical joke. Any second now, his family would pop out of some bushes and yell “surprise!” and this surreal experience would be over. But he knew that wasn’t the case. Something had clearly happened. The dust rolled on as the Nameless One travelled. The essence of emptiness travelled with him. Mild winds whistled quietly as dust was whipped up and carried away from this nightmarish place. The undying sun beat harshly on the Nameless One, drawing out his energy and strength. It had been two days since he had left the hotel, and he was feeling the effect of isolation. He would see people off in the distance waving at him, calling out to him, and even walk slowly towards him, but they never caught up with him. Their clothes were torn, and it seemed like their skin was decaying. Clearly he was suffering the effects of mirages or hallucinations. The Nameless One would even see people shambling past him when he was trying to sleep.
“It’s been a week since I left the hotel. I keep seeing those things, flying out in the sky, walking in the distance. It’s like something out of hell. But what am I saying, it must be the rations doing this to my head. Half a can of tuna isn’t good for the body. The flying...demon things, I swear they start circling me when I’m travelling. I don’t know what they want, what they- what am I saying!? I’m going mad, crazy, oh god oh god let me out of he-“
The Nameless One attempted to keep his sanity in check by keeping a video log on a tape recorder he found on his travels. However, it only served to highlight how far the Nameless One had declined since he awoke in the hellish landscape. He was convinced he had died and was being punished for something he must have done, or that the world had ended and he was somehow spared (although spared would not be the word the Nameless One would use). It was starting to take a toll on him physically, and already has mentally.
“It...It’s been...what, fifteen...sixteen...I don’t know. It’s been too long...since I left the hotel. I...I have almost certainly...gone mad. Fiery pillars...demonic...things...no one is here. I’m all alone. I don’t know...what...I’m...going to do. I...I need to end this, I need...to...stop. What am I doing here? I need to go...go...go...go”
This was it. The Nameless One had given up. He walked into the first building he saw, a hotel building, entered a random room and slumped on the wall. He slid down onto the floor. He spent a while staring blankly at something: a picture of a woman. He hoped he would soon be back with someone like that. He rummaged through his makeshift rug sack, looking for the sleeping pills. He needed them to help him sleep at night, nothing else could help. He pulled out his hand and poured out one, two, three...he poured the whole bottle into his hand, and placed the pills in his hand onto his tongue and swallowed.
The beige wallpaper slowly melted off the walls, like wax off a candle. The generic furniture twisted and distorted around him. Flashes of green, blue and red hit his eyes as he drifted off. He grabbed the bottle in his right hand, waiting to finally stop being.
Waiting...
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u/MajorParadox Jun 25 '15
This is an interesting story. I like the duality of confusion in how he doesn't remember who he is at the same time everyone seemed to disappear.
As far as spelling and grammar, some things stood out to me, but I'm not an expert, so it's entirely possible they are correct. One was the use of colons:
He surveyed his surroundings from his sitting position, leant against a wall: drab beige wallpaper, bland décor and generic furniture.
...every now and then there were little patches of blood: some quite fresh.
I think these may be fine, but I don't normally see them used this way. On that same note, I was also confused at, "leant," but after looking it up, I see it's a British usage, so that's OK too.
The Nameless One attempted to keep his sanity in check by keeping a video log on a tape recorder he found on his travels.
A tape recorder only records sound. Did you mean a camcorder?
The story progresses really quickly, but the video log helps sell the time lapse:
It...It’s been...what, fifteen...sixteen...I don’t know. It’s been too long...since I left the hotel.
Even though it's only a couple of paragraphs since he left, the confusion and overall vibe helps the reader believe the time just flew by. However, if you ever expanded on it and lengthened his journey to madness, I think it would be that much more compelling.
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u/Sawaian Jun 24 '15
A hand rose. Finger tips felt ice to the touch of the vaults shadow exterior. Caught between sandstone walls, the vault hid a fearful secret of wealth and power. And Prince Geshwon held key to this mythical treasury. Geshwon let the key dangle around his wrist.
Further back, as the months blend into one nightmarish fuel too cruel to be a just life, Geshwon kept his head pressed to his father's hand. An ill man, gaunt eyes petrified by what time remained. Here lie the mighty king, swollen heart and sullen face. To his touch, what remains of blood-kin ache with tears and wishes.
"Wishes." Said the frail king, "Are like a poison for hope. They taint your thoughts for what the future might be, and replace them for what they ought to be." His royal deathbed's lips stiff.
Geshwon searched King Geshel's eyes for life but found vacancy. Geshwon slept in tears at his Father's bedside until one ran out of tears and the other out of life.
In slid the key, boney and long with the emblem of a snake etched into its handle. The vault hissed with air, popping off. Creaking hinges gave sound to weight. Behind the thick steel, in rows of six candles were lit. On a hill made of golden coins made throne by a scaley plump. Its neck crooked and legs were nubs. Wings stretched from its back, raised to alertness by the vaults opening.
"Two steps in, three steps out." The scaled ball spoke. "Are you going to let yourself in or let the coolness out?"
"I-I apologize."
"Save your apologizes for the people. There will be many to be had now that you are king."
"You are Singsweh?"
"What brings you here?" The dragon continued weighing golden coins on a scale.
"Secrets."
Singsweh set the coin aside into a pouch. He viewed the young prince through three inch thick goggles. "Secrets, You say?"
"The Kingdom is in need of a boost to our economy. My father has left me it in a state of war and we can afford no more expenses. So I had been informed of your vast knowledge."
"Hm," Singsweh slid down the coins. He crawled towards Geshwon. "So stop the war."
"I can't. The Curlns will invade us if we do."
"Your first mistake was accepting your father's war."
"I had no choice in the matter! And your advice is not exactly the 'economic' genius I had been told."
"Since when is war not an economic venture?"
Geshwon thought for a moment a clever response to the blobs question. He drew too much time a part and continued.
"We need more gold. For the war."
"And none of it you will have it from me."
"But your gold is so plentiful that you could spare but a few."
"Gold is never sparred. You underestimate its value."
"I need its value."
"Young King, gold is not the power you think it is. True economic power does not come from the gold you have."
"Where does it come from then?"
He smiled. "From the people you have influence over who have it."
Geshwon, wide eyed, had come to his first true realization as ruler that day, what the vault really meant.
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u/LovableCoward Jun 24 '15
It's very well done. I particularly enjoyed the characters names. Coming up with original names can be a difficult task. I also appreciated the obviously lineage with the royals' names.
Plot: What's the context? I'm not asking why you didn't include more into it, I'm asking for your thought of this piece's part in the larger picture. Who are the Curlns? Why is there the war in the first place?
Grammar: I cannot add too much. It's always been my greatest weakness.
Spelling: Can't see anything too terrible. Spared instead of Sparred. You're not fighting with the gold. Apart instead of 'a part'. Blob's instead of 'blobs'
Flow: I would include some more action sentences and descriptors in the latter half. You're playing dialogue vollyball, back and forth, back and forth. Have some pauses, some movement. This isn't a Shakespearean drama; people don't stand stock still unless they're frozen or trying to remain hidden.
Dialogue: Not bad, very good. I would add some more, 'Geshwon said,' 'the shriveled creature replied.' In this particular case it's not bad because there's only two characters, but add in another one and the reader needs guidance on who's saying what. There's certain lines where I'd personally reorganize. Such as "And you will have none of it from me." or "You underestimate its value; gold is never (to be) spared."
All and all I'm pleased it is very well done.
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u/Castriff Jun 24 '15
[WP] Write a story about a Mary Sue who wants to have flaws.
"The Author," she explained in a subdued voice, "has decided that I am perfect in every way." She peered dispassionately at Janet, who sat captive, tied to her chair as though she hadn't a care in the world.
"I have decided that they are wrong."
Janet barely reacted as her kidnapper fingered various painful-looking instruments of torture. She was unable to see much in the haze of the single fluorescent lightbulb centered above the table, but what she did see was utterly fascinating. What an excellent set of tools she has, Janet thought to herself. I wonder where she bought them. Those gardening shears would make a marvelous Father's Day gift for Daddy.
The kidnapper snapped her fingers impatiently. "Pay attention," she barked. Janet did as she was told, without hesitation, and this elicited a heavy sigh from the captor. "You don't really understand what's going on here, do you?"
Janet did not answer. She was wearing a large towel in her mouth as a gag. With another sigh, the gag was reluctantly removed, and Janet was free to speak.
"I understand what's going on."
"Really."
"You're going to torture me."
The kidnapper was momentarily taken aback by this. Her first captive hadn't shown nearly as much situational awareness. Of course, she hadn't been able to go through with it. Nothing had changed. She was still perfect, was still unable to greet anyone with a reaction other than a kind smile and a graceful wave. He had shown up for school the very next morning, and kissed his kidnapper on the lips the moment they met, as he did every day.
Something was still missing.
"Why aren't you afraid of me?" she asked quietly. She drew herself up slowly, and put herself between Janet and the wooden workbench.
"Why would I be afraid of you, Mary?"
Her eyes narrowed. "My name is not Mary. Not anymore. My name is Marissa Suzette." She snatched up a chef knife from the table, and held it against the crook of Janet's elbow. Janet began to bleed. "Say it."
"Oh!" Janet exclaimed. Then she giggled. "That tickles."
Marissa dug the knife deeper, down to the bone, yet Janet closed her eyes and smiled. To her, a severed brachial artery was as pleasurable as a cool evening stroll on the side of the beach. Marissa removed the blade and tugged her hair in frustration. Blood streaked through her frazzled golden curls, and splashed across the legs of her skinny jeans.
"What is the matter with you?" Marissa screamed. "You're about to die of blood loss! I just MURDERED you! I... just..." She began to sob. "You're my best friend! I have to save you!"
Her instincts took over then. Marissa didn't truly understand how her story worked, but she was unable to push away the impulse to save a life, even when her worst enemy, Darla, had stepped in front of a moving school bus. Furthermore, her father's tools were no longer the implements of a torture chamber, but in her hands could rival the surgical instruments of any medical center in the United States. The veins in Janet's arm were all clamped and sutured in record time.
After cleaning the wound, Marissa untied Janet and hugged her fiercely. She went limp, however, the moment Janet hugged back.
"I can't keep doing this," she groaned. She pushed away from Janet, and pointed toward the door. "Please, just go."
"Okay," Janet replied cheerfully. "You wanna go to Georgino's tomorrow after school? They're having a sale on ice cream cones."
"Sure thing, best friend!" She replied. As her best friend walked out, she gave a kind smile and a graceful wave. Then the door closed, and Mary Sue began to scream.
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u/Syraphia Jun 24 '15
I love this. The struggle between the Author and Mary Sue is just great, and while it breaks the fourth wall, it does it in a very well-done way. The plot rolls quite well, leaving you wanting more. I like the detail that indicates her to be a Sue too, the golden hair, the skinny jeans. Nice details.
Looking over it, I don't truly see any glaring grammatical errors that tripped me up enough to stop reading. I think technically the first and second paragraphs, as it's still Mary speaking, should be together, otherwise it does give a sense that it's Janet speaking or at least someone else speaking. In the final paragraph:
"Sure thing, best friend!" She replied.
Maybe the tag shouldn't be capitalized, the same way that the question is tagged with a lowercase 'she' earlier. You definitely have me looking up how to properly tag dialogue and I feel like I have to fix everything I've written now.
The whole piece flows extremely well from section to section, though some of the dialogue feels a little wordy or very awkward. However, that's usually how a Sue-author writes their characters in an attempt to make them so much better than other characters or to emphasize relationships between characters, so it fits quite well with that constraint.
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u/Castriff Jun 24 '15 edited Jun 24 '15
You say the dialogue feels wordy? Do you mean the characters' words or the description?
And yeah, you're right about the tag. I should've caught that. As for the first two paragraphs, I meant to separate them as a type of dramatic pause.
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u/ElementalHominid Jun 24 '15
Hate.
I couldn't go on without her. I was constantly reminded of her smile, her laugh, her love everywhere I turned. I tried to face it, but every time something would trigger a memory, and I would break down in tears.
Fear.
So, I ran away. I hid. I couldn't face the truth anymore, so I fled to the far corner of the world. I found a monastery in the mountains of Tibet that was willing to take me in, willing to help me forget.
Paranoia.
The monks seemed strange at first, but I dismissed it as just the language barrier. I learned the language and dismissed it as a cultural thing. I learned the culture and dismissed it as a product of being cut off from the rest of the world for so long. I rationalised it away in any way I could because to admit that there was something wrong with them was to admit that there was something wrong with me.
Insanity.
The daily routine slowly melted from awkward to ritual. The rough clothing became tolerable, even comfortable. The strange food became palatable, then tasteless. The present became normal; the past became alien. I became me.
Anger.
And then, it happened. The other monks became excited about "the Ritual". They started to talk about the alignment of stars and getting me ready. I asked them about it and all they would say was "the Ritual", "initiation", and that I should feel honored, and I did, until it started.
Betrayal.
I walked into the ritual chamber, and I saw many things that seemed to be out of place. I saw a pentagram inscribed on the ground with candles at the points. I saw inverted crucifixes hung on the walls. I saw the Latin words that were etched on the floor in blood. I was confused. What were elements of Western religion and Satanism doing at this ancient temple in the Tibetan mountains? What was up with the sets of parallel gouges in the walls? What were they going to do to me?
Regret.
I slave over the hot coal stove as I remember the horrid ceremony. I couldn't escape. I couldn't resist. I couldn't fight back. The demon was hideous; I am hideous. The monks switched out my soul for his, and then sent the body back to the pits of hell. I still have a connection with my body, so I can watch what he does with it, but I can't control it. I look down at the tortured face of the girl I loved.
I can't control anything anymore.
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u/Castriff Jun 24 '15
Well, I liked... most of it? What bothers me is the motif of the single words that separate the paragraphs. If this were a poem, I would be okay with it, but in a story like this, it breaks up the flow in a really agitating way.
But otherwise, it was good. The plot felt both smooth and realistic. I think it could be fleshed out a bit more, perhaps with observations about the monks' less palatable habits.
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u/ElementalHominid Jun 24 '15
I was originally going to have the single words be a sort of mental imprint forced on him by the demons, who were originally going to be in the walls or something. When I went a different way, I kept them because I enjoyed the counterpoint that they provided against the story. I liked how they broke it up, but I think that they ended up as just being confusing and agitating, apparently ;P. I'm debating between just taking them out and attempting to explain them further.
I could go back and flesh it out some more. I was in a time crunch because I needed to leave for work, so some stuff was definitely rushed.
Thank you for the critique. It is helpful to know how people feel about my writing.
How I would edit it in response to your critique:
I couldn't go on without her. I was constantly reminded of her smile, her laugh, her love everywhere I turned. I tried to face it, but every time something would trigger a memory, and I would break down in tears.
So, I ran away. I hid. I couldn't face the truth anymore, so I fled to the far corner of the world. I found a monastery in the mountains of Tibet that was willing to take me in, willing to help me forget.
The monks seemed strange. It was just little things, forgetting the names of various everyday objects, becoming overly hostile in response to little things and calming back down just as quickly, a distractingly keen interest in what I had been before. At first, I dismissed it as just the language barrier. I learned the language and dismissed it as a cultural thing. I learned the culture and dismissed it as a product of being cut off from the rest of the world for so long. I rationalised it away in any way I could because to admit that there was something wrong with them was to admit that there was something wrong with me.
The daily routine slowly melted from awkward to ritual. The rough clothing became tolerable, even comfortable. The strange food became palatable, then tasteless. The present became normal; the past became alien. I became me.
And then, it happened. The other monks became excited about "the Ritual". They started to talk about the alignment of stars and getting me ready. I asked them about it and all they would say was "the Ritual", "initiation", and that I should feel honored, and I did, until it started.
I walked into the ritual chamber, and I saw many things that seemed to be out of place. I saw a pentagram inscribed on the ground with candles at the points. I saw inverted crucifixes hung on the walls. I saw the Latin words that were etched on the floor in blood. I was confused. What were elements of Western religion and Satanism doing at this ancient temple in the Tibetan mountains? What was up with the sets of parallel gouges in the walls? What were they going to do to me?
I slave over the hot coal stove as I remember the horrid ceremony. I couldn't escape. I couldn't resist. I couldn't fight back. The monks were ready for that. They overpowered me and tied me to an altar. Then, they started. The demon was hideous; I am hideous. The monks swapped my soul with his, and then sent the body back to the pits of hell with me in it. I still have some small connection with my real body: I can feel its pain, I can see what it sees, I can hear what it hears, but I can't control it. I look down at the tortured face of the girl that I once loved.
I can't control anything anymore.
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u/Arch15 Jun 24 '15
"It was selfish, what he did." I yell at Jamie's back, her dirty blond hair swaying with her movements.
"Yes, it was," she says, the dishes in the sink drowning out her voice. "But that doesn't mean that you leave the whole house in a mess. Christ, Kyle."
"It's not your house." I mutter, turning away, grasping the bottle in my hand tighter.
I hear her sigh from the kitchen, then turn to me, her baggy hoodie covering making her look pounds heavier than her frail frame actually shows. She shakes her head, the look on her face serious, and breathes out heavily again.
"For fuck's sake man, get your shit together. It's been over a month, and I'm not going to keep babysitting you over a breakup." she finishes loudly, and walks over, taking the bottle of wine from my hands and setting it down on the coffee table in front of me.
"He cheated on me, Jamie." I say, looking into her blue eyes, tears starting to burn the edges of my own. "Then he broke up with me for him. Took everything."
Jamie sits down beside me and rests my head on her shoulder, running her hands through my hair. "It was selfish, Kyle, but did you really want to stay with him?"
"Four years..." I reply quietly, barely hearing myself.
"And now it's over. Come on, there's plenty of other guys out there." she pats my head gently, and I move off of her shoulder, resting my arms on my knees, my head in my hands, wiping the tears from my eyes.
"I don't know if I'm ready yet, Jamie. I was barely ready for him and look where that got me." I sigh loudly, pushing up and looking down at her on the couch.
"That's ok, Kyle, but you can't keep living like this."
I look at the ground, focusing behind her feet, then close my eyes. "I know. I'm sorry. It's just hard."
"I know it is." I hear, watching Jamie get on her feet, then feel her arms around me. "I know it is..."
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u/SpinATaleForMe Jun 24 '15
Picking yours for a start, since you already know I'm a newbie. :)
I like this, because it's clear enough to see into the characters minds/feelings/whatever. Criticism... maybe that there's not really a plot? (Or I'm just missing it). It's more... One moment or scene from a larger story? Like the scene in the movies when someone has a breakup and the BFF comes over and sees the house trashed and the person-who-was-dumped wallowing in bed.
I mean it's so good, just the one scene, but I didn't see Kyle or Jamie reach a goal or anything. Kyle starts miserable and stays miserable. Jamie starts out like, "I'm not going to coddle you" but then just gives in.
So as a scene it's perfect, but I don't feel like I read a whole story?
Dialogue? I believed it (I might have had this conversation before, LOL)
The grammar and spelling are good -- I can't see anything wrong, so it's better than mine, at least!
I liked this enough to go search your page for a full story!
Sorry if this is too hard, I was trying to do like the other posts, but I like it so much!
Now if I get up the brass to post my own... :(
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u/Arch15 Jun 25 '15
Thanks, Spin. Glad you've decided to join in.
This has always been the kind of story I've wanted to write, so writing a scene like this is just a wish at what could be. Gay romance and reality fiction is my thing, combined is my weakness. Thanks for the feedback.
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u/SpinATaleForMe Jun 24 '15
Well i don't see the robot post like on the prompts so if I'm not supposed to ask here, please delete only and don't ban me! :(
I only wrote a couple prompt replies so I don't know if I'm ready for brutal honesty yet. Is every workshop going to give critique? like if I am ready next time, then I can post something?
Second -- I don't know how to critique at all (honestly, as long as there is a plot, I like most things!) so is that required to get a critique or just an etiquette thing. (Not trying to get a freebie, I just don't know that I'd be very helpful!)
Thanks for answering my questions if you do! :)
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u/Castriff Jun 24 '15
Well to the first point, IMHO it might be better for you to be critiqued now since you're not ready. You might be surprised. A good critique will really boost your confidence because you'll know what to fix for the next story. And as for the second point, it's really just a matter of going with your gut. Just use the "How to Critique" points above for guidance.
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u/SpinATaleForMe Jun 24 '15
Thanks! I tried my best at critique one of the posts here, but still scared to post my own, lol. I know it's probably decent cause I always got good marks in school, and people seemed to like the story I wrote yesterday, but that's people looking for entertainment, not to criticize, so I'm sure I have a LONG way to go before there's anything really good, lol.
Helps to know that people aren't totally against newbie writers here, though. :)
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u/Arch15 Jun 24 '15
Contrary to popular opinion, we don't ban random people. Mods aren't that bad, you know ;) The Robot doesn't post on Off Topic posts. Your question is fine.
If you're not ready for a critique, then don't worry about it. It's not mandatory to do the workshop. The workshop changes every week, so there won't be another critique workshop for a while. If you ever would like your prompt reply critiqued, then you can post a CC (constructive criticism) and have people critique then.
For today's workshop, it is required to give and receive a critique. If you're not sure how to critique, read a few of the other's posts, and follow my notes, if you still want to post. These critiques are supposed to be brutal, so I'd suggest maybe waiting and posting a CC instead. I wasn't ready for critiques for just under a year, and I wasn't ready to give them for even longer after that. It does help though.
Hope this answers all your questions! If you have anything else to ask about this post, then feel free to ask. Otherwise, feel free anytime to PM me with other questions or message the mods. We're always happy to help.
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u/[deleted] Jun 25 '15
God, wish I could do this but I just started! As such, I don't feel right correcting anyone, though you are free to criticize me! I hope to become a larger part of this community in the future, and thank you for existing :D