Playground Writers Workshop (Read 1st Post)

[Zolkabro]

Critique of This Was My Dream

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This was my dream:
Five hundred words. He had five hundred words to tell a story.

Great. Because writing’s totally not hard enough already. Sure. Fine. Whatever.

Fine. Fine. I can write it. But what to write? Something short, simple…why not just write down a dream? Dreams make good stories sometimes. Dreams are like butterflies…they’re beautiful, and if you don’t pin them to the page quickly they’re gone too soon. Who said that, anyway? Neil Gaiman? No, that was Fragile Things, it had a butterfly on the cover. I must have made it up when I was feeling poetic, then.

The pen met the page, and the dream met the words.

This was my dream:
It was ever and always silent in the town of the dead. The silence rang, funeral bells amongst the wicked, twisted yellow graveston—

No, no, no. Too generic. I always write horror, anyway. Hmmm…


This was my dream:
This realm was like a vast chessboard, and it was where mages played. The pieces were those fools who’d dared offend the Wizard Kings, and as directed moved and checked and slayed to entertain the Magi, and there was no homecoming.

That’s the plot of Dungeon Siege: Mageworld. I can’t write that.

But what?

This was my dream:
Michaeli struggled under the weight of the marble statue on his back. Why couldn’t he have a coffin like most vampires? But NO, it HAD to be the giant marble grave mark—

NO! Writing about one of the games I’m playing? No way. I did that with Robert and nobody understood the story. It has to be good. It has to make sense. And, just for fun, let’s say it also has to be exactly five hundred freakin’ words. The Playground Writers Workshop: Bringing a whole new layer of meaning to writer’s block since 2009. Beata Discordia. Ok, ok, I can do this. I have lots of weird dreams to make into a story.

Oh, man. This is going to be harder than I thought.

I might need a few days.

Ok, try again…

This was my dream:
It was a dark and stormy night. Do you know why that’s become a cliché? It was good enough to keep being used. Because the weather has a sense of humor, perhaps. Anyway, cliché or not, it was true.

It was a dark and stormy night, and the only sound besides the booming scream of the thunder was a whispered prayer...

Please, Dear God, don’t let them find me. Don’t let them find me. Don’t—

“You, there! Under the tree! Hands in the air! I said hands--”

The gunshot split the night, one more thunderous blast lost in the fury of the storm, one more life extinguished.

The soldiers moved on. They’d done their job, after all. All Hail Big Brother!

Ok, what the hell was that? 1984 fan-fic? Really? God, the well of inspiration is running dry indeed.

And then it hit him.

He knew exactly what to write.

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I loved it, I really did. Usually I find that just writing about wondering what to write about a rather cheeky and lazy way to get out of writing a story, but this worked perfectly, and I found it just as good as a proper narrative plot that a story might have. Good job!
Am I right in assuming that italics are thoughts and speech, and non-italics are the narrative bits or what he is writing? That is what it seemed like, and if so then there is a little bit where that does not fit. You wrote: "It was a dark and stormy night. Do you know why that’s become a cliché? It was good enough to keep being used. Because the weather has a sense of humor, perhaps. Anyway, cliché or not, it was true." and I think that what would have made more sense is "It was a dark and stormy night. Do you know why that’s become a cliché? It was good enough to keep being used. Because the weather has a sense of humor, perhaps. Anyway, cliché or not, it was true." Sorry if I am wrong, but that bit seemed a little confusing and this seemed like the only explanation I could think of.
I also enjoyed the various references to common clichés that writing tends to veer towards no matter how hard you veer it away, and I also liked that first paragraph with the grumpy writer complaining about what he had to do.
I also think you ended it well - that last line kept us geussing. Do you have in mind what you thought he should wirte about? Because I think that it would have made a very good rigmarole, and the thing he wrote in the end was our story.

[Zolkabro]

Critique of The Pull

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Some of you know I was gone for a week to Florida and as a result of the school I missed I now have a flood of homework that needs doing. At the beginning of this weekend I told myself I was going to get most, if not all, of it done even if it killed me. What I failed to remember was that I had recently come in to possession of two new and awesomely amazing video games, Dragon Age and Borderlands. It hit me the moment I entered my house, it was as inevitable as gravity pulling a thrown object to the ground, it was The Pull, I had to play them. Friday night I played Dragon Age until one in the morning at which time I was reluctantly forced to sleep due to the intervention of my parents. The next morning I awoke at nine and The Pull took hold of me immediately. I continued to play Dragon Age until my parents badgering to get to work on my homework became unbearable. I retreated to the basement with every intention of doing my homework, but I came across my brothers playing Borderlands and The Pull took hold of me once again. I decided that I would play for a little while just to try it, but I should have known that The Pull leaves no room for decision, only compulsion. Before I knew it the clock had struck midnight and once again my parents intervention forced me to sleep. On Sunday morning The Pull called to me with the call of a siren but there was no time for gaming, I had to go to church. Over those few hours The Pull grew and grew until it became unbearable. Upon arriving home I immediately rushed for the X Box and took up Borderlands. It was indescribable the relief I felt when I felt the controller in my hands and saw the flashing lights of the game, The Pull had been sated. Once again I played late, although it evoked the rage of my parents, and once again my homework lay forgotten. Now I sit here typing this and the pile of homework continues to grow, but something else is growing, something eternally hungry, The Pull.

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I loved it. The Pull is the bane of us all, and I have experienced it many times. This has happened to everyone, but nobody has skillfully put it down on paper like this.
I like how it seems to make the Pull seem alive. It seems like this greedy creature, growing more and more intelligent, and more and more tempting. It exerts it's power on all the creatures around it, and God help it's poor victims.
Some spacing would be good, but I am not sure where it should be put. Everything seems to fit together so cleanly, and I can't find any bits where you could end the paragraph.
There were a few unnecessary commas here and there, and I think the comma after the word 'hungry' in the last line should be substituted with a full stop.
I adore the last line. It sounds so grim, and makes the Pull seem so EVIL.
Good job!

[Raroy]

I want in on this thread so you can all see how much of a terrible writer I am.

This is mostly my opinion on the way this is written.
Critique Moonlit Nights in Birmingham

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The problem I have with this passage, which I’m sure that other people have with it, is the fact that it keeps meandering around and not getting anything done. The character may have an interesting way of speaking/thinking, but when he narrates, he just bumbles on and on about things that aren’t very relevant. He’s not a very good story teller, I couldn’t help but feel jarred when he said he would get back to the story, and then not get back to it. You also lost a bit of the characters way of speaking when you got later down the passage. The line “So, yeah, I was more than a little freaked out.” Was slightly out of character and completely made me lose sense of the character’s voice.

You are fully aware of the fact that your character bumbles around and gets off track, however you just hand wave it off. I don’t find it humors myself, just yawn inducing.

I think you could do better; you should just keep in mind how the reader feels when the narrator is very difficult to deal with. I’m sure it’s possible to improve this piece, just cut some things out.

[Raz_Fox]

May as well revitalize this with the first "chapter" of a bit of fanfiction I'm working on. Basically, Teen Titans/DCU + Marvel 1602 + Steampunk. Anyway, I'm looking for some critique on how well it works as a hook. Also, the action-y bits: well done or no? Description and dialogue: tolerable or just bad?

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Vault City, California; April 13th, Anno Domini 1896, 15 Years Post-Cometfall. A Meeting At Saint Abney's Park.

It was already past the twilight hour, and the ringing of the great bronze bells of Laincara Cathedral pierced the oneiric fog that hung over the grim stone streets of Vault City. On the city's west side, airships leaving harbor shone their lights strong, hoping to avoid collision as they ascended from the fog-bound bay; wiser captains stayed in dry-dock completely, waiting for better weather to come again. Some streets began to glow with light already as the lamp-lighters went about their work, while others lay in darkness, causing honest citizenry to hurry through as they made their way to their homes.

Saint Abney's Park was a cheerful, populous place during the day, a island of green among the stone and glass, but it lay all but deserted now. The lonely fountain in the center of the park – which sported a stained statue of the famed Aegyptian treasure-hunter Daniel Garret on a pedestal in its center – provided the only sounds in the fog-shrouded park. No birds sang, no engines hummed, no gas-lamps hissed, no couples made polite conversation while walking along the ill-kept paths. There was only the sound of water on water, dripping, gushing, running down tubes and flying back up through the spouts. It was a lonely place, content in its solitude, and only two people were within the confines of its hedged walls tonight.

The first was a man of ill-repute – a cutpurse, a pickpocket, a drunkard, a murderer if he had to be. His name was Cinders, and he was not a lucky man, nor a wise one. Indeed, the only thing he'd been gifted with at birth was brawn, for he was built like a brick wall. To compensate, he was neither overburdened in brains nor wit, and lacked the moral fiber to labor for an honest day's work. But despite his thick head, he was starting to get worried tonight. Yes, the lady he'd been shadowing for three streets now was without companion or guard, and she was sitting alone in Saint Abney's Park, and from the looks of her she was certainly rich – a ruby-and-gold broach sat on her shoulder, pinning her black walking cloak closed, and a belt that, had he the brains to recognize it, had flawless mother-of-pearl trim – and she was just sitting out in the open. Nobody would notice, should he run up now and take every copper penny she had. And yet, there was something about her that made the hairs on the back of his thick neck stand on end.

It was the veil, he told himself. It was black, matching the rest of her clothing, and it hung from her hat over her face. There was always something unnerving about those – who knew what lurked behind them? What deformity or beauty might she be hiding? Was she one of the warp-freaks, or perhaps a survivor of the pox, or perhaps simply in mourning for a late husband? No, she appeared too young and slight to already be a widow. Cinders steeled himself, forcing down that prickle of anxiety running up his back. After all, you couldn't let anyone spook you when you lived off the streets. That's why pickings were so bad back east, after all.

What happened next – well, Cinders didn't have a lot of imagination, and that was a good trait on the street, but this – it almost knocked him dead. The lady slowly turned her head, smoothly but sedately, until she was looking straight at his hiding place behind the hedges. And she didn't move a muscle, but just kept staring, for what seemed like five years, which took about a minute or so. And then she spoke, and her voice was quiet, but it was ever-so-slightly wrong. The hairs stood stiff on the back of Cinders' neck. “If you're going to try to rob me, hurry up. I don't have all night.”

“What?” The little part of Cinders that actually tried to think things through winced in pain as he spoke without thinking, as usual. The element of surprise was, at this point, lost with no hope of it ever returning, so he stood up from behind the bushes and shrugged his shoulders. “Why would you think that? Just having a nice stroll in Saint Abney's–”

“Don't try to insult me, please.” She rose from the stone bench she was sitting on, her right hand falling to her hip. “Any half-baked mystic from a carnival stall could have read your intentions. A thug follows a woman into a deserted park – did you expect me to believe you were coming to admire the flowers?”

“...Well then. Your money or your life?” Cinders may have been confused, but even he could fall back on the basic cliched lines of robbers and highwaymen everywhere. Intimidation didn't require brains, just brawn. “Don't scream or you'll get hurt?”

“You're new to this, aren't you?” She shook her head in contempt of his larcenous ability, even as he started to step forward. She hardly paid any attention to him, in fact, and his long stride ate at the distance in only a handful of steps. She might not even have noticed that he was only ten feet away now. Now eight, now seven, now six. “Only beginners and actors say things like that.”

“Well, who's going to step in and save you, then?” Cinders pulled his trusty knife out of its sheath with his left hand – it was more often used to cut purse strings, but a knife was a knife. “Ain't nobody in Saint Abney's at this time of night, and there ain't nobody to stop me from taking all you've got.”

“Actually, I believe he might.” The lady pointed behind Cinders, and fool that he was, he turned and looked just in time to have the boot, originally aimed at the back of his head, crunch into the bridge of his nose. The lady stepped aside with surprising speed to let Cinders go stumbling past her and fall right into the stone bench she'd been sitting on. His knife clattered to the cobblestones beside him. It took a moment for Cinders' head to stop spinning, and another moment to recognize his attacker. Oh, hellfire.

The man was dressed in a black cloak, with a snug red vest clinging above a green-dyed shirt. Both his gloves and his leggings were black, almost blending into the darkness of his cloak. His wide-brimmed hat cast a shadow over his masked face, and both his belt and vest were covered in pouches and pockets. He smirked as Cinders rose with a roar of fury, then he moved into a ready fighting stance. “Have you no honor, blackguard? Fight someone capable of defending himself!”

Cinders charged, and slammed into the guy – but he placed his hand just here on Cinder's chest, and instead of trying to stop the unstoppable Cinders, he kept him moving up and forward with a grunt of exertion, because Cinders was no lightweight after all – and now Cinders was flying towards the fountain, out of control, and right before the inevitable conclusion Cinders closed his eyes.

WHAM.

The mighty Cinders half-pulled himself out of the water, blinking back tears of pain, because despite his legendarily thick skull that had hurt like blazes. He staggered back upright, clenching his fists and already swinging as he turned. His opponent let Cinders' right hook brush past his head nonchalantly, before grabbing Cinders' over-extended arm and shoving him outwards. Cinders stumbled again, and got a fist to the back of the neck for his troubles. Now, Cinders had been through a fight or two in his time, but rarely one-on-one like this. No, Cinders was used to either large gang fights or fights where he had the advantage, viz, being the only one with a knife. But a semi-fair, solo fight like this – well, his talents were wasted. And his head felt like it was on fire, and his already slow reflexes were slowing down even further.

So Cinders turned and ran out of Saint Abney's Park, entered the alleyway beside the watchman's shop, kept running until he was out of the east quarter entirely and could crash in one of the penny-houses that infested the south side of town, then he began to plot a way to take revenge on the over-confident hero that had beaten him up. At least, he tried to.

And his plan would have worked perfectly, had not his opponent whipped out a small cylinder from his myriad pockets, flicked it open and pointed the hook at the end straight at the fleeing Cinders' legs. Click went the button on the side, and straightaway out shot the grappling hook and line, curling around Cinders' legs and cutting his retreat short. A firm yank on the line, before Cinders could reclaim his balance, and Cinders found the cobblestones coming up to meet him.

CRASH.

The fog seemed to seep into Cinders' head, making everything go wavering and black. He gave a shuddering sigh as his fighting spirit finally gave up the ghost, leaving blessed unconsciousness in its wake. His black-caped assailant now attempted to reel in the grappling hook, giving up in disgust when the great bulk of Cinders refused to move. Instead, he turned his attention to the veiled lady, who had watched the entire fight.

“It's dangerous to be out alone so late. You had best head home for the night, or else something like this might happen again. You wouldn't want that, after all.” His words were quick, terse, to-the-point and ever so slightly condescending. As he spoke, he stepped over to Cinders, applying cuffs to the unconscious thug's wrists, then began to unwind the grappling hook and line from around Cinders' legs with a methodical air. But he stopped short when he heard the veiled lady's laugh.

“I was aware of the danger, Goodfellow. I knew precisely what I was doing.” The caped man rose and turned, one hidden eyebrow rising in surprise. “You are that shrewd and knavish sprite called Robin Goodfellow, are you not?” Ah, she knew the Bard.

“Did you risk your health simply so you could speak with me?” Robin backed up slightly, folding his arms over his chest, already frowning. Reckless, he wanted to say, reckless foolish girl. She stepped forward, shaking her head.

“Hardly. Call it... a happy coincidence.” A flustered lie, but you wouldn't know that from the tone of voice. Her orient-accented voice was as smooth as butter, despite the low timbre and the barely audible echo. That echo – it curled about the ear, implying its presence rather than outright being heard, and that was even more disturbing than an obvious speech defect.

“No such thing as coincidence.” Robin knelt, pulling his grappling hook free and flicking it back into its cylinder. “You'd best go fetch a constable.”

“I need your help, Goodfellow.” Several words went unspoken: so I came out to Saint Abney's, because half the sightings of you are said to be within five streets of the park. And you came just as I believed you would. What a hero.

“A lot of people do.” The grappling hook, now back in its container, went back into the multi-pocketed belt. Robin straightened, started to stride away into the fog.

“Someone's trying to kill me.” This made Robin stop for a moment, and he half-turned his head, speaking over his shoulder.

“But you don't have proof, because then you would have gone to the police. Either you can't tell who – and neither could a trained detective – or you have no way of striking at who you suspect. So you come out alone, at night, hoping that I would find you, allowing you to explain your dilemma to the one man who can act freely.” He stopped for a moment, then dashed her hopes in the same quiet, rough (and assumed) voice. “I have to protect a lot of citizens already, miss. I'll do what I can, but I have duties of my own to attend to.”

Then he continued on, and the fog swallowed him whole, and the lady in black was truly alone. After a moment, she finally unclenched her teeth and released the breath she was holding in. Then she glanced down at the unconscious brute blocking the path with a sigh. “Well, now what?”

[Raroy]

Raz Fox, never describe a piece of work as "It's like blank and blank", that makes your work seem less unique and maybe lazy. Please, I mean no offense.

Critque on Raz Fox's story.

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First of all, wall of text. It's evil and terrible. You should never make the reader feel like they are working just to read your writing. The dialogue is somewhat predictable and annoyingly vague. Too much telling and not enough showing. You didn't really need to tell us how much of a thug the thug was. You went a little overboard with the descriptions at times, felt like repeated information. She's rich, and rich! The fight scene seemed to drag on quite a bit, which may have something to due with the wall of text.

The story just seems to be lacking any form of polish, or at least the way your present it makes me feel like you didn't put in. It was messy and unreadble (still redeemable ). I would look back, but it's too much of a pain to remind myself what happened. All in all, difficult to read and not very interesting. Ways you could improve is to keep practicing! In my personal experience, fan fiction is not a very good way to improve. Too much use of someone else’s work that's twisted to how you want things to be.

[Raz_Fox]

Critique of the Critique:

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For a normal story, I would say that you are correct in saying that "X+Y" is not a good sales pitch. However, the story was concieved along those lines, and as such I included it to move from the "Huh what is this about" stage to the "This is how it can be improved" stage.

Anyway. I apologize for the wall o' text - but I can assure you that it was a fault of oversight, not of laziness. Word formatting does not play well with the board formatting. Thank you for pointing that out - I'll fix that.

Now, on to the advice. I am aware that my dialogue is rather weak, though I'm not sure what you mean by annoyingly vague. The description's tone was intentional - I want it to seem a bit archaic, and the focus there is telling the story. But I will see if I can show a bit more than I describe.

But then we get to the bit where you declare my work "unredeemable", and I'm afraid that my reaction to that is much like your own reaction to the wall of text. I have been rather scathing to badly-written stories in the past, but even so, I would never stoop to the level of calling something unredeemable, just because I don't like it. In fact, the entire second paragraph is capable of being reduced to "Stop writing bad fanfiction, because your writing sucks". I requested critique on the hook, not a condemning of my choice of what to write.

I am still rather offended, so I may as well close this off by thanking you for pointing out my weakness in dialogue instead of chewing you out further for that damned second paragraph. So - thank you.

[Kallisti]

Critique of This Was My Dream

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I loved it, I really did. Usually I find that just writing about wondering what to write about a rather cheeky and lazy way to get out of writing a story, but this worked perfectly, and I found it just as good as a proper narrative plot that a story might have. Good job!
Am I right in assuming that italics are thoughts and speech, and non-italics are the narrative bits or what he is writing? That is what it seemed like, and if so then there is a little bit where that does not fit. You wrote: "It was a dark and stormy night. Do you know why that’s become a cliché? It was good enough to keep being used. Because the weather has a sense of humor, perhaps. Anyway, cliché or not, it was true." and I think that what would have made more sense is "It was a dark and stormy night. Do you know why that’s become a cliché? It was good enough to keep being used. Because the weather has a sense of humor, perhaps. Anyway, cliché or not, it was true." Sorry if I am wrong, but that bit seemed a little confusing and this seemed like the only explanation I could think of.
I also enjoyed the various references to common clichés that writing tends to veer towards no matter how hard you veer it away, and I also liked that first paragraph with the grumpy writer complaining about what he had to do.
I also think you ended it well - that last line kept us geussing. Do you have in mind what you thought he should wirte about? Because I think that it would have made a very good rigmarole, and the thing he wrote in the end was our story.

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Thanks. I wasn't certain if it would work or not, or if it would come across as laziness.

The "thought" about the weather having a sense of humor was being presented by the narrator of the nascent story-within-a-story and not a character, so I had thought it was left unitalicized. I could be wrong about the mechanics of that.

I'm surprised that people didn't get the real joke, though. When he finally knew what to write, he'd decided he'd write a story about not knowing what to write--the story he later submitted. That's why I threw in the framework of the actual challenge and mentioned GITP--so that people would see that it wasn't just a story about not knowing what to write, it was the story of itself being written. Apparently I didn't get that point across, since you're not the only one to ask. So now I can't help but wonder where I went wrong there.

Also, to celebrate my being able to return after my internet finally began working again, I think I'll start critiquing the stories I've been meaning to get around to, beginning with

The Dream-Singer by GolemsVoice

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I like your writing style a lot. Your story was very articulate, and had that wonderful, sedate attention to detail. Your descriptions are very vivid, your diction varied, and you did a very good job setting the right tone.

That said, many of your sentences gave the impression of being run-ons despite being perfectly good grammatical constructs because your writing is flooded with commas. Drowning in them. You really, really need to branch out into dashes and semicolons.

As for the story, it was well-titled: a classic weird tale. It worked pretty well in terms of plot and story, although I think that with a note postmortem to the protagonist's death you ought to provide some sort of framing. Perhaps the note was written by the mortician, or one of the police investigators, or someone. It just needs a little more context than "NOTE."

I don't really have a lot else to say. Beautifully written, but really needs some new ways of separating ideas--dashes are your friends. It does say good things about your story that the only problem I felt worth stressing was mechanical. Your pacing felt a bit off--I got the impression you were trying to rush in places to convey Thomas' sense of urgency and had picked the wrong places, which just gave the overall impression of being a bit rushed.

[Ether]

Critique of Untitled Steampunkish Story by DSCrankshaw

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As I was reading Professor Grason's speech the first thing that came to mind was too much exposition. But then as I read on and read it again, I found it nice. Sure it could use a little work but I think you should keep it.

Now whereas the first part is good, the second part seems cliché. From reading it, it seems to me that story will be the same old main character is thought to be the killer but then eventually proves his innocence. I’m probably wrong but that’s what it seems like and if it wasn’t for the first part I probably wouldn’t read the rest.

Critique of Untitled Story by Tira-chan

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Immediately I noticed that the first four paragraphs can be cut. It’s a massive block, and I feel you would be better served by breaking it up and seeding different pieces somewhere into the story.

Reading further: You use too much exposition, too much telling and not showing. I mean nothing happens until you get to the ninth paragraph.

[“Liam!” it snapped at him from the region of his middle, accompanied by a beleaguered-looking young elf, burdened with several oversized bags and a look of utter weariness.]

This is an awkward sentence.

Critique of Raz Fox’s Story

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I’m not a fan of exposition, especially right of the bat. Perhaps trimming it down?

We get that Cinders is stupid, you don’t have to constantly repeat it.

I’m also not a fan of laundry list descriptions. I think descriptions works better if they’re integrated instead of blocked off. If a description can't be integrated then it's probably not worth mentioning.

The action parts are okay.

The dialogue is okay save for the last one.

Maybe: “But you don't have proof, because then you would have gone to the police. Either you can't tell who or you have no way of striking at who you suspect.” He shook his head. “I have to protect a lot of citizens already, miss. I'll do what I can, but I have duties of my own to attend to.”

I liked it. It needs improvement but I'm interested to see where it goes.

[Mordar]

Critique of A Meeting At Saint Abney's Park by Raz Fox

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I rather liked the Noir feeling, once I got past the adjective overload. I think that were a few of the adjectives removed that the mood would actually be more clearly set. A bit of alliteration crept into some of the lines and I too often find myself wondering if it is intentional or accidental (in general, not specifically referring to your story), so unless it occurs in conversation, I think it best avoided. Two nitpicks:

• Airships would always be in dry-dock when docked, wouldn't they? Or is the intention that these are multi-media vehicles (air and sea)?

• If it was "already past the twilight hour" one would expected the lamp-lighters to have been well-started on their work, as opposed to "already", so I would recommend removal of that word when mentioning the streets aglow.

I enjoyed the park - play up the duality just a bit more, though. The fountain is only lonely at night. Though you show the contrast later, I think reworking the second sentence would drive it right home.

It is my opinion that the lady shouldn't use contractions when speaking - something about the way you have describer her makes me think she would view them as a bit lazy and lacking in form. I think you achieved what you wanted with her, and this is just a little tweak to complete the picture.

The arrival of Goodfellow is mood-appropriate, though I'm not sure he should be calling out Cinders on a point of honor after he tried to attack him from behind...unless, of course, that is an intentional contradiction. Otherwise, simply delay the initial blow until Cinders completes his turn.

Two small elements of the action that I didn't think fit quite right:

• When Cinders approaches the Lady, it is from beyond the hedge wall, so he is moving toward the fountain. The subsequent attack from Goodfellow propels him into the Lady's bench...he turns and charges Goodfellow, only to be passed on into the fountain itself. Cinders should have been nearer the fountain than Goodfellow, so the vector is incorrect to end with a splash. Is my sense of the geography incorrect?

• The grappel - why, beyond mood/cinematic effect, would it curl around Cinders' legs and trip him up? Straight line, so it shouldn't wrap up...again, a nitpick, I grant, but something that gave me pause.

In describing the conversation between the Lady and Goodfellow, I think that again we see too many adjectives ("...quick, terse, to-the-point and ever so slightly condescending...") - pick two, three at the most; and one mischaracterization - the Lady's lie is barely that, perhaps more a gilding, and isn't really flustered by definition - she was smooth and calm.

All in all, I liked it - the mood was clearly defined and the sequence (with the one exception) played out without any jarring camera shifts. Had you not represented it as fanfiction, I wouldn't have known that it was (though the link between Robin Goodfellow and Robin/Batman is clear, its an established archetype)...and given many people's immediate reaction to that "genre"...well, you see where I'm going.

[Zolkabro]

Would a story dealing with racism be allowed, or is it blocked by the forum rules? I have a story which I would like to put up, but I am not sure it would be suitable.

In the mean time:
Critique of Chapter One of RL, by Emerald Pheonix

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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.”

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I think this is an incredibly inventive idea. Two organisations, CHAOS and ORDER, fundamental opposites of the world, waging war. I was gripped by it, and it is very well written. However, the colours did get distracting. I understand that you want to distinguish very plainly between the different people, however it does make it hard to read in places, especially the yellow. You should use darker, subtler colours.
It was also not quite clear at times whether they were conversing over the internet, or in real life. In the last spoiler, I thought it was over the internet until there was all the physical action because of TheFighter missusing the word gay.
I also find it rather ironic that it is ORDER who breaks the rules, and CHAOS who sticks to them.
Good job, It is a very interesting plot idea, and a great story overall!

[Zolkabro]

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Thanks. I wasn't certain if it would work or not, or if it would come across as laziness.

The "thought" about the weather having a sense of humor was being presented by the narrator of the nascent story-within-a-story and not a character, so I had thought it was left unitalicized. I could be wrong about the mechanics of that.

I'm surprised that people didn't get the real joke, though. When he finally knew what to write, he'd decided he'd write a story about not knowing what to write--the story he later submitted. That's why I threw in the framework of the actual challenge and mentioned GITP--so that people would see that it wasn't just a story about not knowing what to write, it was the story of itself being written. Apparently I didn't get that point across, since you're not the only one to ask. So now I can't help but wonder where I went wrong there.

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I know that the story he wrote was this one. I said that at the end - that it would make a good rigmarole. Remember?
Don't think that you went wrong. For the people who do guess, they get the joke; for the people who don't guess, it's a good line that keeps them guessing.

[banjo1985]

I received permission from the mods to ressurect this thread, I'm a licensed necromancer today!

Not sure whether anybody is really interested in restarting the writing and critique posting, but there's no harm in trying I guess. I've re-written the stuff I posted very early on in the thread, and added a few more chapters to boot. Up until I went back to this I hadn't written for something like eight months, so critique is always good, right? I have a little more written, but I'll stick at three chapters so I don't intimidate any potential commenters with Big Walls O'TextTM.

Inner Demons (5000ish words)
Chapter 1

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The crypt was deathly cold, despite the summer warmth outside. It had been a blistering July day, and it was still humid even with the sun half dipped behind the horizon, but the sun’s rays had done nothing to thaw this particular place. A crypt like this would never thaw, not whilst the gate remained open far below. It was a bit of a mystery really, how the gates made places so cold, especially when you considered what they opened onto. The man in the cream suit stretched out a pale hand and placed it on one of the large grey slabs that lined the walls. The stone was almost freezing, it chilled and numbed his hand in the few seconds between him touching it and pulling away.

“Frigid today, aren’t we?” Markus Pewter smiled to himself and strolled over to the three stone coffins that sat against the far wall, each engraved with the names and epitaph’s of the supposed interred. He read the inscription on the tarnished brass plate of the middle coffin, just as he had so many times before. Edward Arch, for him the Gate is always open. It was strange as far as epitaphs went, and no lifespan, no clue as to how old the coffin or the crypt around it actually was. The dull grey stones of the crypt were ageless and gave away nothing. The cemetery itself was supposedly at least three hundred years old, but local records were notoriously sketchy at best, erroneous at worst. True or not, the gate had always been here in some form, and that was what mattered. The other coffins were apparently home to Alice and Victor Arch, also without age, and apparently not important enough even for a tagline. It wasn’t them Pewter was interested in though, it was Edward that he had come to see.

“Hi again Eddie, care to share some hospitality?” He moved to the head of the coffin and gave the lid a light tap. Immediately the heavy stone slid towards the foot of the casket, as if on a cushion of air, revealing a cold and sterile interior. Pewter doubted the stone casket had ever been occupied, and he was pretty sure Edward Arch had never existed either. Even if he had, he’d never taken up the option of this particular bit of eternal real estate. Alice and Victor on the other hand, they might well be around, though he’d never opened up the other coffins to find out. The dead had earned their rest after all, and he wasn’t about to disturb them without good reason. There were too many troubles in the living world without delving into the land of the dead.

The lid stopped silently almost halfway down the coffin, about where the resident’s waist would have been. Pewter stepped in and sat down, sliding his legs down into the darkness. When he was comfortable he lay back and closed his eyes as the coffin lid slipped soundlessly back over him, cutting him off from the world outside. That was alright though; it wasn’t anyone in this world that he wanted to talk to.

* * * * *

It was all a matter of concentration really, just one little thought and you were there. You just had to know what you were doing. Before he even opened his eyes Pewter knew from the dramatic change in temperature that he was there. Dry heat raked harshly at his exposed skin and he immediately started to sweat in his suit. He stood up and dusted himself down as best he could, though the parched red earth seemed to stick like glue to pretty much everything. He was standing on a small patch of ground surrounded by a crowd of jagged black rocks that towered over him on all sides. The rocks bathed the tiny area in deep shadow and blocked out most of the watery grey light of the place, making it feel like night. A narrow trail picked a path through the rocks to the east, where the ground started to fall away sharply towards a dried up riverbed far below. He’d been down there a few times before, but there was no need today. The reason for his trip was much closer to home.

“Come on out my little friend, I know you’re here.” Something shifted behind one of the smaller rocks off to the left, but kept itself hidden. Pewter smiled. “If you’re going to hide you at least need to make sure you stay quiet.”
He slipped a hand into the breast pocket of his jacket and bought out a battered yellow and red badge, its pin bent and broken. There was a rough face printed on it, the yellow half smiling, the red half scowling with rage. Both halves were marred by spots of dried blood. He held the badge between thumb and forefinger, then flicked it onto the ground several yards away from him. He waited.
“A-an offering?” The voice that came from behind the rock was high and cracked, like a young girls sing-song voice made hoarse by grief or fear. It was weak and needy, every syllable seeming to reach out and grasp for attention, for reassurance. Pewter said nothing, just waited patiently, a knowing smile playing across his sharp features.

After a few moments a dark shape detached itself from the shielding bulk of the boulder and scuttled cautiously over to where the badge lay on the ground. It was a small creature, about the size of a Labrador, bipedal but hunched over so that its arms dragged across the floor. More than anything it looked like a cross between a hedgehog some nightmare primate, all bony spines and long wiry limbs. Its pock-marked skin was midnight blue, except for the places where red sores and lesions opened like infected wounds, weeping with yellow puss. Its face was surprisingly human in a bestial kind of way; two beady little red eyes peered out from underneath a protruding forehead studded with horns and sores. It snuffled around the badge then looked up at Pewter, its eyes glowing like fiery embers. Pewter’s smile faltered, but he held his ground. As grotesque as the creature looked, he’d met with the Wretch class demon enough times to know it was utterly spineless. It snatched up the badge in one long fingered hand and retreated a few yards.

“What you want White Suit Man? Longing been good, very very good! Stay away from crypt, just like Longing told! Longing stay this side, not cause more trouble Longing swear!”
Pewter laughed a little, he couldn’t help himself. The little demon was terrified of him; it was actually quite perverse when you compared the threat posed by his kind to all humanity with the complete and utter spinelessness of this particular creature. It was hard to believe that the only difference between Longing and the most powerful of the Conclave was the strength of the emotion that had spawned it. He wasn’t even sure he truly believed it himself. “It’s cream actually. I’m not here about that anyway, I know you’ve been a good little boy. I’ve got far more important things on my mind.” The creature rubbed its hands together nervously and stared up at him, seemingly unconvinced. “What’s going on down here, someone pour boiling water down the anthill?”

Longing shifted on its splayed bird-like feet and looked down at the ground. “Masters are restless. Disturbed. All demons on edge, smaller one’s forced out cities. Consumed even! Longing scared...something big happening.”
At least that explained why his workload had gone up so much recently. There was one obvious question to ask, so Pewter asked it. “What’s happening then Longing? It’s bleeding through into our world, in the last few weeks there’s been more of your kind coming through the gates than there have for years. It’s only a matter of time before one slips through the net, and some poor drunken bastard sees something. There are only so many sightings of the Baleford Cemetery Cougar that people can take before they start asking questions. More importantly, I’m starting to run out of bullets.”
The threat wasn’t lost on Longing. The little demon began to gibber and quail, and held its spidery hands up in a gesture of surrender.
“Longing not know! Longing not know! Longing nothing! Masters ignore, pick on, not tell anything! Please, Longing good! Tell White Suit Man all Longing knows!”

Pewter sighed and shook his head. Longing wasn’t lying. The poor Wretch didn’t have it in him, there wasn’t a malicious bone in his twisted little body. The demon had the higher level intelligence that most of his kind lacked, but none of the physical strength or predatory and murderous instinct. He was also an awful liar and a hopeless coward. All in all, Pewter had been very lucky to come across a demon weak and spineless enough to be threatened into being an informant, and bright enough to actually articulate what he’d seen. “Have you got nothing for me little guy? Think for a minute, work that grey matter a little.”

The demon nodded, eager to at least seem helpful. Pewter waited patiently while Longing doodled on the ground with a ragged claw and muttered to himself. Just as he was about to give up Longing squealed in triumph, his beady red eyes glowing. “Longing remember! Master pass through city…two lights ago. Towards other gate, one Longing go through in big stone building. Longing ate lots of skitterlegs!” Pewter nodded. The demon was talking about the gate under Stanford Castle in Yorkshire. Having been alerted to a rash of missing and mutilated pets and cattle in the surrounding area he had tracked down the demon within the castle walls, gnawing on a dead rat. In Longing’s vocabulary skitterlegs were pretty much anything topside that didn’t walk like a human, like vermin, sheep and cats. That was when they had come to their agreement. He looked back down at the demon and saw it was reminiscing just like he was. A tapered blue tongue flicked around its lips, no doubt tasting the blood and crunchy bones all over again. The Wretch noticed Pewter’s glare and carried on quickly. “Longing follow to gate. Think might bring skitterlegs back, offering even. Hound with Master, big big. Hound went through gate, Master stay in city. Master say something to Hound before go. Master speak quiet, but Longing hear!” The demon pointed at himself proudly and clapped his long spindly hands, like a dog wagging its tail after performing a trick.
Pewter felt his blood run cold. If the Conclave were intentionally sending Hounds topside it could only mean one thing. They were hunting something in the mortal world, something important. If it was important to the Conclave…
“Longing…it’s very important you tell me exactly what the Master said. Think.”

The demon thought for a long moment, then his horned brow furrowed in concentration as he spat the properly spoken words out like they were poison. “You will…find and hunt the Key…all gates shall…be blown open…for the Cas-tig-at-ion. Exactly what Master say!”
This was bad. “Two lights ago you said?”
Longing nodded. “Two lights, one dark.”
Pewter stalked away without another word, his face pallid. He might already be too late.

Chapter 2

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Celeste Rothen tottered out of the club and into the cool night-time air. It did little to clear her fuzzy head, she was too far gone for that and would be in for one hell of a headache in the morning. The whole world was swimming pleasantly in front of her, and pretty much everything was hilarious. She swivelled round and waved goodbye to her two friends, they were heading to another club up the street. She watched them walk off with eyes that weren’t quite focussed. Celeste giggled and started back towards the university on unsteady legs and impractical heels. It wasn’t far back to campus, only twenty minutes even with her so much the worse for wear; she’d be fine on her own.

She soon left the crowds and noise of Stanford’s club district behind, now she passed the yawning dark glass facades of shop-fronts on either side as she meandered down the city’s main shopping stretch. The pedestrian-only street was completely deserted at 2am, the pubs were already closed hours ago and the hardcore clubbers wouldn’t be out for another hour or two. Celeste wondered past a group of phone boxes and got distracted by a blue dress in the window of her favourite fashion chain. She squinted short-sightedly through the glass to try and tried to read the price tag, but inebriation and the fact her glasses were discarded in a draw at home conspired against her. She grumbled in frustration and cupped her hands around her eyes to cut out the meagre street lighting.

Unnoticed, a deeper shadow coalesced in the darkness behind the stand of phone kiosks. It was sleek, black, and as silent as death.

Celeste gave up trying to read and started off down the street, rubbing at her eyes. The black shape made as if to leave the cover of the kiosks, but at the last second something made it hold back, a subconscious imperative it barely recognised let alone understood. Still, it obeyed, crouching back into the darkness. Thick crimson saliva dripped to the bricked pavement and immediately scorched it a dead black in ragged circles wherever it fell. The shape bided its time and watched.

Celeste spun around, almost falling and turning an ankle as she did so. Probably not a good idea to spin so fast after so much vodka, but a magnificent thought had just occurred to her. She pointed a long manicured nail at the now distant shop front and came forward a few steps for emphasis as she spoke. “Tomorrow you’re mine. You word my marks…umm…yeah!” Sod the economics text book she needed, no doubt someone would let her borrow a copy until pay day came round again. The ridiculousness of threatening a dress in a shop window suddenly occurred to her all at once. She laughed out loud and turned back in the direction of Stanford Universities residencies.

The black shape detached itself from the shadow of the kiosks and padded after the girl, finally revealing itself under the glare of a street light. Despite its size it was completely silent, the consummate predator. Not that it had to be. Celeste’s hearing was ruined from the pounding bass in the club, and she was paying almost no attention to anything around her. It was a massive creature out of the deepest depths of nightmare, a jet black killing machine of ashen horns and heavily slabbed muscle five feet tall at the shoulder. Two blood red eyes glowed brightly from a huge head that was almost entirely distended jaw and gleaming obsidian fangs. It stalked Celeste, closing in behind her, more drool pattering on the paving below. It could taste the girl’s blood already, its tiny brain filled with the sensations of bones shattering, warm flesh in its jaws, blood on its tongue. The creature made a guttural sound deep in its throat and coiled ready to pounce.

Maybe she spotted the looming shape reflected in one of the windows beside her, even through her malaise, or smelt the faint whiff of sulphur in the air. Either way Celeste managed to turn around just before the beast struck. Luck sucks that way sometimes.

She got a momentary glimpse of a massive bipedal frame and oily black skin before the nightmare creature barrelled into her at chest height, sending her flying. She hit the path hard, expelling the breath from her lungs in a harsh gasp that had been meant for a scream, a scream that may have had the slightest chance of saving her. The beast landed square on top of her, its weight all too real as her ribs snapped under the pressure, one puncturing her left lung. A laboured wheeze escaped her as she stared up at the unbelievable creature, her mind only just starting to process what was happening to her. It snorted hot damp air through fluted ducts either side of its head; its breath smelt of burnt and rotting flesh. Two glowing red orbs closed in on her as the demon lowered its wedge shaped head towards her face. The beast shivered, delaying the killing blow to soak up the fear and pain rolling off its helpless prey.

Celeste’s eyes widened as she realised she was going to die. She was suffocating under the weight of a creature that had no right to exist, couldn’t exist. But here it was, sniffing the air out of her while she was gradually crushed beneath its massive bulk. Abby would have got a kick out of knowing something like this was a living breathing reality, it was just the kind of thing that stirred her morbid curiosity. Pity she wasn’t going to have a chance to tell her, not that they’d spoken in years anyway. With the last of her guttering strength Celeste bought her arms up to protect her head. The movement seemed to snap the beast out of its emotional feast. It growled deep in its throat and snapped her left hand off at the wrist as if it was made of paper. Blood fountained into the night as Celeste’s vision started to grey at the edges. She realised dimly that she wouldn’t be buying that blue dress after all...it was strange what you thought about in your last few moments.
As the twin spectres of shock and blood loss finally took her under, the last thing Celeste Rothen ever saw was the monsters huge dog-like head diving for her throat.

* * * * *

Pewter jogged up the exit ramp of Stanford City train station and out onto the main street. He was tired, sweaty, and had a growing sense of dread right in the pit of his stomach. He had travelled straight back topside rather than risk a trek to the other gate through Longing’s realm. That had turned out to be a mistake. The church had been empty when he had got back, and increasingly frantic mobile calls had received no response. Without the Land Rover Pewter had had to resort to late night public transport; a combination of irregular buses and the overnight train to get him to Stanford. All things considered he had made good time to get here in less than six hours, but the journey had felt like an eternity. At least in the old off-roader he would have had driving to concentrate on, to take his mind off things.

He tipped his wrap-around sunglasses lower on his nose and peered out over the dark lenses. A fading purple streamer of essence ran all the way down the street in both directions for as far as he could see, proof of a demons recent presence for eyes such as his. The trail was fresh and unbroken, but wouldn’t remain so for long. An hour later and there would have been nothing left for him to follow. Hounds were mean as hell, but as lesser demons their trails were weak and dissipated quickly. Pewter made an educated guess and followed it deeper into Stanford’s centre, the horrible feeling in his stomach growing with every step.

He found a congealing pool of blood in the middle of a major shopping street, deserted at such an early hour. A gory streak of red led to the concealing shadows of an alleyway, another trail that could only lead to no good. The body had been dragged into the mouth of the alleyway and discarded like a piece of garbage. It had been a young woman of about twenty, there was just about enough left of her to work that out. Pewter bit down on the bile that threatened to overwhelm him and looked away. He hadn’t been able to admit it to himself during the journey, but he’d known he was too late from the moment Longing had told him. Now he was going to need to work out what exactly he had been too late for, starting with why this poor girl had been hunted down and killed. More importantly, why the Conclave had invested the significant energy required to send a Hound out into the mortal realm, and what it had to do with the Castigation.

There was no-one on the main street; he had a little time. He bent over the corpse and started the grim investigation. He found a small bag still caught around the girl’s shoulder, inside he found a purse amongst the makeup, small change and other usual detritus. He flicked through the cards inside and found a pretty redhead looking out of a driving licence at him. A Stanford University ID card and several photo booth style pictures followed. Her name was Celeste Louise Rothen, turned twenty less than a week ago. The name meant nothing to him. He replaced the purse and carried on, his lips set in a grim line. He should have known he’d get no clue from her belongings, not when there was a pool of blood and a still-warm corpse to search instead.

There was a strange black mark on the girls remaining wrist, partially concealed by a watch so that he hadn’t noticed it at first. He lifted her arm up with a gloved hand to get a closer look, and sucked in a shocked breath between his teeth. “Oh ****…” It was a little tattoo, recent by the look of it, depicting two old style keys with their rings placed on top of one another, making a single key with two spokes. Pewter held up his phone in a shaking hand and snapped a picture, for what good it would do.

“C’mon, it could be nothing,” he whispered to himself, “A tattoo’s no proof of anything.” It was true of course, but it was one hell of a coincidence to find the symbol of the Gatekeeper in this situation. The only sign that could have been any direr was if the girl had a birthmark or scar or something. Pewter sighed and continued to search. It was like a bad car accident, he didn’t want to look but he couldn’t help himself. He had to know.

It turned out to be a scar, high up on her left thigh. It was ragged and broken, an old scar stretched and distorted by childhood growth, but it was still obvious what it was. An old double pronged key, the prongs pointing in opposite directions. The symbol of the Gatekeeper.
“It can’t be…” Pewter sagged forward and put his head in his hands. Suddenly even the shadows of the alleyway were too bright. He felt sick deep down is his stomach, the feeling of dread down there had burst open like a rotten fruit to consume him from the inside. Behind his closed eyelids demons danced in the ruins of a blazing tower block, cavorting amongst the flames in a horrible dance of perverse pleasure. “So that’s it. The Castigation’s coming…we’re all ****ed.” Each word was dead and toneless to his ears, nothing but the pointless whispers of a condemned soul. He stayed like that for a while, eyes closed and head in hands, bent over a young woman’s body that heralded the end of the mortal world.

The closing whoop of police sirens finally bought Pewter out of himself. Someone had noticed the bloodstain out in the street no doubt, but had been too scared to follow the trail into the alleyway. A small mercy then, he’d have had a lot of explaining to do otherwise. He didn’t want to spend the last few days of his life in a police cell. He stood up and walked away, his mind a chaotic whirlpool of nightmares, regrets, and consequences. In the deepest shadows at the far end of the alleyway, Celeste Rothen’s spirit watched him go.

Chapter 3

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Pewter returned home to wait out the last few days of mortal existence, figuring it was better to die amongst friends than anywhere else. It was an unexpected but welcome surprise when over the next three days absolutely nothing untoward happened. It was a bit like hearing noises in the dead of night and finding out there actually weren’t any intruders rifling through your possessions, a massive relief and anti-climax in equal measure. The question was, why? The Castigation myth, or inevitable future if you believed the demons of the Conclave, was pretty clear on the matter. It was full-on stereotypical apocalypse stuff like you got in big Hollywood movies, almost funny if he hadn’t seen the very real and immediate danger for himself. The gates between the mortal world and Otherside would remain closed to all but a trickle of life, until something known as the Gatekeeper was discovered. Details were sketchy about exactly what the Gatekeeper was, object, place, or person, but its fate was clear. Destruction of the Gatekeeper would blow every gate between the mortal world and Otherside wide open, allowing free and easy passage between both worlds. Thousands upon thousands of demons would stream into the mortal world, intent on the kind of chaos and destruction that not even the human race could match. The mortals would fight of course, they always did, but they wouldn’t have much of a chance against such an onslaught. A double spoked key was supposed to be the symbol of the Gatekeeper, and the mark on the dead girl had been conclusive enough to Pewter, who was more knowledgeable than most on the subject. Even so, three days had passed without any kind of incursion, and a visit to the Baleford gate had revealed nothing untoward. It was rather perplexing really.

Still, no imminent Castigation meant he had a little time to pay his respects. After all, the Rothen girl’s death had been at least partly his fault. Hadn’t Ally been pleading with him to get a second car for the group for the last six months? With wheels he just might have been able to get to her in time and put the Hound down before it had chance to complete the hunt. Gatekeeper or not, she hadn’t deserved the premature and terrible death she had been dealt.

The authorities had done a frighteningly efficient job of hiding the gory details of the girl’s death, as they usually did when things happened that they couldn’t or didn’t want to explain. The murder had only managed to make Stanford’s local paper, with a story so ridiculous Pewter thought blaming the girl’s death on a demon from another world would have been more believable to the general populace. Celeste Rothen had drank the night away in the Indigo Garden nightclub, then headed for her apartment alone. On the way the alcohol in her system had taken a firm grip on her and she had collapsed in the mouth of the alleyway, unconscious but not dead. A pack of feral city dogs had then set upon her as she lay helpless, and she had died of blood loss before anyone had found her. Pewter had laughed at that, knowing for a fact there were very few stray animals of any kind in Stanford. Longing had decimated the population of strays several years before, and numbers had not had a chance to recover.

The girl’s body had been released to her family, who just happened to live in Baleford, and the funeral was scheduled for that afternoon at the city’s main cemetery, somewhere he knew with more than a passing familiarity. He wouldn’t intrude, just pay his respects from a distance before delving deeper into the whole Castigation myth. It was the least he could do.

[Danne]

Hey, I just wanted to say that I am definitely interested in keeping this thread going. It's almost midnight here and I need to be up early tomorrow, so I'm not going to do anything tonight, but I'll be happy to review your chapters as soon as I have the time, banjo.

[FoE]

Critique of Inner Demons, by Banjo1985

It's good, quite good, but needs some work.

I really liked the world-building aspect of the story. I liked the discussion of demons, their hierarchies, their habits and the hint at "Gates." The flavour is great — very Dresden Files-esque. The plot is also good and holds a lot of promise. I'm interested to see where it goes.

The writing is good, but I think you're trying a little hard to be descriptive. You need to be a bit more succinct. Try to be descriptive, but try to consider why some of these details are necessary and trim some of the fat.

Your weakest point is characterization. I don't really get a sense of what this Pewter is all about. The girl who got killed, well, she's a plot device at best, but Pewter is the main character. I got more of a sense of Longing's character.

I think you miss a few opportunities to give a sense of what's going through the man's head. Here's an example: he's kneeling over a torn-up girl and examining her thigh for a scar. At the very least I'd be feeling like a pervert, or make a dark joke about how this wasn't how I pictured myself peeling back some college girl's knickers. That's an opportunity for a spot of black comedy there.

There was also the odd grammatical error, but those happen. Anyways, hope that helps.

[Savannah]

I'd never helped with this, although I kept meaning to. Guess I'll start now.

Critique of Inner Demons, by banjo1985

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First of all, I didn't read FoE's critique, so as not to bias myself, so my apologies if I repeat something already said.

What I liked:
* Good spelling and grammer.
* Awesome idea.
* Good writing style. (I have a few nitpicks, but overall I like the way you write; it works well with the 'horror' type story.)

What I didn't like:
* Sometimes too much description made it hard to follow.
* I had a really hard time relating to Pewter; I couldn't figure out why he was doing what he was doing, and I really couldn't describe his personality if someone asked me to.
* No ending You must post the ending once you've written it.

Overall, I really liked it, but there are a few things that I think would improve it.

Paragraph-by-paragraph detailed critique (and grammer notes, although those are all minor):

Chapter 1

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Inner Demons (5000ish words)
Chapter 1
The crypt was deathly cold, despite the summer warmth outside. It had been a blistering July day, and it was still humid even with the sun half dipped behind the horizon, but the sun’s rays had done nothing to thaw this particular place. A crypt like this would never thaw, not whilst the gate remained open far below. It was a bit of a mystery really, how the gates made places so cold, especially when you considered what they opened onto. The man in the cream suit stretched out a pale hand and placed it on one of the large grey slabs that lined the walls. The stone was almost freezing, it chilled and numbed his hand in the few seconds between him touching it and pulling away.

I like the title. I'm not entirely sure how it fits with the story, unfortunately, but I like it.

Your opening sentence is awesome, it really grabs my attention. Unfortunately, the rest of the paragraph looses my attention because it is so wordy. I realize that you're trying to describe it, but that much description actually makes it harder for me to visualize.

Becuase of the sentance right before you introduce Pewter, it made me think that he was some sort of demon from hell, which was confusing later. Perhaps puting his introduction in a new paragraph would help.

“Frigid today, aren’t we?” Markus Pewter smiled to himself and strolled over to the three stone coffins that sat against the far wall, each engraved with the names and epitaph’s of the supposed interred. He read the inscription on the tarnished brass plate of the middle coffin, just as he had so many times before.: "Edward Arch, for him the Gate is always open." It was strange as far as epitaphs went, and no lifespan, no clue as to how old the coffin or the crypt around it actually was. The dull grey stones of the crypt were ageless and gave away nothing. The cemetery itself was supposedly at least three hundred years old, but local records were notoriously sketchy at best, erroneous at worst. True or not, the gate had always been here in some form, and that was what mattered. The other coffins were apparently home to Alice and Victor Arch, also without age, and apparently not important enough even for a tagline. It wasn’t them Pewter was interested in though, it was Edward that he had come to see.

Again, this is a bit too much description for me, which made it harder for me to hold all the information in my head to visualize. Also, for some reason the description of the coffins makes me think they are standing upright, but later description makes me think they are lying down.

“Hi again Eddie, care to share some hospitality?” He moved to the head of the coffin and gave the lid a light tap. Immediately the heavy stone slid towards the foot of the casket, as if on a cushion of air, revealing a cold and sterile interior. Pewter doubted the stone casket had ever been occupied, and he was pretty sure Edward Arch had never existed either. Even if he had, he’d never taken up the option of this particular bit of eternal real estate. Alice and Victor on the other hand, they might well be around, although he’d never opened up the other coffins to find out. The dead had earned their rest after all, and he wasn’t about to disturb them without good reason. There were too many troubles in the living world without delving into the land of the dead.

You often start a paragraph with a statement from a character without any "he said"-type of clarification as to who is speaking. When there is more than one character, this can get a bit confusing, and it also makes you lose an opportunity to give the speaker some more characterization. Contrast "he said jokingly", "he sighed", and so forth.

The lid stopped silently almost halfway down the coffin, about where the resident’s waist would have been. Pewter stepped in and sat down, sliding his legs down into the darkness. When he was comfortable he lay back and closed his eyes as the coffin lid slipped soundlessly back over him, cutting him off from the world outside. That was alright though; it wasn’t anyone in this world that he wanted to talk to.

I'm not entirely sure why there is a break between this and the next paragraph; it hardly seems enough of a change to warrent a break. I like the closing sentace of this paragraph a lot.

It was all a matter of concentration, really, just one little thought and you were there. You just had to know what you were doing. Before he even opened his eyes Pewter knew from the dramatic change in temperature that he was there. Dry heat raked harshly at his exposed skin and he immediately started to sweat in his suit. He stood up and dusted himself down as best he could, although the parched red earth seemed to stick like glue to pretty much everything. He was standing on a small patch of ground surrounded by a crowd of jagged black rocks that towered over him on all sides. The rocks bathed the tiny area in deep shadow and blocked out most of the watery grey light of the place, making it feel like night. A narrow trail picked a path through the rocks to the east, where the ground started to fall away sharply towards a dried up riverbed far below. He’d been down there a few times before, but there was no need today. The reason for his trip was much closer to home.

Good description, but again it might be a bit much. At this point, on my first read-through, I'm still thinking he's a demon, but on my second read-through, I'm starting to wonder how he knows all this.

“Come on out my little friend, I know you’re here.” Something shifted behind one of the smaller rocks off to the left, but kept itself hidden. Pewter smiled., “If you’re going to hide you at least need to make sure you stay quiet.”

Again, this would be a good spot to put "he <blank>" after the first statement. Does he whisper it? Command? Call softly? Say it with a smile?

He slipped a hand into the breast pocket of his jacket and brought out a battered yellow and red badge, its pin bent and broken. There was a rough face printed on it, the yellow half smiling, the red half scowling with rage. Both halves were marred by spots of dried blood. He held the badge between thumb and forefinger, then flicked it onto the ground several yards away from him. He waited.

You spend a lot of time describing this pin, but never mention it again or explain why it is significant. With that level of description, I was expecting it to be critical to the story.

“A-an offering?” The voice that came from behind the rock was high and cracked, like a young girls sing-song voice made hoarse by grief or fear. It was weak and needy, every syllable seeming to reach out and grasp for attention, for reassurance. Pewter said nothing, just waited patiently, a knowing smile playing across his sharp features.

After a few moments a dark shape detached itself from the shielding bulk of the boulder and scuttled cautiously over to where the badge lay on the ground. It was a small creature, about the size of a Labrador, bipedal but hunched over so that its arms dragged across the floor. More than anything it looked like a cross between a hedgehog and some nightmare primate, all bony spines and long wiry limbs. Its pock-marked skin was midnight blue, except for the places where red sores and lesions opened like infected wounds, weeping with yellow puss. Its face was surprisingly human in a bestial kind of way; two beady little red eyes peered out from underneath a protruding forehead studded with horns and sores. It snuffled around the badge then looked up at Pewter, its eyes glowing like fiery embers. Pewter’s smile faltered, but he held his ground. As grotesque as the creature looked, he’d met with the Wretch class demon enough times to know it was utterly spineless. It snatched up the badge in one long fingered hand and retreated a few yards.

I like the description here. I care more about characters than locations, and the way you've phrased this makes it easy for me to envision Longing. I wish I could pinpoint the difference between this description and the others, but I can't.

“What you want White Suit Man? Longing been good, very very good! Stay away from crypt, just like Longing told! Longing stay this side, not cause more trouble Longing swear!”

"...he whined", "...he cackled", etc.

Pewter laughed a little, he couldn’t help himself. The little demon was terrified of him; it was actually quite perverse when you compared the threat posed by his kind to all humanity with the complete and utter spinelessness of this particular creature. It was hard to believe that the only difference between Longing and the most powerful of the Conclave was the strength of the emotion that had spawned it. He wasn’t even sure he truly believed it himself. “It’s cream actually. I’m not here about that anyway, I know you’ve been a good little boy. I’ve got far more important things on my mind.” The creature rubbed its hands together nervously and stared up at him, seemingly unconvinced. “What’s going on down here, someone pour boiling water down the anthill?”

Because you've switched from Pewter to Longing in the second-to-last sentence, it's not clear who says the last sentence.

Longing shifted on its splayed bird-like feet and looked down at the ground. “Masters are restless. Disturbed. All demons on edge, smaller one’s forced out cities. Consumed even! Longing scared...something big happening.”
At least that explained why his workload had gone up so much recently. There was one obvious question to ask, so Pewter asked it. “What’s happening then, Longing? It’s bleeding through into our world,; in the last few weeks there’s been more of your kind coming through the gates than there have for years. It’s only a matter of time before one slips through the net, and some poor drunken bastard sees something. There are only so many sightings of the Baleford Cemetery Cougar that people can take before they start asking questions. More importantly, I’m starting to run out of bullets.”

This is where I first realized that Pewter wasn't a demon on my first read-through. It's a good speech, but the confusion over who Pewter was made it fall flat.

The threat wasn’t lost on Longing. The little demon began to gibber and quail, and held its spidery hands up in a gesture of surrender. “Longing not know! Longing not know! Longing nothing! Masters ignore, pick on, not tell anything! Please, Longing good! Tell White Suit Man all Longing knows!”

Pewter sighed and shook his head. Longing wasn’t lying. The poor Wretch didn’t have it in him, there wasn’t a malicious bone in his twisted little body. The demon had the higher level intelligence that most of his kind lacked, but none of the physical strength or predatory and murderous instinct. He was also an awful liar and a hopeless coward. All in all, Pewter had been very lucky to come across a demon weak and spineless enough to be threatened into being an informant, and bright enough to actually articulate what he’d seen. “Have you got nothing for me little guy? Think for a minute, work that grey matter a little.”

The demon nodded, eager to at least seem helpful. Pewter waited patiently while Longing doodled on the ground with a ragged claw and muttered to himself. Just as he was about to give up, Longing squealed in triumph, his beady red eyes glowing. “Longing remember! Master pass through city…two lights ago. Towards other gate, one Longing go through in big stone building. Longing ate lots of skitterlegs!” Pewter nodded. The demon was talking about the gate under Stanford Castle in Yorkshire. Having been alerted to a rash of missing and mutilated pets and cattle in the surrounding area, he had tracked down the demon within the castle walls, gnawing on a dead rat. In Longing’s vocabulary skitterlegs were pretty much anything topside that didn’t walk like a human, like vermin, sheep and cats. That was when they had come to their agreement. He looked back down at the demon and saw it was reminiscing just like he was. A tapered blue tongue flicked around its lips, no doubt tasting the blood and crunchy bones all over again. The Wretch noticed Pewter’s glare and carried on quickly. “Longing follow to gate. Think might bring skitterlegs back, offering even. Hound with Master, big big. Hound went through gate, Master stay in city. Master say something to Hound before go. Master speak quiet, but Longing hear!” The demon pointed at himself proudly and clapped his long spindly hands, like a dog wagging its tail after performing a trick.

Not much to say, as this is all good. Normally I don't like unusual speach patterns, but Longing's is well done.

Pewter felt his blood run cold. If the Conclave were intentionally sending Hounds topside it could only mean one thing. They were hunting something in the mortal world, something important. If it was important to the Conclave…

Nice. Beginning to get scary.

“Longing…it’s very important you tell me exactly what the Master said. Think.”

The demon thought for a long moment, then his horned brow furrowed in concentration as he spat the properly spoken words out like they were poison. “You will…find and hunt the Key…all gates shall…be blown open…for the Cas-tig-at-ion. Exactly what Master say!”

This was bad. “Two lights ago you said?”

Longing nodded. “Two lights, one dark.”

Pewter stalked away without another word, his face pallid. He might already be too late.

In this case it's not bad, but remember if you've got more than one character talking that it's better to over-clarify who's saying what than to make the reader figure it out.

I like the way this ends. It's got the proper amount of mystery to make me want to find out what happens next without leaving me wondering what the heck is going on. However, on my first read-through I was having some mixed feelings due to the confusion over whether Pewter was a demon I mentioned before.

Chapter 2

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Celeste Rothen tottered out of the club and into the cool night-time air. It did little to clear her fuzzy head, she was too far gone for that and would be in for one hell of a headache in the morning. The whole world was swimming pleasantly in front of her, and pretty much everything was hilarious. She swivelled round and waved goodbye to her two friends, they were heading to another club up the street. She watched them walk off with eyes that weren’t quite focussed. Celeste giggled and started back towards the university on unsteady legs and impractical heels. It wasn’t far back to campus, only twenty minutes even with her so much the worse for wear; she’d be fine on her own.

You could probably lose some of the description here, but it's not bad. (For example, I'm not entirely sure what the third sentence adds to the story; it didn't change my opinion of her state.) Again, it's a good opening sentence; you just know that something bad is going to happen.

She soon left the crowds and noise of Stanford’s club district behind,; now she passed the yawning dark glass facades of shop-fronts on either side as she meandered down the city’s main shopping stretch. The pedestrian-only street was completely deserted at 2am, the pubs were already closed hours ago and the hardcore clubbers wouldn’t be out for another hour or two. Celeste woandered past a group of phone boxes and got distracted by a blue dress in the window of her favourite fashion chain. She squinted short-sightedly through the glass to try and tried to read the price tag, but inebriation and the fact her glasses were discarded in a drawer at home conspired against her. She grumbled in frustration and cupped her hands around her eyes to cut out the meagre street lighting.

Unnoticed, a deeper shadow coalesced in the darkness behind the stand of phone kiosks. It was sleek, black, and as silent as death.

Just enough description to let me visualize the street without overloading me. Nice and creepy, I like the way the normal setting and events build the feeling that something bad is going to happen, until the Hound appears.

Celeste gave up trying to read and started off down the street, rubbing at her eyes. The black shape made as if to leave the cover of the kiosks, but at the last second something made it hold back, a subconscious imperative it barely recognised, let alone understood. Still, it obeyed, crouching back into the darkness. Thick crimson saliva dripped to the bricked pavement and immediately scorched it a dead black in ragged circles wherever it fell. The shape bided its time and watched.

Celeste spun around, almost falling and turning an ankle as she did so. Probably not a good idea to spin so fast after so much vodka, but a magnificent thought had just occurred to her. She pointed a long manicured nail at the now distant shop front and came forward a few steps for emphasis as she spoke. “Tomorrow you’re mine. You word my marks…umm…yeah!” Sod the economics text book she needed, no doubt someone would let her borrow a copy until pay day came round again. The ridiculousness of threatening a dress in a shop window suddenly occurred to her all at once. She laughed out loud and turned back in the direction of Stanford Universities residencies.

I didn't really get why the Hound knew to not go after Celeste, and I found that this bit actually lowered the tension becuase it made me think that the hound was under orders not to kill her (and that's what the subconscious imparative was).

The black shape detached itself from the shadow of the kiosks and padded after the girl, finally revealing itself under the glare of a street light. Despite its size it was completely silent, the consummate predator. Not that it had to be. Celeste’s hearing was ruined from the pounding bass in the club, and she was paying almost no attention to anything around her. It was a massive creature out of the deepest depths of nightmare, a jet black killing machine of ashen horns and heavily slabbed muscle five feet tall at the shoulder. Two blood red eyes glowed brightly from a huge head that was almost entirely distended jaw and gleaming obsidian fangs. It stalked Celeste, closing in behind her, more drool pattering on the paving below. It could taste the girl’s blood already, its tiny brain filled with the sensations of bones shattering, warm flesh in its jaws, blood on its tongue. The creature made a guttural sound deep in its throat and coiled, ready to pounce.

I was disappointed by the description here, especially after what a good job you did with Longing. I'm assuming that it looks like a dog, but without saying so, I wasn't sure and found it nearly impossible to visualize. I'd also suggest putting the description right after it steps into the light, as I think it will flow better, and putting the comment that Celeste didn't notice right before the sentence about it stalking her (or maybe combine those sentences). Finally, it may be a dialect thing, but "coiled" struck me as a strange word to use here.

Maybe she spotted the looming shape reflected in one of the windows beside her, even through her malaise, or smelt the faint whiff of sulphur in the air. Either way Celeste managed to turn around just before the beast struck. Luck sucks that way sometimes.

I'm not quite sure why it's worse to be killed by a monster when you're facing it than with your back to it. To me, the last sentence just doesn't seem to fit and breaks the tension when it should be most tense.

She got a momentary glimpse of a massive bipedal frame and oily black skin before the nightmare creature barrelled into her at chest height, sending her flying. She hit the path hard, expelling the breath from her lungs in a harsh gasp that had been meant for a scream, a scream that may have had the slightest chance of saving her. The beast landed square on top of her, its weight all too real as her ribs snapped under the pressure, one puncturing her left lung. A laboured wheeze escaped her as she stared up at the unbelievable creature, her mind only just starting to process what was happening to her. It snorted hot damp air through fluted ducts either side of its head; its breath smelt of burnt and rotting flesh. Two glowing red orbs closed in on her as the demon lowered its wedge shaped head towards her face. The beast shivered, delaying the killing blow to soak up the fear and pain rolling off its helpless prey.

Awesome, awesome description. Don't have anything else to say.

Celeste’s eyes widened as she realised she was going to die. She was suffocating under the weight of a creature that had no right to exist, couldn’t exist. But here it was, sniffing the air out of her while she was gradually crushed beneath its massive bulk. Abby would have got a kick out of knowing something like this was a living breathing reality, it was just the kind of thing that stirred her morbid curiosity. Pity she wasn’t going to have a chance to tell her, not that they’d spoken in years anyway. With the last of her guttering strength Celeste bought her arms up to protect her head. The movement seemed to snap the beast out of its emotional feast. It growled deep in its throat and snapped her left hand off at the wrist as if it was made of paper. Blood fountained into the night as Celeste’s vision started to grey at the edges. She realised dimly that she wouldn’t be buying that blue dress after all...it was strange what you thought about in your last few moments.

As the twin spectres of shock and blood loss finally took her under, the last thing Celeste Rothen ever saw was the monsters huge dog-like head diving for her throat.

I don't think that "sniffing" is the right word. Maybe "snuffing"? I like the way that her thoughts start to wander, but introducing Abby with no warning kinda threw me.

Pewter jogged up the exit ramp of Stanford City train station and out onto the main street. He was tired, sweaty, and had a growing sense of dread right in the pit of his stomach. He had travelled straight back topside rather than risk a trek to the other gate through Longing’s realm. That had turned out to be a mistake. The church had been empty when he had got back, and increasingly frantic mobile calls had received no response. Without the Land Rover Pewter had had to resort to late night public transport; a combination of irregular buses and the overnight train to get him to Stanford. All things considered he had made good time to get here in less than six hours, but the journey had felt like an eternity. At least in the old off-roader he would have had driving to concentrate on, to take his mind off things.

This might be a good time to introduce the 'group' refered to later, at least in passing, since as far as the reader knows, he works alone.

He tipped his wrap-around sunglasses lower on his nose and peered out over the dark lenses. A fading purple streamer of essence ran all the way down the street in both directions for as far as he could see, proof of a demons recent presence for eyes such as his. The trail was fresh and unbroken, but wouldn’t remain so for long. An hour later and there would have been nothing left for him to follow. Hounds were mean as hell, but as lesser demons their trails were weak and dissipated quickly. Pewter made an educated guess and followed it deeper into Stanford’s centre, the horrible feeling in his stomach growing with every step.

Some explanation of why he can see this when, presumably, no one else can would help a lot.

He found a congealing pool of blood in the middle of a major shopping street, deserted at such an early hour. A gory streak of red led to the concealing shadows of an alleyway, another trail that could only lead to no good. The body had been dragged into the mouth of the alleyway and discarded like a piece of garbage. It had been a young woman of about twenty, there was just about enough left of her to work that out. Pewter bit down on the bile that threatened to overwhelm him and looked away. He hadn’t been able to admit it to himself during the journey, but he’d known he was too late from the moment Longing had told him. Now he was going to need to work out what exactly he had been too late for, starting with why this poor girl had been hunted down and killed. More importantly, why the Conclave had invested the significant energy required to send a Hound out into the mortal realm, and what it had to do with the Castigation.

Nice description. Continued mentions of the Conclave and Castigation make me very curious (in a good way).

There was no-one on the main street; he had a little time. He bent over the corpse and started the grim investigation. He found a small bag still caught around the girl’s shoulder, inside he found a purse amongst the makeup, small change and other usual detritus. He flicked through the cards inside and found a pretty redhead looking out of a driving licence at him. A Stanford University ID card and several photo booth style pictures followed. Her name was Celeste Louise Rothen, turned twenty less than a week ago. The name meant nothing to him. He replaced the purse and carried on, his lips set in a grim line. He should have known he’d get no clue from her belongings, not when there was a pool of blood and a still-warm corpse to search instead.

Later it mentions he's wearing gloves. It would be a good idea to mention him putting them on here, becuase I was wondering how he was going to search the body without being accused of murder later. Also, isn't he at least a little worried that someone will spot him?

There was a strange black mark on the girls remaining wrist, partially concealed by a watch so that he hadn’t noticed it at first. He lifted her arm up with a gloved hand to get a closer look, and sucked in a shocked breath between his teeth. “Oh ****…” It was a little tattoo, recent by the look of it, depicting two old style keys with their rings placed on top of one another, making a single key with two spokes. Pewter held up his phone in a shaking hand and snapped a picture, for whatever good it would do.

“C’mon, it could be nothing,” he whispered to himself, “A tattoo’s no proof of anything.” It was true of course, but it was one hell of a coincidence to find the symbol of the Gatekeeper in this situation. The only sign that could have been any direr was if the girl had a birthmark or scar or something. Pewter sighed and continued to search. It was like a bad car accident, he didn’t want to look but he couldn’t help himself. He had to know.

It turned out to be a scar, high up on her left thigh. It was ragged and broken, an old scar stretched and distorted by childhood growth, but it was still obvious what it was. An old double pronged key, the prongs pointing in opposite directions. The symbol of the Gatekeeper.

Nice use of "he whispered to himself". That sort of thing is one thing that I think would help earlier in the story. I'm assuming that the **** is the forum, and not you censoring a word. Also, I'm not sure "direr" is a word. Maybe "more dire"?

“It can’t be…” Pewter sagged forward and put his head in his hands. Suddenly even the shadows of the alleyway were too bright. He felt sick deep down isn his stomach, the feeling of dread down there had burst open like a rotten fruit to consume him from the inside. Behind his closed eyelids, demons danced in the ruins of a blazing tower block, cavorting amongst the flames in a horrible dance of perverse pleasure. “So that’s it. The Castigation’s coming…we’re all ****ed.” Each word was dead and toneless to his ears, nothing but the pointless whispers of a condemned soul. He stayed like that for a while, eyes closed and head in hands, bent over a young woman’s body that heralded the end of the mortal world.

Wait, he put his head in his hands while wearing the bloody gloves...eeewww. Beyond that, it's good. Makes me wonder what's going on, but that's good.

The closing whoop of police sirens finally bought Pewter out of himself. Someone had noticed the bloodstain out in the street no doubt, but had been too scared to follow the trail into the alleyway. A small mercy then, he’d have had a lot of explaining to do otherwise. He didn’t want to spend the last few days of his life in a police cell. He stood up and walked away, his mind a chaotic whirlpool of nightmares, regrets, and consequences. In the deepest shadows at the far end of the alleyway, Celeste Rothen’s spirit watched him go.

All I can say is, I hope that spirit watching him go is something that's going to come back later in the story. It's another very good closing sentence.

Chapter 3

Spoiler

Show

Pewter returned home to wait out the last few days of mortal existence, figuring it was better to die amongst friends than anywhere else. It was an unexpected but welcome surprise when over the next three days absolutely nothing untoward happened. It was a bit like hearing noises in the dead of night and finding out there actually weren’t any intruders rifling through your possessions, a massive relief and anti-climax in equal measure. The question was, why? The Castigation myth, or inevitable future if you believed the demons of the Conclave, was pretty clear on the matter. It was full-on stereotypical apocalypse stuff like you got in big Hollywood movies, almost funny if he hadn’t seen the very real and immediate danger for himself. The gates between the mortal world and Otherside would remain closed to all but a trickle of life, until something known as the Gatekeeper was discovered. Details were sketchy about exactly what the Gatekeeper was, object, place, or person, but its fate was clear. Destruction of the Gatekeeper would blow every gate between the mortal world and Otherside wide open, allowing free and easy passage between both worlds. Thousands upon thousands of demons would stream into the mortal world, intent on the kind of chaos and destruction that not even the human race could match. The mortals would fight of course, they always did, but they wouldn’t have much of a chance against such an onslaught. A double spoked key was supposed to be the symbol of the Gatekeeper, and the mark on the dead girl had been conclusive enough to Pewter, who was more knowledgeable than most on the subject. Even so, three days had passed without any kind of incursion, and a visit to the Baleford gate had revealed nothing untoward. It was rather perplexing really.

Going home and doing nothing makes me reevaluate Pewter again. My impression of him earlier was that he's a fighter who won't give up, and here he's given up...

The bit about 'details of what the Gratekeeper is are sketchy' doesn't make sense with Pewter knowing to look for the scar on the girl.

I feel like I need more background on Pewter. Why is he more knowledgeable than most? How did get involved in this mess? This could be a good time to explain those as well, if he uses this time to think about his life.

Still, no imminent Castigation meant he had a little time to pay his respects. After all, the Rothen girl’s death had been at least partly his fault. Hadn’t Ally been pleading with him to get a second car for the group for the last six months? With wheels he just might have been able to get to her in time and put the Hound down before it had chance to complete the hunt. Gatekeeper or not, she hadn’t deserved the premature and terrible death she had been dealt.

I mentioned this earlier, but the introduction of a 'group' without any warning caught me completely off guard. I'd also take some time here to talk about the group. Is it a group that works with him against the demons?

The authorities had done a frighteningly efficient job of hiding the gory details of the girl’s death, as they usually did when things happened that they couldn’t or didn’t want to explain. The murder had only managed to make Stanford’s local paper, with a story so ridiculous Pewter thought blaming the girl’s death on a demon from another world would have been more believable to the general populace. Celeste Rothen had drank the night away in the Indigo Garden nightclub, then headed for her apartment alone. On the way the alcohol in her system had taken a firm grip on her and she had collapsed in the mouth of the alleyway, unconscious but not dead. A pack of feral city dogs had then set upon her as she lay helpless, and she had died of blood loss before anyone had found her. Pewter had laughed at that, knowing for a fact there were very few stray animals of any kind in Stanford. Longing had decimated the population of strays several years before, and numbers had not had a chance to recover.

The girl’s body had been released to her family, who just happened to live in Baleford, and the funeral was scheduled for that afternoon at the city’s main cemetery, somewhere he knew with more than a passing familiarity. He wouldn’t intrude, just pay his respects from a distance before delving deeper into the whole Castigation myth. It was the least he could do.

Heh. Typical reaction, covering everything up. I liked that as it seemed to add a bit of realism.

Finally, FINISH THE STORY!!! It was really interesting, and I want to see how it ends.

Hope that helps! Feel free to ask for any clarifications...

[banjo1985]

Thanks to both of you for the comments, I appreciate analytical critique. I haven't got time to answer any points at the moment, but I'll try get round to it later this week. Especially with the amount of effort Savannah has put into my little story it would be rude not to!

So yeah, I'll respond soon, but all I'll say for now is that I agree with a lot that has been bought up, and that I think it's quite obvious that the last half of Chapter 2 and the whole of Chapter 3 are first drafts.

[Fortuna]

Well, I'll give a critique a try, and if I give enough critiques a try then maybe I'll give a story a try.

Critique of Raz Fox's Story

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The first thing I'll say is that something about it irked me from the start, and I'm still trying to put my finger on it. I think that my problem is that your choice of words keeps changing: we go from one paragraph full of long, Romance words, including one that I didn't know (and that's a rarity in literature), and the next slips sideways into more or less standard English. In my opinion, that's less than desirable.

Your turn of phrase is a little odd, but that could just be me. When I see "The first was..." I expect to see something about the second, for instance, and your choice of five years as opposed to "years" or "forever" was strange. Still, I'm probably just being picky.

Another point that jumped out at me was that when you describe Cinder's attempt to run away, it took me a few minutes to work out that it was his retreat that failed, not his revenge. Again, it's a matter of word choice: "And he would have made it, too..." would have indicated more clearly what was meant.

Now, the reason that I'm focusing solely on the bad is that it's the bad that stands out of a good story. All of that is really editing, and the story itself is (in my opinion) quite interesting. It's not a standalone, but I honestly wanted to keep reading it, and it felt half-open at the end so that although it's clear that the prologue is over, it's equally clear that it's just the prologue that's over. Essentially, your story and structure is good, but I think you need to pay a tiny bit more attention to your editing.

[Savannah]

Random_person, since we're trying to restart this, I think it's like the beginning where you can submit a story without having three critiques first. Otherwise, I don't think it will get off the ground again.

[Fortuna]

Really? It's like Christmas come early!

Not really. I'll throw an old one (about a year and a half old now) out there for the wolves to fall upon and devour. I've heard mixedd reactions, so I want total honesty about this one.

Spoiler

Show

He galloped to the top of the hill, his banner streaming behind him. “Lo! Yonder lieth the dragon's foul lair! Let us valiantly sally forth and destroy the savage beast, for it hath slain many of our gallant comrades!”

They charged down the slope, vaulting off of their noble steeds, and there they met the despicable wyrm in battle. First, they used a most brilliant stratagem, causing the brute to impale itself on spikes that they had bravely laid outside its hole while it slept. Then, they boldly pierced the vermin's wings with a flawlessly aimed hail of arrows. Next they heroically struck the creature from a distance, using spears and javelins. Their next tactic was using heated pokers to poke out the beast's eyes before they used butter knives to boldly chop out its liver... why are you crying? It's only a story. Oh, you feel sorry for the poor dragon? Alright then, here's another story for you.

Once upon a time there was a knight, with armour that shone like the sun over a snowy field-bright, sharp, and cold. You can see him, can't you? He has a face like an eagle's beak, and when he looks down at the cave-and only a little cave mind, as like to a proper dragon cave as a cottage is to a big house. Well, when he looks down on that cave, it is just like another mousehole to him. His trusty squire helps him as he slides off his horse (because it is impossible to jump off a horse in heavy armour) and he walks down the slope. Of course, he walks down slowly, taking care not to fall and get his lovely gilded armour, which he bought especially for a very dear friend of his, dirty. He gets down to the cave and calls into it. There is a doorbell, a lovely doorbell which plays a little song when you ring it, but he is far too important to use doorbells. A dragon comes out, but it is an old dragon, and its scales are like lead and its throat is black with soot, so that it coughs and wheezes as it is coming out. The knight picks up his sword and calls out all the silly things that people say in such situations, like “en garde!” or “have at thee!”, the way that his old albino teacher showed him. But the dragon is old and tired, and it has forgotten to put contact lenses in, and so it smiles and holds out its front legs to give the knight a hug. When the knight sees that, he takes his chance and charges at the dragon like a bolt of lightning. The dragon is still smiling, just a small, happy smile, and then it is dead.

The townsfolk are all showering the knight with praise, while his squire looks on with a tinge of disgust in his eyes. The knight tells the townsfolk the story, and he comments “It must be a stupid dragon, because it is still smiling.” Everything goes quiet, because no-one should speak ill of the dead, even a dead dragon. And the very dear friend of his is the most silent of all, his squire is already too far away to hear, and his old mentor is quietly shaking his head with his sharp red eyes more like a sunset than a forest fire. But more people come to watch, and his words are forgotten, and he goes on to have a long and glorious career. Despite that, he never saw his friend or his squire or his mentor again, and he always feels a bit of an empty place inside.

Do you like the story? The way that the dragon was happy afterwards? You don't think that it could really happen? Well then, perhaps I should tell you another story, a story from some time later.

Once upon a time there was a knight, with armour rusted into a dull red, like the sunset over a desert-old, tired, and dim. You can see him, can't you? He has a face like an old dog's, and when he looks up from the castle-only a little castle, mind, like the little cave-well, when he looks up from that castle, it is like he is looking at a cat, ready to pounce. A dragon swoops down, but slowly, taking care not to ruffle his mane, which he has combed especially for someone he desperately wanted to impress, in the wind. His scales are shining after the polishing that his aide has given them. He gets down to the castle, and crashes right through the ceiling, because he is far too important to use a trapdoor, even a nice trapdoor made of rare woods from strange places. The knight comes out, but he is a very old knight, and his eyes have lost their sparkle and his joints have worn out from using swords and carrying heavy armour, so that he creaks and groans as he emerges. The dragon grins at him and

shows its white teeth and roars and snarls and all the other silly things that dragons do in these situations, in the way that his old coach had shown him, but the knight doesn't know what a hearing aid is, and so he smiles and offers the dragon a cup of tea. When the dragon sees that, he moves like the wind and eats up half of the knight in one gulp, and the knight is smiling, just a small, contented smile, and then he is dead, and the dragon flies away.

When he gets home, he is very proud, and tells all of the other dragons that he has killed a knight while his aide looks on in loathing. He tells them the story, and then he says that the knight must have been a silly knight, because he died smiling. All of the other dragons stand around shocked, because dragons know you should never speak ill of the dead. And the dragoness who he wanted to impress is showing more shock than any of them, and his aide is already on his way to the other side of the world, and his instructor's scales shine more like a pool of tears than a storm as he turns away, lithe as a gecko. And the young dragon goes on to be a great wyrm, but he never sees the dragoness or the aide or his coach, and he is never quite happy with all of his accomplishments.

Ah, now you understand. The old knight was the same as the old dragon, do you think? Close, very close. But of course, stories are not all the same. Let me tell you a story from some time later again, when I was a young man with a head full of glorious tales.

Once upon a time, there was a soldier, with armour like a field in full bloom-beautiful, fresh, never the same from one moment to the next. He walked slowly down a steep slope, because he didn't want to trip and crush the little snowdrop that the cobbler's daughter had given him. He came to the lair of an old dragon, and he rang the doorbell, because he had no illusions of being important and so he had no servants to do it for him. The old dragon, who had once made a living of coaching younger dragons, came out of his lair, and although he was an old dragon, he was still slim and agile, like a gecko or a sparrow, because he exercised regularly. The young soldier said “Good morning! I am very sorry, but I have come to duel you to the death,” because his master had told him to always be polite. The old dragon muttered something about having left the kettle on, and went inside, and got down one of the many books on his library shelf. After a little while, the young soldier was getting impatient, and so he called out to the dragon to come out and fight. When the old dragon came out, the young soldier brandished his sword, and he tried to stab the dragon. After a brief struggle, the soldier was trapped in the dragon's coils, like a fly in a spider's web. He closed his eyes and waited for the massive jaws to close, but the old dragon didn't eat him. Instead, he picked up the book, and began to read a story, a story which was written to make you feel for the poor dragon, a story which started with “Once upon a time, there was a knight, with armor that shone like the sun over a snowy field-bright, sharp, and cold...”

The young soldier thought about the story for a while, and wondered what his master would think, and then the dragon let him go and he thanked him and went home to take up carpentry. He married the cobbler's daughter, and he told stories to the children, and he was very good at making the finest furniture and telling the best stories. But he kept his favourite story for the special children, because they felt sorry for the poor dragon.

[Savannah]

Sorry, Random_person, I've been meaning to read this but I've been really busy...

Critique of untitled, by Random_person

Spoiler

Show

Not really. I'll throw an old one (about a year and a half old now) out there for the wolves to fall upon and devour. I've heard mixedd reactions, so I want total honesty about this one.

Honestly? I have very mixed feelings about it. On the one hand, I get what you are going for, and I like the idea. On the other hand, it somehow doesn't draw me in; if I weren't reading it for the review, I probably wouldn't have finished it.

Spoiler

Show

He galloped to the top of the hill, his banner streaming behind him. “Lo! Yonder lieth the dragon's foul lair! Let us valiantly sally forth and destroy the savage beast, for it hath slain many of our gallant comrades!”

Noooo!!! Not the fake archaic english!!!!

Seriously, though, that really did turn me off. I think one or two words in that style would have given the impression that the speaker was using old fashioned english, without it coming across as corny.

While starting the story in the middle of the action is a good tactic, I felt that there wasn't nearly enough information to figure out what was going on. Who's he talking to? Who is he? What does the area look like? What does he look like? Etc.

They charged down the slope, vaulting off of their noble steeds, and there they met the despicable wyrm in battle. First, they used a most brilliant stratagem, causing the brute to impale itself on spikes that they had bravely laid outside its hole while it slept. Then, they boldly pierced the vermin's wings with a flawlessly aimed hail of arrows. Next they heroically struck the creature from a distance, using spears and javelins. Their next tactic was using heated pokers to poke out the beast's eyes before they used butter knives to boldly chop out its liver... why are you crying? It's only a story. Oh, you feel sorry for the poor dragon? Alright then, here's another story for you.

Halfway through that paragraph is where I would have stopped, if I weren't reading this for review. Because it's not clear that someone is telling a story, it sounds like you are actually writing like that. *shudders* Waaaay too corny.

The ending of the paragraph could use some expansion. I wasn't crying or sorry for the dragon (more disgusted with the knights and the over-the-top description), so it didn't feel like you were talking to me. I'd put it in it's own paragraph and give a bit more to indicate that the narrator is talking to his/her child.

Once upon a time there was a knight, with armour that shone like the sun over a snowy field-bright, sharp, and cold. You can see him, can't you? He has a face like an eagle's beak, and when he looks down at the cave-and only a little cave mind, as like to a proper dragon cave as a cottage is to a big house. Well, when he looks down on that cave, it is just like another mousehole to him. His trusty squire helps him as he slides off his horse (because it is impossible to jump off a horse in heavy armour) and he walks down the slope. Of course, he walks down slowly, taking care not to fall and get his lovely gilded armour, which he bought especially for a very dear friend of his, dirty. He gets down to the cave and calls into it. There is a doorbell, a lovely doorbell which plays a little song when you ring it, but he is far too important to use doorbells. A dragon comes out, but it is an old dragon, and its scales are like lead and its throat is black with soot, so that it coughs and wheezes as it is coming out. The knight picks up his sword and calls out all the silly things that people say in such situations, like “en garde!” or “have at thee!”, the way that his old albino teacher showed him. But the dragon is old and tired, and it has forgotten to put contact lenses in, and so it smiles and holds out its front legs to give the knight a hug. When the knight sees that, he takes his chance and charges at the dragon like a bolt of lightning. The dragon is still smiling, just a small, happy smile, and then it is dead.

Not a fan of the 'you can see him, can't you?' line in this story and the next. No, I can't. Not with the minimal description you are providing.

Grammar nitpick: When you are putting in dashes--like this--you should probably use two or three hyphens, because otherwise it looks like hyphens-like this-and I keep trying to read the words connected.

I think the method of description could work in a story someone is telling, but I didn't really like reading it. All the sentences are about the same length and complexity, which gives a nice rhythm with speaking, but gets boring when reading.

I did really like the "silly things people say in such situations" line. 'Tis very true.

The townsfolk are all showering the knight with praise, while his squire looks on with a tinge of disgust in his eyes. The knight tells the townsfolk the story, and he comments “It must be a stupid dragon, because it is still smiling.” Everything goes quiet, because no-one should speak ill of the dead, even a dead dragon. And the very dear friend of his is the most silent of all, his squire is already too far away to hear, and his old mentor is quietly shaking his head with his sharp red eyes more like a sunset than a forest fire. But more people come to watch, and his words are forgotten, and he goes on to have a long and glorious career. Despite that, he never saw his friend or his squire or his mentor again, and he always feels a bit of an empty place inside.

I was expecting something bad to happen with the dragon coming back...Why did everyone abandon him? Was it because they realized that he's a jerk? If so, I'd specify that a bit more.

Do you like the story? The way that the dragon was happy afterwards? You don't think that it could really happen? Well then, perhaps I should tell you another story, a story from some time later.

Again, it doesn't feel that the narrator is speaking to me. Speaking at me, and possibly down to me, yes.

Once upon a time there was a knight, with armour rusted into a dull red, like the sunset over a desert-old, tired, and dim. You can see him, can't you? He has a face like an old dog's, and when he looks up from the castle-only a little castle, mind, like the little cave-well, when he looks up from that castle, it is like he is looking at a cat, ready to pounce. A dragon swoops down, but slowly, taking care not to ruffle his mane, which he has combed especially for someone he desperately wanted to impress, in the wind. His scales are shining after the polishing that his aide has given them. He gets down to the castle, and crashes right through the ceiling, because he is far too important to use a trapdoor, even a nice trapdoor made of rare woods from strange places. The knight comes out, but he is a very old knight, and his eyes have lost their sparkle and his joints have worn out from using swords and carrying heavy armour, so that he creaks and groans as he emerges. The dragon grins at him and

shows its white teeth and roars and snarls and all the other silly things that dragons do in these situations, in the way that his old coach had shown him, but the knight doesn't know what a hearing aid is, and so he smiles and offers the dragon a cup of tea. When the dragon sees that, he moves like the wind and eats up half of the knight in one gulp, and the knight is smiling, just a small, contented smile, and then he is dead, and the dragon flies away.

There is an extra paragraph break in the middle of the sentence there.

The repetition of the structure of the earlier story is good (although all my comments on that one still apply). However, the beginning is very confusing, as you talk about a knight and then a dragon. Because of the structure of the earlier story, I assumed that this one would be about the knight, not the dragon. You should probably start with the dragon to be as consistent as possible.

When he gets home, he is very proud, and tells all of the other dragons that he has killed a knight while his aide looks on in loathing. He tells them the story, and then he says that the knight must have been a silly knight, because he died smiling. All of the other dragons stand around shocked, because dragons know you should never speak ill of the dead. And the dragoness who he wanted to impress is showing more shock than any of them, and his aide is already on his way to the other side of the world, and his instructor's scales shine more like a pool of tears than a storm as he turns away, lithe as a gecko. And the young dragon goes on to be a great wyrm, but he never sees the dragoness or the aide or his coach, and he is never quite happy with all of his accomplishments.

As above.

Ah, now you understand. The old knight was the same as the old dragon, do you think? Close, very close. But of course, stories are not all the same. Let me tell you a story from some time later again, when I was a young man with a head full of glorious tales.

Again, not feeling any connection to the narrator...

Once upon a time, there was a soldier, with armour like a field in full bloom-beautiful, fresh, never the same from one moment to the next. He walked slowly down a steep slope, because he didn't want to trip and crush the little snowdrop that the cobbler's daughter had given him. He came to the lair of an old dragon, and he rang the doorbell, because he had no illusions of being important and so he had no servants to do it for him. The old dragon, who had once made a living of coaching younger dragons, came out of his lair, and although he was an old dragon, he was still slim and agile, like a gecko or a sparrow, because he exercised regularly. The young soldier said “Good morning! I am very sorry, but I have come to duel you to the death,” because his master had told him to always be polite. The old dragon muttered something about having left the kettle on, and went inside, and got down one of the many books on his library shelf. After a little while, the young soldier was getting impatient, and so he called out to the dragon to come out and fight. When the old dragon came out, the young soldier brandished his sword, and he tried to stab the dragon. After a brief struggle, the soldier was trapped in the dragon's coils, like a fly in a spider's web. He closed his eyes and waited for the massive jaws to close, but the old dragon didn't eat him. Instead, he picked up the book, and began to read a story, a story which was written to make you feel for the poor dragon, a story which started with “Once upon a time, there was a knight, with armor that shone like the sun over a snowy field-bright, sharp, and cold...”

Very nice repetition of the structure of the other two stories, but with a twist.

The young soldier thought about the story for a while, and wondered what his master would think, and then the dragon let him go and he thanked him and went home to take up carpentry. He married the cobbler's daughter, and he told stories to the children, and he was very good at making the finest furniture and telling the best stories. But he kept his favourite story for the special children, because they felt sorry for the poor dragon.

Not bad for an ending, but again, I don't really like the narrator sections. I think you have a really good idea, but I'm not so fond of the execution.

I wonder if it would work better to start with the narrator instead of the first story. Introduce the idea of being sorry for the dragon when discussing what story the child wants for bedtime, instead of in your current first story.

I also really think that you should have the narrator and child as third-person, rather than second-person (if that makes sense). Describe the man sitting on his child's bed and telling stories, instead of making it between him and the reader. I'm guessing that you are trying to pull the reader in and make them part of the story by having it the way you do, but I found it more off-putting than helpful.

[Fortuna]

That makes a good deal of sense, and I thank you very much. I understand where youare coming from, particularly with the first paragraphs: I often have an issue with making myself clear, and here is one place where I really need to avoid that issue.

[Savannah]

Glad I could help. Now someone else post something! None of my stories are anywhere near done enough to see the light of day...

[TFT]

I plan on submitting something soon.

Random_person, since we're trying to restart this, I think it's like the beginning where you can submit a story without having three critiques first. Otherwise, I don't think it will get off the ground again.

I think once this thread does start picking up again, we should lower the amount of critiques. I know I personally was thinking "three critiques is too many for just one of my stories", and that made even thinking of adding something a lot harder. I understand the reasoning, but I think it should be lowered to 2. Just my 2 cents.

[Danne]

Really? It's like Christmas come early!

Not really. I'll throw an old one (about a year and a half old now) out there for the wolves to fall upon and devour. I've heard mixedd reactions, so I want total honesty about this one.

Spoiler

Show

He galloped to the top of the hill, his banner streaming behind him. “Lo! Yonder lieth the dragon's foul lair! Let us valiantly sally forth and destroy the savage beast, for it hath slain many of our gallant comrades!”

They charged down the slope, vaulting off of their noble steeds, and there they met the despicable wyrm in battle. First, they used a most brilliant stratagem, causing the brute to impale itself on spikes that they had bravely laid outside its hole while it slept. Then, they boldly pierced the vermin's wings with a flawlessly aimed hail of arrows. Next they heroically struck the creature from a distance, using spears and javelins. Their next tactic was using heated pokers to poke out the beast's eyes before they used butter knives to boldly chop out its liver... why are you crying? It's only a story. Oh, you feel sorry for the poor dragon? Alright then, here's another story for you.

Once upon a time there was a knight, with armour that shone like the sun over a snowy field-bright, sharp, and cold. You can see him, can't you? He has a face like an eagle's beak, and when he looks down at the cave-and only a little cave mind, as like to a proper dragon cave as a cottage is to a big house. Well, when he looks down on that cave, it is just like another mousehole to him. His trusty squire helps him as he slides off his horse (because it is impossible to jump off a horse in heavy armour) and he walks down the slope. Of course, he walks down slowly, taking care not to fall and get his lovely gilded armour, which he bought especially for a very dear friend of his, dirty. He gets down to the cave and calls into it. There is a doorbell, a lovely doorbell which plays a little song when you ring it, but he is far too important to use doorbells. A dragon comes out, but it is an old dragon, and its scales are like lead and its throat is black with soot, so that it coughs and wheezes as it is coming out. The knight picks up his sword and calls out all the silly things that people say in such situations, like “en garde!” or “have at thee!”, the way that his old albino teacher showed him. But the dragon is old and tired, and it has forgotten to put contact lenses in, and so it smiles and holds out its front legs to give the knight a hug. When the knight sees that, he takes his chance and charges at the dragon like a bolt of lightning. The dragon is still smiling, just a small, happy smile, and then it is dead.

The townsfolk are all showering the knight with praise, while his squire looks on with a tinge of disgust in his eyes. The knight tells the townsfolk the story, and he comments “It must be a stupid dragon, because it is still smiling.” Everything goes quiet, because no-one should speak ill of the dead, even a dead dragon. And the very dear friend of his is the most silent of all, his squire is already too far away to hear, and his old mentor is quietly shaking his head with his sharp red eyes more like a sunset than a forest fire. But more people come to watch, and his words are forgotten, and he goes on to have a long and glorious career. Despite that, he never saw his friend or his squire or his mentor again, and he always feels a bit of an empty place inside.

Do you like the story? The way that the dragon was happy afterwards? You don't think that it could really happen? Well then, perhaps I should tell you another story, a story from some time later.

Once upon a time there was a knight, with armour rusted into a dull red, like the sunset over a desert-old, tired, and dim. You can see him, can't you? He has a face like an old dog's, and when he looks up from the castle-only a little castle, mind, like the little cave-well, when he looks up from that castle, it is like he is looking at a cat, ready to pounce. A dragon swoops down, but slowly, taking care not to ruffle his mane, which he has combed especially for someone he desperately wanted to impress, in the wind. His scales are shining after the polishing that his aide has given them. He gets down to the castle, and crashes right through the ceiling, because he is far too important to use a trapdoor, even a nice trapdoor made of rare woods from strange places. The knight comes out, but he is a very old knight, and his eyes have lost their sparkle and his joints have worn out from using swords and carrying heavy armour, so that he creaks and groans as he emerges. The dragon grins at him and

shows its white teeth and roars and snarls and all the other silly things that dragons do in these situations, in the way that his old coach had shown him, but the knight doesn't know what a hearing aid is, and so he smiles and offers the dragon a cup of tea. When the dragon sees that, he moves like the wind and eats up half of the knight in one gulp, and the knight is smiling, just a small, contented smile, and then he is dead, and the dragon flies away.

When he gets home, he is very proud, and tells all of the other dragons that he has killed a knight while his aide looks on in loathing. He tells them the story, and then he says that the knight must have been a silly knight, because he died smiling. All of the other dragons stand around shocked, because dragons know you should never speak ill of the dead. And the dragoness who he wanted to impress is showing more shock than any of them, and his aide is already on his way to the other side of the world, and his instructor's scales shine more like a pool of tears than a storm as he turns away, lithe as a gecko. And the young dragon goes on to be a great wyrm, but he never sees the dragoness or the aide or his coach, and he is never quite happy with all of his accomplishments.

Ah, now you understand. The old knight was the same as the old dragon, do you think? Close, very close. But of course, stories are not all the same. Let me tell you a story from some time later again, when I was a young man with a head full of glorious tales.

Once upon a time, there was a soldier, with armour like a field in full bloom-beautiful, fresh, never the same from one moment to the next. He walked slowly down a steep slope, because he didn't want to trip and crush the little snowdrop that the cobbler's daughter had given him. He came to the lair of an old dragon, and he rang the doorbell, because he had no illusions of being important and so he had no servants to do it for him. The old dragon, who had once made a living of coaching younger dragons, came out of his lair, and although he was an old dragon, he was still slim and agile, like a gecko or a sparrow, because he exercised regularly. The young soldier said “Good morning! I am very sorry, but I have come to duel you to the death,” because his master had told him to always be polite. The old dragon muttered something about having left the kettle on, and went inside, and got down one of the many books on his library shelf. After a little while, the young soldier was getting impatient, and so he called out to the dragon to come out and fight. When the old dragon came out, the young soldier brandished his sword, and he tried to stab the dragon. After a brief struggle, the soldier was trapped in the dragon's coils, like a fly in a spider's web. He closed his eyes and waited for the massive jaws to close, but the old dragon didn't eat him. Instead, he picked up the book, and began to read a story, a story which was written to make you feel for the poor dragon, a story which started with “Once upon a time, there was a knight, with armor that shone like the sun over a snowy field-bright, sharp, and cold...”

The young soldier thought about the story for a while, and wondered what his master would think, and then the dragon let him go and he thanked him and went home to take up carpentry. He married the cobbler's daughter, and he told stories to the children, and he was very good at making the finest furniture and telling the best stories. But he kept his favourite story for the special children, because they felt sorry for the poor dragon.

Critique of untitled story by Random_person

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I agree with Savannah. I love the idea -- an the old dragon who has seen too many young glory seekers becoming famous for deeds that shouldn't have been done, the young knight slaying the old dragon and the young dragon slaying the old knight. I like how the dragon tells these stories to the young soldier and then relates the stories to the young soldier's own, convincing the soldier (who didn't seem like he really wanted to slay a dragon, anyway) that it would be best if they left each other in peace. I love the very last linem, and think that it should stand alone as a one liner at the end to give it even more weight. Also, your grammar, spelling, etc. was impeccable.

But I also probably wouldn't have finished if I hadn't been reading it for a review. There's just something about it that I'm not really feeling, and I can't quite put my finger on it. Maybe if you added in more action (not within the stories, but the action of the storyteller and the soldier)? Something about coils tightening around him but he's not afraid anymore, or the old dragon clearing it's throat and a puff of smoke coming out, or how the solder's growing stiff in the dragon's coils but he doesn't mind because he wants to heare the end of the story. But without actually identifying who the speaker and the listener are. Those are just suggestions, of course.

Good luck!

(And OT, Random_person, but your avatar is adorable and I want to cuddle with it and rub its belly. )

I have a story segment I'm hoping to post later on today. This would be my second for the whole thread, but I noticed there's discussion of lowering the requirement to two or of just waving it until the thread's got its feet under it again, so am I good to post, or do I need to critique more?

[Savannah]

I think two or even one required critique/story might help keep this going. Do we need to start a new thread to put that in the OP?

As far as I'm concerned, you're good to go, Danne. But I'm not in charge...

[Danne]

Sounds good. I'll post something tomorrow -- I was going to do it tonight but I still need to type it up (I do all my first drafts on paper) and my day was busier than I planned. I'm off to bed!

Try PMing the OP to ask for the first post/rules/what have you to be changed.

[JessGulbranson]

Critique of "Neko Tales"

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I'm puzzled about the adulation this is getting. I think the best thing I can suggest (because all the cliche and awkward phrasing and whatnot can be easily caught in editing, and fixed piece by piece) is that this story is fundamentally broken. Think about where you are trying to go with this. Are you wanting to handle the catgirl thing in a Western framework? It seemed like you were trying to do "Heroes" with an anime influence. That's not going to be anything other than pedestrian and derivative unless the essence of the story really captivates, the writing is solid, and you throw some unconventional perspectives or scenarios at it.

Critique of "Aces and Eights"

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This is a Motorhead song, son. Plain and simple. I can see how so many people say it has a 'true Old West feel', because all our perceptions of the Old West are filtered through movies, etc. There's even a Motorhead song about that, called "Western Movies". So this is clearly a song in that vein, and if you think about it in those terms, it's great. The parentheses are obviously where the backing/gang/radio vocals are. You're a solid lyricist, something I have never achieved even after many many years of songwriting. Maybe I'll write the music for this one...

Critique of "Inner Demons"

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This is the best thing I've seen on here. I'll agree that it doesn't have a horror feel to it, but more a dark fantastic vein a la Clive Barker. Not sure what to say other than I want to read more.

Critique of "Worlds something somethin"

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Great fun, but I would avoid hackneyed manners of speech unless you are going for an old-timey feel, which in this case I think would work. You could stand to rack up the pulp sci-fi feeling. Things can actually make less sense in a more consistent way with this approach. Anyway, it's a great idea that should be developed further, and I like the hint that the protagonist will be doing some damage.

Critique of "The Pull"

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As said before, this is super bland. It really lacks a voice. This could function in the context of a larger work, that this particular narrator just is flat. Perhaps we could see other points of view?

Critique of Raz Fox's "Untitle first chapter"

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This is scattered all over the place and suffers for it. Much like Neko Tales, there seems to be an attempt at combining some stories but without a solid, captivating... something to anchor it. Not unredeemable, necessary, but destined to remain mediocre until the author finds a way to bring something new to the table.

So, with that out of the way, may I present "The Tiger-man", a super short written years and years ago before my current novels were even a gleam in my eye.

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Perched on the hilltop was the castle. It had been there since the middle ages, the home of the local Baron. Since the last of the Baron’s line, there had been no inhabitant. The people of the village that lay at the foot of the mountain were able to sleep peacefully again. No dark deeds were done in the night, and the lights, sounds, and smells that came down the hill were gone, for generations. The memory of the mad Baron and his vile experiments that went against God and nature was present, however. That made the chilly September night so horrible.
No villagers were sure just how the castle could have become inhabited without their notice, as the only approach was a long, winding drive up the steep mountainside, and it had been gated off long ago. Nonetheless, September 6 brought eerie lights and strange sounds, and an odor of formaldehyde came wafting down the hill at two minutes to midnight. It seemed the Baron’s progeny had returned, and brought his perverse scientific experiments back home.
The Mayor was already on horseback riding to the nearest large town, as frightened villagers huddled in their homes, and less frightened villagers milled about the ridge on the edge of town, holding lanterns and torches aloft as they watched the castle.
It was an hour later that, as the anger of the villagers grew, the Mayor returned with another rider, Dr. Phipps. Phipps’ forefather had been the man who had put down the old Baron and the fiendish things in his castle. The legacy of the Phipps family was eternal watchfulness, and it showed in the alert air of the dignified older Doctor as he rode up to the castle view.
“Men… what we see now is a continuation of the past. Just as my forebear Samuel Phipps strove against evil, the elder Baron sought to perpetuate it. His legacy is here, come to fruition on this cold and dark night.” He looked upon the castle with a numinous expression that seemed to convey a surprising pity. “Our duty is clear, men. To the castle… we ride!”
A hurrah rose in the air, and the bustle of the mob increased in volume and purpose. Runners went from farm to farm around the village, and at last all sensible, able-bodied men of fiery temperament were rounded up for an expedition to the castle.
They headed up to the castle, breaking the gate as they went, and at last were at the vast doorway. The castle loomed over them, a dark and craggy mass. The sounds that were so eerie down below echoed horribly up on the mountain, and from the cracks in shutters came the green glow that sent a few men scurrying back down the mountain to their families.
Dr. Phipps, boldly carrying a torch, approached the portal and turned once more to the men.
“Be bold, fellows. What comes to the door may look human and normal, but it will be the spawn of the old Baron in human guise. We must show no mercy!” The mob answered him with a shout and cry, then Phipps rapped boldly on the wooden doors, the sound resounding in the craggy space around them. It was a long moment, though no one dared as much as breathe, when at last came a rattling of the doors, and a deep voice from within.
“Who’s there?”
“It is us,” cried Phipps righteously, “the good and decent folk of this land, who have come on a mission of piety, to stop in the name of the Lord all diabolical acts against man and nature. The Baron’s hideous experiments have gone on too long!” Again the good Doctor was echoed by a brazen hurrah, when suddenly the door swang wide, revealing an enormous figure.
“I’m sorry… there’s no Baron here. I’m just Tigerman.”
The name was a perfect description. The Tigerman stood eight feet tall, and must have weighed a thousand pounds of rippling feline muscle on an ogrish human frame. The head was that of an enormous tiger, with shining eyes, cruel fangs, and long whiskers. He wore a long white coat over his bulk. “Look at the monster!” cried John Stibbens the miller.
“Excuse me!” exclaimed the Tigerman. “How rude. You must have the wrong castle. And you can see,” he said as he gestured vaguely behind him, “that there is no Baron here. Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to be left alone.” The bestial face expressed a curious mix of indignation and embarassment for the assembled villagers. Dr. Phipps, looking abashed with a torch in his hand, spoke up unsteadily.
“We’re very sorry to have disturbed you.” He looked behind him at the crowd which was waiting expectantly. “Come on men. Back to the village. We’ve wasted enough of the Tigerman’s time.”
They left dejectedly, muttering and scratching their heads. From the doorway, Tigerman watched them go, and once they had all returned to the village and all the lights were out, he returned at once to his hideous experiments and diabolical acts against man and nature.

[Zolkabro]

Yaaay, we have our writer's workshop back!

Now could Jimor please update the list? It is ridiculously out of date.

[Milo v3]

My critique on GolemsVoice's The Dream-Singer

I was captured at the very begining of it. But I wondered about his past. I think that you could of told the reader more about his past. Still the Ending is wonderful. I started to think towards the end that he was slowly killing himself. But no this was infinitly better. A few spelling errors in it but other than that a great read.

[Gullara]

Don't know how long ago this was.

Critique of The Pull

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I loved it. The Pull is the bane of us all, and I have experienced it many times. This has happened to everyone, but nobody has skillfully put it down on paper like this.
I like how it seems to make the Pull seem alive. It seems like this greedy creature, growing more and more intelligent, and more and more tempting. It exerts it's power on all the creatures around it, and God help it's poor victims.
Some spacing would be good, but I am not sure where it should be put. Everything seems to fit together so cleanly, and I can't find any bits where you could end the paragraph.
There were a few unnecessary commas here and there, and I think the comma after the word 'hungry' in the last line should be substituted with a full stop.
I adore the last line. It sounds so grim, and makes the Pull seem so EVIL.
Good job!

Thanks, I haven't gotten a lot of good reviews. I can see where the others are coming from when I reread it. Looking at it again I see some lines and wording I really like, but more I don't. I did just throw it together when I was board at school though.