Playground Writers Workshop (Read 1st Post)

[Comet]

I'm going to hop straight into more critiquing, seeing as we finally have some life in this thread after a while:
The Pull by RPGsr4me

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Firstly, I'm sure almost every single one of us can identify with the narrator of this story. I know I've felt the Pull numerous times before.
There were plenty of funny bits. For some reason, the part about going to church cracked me up. The Power of Christ Compels You Demon, and all that.
So good work. Short, pretty simple but funny enough to not feel like a waste of a couple of minutes.
Now what else is there... Some formating/spacing could be good, I suppose.

[EmeraldPhoenix]

Critique of This Is My Dream

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Interesting idea. It was funny to read the different "false ideas" and the little itallic voice telling you why they sucked. The underlying "inner termoil" was very clever; the writer's block came from a war of ideas vs. self-doubt and unoriginality. It was very nicely done, and I especially liked, even though it seems trivial, the way you spaced it. It was spaced apart enough that the ideas didn't run into eachother, but close enough that you could tell they were connected. It's a weird thing to compliment, but I think you did it well.

Critique of Untitled Short Story

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I loved the descriptions in this one. It conjured up images instantly, and it was easy to figure out what was going on, without being blunt and outright about it. I enjoyed reading it, and have a title suggestion for you: Sorrow and Joy.
One thing I did think would be better changed, though: In the third paragraph, second line, it says "The couple stared into the sky, quickly turning from a shade of powdery blue to the deepest of blacks." This makes it seems as though the couple was the object turning black, not the sky. If you just insert a "which was" between "sky," and "quickly", I think it would make more sense.

Critique of Aces and Eights

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For some reason, when I read this, I imagined it being read by somebody with a Texas accent. It reminds me of Cowboys and Shoot-'em-ups, both of which are associated with Texas.
I think it would flow more smoothly if, in the third line, you replaced "heck" with "hell". The "kk" sound makes it stop for a second, while the "ll" would lead it forward. If that makes any sense.
In the 7th line, you spelled Killed, "klled".
The rhyming pattern in the third section was...odd. It kind of threw me, I had to read it over before I noticed some of the rhymes.
Otherwise, I liked it. The idea was good, and most of it was excellent writing. It was just those few little things that I had to mention.

[thurge namor]

about Aces and Eights: yah, i sorta tried to pg it up. its supposed to say hell, and sh*** but i removed it. i wrote it with a western in mind (sorta) and im glad the image was projected. I sorta was writing it to be a song, though im no good at music (drummer, haha) so i never put a tune to it. The parenthesese were for the lyrics. That would be like the refrain where the lines would be staggered (between singing and screaming) and places on top of each other (at least in part). I understand the change in rhyme scheme is sorta weird, but it was the best way that i could see to do it.

and i really want to post a peice of my NaNoWriMo so i need to catch up on critiques... so here goes nothing. 5 critiques:

Untitled Short Story by Silence

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well, reading back over the other critiques, i think everything has been said pretty much, so i'll try and say something knew... As far as imagery, spectacular. Very poetic. I'd be interested to hear what your idea of the story behind it all is. Who is she? who is he? why won't they see each other? emotionally, you could have done better. Any way you can draw it out, especially the beginning happy part, would add to the ending saddness. If you could describe both their feelings with great depth, showing their feelings for each other. And then, at the end, she leaves suddenly... draw out the part with just him too. There are so many poetic devices you could use here to multiply the emotion... but other than that, amazing piece.

The Pull by RPGsr4me

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interesting. youve nicely combined a real life story with a sort of poetic feeling. Not much to say, really. Just, nice.

Mask Masque by Kallisti

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ok, im confused. What is this story about? are you trying to create a character for a book or something? Trying out different beginnings to a book? I have no clue...If you made it a bit more clear at the beginning, perhaps...

k, well i got no more critique left in me tonight... ill just have to owe you all two critiques.

a bit of background, so perhaps itll make more sense:

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It is 300 some years after the apocalypse. Zombie apocalypse, that is. The main villain (read crazy genius who thinks hes doing best for the world) is named Logain. He did experimentation with viruses to do the exact opposite of what viruses should do. His viruses add to the body instead of take away from it. He used this to change humans to serve purposes for him. (my explanation for there being vampires and werewolves in the world along with a slew of other dark creatures.) The main three characters met him right after the apocalypse began and became friends with him. He was 50 then and became like a father to them, and they treated him as such. He ended up alienating them by experimenting on them agianst their will, changing one of them into a demon, one into a cyborg and prolonging the life of another (who somehow had not retained his youth like the rest and has the body of a 50 year old) This selection is a section with Will (also called Shadow). He had been drug out of his "retirement" by a fifteen year old boy who's city had been taken over by a band of mercenaries called the Death Seekers. The boy's village is inside the Blightlands, a section of the earth that is diseased and has been for quite some time. They stop to rest, and Will desides to go up the hill to see what is on the other side. He finds a black forest, what he decides is the perfect place for an ambush to occur if there was to be one. He doesn't want to get the kid involved in a fight, so he goes on ahead to spring the ambush (if there is one) and end it so they can continue... now, on with our story.

A Selection From Forever Dead

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The grass crunched under his soft leather boots, and he could feel every stone in the dirt as he moved. He had to make sure there were no surprises in the trees. And even if there were, it would be easier to deal with them alone than it would be to try and deal with them while protecting the boy. He reached the bottom of the hill and slowed down, watching the tree line for any movement. He didn't want to be surprised by a huge mob, especially since he had found that he would feel the effects of his fighting and age afterwards. He paused for a moment, looking into the dead trees. There was no movement. The dead black trees stood stalk still. Will sighed, knowing that he had to be certain, knowing that by getting his certainty he would, no doubt, spring and ambush. He reached into his trench coat and pulled out a trench gun, clicking the safety to ‘off’ as he slowly advanced towards the motionless trees. He reached the very edge of the tree line and stopped for a moment, scanning the forest before him one last time before continuing. The charcoal black trees swallowed him and his hope whole, taking all thoughts of future success and replacing it with the feeling that he was being watched. The trees were watching him and… he swatted at a bug that stung his neck. Wait a moment, that couldn’t be right. There was no life here, no movement of plants, no tweeting of birds, and no buzzing of insects. His hand found the spot on his neck as dark spots began to appear on his eyes. There was a dart in his neck which meant… His thoughts became muddled as the poison coated dart took effect. His hand came back down and gripped the shotgun as he turned, not able to form a cohesive thought pattern.

Forms dropped from the surrounding trees, shrugging off coal coated blankets to reveal gaunt, grey faces wearing painter’s masks. They moved towards Will slowly, loose rags unfolding as their skeletal arms reached for him. Instinct took hold of Shadow controlling his actions when reasonable thought would not and he pulled the trigger, blowing back one of the men. BLAM a splatter of red on a dead tree contrasting with the dark black to create a work of art worthy of any contemporary art gallery of the modern world. “No, not the modern world anymore, the far past,” a floating voice told Will, not that it mattered; the thought stream was whisked away by the drugged dart as soon as it came into clarity. PUMP a bright orange shotgun shell fell to the ash grey ground as another slid into place. The men around him hesitated for a moment as if watching the shell fall, and then BLAM a man spun, brown mottled rags detaching along with his right shoulder and arm. More color to this gore fest painting, bleach white bone with crayon red blood streaks. A thin wispy stream of dark smoke escaped the barrel as a shriek of muffled agony escaped the wounded man’s mask. Both floated to the heavens, testimonies of war and suffering to God on His high throne. Movements became jumpy, and for a moment it seemed as if the sun had become a strobe light, but another stray thought dismissed that idea. It’s merely the drugs slowing down my senses Will told himself, but then the drugs took that realization too, leaving shadow in a jumpy world of harsh motions.

A skeletal hand grasped Will’s arm, tightly gripping his trench coat, but not wrapping around his body. Will took hold of the barrel of his shotgun, slipping out of his trench coat as he twirled, bringing the stock into the side of the man who had grabbed him with a loud crack. His face mask popped, and then detached from his face revealing joints built in to hold it in place, and black dead peeling lips. He hit the ground hard, and Will noticed yellow teeth in his mouth, all filed to points; then his view of the man was gone as he continued turning, taking out another assailant with a loud retort. The smell of burning flesh met his nostrils, and he realized the barrel of his shotgun was still hot, and was cooking the skin on his hands. He quickly let go, watching the gun continue to turn till the stock was facing him. He caught it with a slap of wood to flesh, and looked around at his surroundings. PUMP another point of bright orange hit the ground as a third shot slid into place. Four men on the ground and… that thought slid away as another but big him, or was it a dart? He couldn’t tell… His gun fell from his hand as his eyes went black.

He felt a puff of ash take flight as he hit the ground, and then he was flying with his face to the sky. Beautiful stark blue sky, the dark blue bordering on purple, it was an autumn sky. White puffy clouds broke the deep seas of blue, and dark ominous clouds bordered the horizon. It smelled like rain…

He was a little kid sitting on his father’s lap. His father held a book in front of both of them. The page was a map of the world. Will reached up with a short stubby arm and turned the page. On the top of the next page was an inscription. “Gargoyles rule the sky and the Poseidon have the sea. Solid land is the empire of the Zombie Lords, and the caves are for the Wurms. Us humans? We can only hope to stay breathing for even the afterlife is no longer ours. That lies under the control of Logain and his Black hand of Plague.” Under the words was a picture of a human, or at least Will thought it was a human. It had bloodshot eyes sunk far into its gaunt, ash grey face. Covering its mouth was a painter’s mask, set into its skin with a metal clasp. Black stringy hair fell from its head, each lock tipped with red. Even Will’s young mind could see it was blood.

“What’s that, daddy?” Will asked, pointing to the drawing. His voice quavered in fear.

“That, my son, is an afflicted. It used to be human, but was driven to insanity by the breaking. Now it survives on the only mean safe to eat in this fractured reality. Human flesh. They have been known to willingly associate with Logain’s creatures.” Will looked up adoringly at his father. He was such a strong, brave man, but it wasn’t his father who held him, it was Logain. “Such a beautiful creature, the afflicted, so pained, and yet, through the stress, it survives.” Logain’s harsh barking laugh followed Will as he ran, and ran, and ran…

Into waking reality. A cool, wet cloth was wiped down his face, taking off a layer of ash and grime. He slowly opened his eyes, and nearly screamed, but he choked it off at the last moment. An afflicted woman was over him, giving him a sponge bath. She looked dispassionately at him, and then rose and left his view. Will struggled to rise, and found his arms and legs chained to the floor. He lifted his neck, looking around. He was attached to the floor of a cottage, the walls and ceiling as grey as his afflicted captors. The woman had left, he presumed, through the only door, set into the grey walls. He sighed, relaxing his neck. It was futile. He wasn’t going to give up yet, but he doubted he would make it out alive. A sharp laugh, almost sounding like a strangled cough, escaped his lips. Just a while ago he was planning on giving up, and then this boy, this Xerrov, entered his life and it was all turned around. Now he wanted to live, though he was almost sure he wouldn’t, just so he could help the boy. He needed to free the village, but first he had to get out of these chains.

please keep in mind it was written for NaNoWriMo and therefore had been undedited... but, all the same, anything you have to say about it is much appreciated...

[EmeraldPhoenix]

I think I'll take advantage of my three critiques and upload something I just wrote. It was hard to put in all of those color and font codes.

Chapter One of RL

(1,436 words. Internet Fiction.)

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CHAOS >> General Address >> Farewell, CHAOS.

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She is the creator of CHAOS. At age 17, it is time to pass on the burden to someone else. She has become too old for this. She is almost an adult, and CHAOS is not the place for adults.
“My dear fellow members,” she types. “I have gathered you all here with a confession to make. At 1:08, a mere few minutes from now, It will be official. 18 revolutions of the sun will have passed since the day I was brought into the world.”
She presses enter, and continues.
“It is time for me to choose the next leader of CHAOS. You are all wonderful. You are all worthy. But only one can handle the task set before them.”
Enter. Comments. Continue.
“I am so sad to leave, and I will continue to watch, to guard over you as you continue on your chaotic ways. But someone else will take over from here.”
Even now, people were scrambling to type heartbroken, incredulous replies. But she continued nevertheless.
“The new leader. The new leader of CHAOS is...”
The comments stop suddenly. She can feel everyone holding their breath.
“JadeDragon.”
Solemn agreement. Arguments are too petty for this quiet moment of loss and mourning. That will come later.
“JadeDragon, please step up. You are needed.”
A quiet moment. People are waiting. And finally, a timid reply.
“Yes?”
“It is up to you, now. Don’t let them get too out of control. Don’t let ORDER get too cocky. Make sure...”
She presses enter, trying to think of the words.
“Make sure...that the world doesn’t get too complacent. You can do this. You are the new leader of CHAOS.”
A heartbeat.
“I will fulfill my duties as needed, SapphireOwl. I will help keep the CHAOS. I will protect our innocent. I will do everything I can.”
“That is all I can ask.” Replies SapphireOwl. “It is all that you should have to do. And now, I bid you all farewell.”
They leave a flood of goodbyes in her wake.
“Goodbye, CHAOS. May you prosper.”
And she presses the button next to JadeDragon’s name, “Appoint”, and logs off of the CHAOS forum.

 

CHAOS >> The Stage >> A Sight for Sore Eyes

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JadeDragon opens the door to the kitchen, slipping into the turmoil unnoticed. She pulls a Katana from the sword rack, and holds it to GreyAndroid's throat. "Any last words?"

“Well,” he says. “I’ve always wanted to say this...”
He holds up a can of mace, spraying it in her face.
“Gotcha.” He crows, jumping over her body.

RubyWeasel grabs a bullhorn, and yells “STOP!”.

JadeDragon peeks through her lids at him.

GreyAndroid looks over from the doorway, hesitating.

BloodSquid looks over from his spot on top of the counter. He kicks BlueSheep, and then immediately denies ever doing any such thing.

BlueSheep innocently “accidently” pushes BloodSquid off the counter, turning towards RubyWeasel.

LimePhoenix looks down on the mess from his comfortable place on the ceiling. These boots are really handy.

CopperFeline stretches, wondering what’s going on. After a moment of contemplation, she asks, “What’s going on?”

LemonLabrador enters the room. “Shush.” He whispers. “I think RubyWeasel was going to say something.”

OrangePanda growls “Just say whatever you were going to goddamn say before I rip your head off. I want to get back to killing things.” She then proceeds to pick up a very large steak knife, for dramatic effect.

RubyWeasel deftly disarms OrangePanda, saying “I know we’re all happy fighting eachother, but I don’t think any of you have noticed.”

LemonLabrador sighs. “Noticed what?”

“Yeah,” Bloodsquid asks, reaching up and “accidently” making BlueSheep fall off the counter as well. “Noticed what?”

“ORDER hasn’t appointed a new leader yet.” RubyWeasel growls. “And it’s 1:30. In the morning.”

 

CHAOS >> General Address >> ORDER Has Broken Code

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CHAOS is usually on generally “good” terms with ORDER. Sure, we may hate eachother. True, we may kill members whenever given the chance, or even, really, when we’re not given the chance. It would not be wrong to say that a longstanding battle has been erupting since the two groups were created, in actuality. But previous to this instance, it has all been in good, loyal fun.

Yes, we kill and kidnap, but it’s all part of the game. It’s all part of the cat and mouse chase.

But now, ORDER is crossing the line.

As all of you will by now know, CHAOS appointed a new leader, JadeDragon, this morning. SapphireOwl retired her position as leader, and rightfully so, as it fulfills the code set out all those years ago. No adults may lead or be a part of CHAOS or ORDER.

But it is far past those minutes of anguish and remorse, and yet ORDER has not given up their leader, ThePaladin. He is still in charge, and even as we have tried to contact him, we have failed to receive any response.

Except for this helpful tidbit: “I’m not leaving. Cheers, @ssholes.”

This.

Means.

War.

 

NO MANS LAND >> Arguments >> One Last Call for Peace

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Look.

We know that you may have messed up. We know that there may have been some kind of mistake or bad judgement call. Maybe someone got drunk. Maybe they failed to realize what they were starting.

So CHAOS is generously allowing you to live.

For now.

If you don’t appoint a new leader within 24 hours, however, punches will be thrown.

Bombs detonated.

And there will be nothing stopping it from leaking into the worst frontier of all.

RL.

We would make that sacrifice. We would bring it into RL. If it comes to that, we will bring it into RL.

But here’s hoping it doesn’t.

Adults are expressly forbidden in CHAOS and ORDER. And at eighteen years old, as SapphireOwl’s twin, you, ThePaladin, are an adult. You are hereby forced by duty to appoint a new leader. And log out.

The code has been broken.

Don’t make us kill you.

Cheers,

JadeDragon.

TheArchitect snickers. “It wasn’t a mistake. We have an upper hand now.”

TheLibrarian gasps. “Seriously? Oh, jesus. ThePaladin needs to get his sorry ass up here now, or we’re going to have a problem on our hands. Not everyone wants to start an RL war, TheArchitect.”

ThePilot joins TheLibrarian in his gasping and indignation. “God-fragging-damn it, ThePaladin has crossed the line.

TheGeneral flips them off. “Ah, yer a cuple ah pansies. What’s a war? And if we ‘ave the up’er ‘and, we’ll win. What’s the effing problem?”

TheSoldier heartily agrees. “You’re all just pansies over there in CHAOS. ORDER knows how it’s done.

LemonLabrador growls at TheSoldier. “I’ll cut your head off, you stupid ORDER member. With a blunt knife. This is across the line. This is not friendly killing. This is a direct violation of the only reason we don’t beat eachother up in RL. The code is the reason there is balance.”

TheArchitect sneers “CHAOS is so predictable. “I’ll cut your head off.” “I’ll kill you.” “I hate RL.” Don’t you ever say anything different?”

TheGeneral agrees. “Seriously, what is your problem with RL?”

“What happens in RL happens.” GreyAndroid says. “What happens online can be erased. Deleted. When you get beaten in RL, you get bruises. When you get beaten in CHAOS, you get drama. When you die in RL, you’re dead. When you die in CHAOS, you get resurrected. I don’t know about you, but I much prefer not dying for real.”

TheFighter grimaces. “That’s bullcrap. You’re just being gay.”

LimePhoenix whispers, “Oh, no. Oh, no, you didn’t.” He has a horrified look on his face, and also a pitying one.

OrangePanda backs away slowly, shielding his face from the coming explosion. “Dude.” He mouthes. “You are so screwed.”

TheFighter glances around, and, seeing nothing, snaps “What the hell are you talking about?”

BloodSquid grabs TheFighter by the neck, throwing him bodily against the wall.
“Gay.” He yells. “IS. NOT. AN. INSULT!”
He is furiously throtteling TheFighter with enough force to break the bones in his neck. TheFighter’s lifeless body slumps to the ground. Everyone scatters but BlueSheep, following closely behind him with a similar expression.

“What the FRAG, man?” BlueSheep shouts. “You do not EVER say ‘gay’ and mean ‘stupid’. That’s just NOT cool, bro.”

TheArchitect guards the body of his fallen comrade, striking out against the two-man assault. “That’s one more rule of code broken, then.” He growls. “No fighting in No Man’s Land.”

“Frag the rules.” JadeDragon seethed. “This is war.”

ThePaladin smiles as he enters the room. “Yes, JadeDragon. It is.”

[chiasaur11]

Well, I might as well critique Vatsy and Bruno, even if it's been a while since I read it entirely. Can't hurt to start a critique record. Might want to ask for critiques at some point in the future.

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Well, if memory and a quick skim serve me...

It works. Little long of an intro, like you said, but, generally, I found it funny and I read the whole thing. Of course, I do like finishing thing, so me reading the entirety of something isn't exactly a huge compliment, but, you know, it is something. The little in jokes aren't obtrusive, the characters are just the right level of likable for the reader to find any misfortune to befall them entirely fair and enjoyable while not actively wishing it upon them, and the general set up is self sufficient while not precluding any future uses one might have in mind for the characters. Nicely done.

[waterpenguin43]

I have decided to divide this into Negative and Positive sections for each Critique.
Critique: Inner demons
Positive:
Assuming you continue the series, this is a very good prologue; Giving the reader a taste of the series without giving away to much. It leaves an air of mystery behind it and leaves lots of questions to be asked.
Negative:
I'm afraid it doesn't really fall into the category of "horror", the demon didn't sound all that creepy, being a porcupine-man with bird feet, and the atmosphere wasn't all that frightening either. It just seems to be trying to be scary without being too scary, and it ends up with mangled results.

Critique: CHAOS series
Positive:
I like how you focus on emotions and personalities, drawing out the positive and negative things that people do, don't do, or want to do. I also like how you seperate the members of the two groups by name. Plus: BlueSheep "accidently" shoves BloodSquid off the counter. made me laugh.
Negative:
However, your focus on the emotions and actions seems to hinder you explaining the backstory, and all this ORDER and CHAOS and logging off.

Critique: The Last Trade
Positive:
I was very relieved when I found this wasn't going to be like Eragon, and isn't ridiculously predictable. You managed to pull off the impressive trick of flipping the Antagonist to Protagonist in a single page, something I haven't seen many author's do well, you clearly give off the aura of a talented author.
Negative:
I think that you put to much emphasis on anger and not very much on fear, because someone would generally not be that calm towards the chieftain of a tribe that held him a bowpoint, even if he knew them well. You should try to be more balanced with emotions.

And now..... The Duke of Light, Chap 1, Part 1: Prologue:

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Two nervous guards stood outside the entrance to the Palace, looking for a sign of trouble. Recently, a former ally of their fair city of Libarus had cut off contact from them. The next time they heard from them was a very threatening letter, for in light yellow ink was written: Do not resist the light, for it cannot be vanquished. Bow before the Duke of Light or the destruction of your kingdom and the brutal slaughter of your civilians will bathe your kingdom like the light we are. They had remained resistant to their call, and the civilians around them were beginning to disappear. None had been found. Suddenly, a knight in gleaming white armor appeared, he was remniscent of the ancient paladins from ages lost, his eyes glowing and his handsome features intimidating them. Let me past, guards, and allow me to continue my holy mission. "I'm afraid we cannot do that" the guard on the left said, mustering his courage. At that moment, the gleaming paladin roared, he struck the left guard with his bare fist, and the guard felt the paladin's intense blow seep through his body and smash him against the palace wall, he sunk to the ground, dead. The right guard brought out his sword, and the paladin did too, the guard swiped at the paladin, but the paladin parried his blow, shattering his blade into hundreds of pieces. The paladin then smiled and brought his sword down. The paladin surveyed the two dead guards, smiling, he laughed a deep, rythmic laugh and shouted out: Are you mortals all that easy! I was hoping for a challenge!! he roared with laughter. Far away, behind a beautiful orchid display kept from the cold with magic, a woman garbed in deep purple and silver smiled grimly. She pulled back her bow and thought to herself: Look no further.

The Duke of Light, Chap 1, Part 2: The Queen of Libarus:

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While a black arrow struck a certain knight in the chest, a woman garbed in blue and silver teleported into the Queen's room, inside the queen, who was garbed in green and silver, looked very nervous at her arrival. Your majesty, they have come. We must escape the Palace!!said the mage. The Queen gasped:Now!!! What must I do!? I shall assist Mistress Ankiara with all the arcana in my power to delay that knight for as long as possible. she said, loyal to her Queen. You must get as many people and resources you can into your room, where I shall teleport them and the rest of the Silver guard to the Sapphire coast. But whatever you do, DO NOT approach that knight!! the queen then set off, and the mage, whose name is Argenta, set off to the balcony. She saw the agile Mistress Ankiara leap between the bushes with expert agility, doing flips while firing arrows. However, the knight was gaining on her, deflecting most of her arrows with his sword. Argenta gathered a marble-sized sphere of ice-cold mist in her palm, and with some arcane words, sent it flying straight into the knight, who it promptly congealed in his armor. Unfortunately, all it did was slow down the knight on his path to slice Ankiara to bits. This will be harder than I thought. She grimaced, and then she drew upon all the arcana she could muster inside her, ready to draw an avatar of the elemental forces to the battle. It would do that, she thought gravely, or would kill her.

So far the story is a rough draft, but I'll add some touches later and make the next parts soon.
Since that last story was lame, here is a signifigantly better one (in a different genre too):
Pathways, Part 1:

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A Grocery store clerk was in an especially bad mood. Today she had seen a woman with children, looking extraordinarily happy. Why didn't she have that life? she wondered. This particular gorcery store clerk, Martha Duncan was her name, had hated happy families for quite a while. When she was 4 years old, her mother and brother had been suddenly and shockingly hit by a car. Her father started drinking and abused her, and nobody had ever showed her sympathy. So why should she be nice to anyone? she scowled at the thought. She sped up in anger, suddenly, she saw a woman with blonde hair turn around the lane, and they smashed into one another. In an instant, they were both dead. Suddenly, a four year old girl woke up. What a strange dream that had been.

I might decide to continue DoL, maybe I can make it less corny. I shall see.

[Raz_Fox]

I'm back, fresh from a month of writing! So, I might as well post some critiques of other's works, so that I have more incentive to write a coherent short story! I love being me, as well as overusing exclamation marks!

Scathing Critique of Aces and Eights:

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Well, several things leaped out at me after I read A&E for the second time, the first being that in a poem, things such as correct spelling are vital. Please, make sure that your work is as polished and clean as possible - it makes a much better impression that way.

Secondly, the third verse doesn't flow very well. It might be just me, but I could hear the poem in my head until I hit the third verse, where it sputtered and died. Abandoning the rhyme scheme is something to be done with care, and I didn't care for how you did it.

HOWEVER! Overall, the poem is excellent in its western feel, and the details in the third verse - which I just criticized - make the poem work, so bravo there. All in all, I'm glad that I took the time to read it, and I hope you'll turn your hand to poetry again.

Nicer Critique of USS (Unnamed Short Story):

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There's not much I can actually critique here, but I'll do it anyway to add to my critique count give you a bit of feedback.

Your usage of imagery is vivid, and the language is beautiful. Success here. However, I can't help but wince at the placement of a few commas, and there's the feeling that some of the sentences should have been split up.

Let's Critique: This Was My Dream...

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Um. Huh. The spacing was a bit off occasionally? The narrator and writer don't seem far enough apart, voice-wise?

Okay, I really can't complain on this. You made a very nice spin on the tired cliche of "writing about not being able to write." It's not the Shadow King's manuscript, but it's still very good. I look forward to more of your writing.

...You get seven hundred nerd points if you actually got the reference to the Shadow King.

Critiqueola: The Pull

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*Starts imitating Anton Ego*

I didn't care for this piece. I could say that it didn't really feel like a story, that it seemed more like a snapshot from somebody's life, that there wasn't really the thread of a story there. However, that would make me the biggest hypocrite since Caiaphas, so let's move on.

It needs spacing. The block makes my eyes cry out in pain. Furthermore, while some of your description was indeed clever, the piece just failed to grip me. I would have just moved on to the next short story, had this thread been an anthology.

On the other hand, you can actually spell and use correct grammar, so cudos for that.

All Your Critique Belong To Us: Chapter One of RL

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I must say I greatly enjoyed reading this. My first inspection was less than promising, but you repaid the time and effort I took into reading it. Bravo.

It's humorous, it's engaging, it makes me want to read more of "RL". Though occasionally the language is a bit too salty for my pure tastes, I can't see any real problems with your spelling and grammar. Congratulations, Monsieur EmeraldPhoenix. I will return for more.

A critique of the Duke of Light will be forthcoming, as well as another short story. Now, to go find and cook a plot bunny...

[Kallisti]

Sweet! Seven hundred nerd points!

[Raz_Fox]

waterpenguin43's turn now, as well as a continuation of my Anton Ego voice. Now that my computer's looking morbid enough, let's begin.

The Duke of Light: Chapter 1, Parts 1 & 2: Colon Overdose:

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It looks like you have the beginnings of a promising idea in the Duke of Light, but your mishandling of said idea proves to be its undoing. Let's begin taking a look at where you can improve, shall we?

First, I must remind you that all literature is meant to be read, and mistreating your reader by not using proper spacing and text is not proper conduct. Your use of colors to represent dialog is flawed both because the colors are jarring and throw one out of the story - and in the case of the Duke's text, painful to the eyes - and because you forgo the proper use of quotation marks in favor of the character's dialog colors. This simply does not work.

Furthermore, the dialog is cliched and trite, and overburdened with exclamation marks. Using one every other sentence, or using two or even three, cheapens the exclamation mark considerably. One exclamation mark in a hundred words is better than ten or even a hundred in the same space. But that does not mask the fact that the characters have no individual voices, and their dialog simply does not work well.

Continuing on the subject of words, I must confess my own disliking for the "disembodied narrator." Too often - as seen here - the omniscient, personality-less narrator sucks all the life out of the tale, making it as dry and boring to read as watching paint dry. You tell, you do not show; you state flatly, rather than insinuating or suggesting. I implore you to use a less omniscient narrator, to show things from only one character's point of view, or to have the narrator only be able to see into the thoughts of one character - the primary character's own.

But these alone are not the major problem with the work. The inforgivable problem with the Duke of Light is that you are trying to pack too much into too small a space. Eyeballing it, I would say that all of the DoL that you have written is well under nine hundred words. This is not enough, if you are trying to set the scene and to show how the queen is threatened. The story as it stands now is rushed and suffers for it, giving us no time to form an intimacy with the queen or the archer who is probably her bodyguard; you tell the reader what happens and skim over reams of description that could have set the scene and made us care about what is happening.

I am afraid I have very little to say but that the basic concept may have promise, if it is polished and handled with care. Otherwise, I find the Duke of Light has little to distinguish it from your average fanfiction.

Pathways: Part 1: The Critique: Colon Cancer:

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There is very little I can say about Pathways that would not be echoing the above critique of Duke of Light; namely, that it suffers in spacing and lack of quotation marks once more, as well as wooden dialog. Furthermore, here your problems with the omniscient narrator and the rushed pace grow larger, instead of smaller.

Here, the narrator is once again telling us everything that should be shown - or told from the character's own words - and leaving nothing to the imagination. Not that we would want to go into this character's head, for this Martha Duncan comes off as both horribly flat and tritely angsty. Furthermore, we know nothing about either the blonde woman who foolishly steps out into the road or the four year old girl who has dreamed this entire scenario up.

Again, the piece comes off as agonizingly rushed. You have packed the description of a store clerk and her car crash to what looks like under two hundred words. Now, I will not offend those who believe that short is sweet, but I would personally not use anything less than half a page for the scenario you have described. Show description! Make the reader live in the moment! Engage the senses, do anything but use the rushed and boring tone taken here!

I personally detested this piece, even moreso than Duke of Light. If it were not for this critique, I would have regarded the half-minute spent reading it as wasted time. Perhaps this is the beginning of some grand epic, but I doubt that highly.

Personal Addendum: Please don't be discouraged from future writing in this thread, waterpenguin. Despite my tone, I'm not telling you to get out and stop wasting time - just a (rather scathing) critique on how you're writing at the moment.
At least you can spell, after all. I beg you to continue writing and seeking critique, for only through improvement is writing made great.

[TFT]

Alright, This thread needs a little bit of a "rebirth"...

I'll post the story I wrote for the Iron Author challenge I was just in, I guess.

Alone?

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Twilight filled the air as the man made his way through the trees. He had been at this for about ten minutes, walking around and shouting out his friends’ names. He and his friends had been on a camping trip, and all of the campers went to take a nature hike. He had somehow gotten separated from the rest of the group. However, he knew it was no big deal. He just had to follow the tracks, and eventually they would lead him back to their campsite or the campers in a few minutes.
However, what he had believed would be a short search had turned into a little longer one. He was now heading towards where he thought the campsite was, but he wasn’t sure if it was right. He checked his phone: no power. He knew he should have charged it this morning. It didn’t matter now, though, he could deal with that later. He needed to find his way back to the others, and he was a little nervous.
He was proud of the way he was handling this, however. Most people would be scared senseless by now; being lost would be too much for them. His thoughts were focused, however. He knew these woods pretty well, and he could remember some of the landmarks. He had to find just one of those, and he would know where he was going. Nothing for him to worry about, he would soon be back with his friends.
The man walked on, almost wandering, through the forest. The twilight was slowly fading away into the night. He had given up on yelling out his friends names long ago. The man intently stared at his watch, due to the lack of light; it was 7 o’clock. His flashlight was becoming the only source of light left. “It’s ok, I’ll get back eventually,” he thought. “Even if I do get stuck out here overnight, I know my way around nature. I’ll be fi-“
The man’s self-encouraging thoughts stopped dead in their tracks, replaced with more fearful ones. There was just some movement in those bushes over there, he knew it. “It must’ve been something decent sized, maybe a deer,” he thought. “…Yea, but only a deer, it was nothing to be worried about. It probably wasn’t anything big or dangerous. Hey, there might not even have been a noise at all. I probably just imagined it.”
However, the man soon found his thoughts had drifted to the rumors he had heard. Something was killing campers out in these woods, and no one knew what. Some said it was probably just bears, others said it was just outlaws on the run. Most people, however, believed it was something of a more mythical nature. If he remembered right, people thought it was a vampire or a werewolf. He chuckled, the very thought was silly.
As if the forest heard, there was another rustling in the bushes. The man quickly twisted his flashlight towards the bush: Nothing. Absolutely nothing was there… but didn’t he hear something? Nothing could have gotten out of the way of the light, nothing natural at least…
No, there wasn’t anything there. He was just imagining things. He really was all alone, he knew that. Animals would be sleeping or scared away from the light, and he didn’t smell like food or have any food on him. Still there was that nagging feeling…
He hated it. It was silly, nothing supernatural was here. There were no werewolves, no vampires, probably not even a bear! He and his friends joked about these woods’ reputation all the time; whenever there was another “eyewitness account”, they would all laugh. They were even out here because of a bet. 50 dollars. A bet he wasn’t sure he would be able to collect on.
The man stopped walking for a second. This was just crazy; he was letting himself get too riled up. It was nothing. He was alone. He knew it well enough that he said it aloud. “I am alone.” He waited a second. The only reply was perfect silence. The look on his face must be smug, he knew. He just had to find the campsite, and get those silly thoughts of out his head. He knew he was probably close. He continued walking.
His actions betrayed his thoughts. Within a few minutes, his head looked like it was on a swivel, constantly turning from side to side, occasionally completely around. His walk had turned into what a person could call a fast walk, though it was quickly edging on a jog. Occasionally he would mutter something like “I am alone… Nothing’s here”, as if by saying that phrase he might believe it. The bushes were moving more, and a light breeze had picked up. He knew some of those movements weren’t the wind.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw… something at the edge of the flashlight’s light. He didn’t know what. It was too far off in the distance, but he knew he saw it. It obviously wasn’t a branch. It was something… something was there. Before he knew it, his legs were turned the other way. He was now at a very quick jog. His flashlight was still pointed behind him.
He kept the running up for a few minutes, still hearing the rustling of the leaves in the bushes. Fear had taken over any semblance of thought. The only thing on his mind was how nothing was there. The stories weren’t true. He darted through trees, ducked under branches. He soon began to feel the whole forest was after him.
After what seemed to be a forever, he slowed down a little bit. He had been able to calm himself down to the point of thought. He looked around. The wind had faded, and he couldn’t hear anything from the bushes. Not only that, but in the distance he could see. He slowly gained his bearings. “Ha, I knew that there wasn’t anything. Yep, nothing to be scared of.” He had stopped walking. Now that he knew where he was going, he decided to just sit down for a few minutes. The adrenaline had left him, leaving him tired. “Yep, I knew it. I was all alone,” he said.
That was when the shadow came out of the bushes.

It doesn't feel like it is my best work, and I do realize the repetativeness of sentence beginnings, before you point that out. I couldn't bear to edit it from the submitted form until after the round has been decided.

[Comet]

Alone? by The Fiery Tower- my thoughts

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First, spacing, formating and all that jazz. Please. It's such a chore to read walls of text without any blanks in between.

Other than that, I liked it well enough. The story is extremely basic and even predictable, but it's written well enough so that it didn't feel like a waste of time.

Personally, I would've identified the protagonist with a name rather than use 'man'. Would feel more natural, I think.

There were some cases where you could have handled the presentation of the man's thoughts a bit better. Having these long-winded inner monologues about whatever's going on seemed to slow down the story and make the text a bit clunky.

The text could also use some minor polishing in other areas. There's some repetition in your wordings, as you seem to have noticed yourself. Some typos, too. Nothing too bad.

All in all, a fun, fast and easy read, if a little basic as a story and unpolished.

Oh, and this also serves as yet anothe bump. Man, I really gotta get around to writing something myself so I can actually contribute to the thread in a proper manner.

[Jimorian]

Yikes. Finally got around to updating the roster, sorry!

Great job, though, everybody, keeping things flowing, particularly during these holiday and school busy times. I think after the first of the year, things should be more steady.

Let me know if you find any miscalculations or bad links in the roster. I edited them in one post at a time to help me keep things straight, but I might have goofed somewhere along the line.

If you owe critiques, take a particular look at any stories that still need some love. Overall, though, a very nice ratio going on, good job!

[Arakune]

Do you guys offer general advice for ideas and concept? If it's workable, it's boring, or just demands a good amount of skill and practice in order to pretend it works?

[Jimorian]

Do you guys offer general advice for ideas and concept? If it's workable, it's boring, or just demands a good amount of skill and practice in order to pretend it works?

If the idea speaks to you, go for it. There's no telling if a concept is going to work or not until the whole thing is on paper and all the pieces are there to either work together or not.

I know I've posted this around here before, but it's worth repeating. From Lawrence Watt-Evans' web page:

Watt-Evans' Law of Literary Creation: There is no idea so stupid or hackneyed that a sufficiently-talented writer can't get a good story out of it.

Feist's Corollary: There is no idea so brilliant or original that a sufficiently-untalented writer can't screw it up. (Raymond Feist came up with this one in response to my ''Law of Literary Creation.'')

The way I see it, if you don't have a passion for the story you're working on, you won't bring your full effort to make it the best story possible. I don't care if you're trying to reinvent an entire literary genre or if it's Twilight fanfiction, don't let other peoples' preconceptions stop you. I'm even dubious about getting general input during early stages to get things "right".

It's your story, tell it the way you want to hear it first, then if you need to adjust things in rewrite later, either from others' opinions or your own, then at least you know specifically what needs fixing rather than chasing your tail in circles over vague thoughts without concrete words on paper.

[truemane]

Jimor is a smart cat and very knowledgable about the art and science of the Craft. Listen to everything he says.

And by way of addition to the above, Stephen King has said that his ideas always get laughs when he tells them to people, regardless of how they wind up turning out.

[Arakune]

Well, the concept isn't the problem.

General concept

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Protagonist is mostly a loser on physical feats, and only average at study. Have an above average common sense, is kind and generaly a nice guy but he is a little coward. He them discovers that he is from a very powerful bloodlines of werewolves that hunt down other supernatural aberrations that went rogue in order to protect hummanity. Diferently from the others, he don't need to be a monster, and the creatures he hunt down choose to do horrendous acts.

The problem comes with the twist. I can't figure out how to work out without it being too obvious for the audience.

Twist

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He wasn't a hero or protector of humanity. He is, and always have been, a monster. He never was any bit different from the other monsters, he had been commiting all of those horrible acts too but didn't noticed, or pretended to not notice as he thinks later since the signs in retrospect where too obvious. His clan also never hunt down supernatural aberrations to protect something, it was just a plan to gain more power and influence.

[Jimorian]

The problem with twist endings is that there are always some people who are going to guess it no matter how well you disguise it, and if you make it too tricky, the rest of the readers are going to feel you pulled a fast one on them. I find that it's really easy to be too subtle and leave your readers scratching their heads trying to keep up.

I think the best way to handle it is to keep the reveal suspenseful for the characters, particularly your POV character(s), so that while some readers may guess what's going to happen, they still will care about how the people in the story will react to it. If your clues are internally consistent, and if the characters could realistically miss the overall truth without having to act like idiots, then you'll end up with a satisfying ending whether the reader has guessed or not.

Time for some critiques!

"Child of the Dragon" by Deckmaster

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That's a beginning with a lot of potential. A lot of nice details around the characters and background of the kingdom, and I really do want to see how Alexia is going to fare in exile.

I'm not a fan of the prologue, however, as more of a general objection than anything specific. The goal seems to be to hint at a "bigger" story to come, but in most cases it's not necessary, particularly when you have a "smaller" opening that pulls the reader in like this. Just use the story of the characters you have to reveal the bigger picture over time, and I think it will help grow that larger story more organically while keeping the focus on how it affects them.

The only other thing I can think of was that there were spots that I felt could use a bit more detail, particularly from Alexia's point of view. Not like describing the whole trial for example, but perhaps zooming in on one or two particular points where we see the way the nobles behave that cements your description of them and their position and attitudes in the city. Just touches of description and internal thoughts that paint a more complete picture.

Overall, though, getting her out the city gate and into the unknown by the end of this first chapter works really well. Good job!

[Kallisti]

Couple general questions, and a critique now with more possibly to follow.

Jimor, does the roster list total critiques made, or total critiques including the cost to post a story? In other words, could I post a new story once I finish it, or do I still owe the Playground two critiques?

Also, does anyone know a few other good places to get in-depth help with a story? As I said, I've never really been satisfied with Mask Masque, but can't bear to scrap it.

And, finally,

Critique of Alone? by The Fiery Tower

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Hmmm...not so sure about this one.

You're a pretty decent writer, although as you yourself noticed it gets a bit repetitive.

It was pretty wall-of-text, but I write all my stories in Word and then copy-paste then here, which always destroys all my beautiful formatting. Seriously, Mask Masque did actually have format. In Word. So if that's all that happened you're fine.

The story's pretty classic, and rather predictable. Guy out in the woods scoffs at the rumors that turn out to be true. The fact that you described it only as a shadow was a nice touch, though, because it leaves the possibility that it was a wolf or bear or something and that the man was right about there being nothing supernatural, just unlucky.

I'd have given him a name, though. It usually helps, and "Mr. Name was..." is just as good/bad/average an opening as "A person was..."

All in all, not bad. Pretty good writing, average story.

[Jimorian]

The roster lists total critiques without any adjustment for stories posted. I just updated for your critique here, so you owe one more to get even, then need to do 3 more to be able to post your next story. I may add a color code to the critique number later on, red to show being behind, green to show eligibility for posting a story.

There's the critters workshop listed in post #3 under resources, plus as more people join this thread, you might find somebody who'd be willing to work with your story off board. Definitely don't abandon it, I'm always discovering new insights and techniques that I can use on older stories to make them better.

[Falgorn]

I found this interesting. Please don't burn me at the stake.

My Critique of Alone? by TheFieryTower

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From this story, you seem like a pretty good writer. For one suggestion, could I recommend more formatting? It seemed like a wall of text.

Seondly, I think naming the protagonist would give the reader more of a feel and connection to him. It's like on the news when someone dies, but you don't know them. Sure, it's sad, but not as bad as it would be if your friend or relative had died.

On the positive side, however, you leave us with a suspenseful ending, allowing the reader's mind to flow with what you've given it. I very much like it.

Also, having a person delve slowly into fear and madness from something they had joked about earlier is always interesting to read.
Nice Job!

Please don't hurt me...

[Kallisti]

...why would we hurt you for liking a story?

Anyway, I have some time so

Critique of RL (Chapter 1) by Emerald Phoenix

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Interesting.

I want to read the rest, which is about the highest compliment any reader can pay a first chapter.

The CHAOS forum really reminds me of AMEN here on the GITP website, with all the random killing and self-narration.

Which just makes the fact that they're willing to take this war to real life, apparently at full intensity, hit harder.

The "character colors" worked very well, although I'd have stayed away from yellow. The character fonts for ORDER are a little obnoxious, though. It's a good way to make each character's dialogue recognizable, and it sets them apart from CHAOS, and it's how that kind of forum really does work, so I guess it's not really your fault.

All in all, my only real criticism is that the story might benefit from just a little bit more setup. You could take a bit more time with it.


Just one thing, though--this was intended as a sort of wry humor, right? I read it in that vein and loved it, but if it was intended to be serious it...didn't read that way.

[Falgorn]

Hurt me for joining the workshop.
I...have paranoia problems.
Maybe I should see a doctor...

My critique of Chapter One of RL by EmeraldPhoenix

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Where to begin...
For starters, I think I should say that I'm looking forward to the next few chapters. That was interesting and fun to read. Nice work.

Secondly, you make good use of the many fonts and colors on the forums. The evils, Chaos, are all colored animals, while the goodies, ORDER, are different fonted professions.

I'm trying to find something wrong, something that I won't be happy with, but I can't. It's just a good story. Also, portraying the evil people as the ones that actually follow the rules is fun.

I can't wait for chapter two. Keep up the good work!

[Tequila Sunrise]

It's been a few months, and I'm finally ready to cash in on my critiques! My first addition to the thread was Onami's Greeting, which people seemed to like, so I'm adding Onami's Legend.

Onami's Greeting: Reposted for completeness. (Please focus on Onami's Legend for critiques.)

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There was once a great warrior, and his name was Onami.
Onami told his countrymen:

“Hands tell what is held in the heart.
You were welcomed into this world by your mother’s hands,
and fed by her hands until you could feed yourself.”

“The gods are immortal; perfect and capable of anything.”

“You were provided for by your father’s hands,
and greeted by his hands when you became a man.

“But we have one thing which the greatest gods lack: our mortality.”

“Our enemies will not show you their hands,
for they will be grasping the sword that will kill you.”

“Despite our mortality, we can accomplish great deeds,
and that makes us greater than the Gods.”

Onami’s first and last words to his countrymen were the same:
“Those who wish to follow me to greatness, I welcome with my hands.”

Onami's Legend: Fantasy Poetry

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There was once a great warrior, and his name was Onami.

It was said that Onami could not be defeated in battle.

Each night before he battled, Onami dreamt of Death,
Who wielded a sword of flame and ice.
Each night Death kept silence while his sword sang with the voice of the Celestial Court.

It was said that Onami had tricked Death in a bargain,
and that Death had become Onami’s familiar.

Each night before he battled Onami spoke to Death:
‘Why do you not join your sword in song?’

Each day afterward, Onami would tell his enemies before he slew them:
‘Death will not sing’.
After many years of countless victories, it was said of Onami that he was immortal.

One night, Onami spoke to Death’s sword:
‘Your voice is as blessed as your master is cursed’.

The following day, the first enemy that he faced slew Onami with a single stroke.

[Lioness]

Critique of Onami's Greeting, by Tequila Sunrise

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There was once a great warrior, and his name was Onami.
Onami told his countrymen:

“Hands tell what is held in the heart.
You were welcomed into this world by your mother’s hands,
and fed by her hands until you could feed yourself.”

'Hands tell what is held in the heart.'

This sounds a little cluttered, and is slightly hard to read. Perhaps 'What is held in the heart is told by the hands'

'...by your mother's hands, and fed by her hands until you could feed yourself.'

The repetition of hands sounds a bit odd.
'And fed by those same hands until you could feed yourself.' sounds better, IMO. The repetition is still there, but there's less 'e's everywhere.

“The gods are immortal, perfect and capable of anything.”

Comma seems a little wrong there. Perhaps a colon?

Unless you were going for 'The Gods are immortal, perfect, and capable of anything.'
Which reads rather differently to 'The Gods are immortal: perfect and capable of everything'

“You were provided for by your father’s hands,
and greeted by his hands when you became a man.

Same repetition thing.

“But we have one thing which the greatest gods lack: our mortality.”

Not the which. Bad which. Either omit it altogether or change it to a 'that'.

(sorry, pet peeve. And my boyfriend refuses to listen to it either, so it gets bottled up)

“Our enemies will not show you their hands,
for they will be grasping the sword that will kill you.”

First part is fine, but the 'you' is not necessarily needed.
Second bit - is it the enemies or their hands grasping the sword?

“We can live and accomplish great deeds despite our mortality,
and that makes us greater than the Gods.”

If it were me, I'd put the 'despite our mortality,' at the start. But then again, I always get told off for that. Apparently I'm in love with starting paragraphs/sentences like that, and it gets annoying. Personal taste.

Onami’s first and last words to his countrymen were the same:
“Those who wish to follow me to greatness, I welcome with my hands.”

The same as what? I see that you mean identical, but that doesn't really fit.
Perhaps, 'Onami's words to his countrymen were the same, both first and last: "..."

Actually, scrap that. I'll leave it there as an idea, but I don't think it improves the sentence any.

____

Overall, I'm not quite sure how the Gods thing fits in with the hands. Is it the greatness thing? If so, it doesn't really come through, and the interjections referring to the Gods sound a bit random.

I really like your style. It flows for the most part, and is suitable rhetoric. The English nerd in me can't wait to analyse each little analogy and nuance, but I won't, because I'm too tired
I look forward to critiquing other stuff of yours. I'll leave the poetry be, because I'm not good with that, but from a casual glance, it sounds good.

Also, sorry if I'm a bit harsh. I don't mean to be.

[Helanna]

I haven't had the time to visit this thread for a while, and I'm glad it's still up!

I haven't read most of the new stories yet, but I'll try to do that later. Meanwhile I'll burn off some of my critiques and post my own story. Note: It's a bit long, so be prepared.

An Important Note: This is a scene from a longer story I'm working on. The italics represent a memory that is interspersed with the main scene. In the story, it would have been told in the beginning, possibly making up the prologue, and so this scene wouldn't have been so . . . blatant. Either way, I'm interested to see the reaction to it, so . . .

The Palace (Yes, I suck at titles.)

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A girl.

A woman.

Perhaps four or five years old, she stood defiant, yet sulky amidst the flowers of a well-tended garden. Her sky-blue dress flapped gently in the slight breeze. It was of a simple cut, but it had been well cared for – it was the best she owned.

Her bloodstained dress flapped wildly about her as she ran. The grand hallways of the palace, once so familiar to her, now seemed strange and unknown, and she was blind to the beauty that she had once treasured.

“How could you have done that?” a voice asked plaintively. “You knew that was wrong!”
The girl looked at the ground. The flowers that had sparkled so many colors in the sunlight only that morning now appeared faded and worn under the overcast sky.

The woman threw open a door, her eyes darting over the room. She ran suddenly to one of the bodies lying face-down on the floor and for the first time, hesitated. With one sudden movement, she turned the body over.
She took a moment to breathe a quiet sigh of relief before running out the door once more. She barely thought about the other corpses in the room; she had long since stopped being squeamish.

“Well?” The voice asked.
The girl sighed and looked at her mother, tossing long brown hair over her shoulders as she did so. “He was bothering me,” she explained. “He ruined my town.”
“That’s no reason to attack him!”
“But I worked for a long time on my town,” the girl said. She could still see the wreckage of all the carefully placed stones that had formed her village. “I worked really hard on it, and he ruined it! And all I did was push him.”
“He dislocated his shoulder, and you’re lucky it wasn’t worse!”
The girl shrugged, glaring at the ground. Her mother waited impatiently, but no answer was forthcoming.

The woman’s search grew even more frantic as it went on. As she entered each room, she spared it only a glance before moving on. She paused only to turn over any body that was facing away from her, but she abandoned every one a moment later.

“I’ve already spoken to his mother,” her mother said at last. “And aren’t you lucky that she’s so understanding! But she’s going to bring him around once he calms down, and you will say you’re sorry.”
“What is sorry?” the girl asked.
“Sorry is when you say you feel bad for something you’ve done,” her mother said.
“But I’m not sorry,” the girl declared. “I’m never going to be sorry! For anything! I’ll do whatever I want and never feel sorry about it!”

One time, the woman turned down a corridor only to hear the sounds of a battle still raging. She stopped suddenly; she had thought all of the fighting had ceased. Finally, as the sounds grew closer, she turned and fled, forced to find a detour.

Her mother snorted. “Good luck with that. But you will apologize. What you did was wrong.”
“So? I’m still not sorry.
“You know what? You don’t even have to say that. Just say that you apologize for your actions and that you won’t let it happen again.”
The girl considered this. “Alright,” she said. “I won’t push him again, even if he is mean. And I’ll apologize, but I won’t say I’m sorry!”
“Thank you,” the mother said, rolling her eyes. She disappeared into the small house, leaving a little girl standing alone in the garden, reflecting on regret.
“That’s stupid,” she said aloud. Around her, the leaves of the trees rustled in agreement. “If you’re going to feel sorry for something, you shouldn’t do it.” It was the adults, she thought, that always made everything so complicated. “I’m never going to say I’m sorry.”

The woman approached the end of her search. She halted outside the last door. She had not found him yet. This was the last room. Though she tried to suppress it, she felt hope rise. If she had not found him so far, perhaps he had made it out in time. Please, she prayed, please, please . . .

She never did. She apologized for transgressions, countless times, but refused to express regret. “I don’t regret it,” she said. “It was a mistake, but I don’t regret having made it.” Some thought her foolish, others just thought her stubborn. She didn’t care. “I learn from mistakes, and anything I can learn from is an advantage,” she said. “Why feel sorry about an advantage?” Some even thought her enlightened.

She entered the room and halted.
Slowly, she crossed the room. The light from a hundred torches illuminated the grandeur of the room, but it was lost on her. The light shone across her white skin, as if mocking the loss of her tattoos.
She dropped to her knees on the once-white carpet, ignoring the blood further staining her dress.
He didn’t look peaceful at all. He looked frightened, lonely, in pain. Because of her.
Her fault.
“Tand,” she said quietly. She reached out, looking for any sign of life, but she needn’t have. He had more wounds than she could count, and the blood stretched out across the carpet.
“Tand,” she said again. “I – I –“
For an instant, she instinctively stifled the urge to cry, as she had been used to doing at the Academy. Then, her guard cracked, and the first tears began falling.
“My fault,” she whispered.
She had promised him. She’d told him she could undo her actions, that he would be safe. Her fault.
She could feel the accusation. I knew you weren’t trustworthy, he seemed to say. I knew you would run.
“Tand,” she said. “I . . . I didn’t . . . I tried, I did! They didn’t listen, they wouldn’t, I tried, I did everything . . .”
I trusted you, for once. I finally trusted you, and you killed me.
“Oh gods,” she said softly. “I never meant . . . You never should have trusted me. It’s all my fault. Tand, I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry . . .”
Slowly, she stood. For a moment, she stood over the body, and she felt the overwhelming urge to simply lie down and wait for them to come. She was weak now, powerless. She may as well give up.
For one long moment, she stood, torn. Suddenly, she ran.
She flew, faster than ever before, running recklessly down the hall. Two turns, and she was free, running through the extensive gardens of the palace, and then she was free of them as well, running through the city.
Ignoring the strange looks of the passerby, she ran, not knowing where she was going, not caring. She seemed incapable of thought, and the only thing she could think was a simple mantra.
It’s my fault, Tand, all my fault, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry . . .

[Tequila Sunrise]

Critique of Death Dragon's The Palace

Overall I like this, but I think that even interspersed throught a larger story, I'd see the "I'm sorry" coming. You emphasize it so much during the girlhood lead-ups, and then spend quite a few sentences on the scene where she finally says it, I think it's a bit too obvious. I think if it wasn't emphasized as much, and if the final scene were much shorter, her "I'm sorry" would be much more unexpected and powerful.

(It could be that the larger story provides tension to the "I'm sorry"; does she have a particular reason to not feel sorry for this guy's death, other than her general stubborness?)

[Alarra]

Critique of Death Dragon's The Palace

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I like this. I like the juxtaposition of the past and the present and how it really helps illuminate her personality. I like how fully you've managed to make us understand her in such a short piece. I think that you should keep it the way it is, I like the impact that the memory interspersed with the scene gives and I think something would be lost if you made that the prologue. I'm very interested to read the rest.

Critique of The Fiery Tower's Alone

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I don't really care for this piece. There are parts that are good, it's immediate and you can feel his emotion and fear toward the end, but it just doesn't feel realistic. If people are actually dying out there, he wouldn't feel so nonchalant, he certainly wouldn't sit down and relax unless he made it back to his friends. The writing seemed rather choppy and you used 'however' way too frequently, especially at the beginning. The thoughts and the way the speaker sounded, sounded very adolescent, rather than like a man as I believe you intended. I also didn't feel that you built it up enough to make us care whether this man got attacked or not, and it was clear from the first sentence that he was going to. I'm sorry if this seems harsh. I think you're a good writer, this just isn't one of your best.

Critique of Thurge Namor's A Selection From Forever Dead

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Thank you for including the background information. I had a much better idea of what was going on because of it. Yes, you're right, it needs editing, well, not really all that much editing, but rather a good spell-checking, it was distracting. The story and writing, however, is solid. Not my type of story, generally, but I really liked it. You set the scene well, and your descriptions, especially of the initial battle were vivid and really good. I loved the contrast presented between the gray and the over-emphasized color and the reactions and thoughts affected by the poisoned dart seemed very reasonable. I really enjoyed the vision with his father/Logain. I look forward to reading more of it, if you let us.

Okay, well there's 3 critiques so I can post something now, right? This is rather long, I'm sorry. It's a story that I'm hoping to submit to an anthology called 'The Way of the Wizard', basic summary of the guidelines: under 5k, has to be about some sort of magic user, magic should be important to the plot resolution, and they're especially interested in stories that explore wizardry from a non-traditional viewpoint. If anyone else is interested in submitting, go here.

Heartstone:
genre - fantasy, 3988 words

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I sat on the edge of the bed, holding the small brown speckled stone in my hand. I turned it several times before allowing my thumb to slip into the groove that ran the length of the underside. What had been a nearly perfect sphere now sported a deep indention born from countless hours of worried rubbing. I could remember clearly the day I found this rock. I had almost walked past it, half buried beneath the gravel that edged the road. It was lucky that the steel wheels of passing carts had pushed it to the edge, rather than crushing it beneath their weight.

Shala turned back when I stopped, watching me with her hands on her hips. She gave a long exasperated sigh when I remained still after I straightened. I pretended to ignore her while I analyzed the pattern on the stone, though I fear the faint smile on my lips gave me away. “What do you do with all those rocks anyway?” I couldn’t see her rolling her eyes, but could hear it in her voice.

“Collect them.” I pocketed the stone and jogged up to where she was standing. I knew she was looking for more of an answer than that, but I got a strange satisfaction from bugging her.

She turned her head with a small “hmmf” and we walked next to one another in silence for a time. I stole glances up at her as we went. She was older than me, by seven days - a fact that she tried to hold over me whenever possible, and tall for our age. I, contrastingly, was the shortest boy in our class, so was used to looking up at most everyone. She had very expressive features and I could watch her thoughts and emotions playing out across her face as we walked. She was trying very hard not to show interest in my hobby. I could tell that the rocks intrigued her, confused her, and she hated that there was something she might not understand. I could see her trying to come up with a way to get me to say more about them without breaking her aloof demeanor. The smile that this pulled from me earned a swift glare and I returned my eyes to searching the stones we tread upon.

The beat of our shoes on the gravel had nearly lulled me to sleep, so when she did finally talk, I jumped almost a foot. It was the type of reaction that would normally have caused her to laugh and tease me the rest of the way into town. When she instead continued to look down and finished her question, I could feel that something was different between us. “What do you think that stone will do?”

At twelve years old, I had had no idea what the rocks were for. It would be several more years before I managed to use one, and even longer before I truly understood them. All I had known then was that they were important and that I was compelled to bring them home until they filled every container and dotted every surface in my room. Realizing that this was not an answer likely to impress her, I brought the rock back out of my pocket, turning it in my hand with the intent of making up something more exciting. “It’s strong.” I held the stone tightly and could almost feel the pulse of a heartbeat beneath its surface. “Maybe the most powerful stone I’ve found.” I avoided looking at her while I talked, sure that she would read the lies in my eyes. “I think it might mean the difference between life and death.”

I turned the stone in my hands again now. I would never have dreamed that what I was saying then was truth, but now, thirteen years later, I knew I had been right.

I walked across the room to a basket on a table. Dozens of stones filled it, most sporting cracks that looked near to pulling them in half. I removed a small blue one. It was perfectly round and unscratched. When I clasped it in my fist, I could feel a pulsing energy beneath it. I imagined it as a light that was trying to break free, but was too small and weak to penetrate the thick stone. The shape helped to hold it inside as well, I had found. The closer to spherical the stones were, the less likely they were to crack.

As I held the rock, I could recall with perfect clarity not only the day I had found it - it had been submerged in the stream, but also the day that I used it. It was that memory that I focused on. It was the first stone I had ever used, and even as I handed it away, I’d felt unsure and ridiculous. Sid had certainly thought I was crazy.

“I don’t want to. He’s mean and doesn’t deserve it.” I stopped, burying my hands in my pockets. It was true. Sid and I were the same age and had never gotten along. He was strong, large and confident – and never let me forget that I was not. What I was, was strange, with my rocks and perceptiveness. When we were in primary school, he would get a kick out of stealing them to pelt me with later.

Shala had turned back to where I was standing. I kept my eyes trained on the ground because I didn’t want her to see the real reason I didn’t want to give him the stone. Yes, he was mean, but more importantly, he was going to laugh at me, and would likely throw the rock back at my head. She stopped and though I didn’t look up, I could feel her looking disapprovingly down at me. I waited for her to berate me, to try to talk me into continuing on. And waited, the silence becoming thick and heavy around us. “He’s not really that hurt anyway.” I sputtered when I couldn’t handle it anymore.

“Tell me about this stone again.” Her voice was firm, but quiet.

I pulled the blue sphere out of my pocket and sighed. “I found it almost a month ago. Yesterday, I was sifting through a pile on my desk and it was hot enough that it almost burned my hand. When I picked it up I could…I don’t know, see or feel, I guess, Sid, and a sharp pain in my knee and shin and I knew he needed this stone.” My voice grew quieter as I reached the end of the story and knew that I didn’t really have a choice.

“And has this ever happened before?”

“No.”

“You know…” I stopped her before she could tell me again how important this could be to him; that it was harvest time and his father and grandfather couldn’t take care of their land alone. And that since the collecting was such a compulsion of mine, who was to say what would happen if I ignored what the stones were telling me to do.

“I know. I’m going to give it to him.” I started to walk forward again, although more slowly than before.

She placed a hand on my back. “I know you’re worried about him teasing you and not taking it.” I didn’t answer her, didn’t want to admit that I was afraid of him and couldn’t stand up for myself. Shala had been my best friend for years and, of course, had seen all of this for herself, but admitting it out loud meant we would have to talk about it. She was never teased or bullied, could probably take most of the boys that picked on me, if I stopped to think about it. I tried not to. Weird and shy that I was, I was still the guy here, and I could just imagine how much worse it would be for me if I had a girl fighting my battles. She had offered before though.

“Let’s just go.” I shrugged her hand off and picked up my pace.

Sid’s mother ushered us back to his room when we arrived, prattling on about how good it would be for him to have friends around to take his mind off of things. Shala entered in front of me and I could see Sid break into a smile at the sight of her. For the first time, it crossed my mind that maybe he was so mean to me not because I was small and quiet, but because he liked Shala. I’m ashamed now to say that the idea made me feel even less inclined to help him.

When he spotted me, he literally growled. “Come to gloat?” he sneered. “Here to dance around me and rub it in that I can’t chase after you?”

I opened my mouth to retort, though nothing witty came to mind and I just stared at him looking like a fish. “Knock it off, Sid.” Shala smacked him lightly on the back of the head.

“Well, I see Shala here still wears the pants in your little couple.” He laughed and shifted his leg, causing him to bite off his mirth in a hiss of pain.

“Screw it. Let’s just go, Shal.” I turned toward the door.

“Hey!” He grunted in more pain. “What are you…”

I turned back to see Shala standing next to the bed, her hand pressing his knee into the straw. “Hurts, doesn’t it?”

“Shal…” I put my hand up to stop her. Yeah, he was being a jerk, but his complexion had gone ashen.

She ignored me. “We can help, make it stop…well, Kendrick can. If you’re nice to him.” She pulled her hand away and watched, arms folded as Sid lay weakly against the bed frame, trying to regain his breath and composure.

I pulled the stone out of my pocket. “I think this will take away your pain.”

“You…think? One of your stupid rocks?” He started to laugh, but a quick glare from Shala stopped him short. “Fine, whatever…give me the damn rock.”

I handed it to him and watched him turn it over in his hand. “This is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. It’s a rock.” He tossed it from one hand to the other. “And it’s not doing a damned thing.” He tossed it toward me without much conviction so that it rolled slowly to a stop at my feet.

I picked it up, confused now. I was sure that the stone would heal him. Maybe I had to do it? “Roll up your pant leg.”

“I’m telling you, it’s just a rock!”

“Roll it up!” Shala knocked him on the back of the head with her knuckles. I couldn’t suppress the giggle that bubbled from me as I watched him cow to her.

“Sure, this is all a joke to you. I really am hurt you know.” Sid crossed his arms and pouted.

“I know you are.” I smiled, less intimidated by him now. “So roll up your pants.”

He grumbled a bit more, but did what I asked. As I stood over him, I could see that he still thought I was crazy and I could see him making plans to tell everyone at school what a cracked pot I was. I pushed that thought out of my mind and held the rock against his knee. It immediately started to heat and I could feel a pulse beneath my palm. I rolled it down his leg to the ankle.

“Hey…that’s pretty hot there,” he winced a bit. I could feel it nearly burning the palm of my hand, but didn’t respond to him, rolling it back to where I started. “I don’t know what you’re doing but it’s making it hurt worse.” I slowed my rolling then, uncertain that I was doing the right thing.

“Oh, stop being a baby,” Shala said.

I rolled it up and down his leg two more times before the stone cooled. I could still feel the pulse beneath the surface when I pulled it off of his leg, but it was no longer burning me. Sid was staring at me, his face awash in confusion and wonder, “It’s gone.” I nodded. I had felt the injury being pulled out of him. “I….Thank you.” He brushed a tear out of his eye. “I’m sorry I…”

“Don’t be.” I stopped him. “Shala?” I gestured to her and turned to head out the door. I returned the stone to my pocket, flipping at over and over with agitated fingers as we said our goodbyes to his family and went outside.

We were barely out of earshot when Shala grabbed my arm and started bouncing excitedly next to me. “It worked! It really worked! You healed him!” I gave a sheepish nod. “How are you not more excited about this!? You….you’re amazing! A miracle worker!”

“It was a sprained knee, Shal, not really miracle worthy.”

“But next time…next time maybe it’ll be, oh…I dunno…a broken back.”

“I guess.” I kicked at the gravel as we walked. Shala eventually managed to convince herself that I was as excited about this as she was and kept up her monologue about all the good I would do all the way to her front gate. When I left her there, I turned away from my house, finding a large boulder at the edge of the woods to sit on and process all of this. No, I wasn’t as excited as she was. I was downright terrified. What on earth had I gotten myself into?

The next ailment that I cured was not a broken back, but rather my mother’s migraine. She was impressed, but I never found it especially noteworthy.

It was the third stone I used that healed a broken back. My hand instinctively found that stone in the basket when I thought about it. This stone was slightly larger, a dark, reddish brown and had a deep fissure running the length of it. The edges were jagged, pushing up away from each other.

Saril, the town seamstress and one of my mother’s best friends, had slipped while carrying a large basket of fabric down her stairs. With her arms through the basket’s handles, she was unable to break her fall and landed hard on the sharp, wooden stairs. Doc Railey had her in her bed and was spending all day by her side, but he wasn’t optimistic that she would pull through. She had been alive, but in terrible pain and he said that she would certainly never walk again.

“It’s a sign.” Shala paced my room. “A broken back, just like I said. You’re sure none of the rocks have talked to you? Heated up? Anything?”

“I’m sure.” I shook my head at her, wanting her to drop this idea. A migraine was one thing…a broken back though. Surely whatever little trick I was doing with my stones wasn’t that powerful.

“You’ve checked every pile? Every glass? None of them are hot?”

I hadn’t checked every glass, had really only done a rudimentary sifting of the piles on the desk. I was terrified that one of them would be hot, that I would be asked to fix something so big.

She could see in my face that I hadn’t and immediately started gathering jars and glasses and dumping the contents on my bed. “Start looking.”

I knew by now that arguing with her was a futile exercise, so began to sift through the stones. It was after she dumped the contents of a large ceramic mug onto my hand that I found the stone. It wasn’t hot this time, but chillingly cold. Rather than pulsing under my hand, I could feel a deep well within it, a void waiting to suck life into it.

She noticed me staring at the rock. “You found it? Let’s go, we have to save her.”

“Shala…I’m not…. I don’t know if I should. It’s too much, isn’t it? Like playing a god?”

“You have a gift, Ken. A gift that I’m not about to sit by and see you squander. She’s a wonderful, kind, woman. If you can save her….shouldn’t you try?”

I couldn’t argue with her.

The doctor was reluctant to let us near his patient. I didn’t really blame him, she was very fragile and pale. Shala, however, has always been a force of nature, and people did what she wanted them to. I could see that he had misgivings, but he let us see her. I remembered holding her hand, assuring her that we wouldn’t hurt her, were trying to help. I could recall rolling the rock twice along her spine, it growing more heavy and dense with each rotation.

And then….nothing. Well, no, not nothing. I then remembered waking in my own bed, Shala’s very worried face hovering over mine.

“Oh thank the gods!” She fell upon me in a strong embrace that left me coughing.

“I….What...?” Forming coherent sentences was beyond my current state.

“Saril’s fine,” Shala gushed. “Her back healed perfectly, but the stone….it broke, cracked. It was the loudest noise I have ever heard. And you jerked and fell on the floor, convulsing. Oh gods, Ken…it was the scariest thing I have ever seen. I thought you died!” Her arms wrapped around me again and I could see tears streaming down her face. Though my thoughts should have been on my near death, I instead found myself wondering if I had ever seen Shala cry before. I didn’t think so.

“How….long…?” My throat was raw and swollen and my voice came out raspy and wheezing.

“Almost two weeks.” Shala pulled back to perch on the end of the bed. “Doc says he’s never seen anyone last as long as you did, out as you were. But your heart was strong, so he kept throwing juices and broths down you hoping you would wake up. And now you have! Oh! I should get him…” She ran from the room.

It was that scare that made us realize the seriousness of what we were playing with. It wasn’t just a trick with stones anymore. I was messing with very powerful magic, magic that could kill me if I wasn’t careful with it. After that, we took much more care in deciding what ills we should cure and what should be left alone. There were many that took more power than the stone could hold. Looking through the basket, I could actually find very few stones that were completely intact, but none were as shattered as that first one. I could recall days of feeling weak, sleeping for 15 or 16 hours to shrug off the effects of mending a broken arm. Never again though, did I attempt to cure anything so severe.

As the years went by, I learned my limits. Sure, I pushed them now and again, for people I cared about, but I knew them and knew there were some lines that I couldn’t cross. No. I picked up the speckled stone again. There were lines I shouldn’t cross. Ailments that were so bad, so grievous, that curing them could kill me. But I could.

As I moved to stand in the doorway of the next room, I could see her fragile form, almost skeletal beneath the sheets, the doctor bending over her, and a figure hunched in the chair by the bed.

“What are you doing here?!” I could barely recognize my voice, so full of rage and sorrow that it nearly cracked with the effort of shouting. Sid shot out of the chair as if he had been struck. “Get out of our home!” Though Sid had stopped being overtly cruel to me since I had fixed his leg, we were still far from friends. He had taken many opportunities over the past years to try to convince Shala that she needed someone stronger and that she should leave me. I didn’t hate him for this. I trusted my relationship and actually, had usually felt a little sorry for him that he was so hung up over someone he couldn’t have. Of course, I didn’t blame him, Shala was the most wonderful woman I had ever met. The three of us had always run in the same circles and hating him would have made things awkward at best, so we kept our interactions civil. Until today. I couldn’t explain it, but the sight of him leaning over her, trying to comfort sent a rage boiling through me that I didn’t even know I possessed.

“Look,” He walked toward me, running a hand through his hair. He looked ragged, tired, and nearly as broken down and worried as I did. “Just because she chose you doesn’t mean I didn’t love her.”

At those words, any control that I had still possessed left me and the emotions that I had bottled up over the past several days came pouring out, tears streamed down my face, even as I railed at him. “Love? Love?! You didn’t even know her! You weren’t there when her mother died to hold her hand, to try to talk her into allowing the tears she was fighting to fall! You didn’t walk beside her every day for twenty years! You decided she was pretty one day in secondary school, but I have loved her my whole life!” I realized then that I was sobbing instead of screaming. “And you….you…” I pointed at him, my voice dropping dangerously low. “You aren’t going to have to raise her son without her!” I collapsed then into the chair he had vacated.

“Ken…” I looked up. Sid was long gone and I had forgotten that the doctor was even there. The stone was clasped tightly in my fist. “You can’t.”

“She doesn’t…she’s too young, doc. I can’t let her die.” The tears I’d thought were finally stemmed began to flow anew.

He stood behind me then, a hand resting on my shoulder. “I’ve seen what this does to you, what it takes from you. She’s dying, Ken. There’s barely anything of her left. It would kill you.”

I shrugged his hand away and rose to the bassinet by the wall to pick up the sleeping child within. He murmured and let out a brief cry before snuggling back to sleep against my chest. “She’s amazing.” I turned to look at the doctor. Tears glistened in his eyes too. “Have you ever met a stronger, more vibrant, passionate woman?” He shook his head slowly. “She wanted this for years.” I said as I looked down at the sleeping infant. “She deserves to meet him. He….he deserves to know her, to feel how all-encompassing her love is. She’ll be an amazing mother…she…she deserves this.”

“She’ll never forgive you.”

“I know.”

I kissed the child on the brow and then placed him in the doctor’s arms. Looking at his face, I could tell that even if he didn’t agree with what I was doing, he understood it and wouldn’t stop me. “Call him Kendrick.” The baby’s tiny hand reached out in sleep to grasp my finger. “And tell him….tell him about the stones. Give them to him. It’s a gift, a gift…” The doctor nodded, reaching a hand out to carefully replace my finger with his. I turned to sit beside Shala again. “And when he’s older, old enough to understand, you’ll tell him about me and what I did? and why?”

“I will.”

“Good, good.” My voice had dropped to a whisper. I took my left hand and laced it through my wife’s fingers, while with the right, I took the small brown speckled stone and began moving it in circles, small and slow, then moving faster and larger, across her chest and stomach, thighs and arms.

[RobotPerfomance]

This is my first try at a critique so it is a little light, but I hope to make a habit of these and eventually put up some of my own stuff.

Critique: Untitled short story by Silence

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On a whole I liked it I felt the use of vivid description gave a sense of atmosphere to the piece. For some reason I think that stating the young mans age was unnecessary. For me it didn’t quite fit with the feel of the other descriptions. So over all I liked it and look forward to seeing more.

[banjo1985]

Critiques from me again! Can't say as I come here very often anymore, but it's not by choice I can assure you.

Jimor - Sorry to be a stickler, but up until this point I've posted five critiques, not four. Yes, this means I'm planning to post something again fairly soon.

Critique - Alone, by The Fiery Tower

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This is okay. It shows some promise for you as a writer without being a particularly engaging or interesting story in it's own right. It's your classic thing-in-the-forest-stalks-lost-camper story, without any real twists or anything unexpected. It shows your writing ability to be competant, and suggests you have the basic prose ability to do better with future stories.

Your choice to keep the thing in the bushes a mystery even right at the end is a good one, it lets the reader make up their own mind about how it all pans out. It could be a monster, a bear, maybe even his camper friends stumbling across him. It's good to keep things open like that.

A few suggestions, probably already mentioned in others critiques, but to be fair I'm too lazy to check!

- The man needs a name, and could well be better as an young man, maybe a twelve year old on a camping trip. The unfussed attitude to his predicament suggests a youngster unaware of the danger he is in, rather than an experienced mature adult.

- A twist of some sort might be good, or a little snippet of description to suggest things aren't right in this wood. Something as basic as an inexpicably mutilated animal in the campers path could raise the tension and build the connection between the reader and your protagonist. It doesn't have to be gory, or even described at all, but it would just put the tension up a notch.

All in all, a bland story competently written, suggesting you are capable of better. So, positive from me

Critique – Heartstone, by Alarra

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Nice, this is one of the most accomplished stories I’ve read on here, and I’m a bit surprised it hasn’t got a response yet. Sure it’s 4000 words, but it’s formatted well and is a less intimidating thing to read than a flat wall of text half the length….I’m waffling already, onto the critique!

Based on the anthology this is written for, the story fits just about perfectly. Wizardry through the medium of rocks is not necessarily anything new, but it’s done so well here that I’m finding it quite difficult to find anything wrong with it. Descriptions are strong and vivid, yet not too verbose or overpowering (a personal weakness of mine), dialogue is realistic and flows well. The story is an engaging one, though possibly a little rich to be squashed down into four thousand words. I keep on getting carried away with the story and Kendrick’s amazing ability, only for it all to finish too soon. Maybe I’m just being greedy though.

I like Kendrick as a protagonist, he’s believable, sympathetic, and well realised. Not so keen on Shala, maybe because she comes across as the bossy big sister, though I understand this is intentional. Sid is a well realised bully character, and the twist that gives Kendrick the power over Sid in regards to his injury is a nice touch.

The ending is effective, and cuts off at precisely the right time. The magic he’s about to perform will probably kill him, but he loves Shala enough to take that chance willingly, and from the way you’ve set up his character it’s very believable. While it didn’t quite tug on my heart-strings as much as it could have, it was a moving and fitting end to a good story.

Essentially I have very few complaints. The writing style is very accomplished and seems like it’s honed through plenty of practice. The story doesn’t cover much new ground, but is written in a lively and engaging enough style to hold my attention. Dialogue and characterisation are both impressively strong. The pacing is maybe a bit too quick fully realise the story, but this is a symptom of the anthology it is written for, rather than any fault of the writer. Very difficult to find any problems of a serious nature…very good stuff!

[Neon Knight]

Critique - The Palace, by Death Dragon

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Hm. Overall, I have a favorable impression of it. It is conventional, without any particularly novel ideas in concept, but it is well executed. In essence, classic material and ideas done well tend to make for a good work, and this definitely qualifies.

It is a bit obvious where this is going, and the fact that the last possible body in the last possible room to be searched is the much dreaded corpse is a bit mildly displeasing, but description, structure, and the evoking of emotions all make it an enjoyable ride anyway. It could perhaps use a touch more description here and there, and perhaps a bit of restructuring to make the path the story takes a bit more mysterious and less easily predicted.

Critique - Heartstone, by Alarra

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There isn't anything leap off the page at you special about the ideas here, so it's a measure of how potent the words are when I say that this is very interesting and well done, merely by the strength of writing alone. Characterization, in particular, was very strong. The attention paid to body language, gestures, and to dialogue was well spent, and these stand out as strong points in the work. The characters are well conveyed, and seem very human in both good and bad ways. They breathe and live.

Description and structure are both well done and even tend towards outright splendor at times. It's all very good work.

As for quibbles, I will raise two: The first is about Sid. I don't understand what his character, as well done as it is, is supposed to add to the tale. In a longer story, in a full length piece, I could see his inclusion as worthwhile, but the detail that he has a crush on Shala really doesn't seem to add that much to the story. It only ever really prompts a rather startling and somewhat distracting outburst from our protagonist, one that works against the sympathy and connection we've built with him. Maybe I have too much sympathy for Sid, and the protagonist's outburst is understandable, but everything conveyed and achieved by it could have been aimed at the doctor, or himself, or the air, or even at "god" with a bit of rewording. Shala is never shown to have even considered the possibility of Sid in the slightest, so it isn't even a love triangle (though the inclusion of that would be a mite confusing too.) Sid just had an unrequited crush on Shala. What does that add, other than him appearing at the end of the story so that the protagonist can have a meltdown and bitch him out for a fairly innocent action? Not to mention that the protagonist himself seems to be in Shala's shadow; she's the one who moves much of the story forward. All in all, the entire incident makes me examine the protagonist's relationship with Shala in a critical light with cold scrutiny, rather than feeling anything against Sid. It's perfectly possible for Sid's feelings towards Shala to be just as legitimate as Kendrick's. All in all, it's a moment that throws off the balance to the scene, adds little, and just confuses things.

The second is the ending line which... isn't all that powerful or dramatic. The story ends well, it's just that the last line isn't burned into your memory. It isn't decisive and lacks a sense of finality. It doesn't feel like the scene ends here, and the scene ending is different form events continuing on past that point. It doesn't feel like our window through which we view the story has properly closed; if this was a movie, and that was our last scene, it wouldn't quite feel right when the credits start rolling.

But overall, this was very good.

Critique - The Pull, by RPGsr4me

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It's very brief, and not very elegant. It doesn't flow, and it isn't very evocative. Nor is it very important, and it doesn't try to make you think it might be important. It is dry, simple, and rather flat, not conveying much emotion. There is simply very little connection to the piece or to anything it is trying to evoke. It needs to be developed more; more interesting word choice, sentence construction, and a bit of playfulness could make this entertaining and interesting.

Critique - Untitled, by Silence

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This is the kind of stuff I love. An exercise in imagery and description that freely tosses distracting concerns and weights to the wind. Who are these people? Why? How? What's the context to this? Who cares! It is evocative, both in terms of projecting a mental image and in terms of evoking emotion from the reader. Short, sweet, simple, and effective.

I do have to say that "emanated" in the last paragraph is a rather poor choice. It's not... nimble, agile, punchy, elegant... it doesn't convey emotion, which it has to, being one of the words used to describe someone's pain and sorrow. In fact, the whole last paragraph might work better if it was dropped and a single sentence stood that somehow artfully and descriptively summarized the emotions of that young man as he lay suddenly alone on the grass. Things that are one should not be made two. Together, they were one... and now apart, they are two.

But overall, my response was pretty positive.

Critique - This was my dream..., by Kallisti

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I liked this piece, overall. It was playful, taking the idea of being meta and running with it, managing to keep that amusing simply through good sentence and word work. It doesn't really go anywhere, but that's kind of the point. As a simple gesture designed to make you laugh, it works. It isn't anything more and it doesn't need to be.

Critique - Pathways, Part 1, by waterpenguin43

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This is a surprisingly difficult critique to write, mostly because a well written and thorough critique of this piece would be much longer than the piece itself.

The sentences don't flow well. They each sound isolated, and moving form each one feels like an awkward transition between paragraphs. There is little emotion and connection to any of the proceedings or any of the people they happen to. There is very little context to the whole thing. We don't even establish that Martha is in a car until she speeds up. Because she is a grocery store clerk, we first imagine her at her job, behind a grocery counter. It's the first detail given to us, the first blank we get to fill in, and it isn't relevant to the proceedings at all. She could be a yoga instructor or a particularly paradoxical and unsuccessful buddha for all it matters to the story.

And then it was all a dream, by a rather morbid 4 year old girl, judging by the dreams she has. Potentially a prophetic dream, if perhaps that was what you were going for.

Honestly, there's not much here that works, and a lot that doesn't.

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Since I now have 2 post credits, I'll spend 1. This is a piece of fiction I wrote as a supplemental for a PBP game I played in. It's a game drawing form the Magical Girl Genre of anime, Sailor Moon in particular. It's a piece told from the perspective of the character I played, and it serves as sort of an account of what he did before the events in the game. This was the first in the series, and it was the roughest; I poured it our in one go, with little to no revisions or editing. I expect this one to be worthy of a savaging or two.

Nevertheless, here is:

Moonlit Nights in Birmingham

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It was a strange night under the full moon in Birmingham. That is to say, it was a strange night for two people in Birmingham. I don't mean to imply that every single inhabitant of Birmingham was finding themselves in bizarre circumstances. Most people were sleeping peacefully in their beds, and even those that were awake were not aware of the strange scene being played out in a dark and quiet alley. Of course, it is only strange in a relative sense. It was not necessarily unusual or strange for the beast itself to be attacking someone. It was probably quite natural and matter of course for the monster to attack people with little to no provocation. On the other hand, it was certainly strange, unusual, and atypical for Mary Kirk to be assaulted by an inhuman monster on her way home, but then Mary was a very typical, normal, and ordinary girl.

The astute observer might have noticed that I said it was a strange night for two people, but have only indicated the presence of two beings, the monster and Mary, and might be wondering if I intend to grant the monster the status of "person". Sadly, I'm not quite that charitable; perhaps I'd been a more decent chap if I could find the empathy to attribute human status to such a being, but usually the most I can do with a monster is to hit it until it turns into dust. Forgive me if that makes me seem uncouth; I assure you that in my day to day affairs I'm much more gentle.

Anyway, we're on a bit of a tangent here, so let's refocus. We have the alley, with Mary backed up against the wall and looking quite afraid, and the monster approaching at a leisurely pace, apparently savoring her fear and in no hurry to make this quick. To satisfy the earlier quota of 2 people having an oddball night, I suppose I had better mention that I was there. Of course, I wasn't exactly in my normal attire. You see, it was a strange night for me, but it was a strangeness that's novelty was beginning to decay a bit. Oh, alright, I won't pretend that I'm at ease with the idea or actuality of running around cities at night dressed up like the Great Gatsby fighting monsters with a walking stick, but I was beginning to adjust to the concept. A bit.

The observer might also note that I have a tendency to try to be funny or witty. I beg the observer's forgiveness, as it seems to be a habit I can't quite shake.

Alright, I'll stop neglecting the narrative. Mary was up against one wall, backed up and desperately looking for a way out. I knew Mary from school; she was a nice enough girl, certainly amiable enough. The monster was approaching her; like most of the things I fought during my night ventures in Birmingham, it was a confusing creature. In general form it seemed to resemble a greyhound, but there was quite a bit off with it. The skin was loose, saggy, and yellowish in color; instead of a snout it had a beak made of some bony material that looked slick and slimy. The throat was adorned with a beard of hanging tendrils that twisted and writhed, glistening with the same slime that marked the beak. Instead of paws, it seemed to have fleshy pads that slapped as it moved along the ground. All and all, it was quite repulsive and ghastly.

In comparison, Mary was quite lovely. Dirty blond hair, vivid blue eyes... I suppose the audience will forgive me if this seems a bit lecherous to mention, but the girl had a wonderful figure. Such a slim waist. I have to admit, I was a bit jealous of my friend Nick, whom Mary was sweet on. Still am, come to think of it, but the audience is probably tired of this line of thought, so I'll just get on with it.

Now, most people's response to seeing a pretty girl threatened by some kind of aberrant horror would probably be between paralyzed with fear and running to get the police. Maybe a few would pick a bat or a rake or something and tried to fend the thing off, so really, my response of jumping right in between Mary and the thing isn't that odd, is it?

I'll admit that my attire might have added an element of surreality to me that might cause one to question my sanity. If the monster was a thing out of a nightmare, then I was... well, I was the product of a different kind of altered state of mind, which I will allude to only out of a motive of politeness. My point is, despite my dress, I was only doing what any decent fellow would have done. What kind of person wouldn't try to protect a someone in danger, especially someone as endearing as Mary?

The astute observer might counter that I doth protest too much, and that I'm attempting to make myself seem humble to heighten the heroism of my action. To counter, I'll neatly dodge the question and just continue telling my story.

So, I'd had the good fortune to arrive on the scene just as the thing was coming at Mary. It was giving off a sort of low hooting as it came on, head low and feet smacking against the pavement. Alice was against the wall, probably doubting her sanity. I was standing in between the two, cane in one hand, hat in the other, tensed and waiting.

People familiar with me and my capabilities as in my suit wearing iteration might be surprised when I say I lashed out at the thing with my cane as it came close. They might ask why I didn't use the sword sheathed inside the cane to cut the thing apart, to which I make this reply: Why does everyone seem to think that the sword part is the only dangerous bit of the stick? Have you lifted this thing? It's surprisingly heavy, and that knob that forms the sword hilt is solid metal. Add my augmented strength in my spiffed up guise, and I'm quite easily just as dangerous hitting people with the stick as I am cutting them with the sword.

Sorry, that's a pet peeve of mine. I mean, I've been given this power for a reason, right? I honestly can't say why me in particular, or for what reason. It's just, whenever someone needs someone else to look out for them, someone to watch their back, help them up, and hey, if needed, save them, I like to be that guy. And now, whenever I feel like some thing precious to me is in danger, or someone needs me to protect them, I end up in spats and a three piece suit with the power to protect that which I hold dear. And not only the power, but the knowledge and the skills necessary to use that power. I may not know how to throw a punch in my normal form, but whenever I'm putting on the Ritz, I just know. So, really, I don't think I can get much better taking pointers from someone else, particularly an audience without any experience in these matters.

That clear? Good. Anyway, I hit the thing with my cane. It was a pretty good hit, in my estimation at least, and the thing kind of tripped up, crashed into the ground, and immediately began to turn to dust.

If you're thinking that that was a bit anti-climatic, then yeah, I'd agree. I was a bit perplexed myself. Most of the time, the things were tougher than that. I'd fought monsters before, and while most seemed to buy the farm after 2 or 3 good hits, I'd never one hit KO'ed one before.

I'll freely admit that my pride was a bit stoked at my evident prowess, and I turned to the still freaking out Mary in a rather cheeky mood. I forget what I said exactly, and whatever it was it wasn't that clever anyway, but I had no sooner finished than I felt a sharp pain in my back. A glance over my right shoulder yielded a most disconcerting sight. Two long, barbed hooks of slime covered bone were lodged in my left shoulder. They were connected to two taut ropes of bunched muscle, twitching sinew, and red flesh that led into a corner of darkness I hadn't seen before. Two great big yellow eyes were glowing, set at about a height of 6 feet.

The audience should be able to appreciate and understand the fact that I was more than bit frightened to find myself caught off guard. Before I could react, the muscles in the flesh ropes flexed, tearing me off my feet and jerking me back into the darkness.

The thing, whatever it was, was huge. The eyes were apparently set in the chest, as its overall height was easily a story tall. It had multiple sets of arms, most ending in pincers or pointed stingers. The largest set of limbs was a pair of great scythe bladed talons. It's exterior was like the hardened carapace or exoskeleton of an insect, segmented in many places. Its head, set low in the chest, was a knobby protrusion of unarmored flesh with practically no neck. A massive beard of twisting feelers hung from the chin, slapping against my face as the pincers held me in a vice like-grip.

So, yeah, I was more than a little freaked out. The scything talons tensed for what I instinctively knew was a decapitating strike and I finally pulled myself together. I managed to get my foot up and give the thing a solid enough kick that I could wrench myself free of the pincers. I'd lost my hat in the abrupt flight to the creature's waiting grapsers, but had managed to keep my cane. The scythe limbs swept downward, the bony edges of the blades whipping up a wind that rustled my hair as they missed my scalp by inches. I drew my sword and stabbed for the thing's head.

Now, the audience might ask why I wasn't trying to get out of the reach of the thing's scythe talons or why I was still fighting it. In the first place, I'm a better fighter up close than I am far away. In the second, If I backed up it would just hook me again and drag me back to it. In the third, if I backed off, it might have gone after Mary. The power that I've been given seems to have made me strangely resistant to harm, but those hooks could have seriously injured a normal person, and the rest of that thing's arsenal would tear them to pieces.

Now, you might not believe me, but that last reason was the only real important one. Even if I could have gained a significant advantage by backing off, I could never do so if it exposed someone to harm like that. I'm being serious here. I wasn't given these powers so that I could save my own hide. I was given them so that I could stand unwavering in the defense of others. That's honestly what I think, and that's how I'm going to play it from here till the day I fall.

So I stood there and tried to give as good as I got. I won't bore you with all the details of the fight; I think it went on for a minute or two before I finally got the better of the thing.

With a sweep of my sword, I severed both of its fighting talons. It actually let out a strange hoot similar to the first creature - maybe they were related, somehow? - and then I drove my sword through the soft head and into the thing's body. It gave up the ghost and turned to dust as I staggered out of the alley and looked for my hat.

Mary was still there, which honestly surprised me. I wasn't worried about her recognizing me; no one seems to when I'm transformed. I remember her thanking me profusely, and my replying with the same old "it was nothing" responses that are so typical of such a scene. I told her to get on home and be careful from now on, and she finally left after hugging me, actually. I followed her a bit, just to make sure she got home safe, and then turned back towards my own home. A quite swipe of my handy dandy magic handkerchief, and the worst and most obvious of the injuries were gone. Just a couple bruises left, and easy enough to explain away as the result of messing around with the guys.

So yeah, that's a night in the life of Simon Hunt. It's not the best way to live.

Well, I've got to admit, it's getting better.