- Joined
- Feb 28, 2015
The Writing Thread
- Thread starter darkhorse816
- Start date
- Joined
- Aug 30, 2014
I kind of want to write a post-apocalyptic story focused on religion. The main bad-guys would be a sect focused on the veneration of old cars called Racism. When someone uses a new car to one of their rituals, they call it Race Mixing, and when someone cheats, they're a Race Traitor.
My problem is that I just want to do it for the pun, nothing more or less.
My problem is that I just want to do it for the pun, nothing more or less.
- Joined
- Oct 9, 2013
Stanislaw Lem, a Polish SF writer, found a good way to get around this. In his collection A Perfect Vacuum, he writes reviews of imaginary books; in Imaginary Magnitude, he writes prefaces in much the same manner. Somewhere in the introduction to one of these books (the English translation, anyway) he says that this is much better than trying to stretch a single concept over the length of a story or novel. Both are worth a look. They can be helpful guides if you have a bunch of fun ideas you'd rather express with minimal dialogue, characterization, and even narrative, really.
Borges also wrote a few pieces along this line.
- Joined
- Jul 14, 2016
Tossing ideas in my head, none with any clear content.
Serial killer in the northeast leads authorities on a manhunt, one officer finds a connection to a royal family, former war, and clean untraceable killings.
After a nuclear war turns the survivors into a oligarchy of military cults, a troupe of lesser than averages wage a resistance with rebel scavengers.
After a suicide attempt, a child sits in a coma, only to have their subconscious play a game of life or death in exchange for a final wish.
A renegade shuttle meant to transport the last biological life on earth crashes. After decades, life learns to adapt in remarkable ways.
God comes to earth, but is met with a bet by the devil to spend a life, powerless and human, seeing the world as those cursed for years.
Feel free to use any as a plot. Some are cliche.
Serial killer in the northeast leads authorities on a manhunt, one officer finds a connection to a royal family, former war, and clean untraceable killings.
After a nuclear war turns the survivors into a oligarchy of military cults, a troupe of lesser than averages wage a resistance with rebel scavengers.
After a suicide attempt, a child sits in a coma, only to have their subconscious play a game of life or death in exchange for a final wish.
A renegade shuttle meant to transport the last biological life on earth crashes. After decades, life learns to adapt in remarkable ways.
God comes to earth, but is met with a bet by the devil to spend a life, powerless and human, seeing the world as those cursed for years.
Feel free to use any as a plot. Some are cliche.
- Joined
- Aug 25, 2013
thought of some cool idea for a story. if you like them please steal but credit my account.
a man goes back in time to kill a baby but when he finds a baby and kills it it turns out to be his grampa
guy runs out of bones
a spaceship is driving around in space when they discover a new earth, exactly the same but where brokencyde never became a band
an INTJ serieal murderer falling in love with a ESTF detective as they try to kill eachother with shotguns
innocent gamer is convicted of racism and sentenced to the chair, but uses his assassins creed skills to defeat Black Lives Matter and end racism forever
god comes to earth and it turns out humans weren't supposed to have nutsacks and he plays a deal with the devil to get those gross looking mfs off all humankind
a man goes back in time to kill a baby but when he finds a baby and kills it it turns out to be his grampa
guy runs out of bones
a spaceship is driving around in space when they discover a new earth, exactly the same but where brokencyde never became a band
an INTJ serieal murderer falling in love with a ESTF detective as they try to kill eachother with shotguns
innocent gamer is convicted of racism and sentenced to the chair, but uses his assassins creed skills to defeat Black Lives Matter and end racism forever
god comes to earth and it turns out humans weren't supposed to have nutsacks and he plays a deal with the devil to get those gross looking mfs off all humankind
Last edited by a moderator:
- Joined
- Feb 28, 2015
so i decided to work on that prologue thing after reading a little criticism about it, and it's in the process of being revised. it's not fully finished or anything, so if there's any spelling errors, grammar, whatever, let me know because unlike some people who ignore criticism and just write shit because of it, or lash out at any, i at least want to make it readable
i may get to working on a first chapter to this soon
“Good evening America, I’m Jenna Hunter with APB news bringing you a breaking news bulletin of a developing story. We may not know full details yet, but former lawyer, gang member, and a suspected terrorist involved in two domestic plots, Jonathan Knight, who has been on the FBI’s most wanted list for more than 2 years, has recently been spotted entering the Harrington Hotel on Canal St. a few hours ago. It’s suspected that John may be armed, dangerous, he may have hostages in the building. The FBI, as well as the new orleans police department, have surrounded the building and at any time will storm the building. After that, I wouldn’t know what to predict next.”
John Knight chuckled as he watched the news anchor actually lying to the american public.
“They’re doing it,” he went, “they’re actually doing it.” Sometimes, he couldn't believe they were lying to the public about this, on the other hand, they’ve been doing it for years now. He couldn't even tell what was truth anymore. As he sat down, bleeding on a cut up couch, he reminisced on the good old days before joining something that turned out being one giant conspiracy theory come to life. he couldn't even believe what he’s been through these past few years. And now, any second now, the cops and feds will either barge in and shoot just another lowlife for killing several nameless goons who’ve done way worse, or demand that he surrender for taking over a corporate building, and only god knows what’s next to come after that. Either way, it’s all the means that justice gets served. Finally, after what only seemed like long hours, john heard the sound of loud knocks at the door. Bang, bang bang.
“Open up,” a deep and booming voice came from the opposite side of the door, “This is the FBI and the N.O.P.D. Come on out with your hands up and surrender now, while you still can, or we’ll have no other choice but to .” John closed his eyes and smiled as he let out a long sigh.
“Showtime I guess.” John dropped his katana to the ground and clutched his hand onto his and began to stand up, pained as he was. Before he could even limp his way to the door, he heard a weak chuckle behind him. As he turned, he saw a bloodied man on the ground, crippled from the pain and leaving a trail of blood on the ground. he managed to have enough strength to try and push himself up a little and nod his head in disappointment, a dull expression on his face.
“So,” the man began in his gritty, weak voice, “I guess you’re a pussy after all?” John nodded his head in disappointment and ignored the insult and slowly limped towards the door. The man gave out a louder chuckle, wincing in pain as he coughed up some blood and landed face first to the ground, continuing his taunting laughter.
“Y’know, some of these men,” he continued, beginning to push himself up again, “they died for their causes, and you? You’re just gonna surrender? Give yourself up to the pigs out there? You know what they’ll do to you? You know what they do to folks like y’all?” he let petty, pained laugh. John gritted his teeth and balled his hand into a fist, however John knew as much as that asshat on the floor knew that it isn’t worth it. He stopped for a second and turned at the man.
“Y’know,” John spoke, “for a dying man, you sure do like to shit talk, but pissed as i am, i know you’re just doing it to piss me off. Well, let me tell you now, it’s not worth taking my anger out on you. So just die or something.”
“You used to be something. Even i was impressed. You’re just gonna leave and not take a second to get a second of revenge? Not even after what we did to your bitch wife?” a nerve in John’s head, something he thought he didn't have anymore after what he went through, snapped after hearing that comment. His hand balled into a fist as his face turned red in rage. The man grew a devilish, crooked smile on his face.
“Oh, so that’s your trigger?” the man said with a smile. John limped back over to the couch and picked up his sword and hobbled over to the man. Bang, bang bang. The police knocked at the door again.
“Mr. Knight, open up! We don't care if you’re dead or taking a bad shit. You have a minute to reply and come out peacefully or else we’ll have to use deadly force!” John stopped and turned at the door, knowing he just wants this to all end.
“You used to be a damn good merc, John. Now you’re just a coward.” he laughed, “I bet that retarded asshole friend of yours, o-or that tiny cunt you called a daughter deserved what we gave them!” all the man was doing was resorting to childish insults to aggravate John, and it was working. John gripped tighter onto the katana’s handle. John knew what the guy wanted him to do to him, but as hard as he wanted to just leave, he didn’t want some stranger to start shit talking about his family and friends he lost over the few short years, but he didn’t want to fight some asshole, all John wants is for all, the fighting, the losses, this whole us civil war crap, to just stop.
“I know what you want to do to me.” the man’s face had a near masochistic grin on his face. He coughed up some blood as John stepped over some broken glass, standing right in front of the guy, blood boiling to the third degree throughout his body. The man scoffed.
“Well,” the man went, “what are you waiting for? Kill me. Why stand there like a jackass?”
“Knight, you have thirty seconds! Stop this now!”
“That’s why, you piece of anarchist shit. I’m sick and tired of fighting, and as much as I hate you, your guts, and that hypocrite of a private army general and all of her bullshit, it’s all over. It’s done. And to be frank, I’d rather you waste away from blood loss than i just end it quickly for you.” the man gave out a weak, but booming laugh, coughing up some more blood before his upper body falls back to the ground. The man gave a forced laugh in.
“The end? No mate. It’s only beginning,” the man chuckled weakly as he lay dying in his own pool of blood, “fine then, but, if you’re not gonna stop me, then…I’m gonna...” the man began weakly reaching for a gun near John’s foot, grunting weakly with his efforts. John kicked the gun towards the cracked bay window in the building, away from the man’s grip. The man lowers his hand and gives up on trying anymore.
“Fine. You win. Leave. You obviously don’t care enough to even finish me off, so i’ll fucking die like you said.” but after wasting all this time, time that could’ve been used earlier to have an officer drive to Angola, maybe, John was gonna give the guy the deathwish he wanted earlier.
“No,” John decided, pissed and raged, “you begged for ‘sweet release’ so I’ll be damn sure to give it to you.” the man gave a weak smile upon hearing it.
“Time’s up Knight, you had your chance!” the sound of the police began to piss off John a bit. John took a long sigh.
BANG! “ONE!” the sound of the battering ram may as well mean he had to make this quick. John begun to raise his sword.
BANG! “TWO!” John swung the sword downwards, hitting the man deep into his neck. As the police and feds the barged into the room, “Holy shit, lieutenant.” one of the officers went. It wasn’t until an officer in a darker uniform noticed the sword a third of the way deep in the man’s neck.
“Shit, he’s got a weapon! Shoot him!”
Before John could even do anything, the sound of gunshots rung throughout the hallway.
John Knight chuckled as he watched the news anchor actually lying to the american public.
“They’re doing it,” he went, “they’re actually doing it.” Sometimes, he couldn't believe they were lying to the public about this, on the other hand, they’ve been doing it for years now. He couldn't even tell what was truth anymore. As he sat down, bleeding on a cut up couch, he reminisced on the good old days before joining something that turned out being one giant conspiracy theory come to life. he couldn't even believe what he’s been through these past few years. And now, any second now, the cops and feds will either barge in and shoot just another lowlife for killing several nameless goons who’ve done way worse, or demand that he surrender for taking over a corporate building, and only god knows what’s next to come after that. Either way, it’s all the means that justice gets served. Finally, after what only seemed like long hours, john heard the sound of loud knocks at the door. Bang, bang bang.
“Open up,” a deep and booming voice came from the opposite side of the door, “This is the FBI and the N.O.P.D. Come on out with your hands up and surrender now, while you still can, or we’ll have no other choice but to .” John closed his eyes and smiled as he let out a long sigh.
“Showtime I guess.” John dropped his katana to the ground and clutched his hand onto his and began to stand up, pained as he was. Before he could even limp his way to the door, he heard a weak chuckle behind him. As he turned, he saw a bloodied man on the ground, crippled from the pain and leaving a trail of blood on the ground. he managed to have enough strength to try and push himself up a little and nod his head in disappointment, a dull expression on his face.
“So,” the man began in his gritty, weak voice, “I guess you’re a pussy after all?” John nodded his head in disappointment and ignored the insult and slowly limped towards the door. The man gave out a louder chuckle, wincing in pain as he coughed up some blood and landed face first to the ground, continuing his taunting laughter.
“Y’know, some of these men,” he continued, beginning to push himself up again, “they died for their causes, and you? You’re just gonna surrender? Give yourself up to the pigs out there? You know what they’ll do to you? You know what they do to folks like y’all?” he let petty, pained laugh. John gritted his teeth and balled his hand into a fist, however John knew as much as that asshat on the floor knew that it isn’t worth it. He stopped for a second and turned at the man.
“Y’know,” John spoke, “for a dying man, you sure do like to shit talk, but pissed as i am, i know you’re just doing it to piss me off. Well, let me tell you now, it’s not worth taking my anger out on you. So just die or something.”
“You used to be something. Even i was impressed. You’re just gonna leave and not take a second to get a second of revenge? Not even after what we did to your bitch wife?” a nerve in John’s head, something he thought he didn't have anymore after what he went through, snapped after hearing that comment. His hand balled into a fist as his face turned red in rage. The man grew a devilish, crooked smile on his face.
“Oh, so that’s your trigger?” the man said with a smile. John limped back over to the couch and picked up his sword and hobbled over to the man. Bang, bang bang. The police knocked at the door again.
“Mr. Knight, open up! We don't care if you’re dead or taking a bad shit. You have a minute to reply and come out peacefully or else we’ll have to use deadly force!” John stopped and turned at the door, knowing he just wants this to all end.
“You used to be a damn good merc, John. Now you’re just a coward.” he laughed, “I bet that retarded asshole friend of yours, o-or that tiny cunt you called a daughter deserved what we gave them!” all the man was doing was resorting to childish insults to aggravate John, and it was working. John gripped tighter onto the katana’s handle. John knew what the guy wanted him to do to him, but as hard as he wanted to just leave, he didn’t want some stranger to start shit talking about his family and friends he lost over the few short years, but he didn’t want to fight some asshole, all John wants is for all, the fighting, the losses, this whole us civil war crap, to just stop.
“I know what you want to do to me.” the man’s face had a near masochistic grin on his face. He coughed up some blood as John stepped over some broken glass, standing right in front of the guy, blood boiling to the third degree throughout his body. The man scoffed.
“Well,” the man went, “what are you waiting for? Kill me. Why stand there like a jackass?”
“Knight, you have thirty seconds! Stop this now!”
“That’s why, you piece of anarchist shit. I’m sick and tired of fighting, and as much as I hate you, your guts, and that hypocrite of a private army general and all of her bullshit, it’s all over. It’s done. And to be frank, I’d rather you waste away from blood loss than i just end it quickly for you.” the man gave out a weak, but booming laugh, coughing up some more blood before his upper body falls back to the ground. The man gave a forced laugh in.
“The end? No mate. It’s only beginning,” the man chuckled weakly as he lay dying in his own pool of blood, “fine then, but, if you’re not gonna stop me, then…I’m gonna...” the man began weakly reaching for a gun near John’s foot, grunting weakly with his efforts. John kicked the gun towards the cracked bay window in the building, away from the man’s grip. The man lowers his hand and gives up on trying anymore.
“Fine. You win. Leave. You obviously don’t care enough to even finish me off, so i’ll fucking die like you said.” but after wasting all this time, time that could’ve been used earlier to have an officer drive to Angola, maybe, John was gonna give the guy the deathwish he wanted earlier.
“No,” John decided, pissed and raged, “you begged for ‘sweet release’ so I’ll be damn sure to give it to you.” the man gave a weak smile upon hearing it.
“Time’s up Knight, you had your chance!” the sound of the police began to piss off John a bit. John took a long sigh.
BANG! “ONE!” the sound of the battering ram may as well mean he had to make this quick. John begun to raise his sword.
BANG! “TWO!” John swung the sword downwards, hitting the man deep into his neck. As the police and feds the barged into the room, “Holy shit, lieutenant.” one of the officers went. It wasn’t until an officer in a darker uniform noticed the sword a third of the way deep in the man’s neck.
“Shit, he’s got a weapon! Shoot him!”
Before John could even do anything, the sound of gunshots rung throughout the hallway.
- Joined
- Aug 25, 2013
i noticed that your original document still had all the swear words left in it, i've taken the liberty of getting rid of all the explitives in your post
“Good evening America, I’m Jenna Hunter with APB news bringing you a breaking news bulletin of a developing story. We may not know full details yet, but former lawyer, gang member, and a suspected terrorist involved in two domestic plots, Jonathan Knight, who has been on the FBI’s most wanted list for more than too years, has recently been spotted entering the Harrington Hotel on Canal St. a few hours ago. It’s suspected that John may be armed, dangerous, he may have hostages in the building. The FBI, as well as the new orleans police department, have surrounded the building and at any time will storm the building. After that, I wouldn’t know what to predict next.” John Knight chuckled as he watched the news anchor actually lying to the american public. “They’re doing it,” he went, “they’re actually doing it.” Sometimes, he couldn't believe they were lying to the public about this, on the other hand, they’ve been doing it for years now. He couldn't even tell what was truth anymore. As he sat down, bleeding on a cut up couch, he reminisced on the good old days before joining something that turned out being one giant conspiracy theory come to life. he couldn't even believe what he’s been through these past few years. And now, any second now, the cops and feds will either barge in and shoot just another lowlife for killing several nameless goons who’ve done way worse, or demand that he surrender for taking over a corporate building, and only god knows what’s next to come after that. Either way, it’s all the means that justice gets served. Finally, after what only seemed like long hours, john heard the sound of loud knocks at the door. Bang, bang bang. “Open up,” a deep and booming voice came from the opposite side of the door, “This is the FBI and the N.O.P.D. Come on out with your hands up and surrender now, while you still can, or we’ll have no other choice but to .” John closed his eyes and smiled as he let out a long sigh. “Showtime I guess.” John dropped his katana to the ground and clutched his hand onto his and began to stand up, pained as he was. Before he could even limp his way to the door, he heard a weak chuckle behind him. As he turned, he saw a bloodied man on the ground, crippled from the pain and leaving a trail of blood on the ground. he managed to have enough strength to try and push himself up a little and nod his head in disappointment, a dull expression on his face. “So,” the man began in his gritty, weak voice, “I guess you’re a female reproductive organ after all?” John nodded his head in disappointment and ignored the insult and slowly limped towards the door. The man gave out a louder chuckle, wincing in pain as he coughed up some blood and landed face first to the ground, continuing his taunting laughter. “Y’know, some of these men,” he continued, beginning to push himself up again, “they died for their causes, and you? You’re just gonna surrender? Give yourself up to the pigs out there? You know what they’ll do to you? You know what they do to folks like y’all?” he let petty, pained laugh. John gritted his teeth and balled his hand into a fist, however John knew as much as that butt on the floor knew that it isn’t worth it. He stopped for a second and turned at the man. “Y’know,” John spoke, “for a dying man, you sure do like to poop talk, but urinated as i am, i know you’re just doing it to urinate me off. Well, let me tell you now, it’s not worth taking my anger out on you. So just die or something.” “You used to be something. Even i was impressed. You’re just gonna leave and not take a second to get a second of revenge? Not even after what we did to your female dog wife?” a nerve in John’s head, something he thought he didn't have anymore after what he went through, snapped after hearing that comment. His hand balled into a fist as his face turned red in rage. The man grew a devilish, crooked smile on his face. “Oh, so that’s your trigger?” the man said with a smile. John limped back over to the couch and picked up his sword and hobbled over to the man. Bang, bang bang. The police knocked at the door again. “Mr. Knight, open up! We don't care if you’re dead or taking a bad poop. You have a minute to reply and come out peacefully or else we’ll have to use deadly force!” John stopped and turned at the door, knowing he just wants this to all end. “You used to be a darn good merc, John. Now you’re just a coward.” he laughed, “I bet that exceptional jerk friend of yours, o-or that tiny female genitalia you called a daughter deserved what we gave them!” all the man was doing was resorting to childish insults to aggravate John, and it was working. John gripped tighter onto the katana’s handle. John knew what the guy wanted him to do to him, but as hard as he wanted to just leave, he didn’t want some stranger to start poop talking about his family and friends he lost over the few short years, but he didn’t want to fight some jerk, all John wants is for all, the fighting, the losses, this whole us civil war crap, to just stop. “I know what you want to do to me.” the man’s face had a near masochistic grin on his face. He coughed up some blood as John stepped over some broken glass, standing right in front of the guy, blood boiling to the third degree throughout his body. The man scoffed. “Well,” the man went, “what are you waiting for? Kill me. Why stand there like a idiot?” “Knight, you have thirty seconds! Stop this now!” “That’s why, you piece of anarchist poop. I’m sick and tired of fighting, and as much as I hate you, your guts, and that hypocrite of a private army general and all of her poop, it’s all over. It’s done. And to be frank, I’d rather you waste away from blood loss than i just end it quickly for you.” the man gave out a weak, but booming laugh, coughing up some more blood before his upper body falls back to the ground. The man gave a forced laugh in. “The end? No mate. It’s only beginning,” the man chuckled weakly as he lay dying in his own pool of blood, “fine then, but, if you’re not gonna stop me, then…I’m gonna...” the man began weakly reaching for a gun near John’s foot, grunting weakly with his efforts. John kicked the gun towards the cracked bay window in the building, away from the man’s grip. The man lowers his hand and gives up on trying anymore. “Fine. You win. Leave. You obviously don’t care enough to even finish me off, so i’ll freaking die like you said.” but after wasting all this time, time that could’ve been used earlier to have an officer drive to Angola, maybe, John was gonna give the guy the deathwish he wanted earlier. “No,” John decided, urinated and raged, “you begged for ‘sweet release’ so I’ll be darn sure to give it to you.” the man gave a weak smile upon hearing it. “Time’s up Knight, you had your chance!” the sound of the police began to urinate off John a bit. John took a long sigh. BANG! “ONE!” the sound of the battering ram may as well mean he had to make this quick. John begun to raise his sword. BANG! “TWO!” John swung the sword downwards, hitting the man deep into his neck. As the police and feds the barged into the room, “Holy poop, lieutenant.” one of the officers went. It wasn’t until an officer in a darker uniform noticed the sword a third of the way deep in the man’s neck. “ poop, he’s got a weapon! Shoot him!” Before John could even do anything, the sound of gunshots rung throughout the hallway.
- Joined
- Feb 28, 2015
- Joined
- Aug 17, 2015
- Joined
- Feb 28, 2015
the only thing that can come off the top of my mind is something like "it looked at me with it's thousand eyes."
also update on this: i've hit a rut and cant figure out what to write for the first chapter yet. but that's okay, because this story is likely to get a few rewrites and revisions for how ever long it takes to write this, so i'll give it a little time so i can work this out in my head for a while
- Joined
- Mar 24, 2016
OK, welcome to Writing Advice Time. If you enjoy this, let me know, and I'll do some on more topics.
One thing I can see that almost all of the writing here needs is better punctuation. People on the internet, even professional writers/editors, get lazy af when talking on forums, but when you're writing for general consumption, you need to consider every punctuation mark and every paragraph break. We're also going to talk about word choice and POV/verb tense consistency.
Why Punctuation and Spacing Matters
Punctuation and paragraph breaks create pacing. They're where a lot of style comes from. There's a reason Ernest Hemingway doesn't sound like James Joyce -- both writers use sentence pacing stylistically, for effect, in very different ways.
You probably want to be somewhere in the middle of these two giants. There is no way any of you goobers can pull off some crazy stylistic shit yet, so aim for a solid, workmanlike style. Here are a few elements to keep in mind:
Word Choice and Specificity
There's no getting around it: when you pick the wrong word, your writing will seem soggy and leaden. Your reader won't pick up the inferences you want. People think of writing as being an art, but it's a lot more precise in its requirements.
When we use different words to describe similar events, we should use those words to differentiate characters. When all the characters are described with the same set of words, the distinctions between them become unclear and the words stick out as the writer's verbal tic, rather than as clues to the reader.
So if both characters are depicted as "chuckling" and laughing a lot during what should be a tense scene, full of insults, this calls to question: are both of these people totally batshit, in exactly the same way? Are they supposed to be the same? Probably not. What you need to do is rely on other character actions to indicate very finely tuned pieces of emotion.
Try this exercise: write down the progression of emotions, being as specific as possible, that each character is feeling each time the mood in your scene changes. The two characters the scene is between should never have the same emotions exactly (where would the narrative tension come from?). Then, without any overlap, write a 5-10 item list of physical ways in which those extremely specific emotions might manifest. If you want specific help with this exercise, PM me.
Avoid generic words like "giant" or "huge" or "laugh." Don't be a crazy thesaurus using wild synonyms for these. Instead, think what the mood you want to set is. Is something being large supposed to make it seem imposing? Then say imposing instead. Don't use filler where you can be creating character.
Consistency (Verb Tense, POV)
You have to decide up front what your point of view and verb tense are supposed to be.
Usually, you'll want to have a past tense style, especially in a novel. Present tense can be tough to maintain and seem gimmicky, but some authors have done it. IDK if anyone's ever written a novel in future tense, but if they have, fuck, I would not want to read it. Once you pick this, don't change it up. You could maybe change it up if you had two narrative timelines that were differentiated with chapter/section breaks, but within an individual section, tense changing is a big no-no.
For point-of-view, you've got your basics that control pronoun use: first ("I"), second ("you"), third person ("he"). Choose Your Own Adventure books are written in second person, but almost all other literature uses first or third. If you choose to do first person, you're basically asking for people to scrutinize the psychology and reliability of your narrator, and you're challenging yourself to make the narrator a good character whose perspective is revelatory for a particular reason. If that's not something you think you're up for, stick to third person -- it's the most commonly used point of view, and there's nothing wrong with it.
From there, you need to think about how much your narrator can hypothetically "see" at any given time. Is your narrator kind of a camera that follows one person, that can't really see what other people are up to? Can they see everything, and notice everyone's character traits? A lot of people pick the latter because they think this will be easier, but trying to see everything can make it so you're telling your reader what to think instead of pointing them toward the character's traits and letting them make up their own mind.
Consider exactly what slice you want to show, and exactly how much you want to tell. It's okay to keep pieces of character's reasoning hidden behind the scenes. Don't just choose point of view, use point of view to keep some things hidden and revealing others.
Hope this helps. Is there something specific anyone would like assistance with -- not a piece of writing, but a part of the writing process or product they feel they could use extra guidance about?
One thing I can see that almost all of the writing here needs is better punctuation. People on the internet, even professional writers/editors, get lazy af when talking on forums, but when you're writing for general consumption, you need to consider every punctuation mark and every paragraph break. We're also going to talk about word choice and POV/verb tense consistency.
Why Punctuation and Spacing Matters
Punctuation and paragraph breaks create pacing. They're where a lot of style comes from. There's a reason Ernest Hemingway doesn't sound like James Joyce -- both writers use sentence pacing stylistically, for effect, in very different ways.
You probably want to be somewhere in the middle of these two giants. There is no way any of you goobers can pull off some crazy stylistic shit yet, so aim for a solid, workmanlike style. Here are a few elements to keep in mind:
- No one will do more than skim a paragraph if it gets too long. Break up your paragraphs into three medium or maybe four short sentences, max.
- It's okay if you have a paragraph that's one sentence on its own, sometimes. Once in a while, you'll even want a paragraph that is one word on its own. Why would you want to do this? To slow down the action. Turning everything into very short, clipped paragraphs is the bullet time of writing. Don't overuse this trick, or like bullet time it will lose its charm.
- By the same token, longer narrative blocks between dialogue bits to take time to discuss a character's traits, motivations, and so on slow the action down and should be used mostly in non-action scenes.
- Feel free to make use of em-dashes (-- in word transforms these automatically) and commas, as well as parentheses if you're okay making these part of your style. Generally, parentheses should be used only if you're aiming for a POV with a distinct narrator's voice, rather than if you're going for a more objective style (we can get into that more if you like, later).
Word Choice and Specificity
There's no getting around it: when you pick the wrong word, your writing will seem soggy and leaden. Your reader won't pick up the inferences you want. People think of writing as being an art, but it's a lot more precise in its requirements.
When we use different words to describe similar events, we should use those words to differentiate characters. When all the characters are described with the same set of words, the distinctions between them become unclear and the words stick out as the writer's verbal tic, rather than as clues to the reader.
So if both characters are depicted as "chuckling" and laughing a lot during what should be a tense scene, full of insults, this calls to question: are both of these people totally batshit, in exactly the same way? Are they supposed to be the same? Probably not. What you need to do is rely on other character actions to indicate very finely tuned pieces of emotion.
Try this exercise: write down the progression of emotions, being as specific as possible, that each character is feeling each time the mood in your scene changes. The two characters the scene is between should never have the same emotions exactly (where would the narrative tension come from?). Then, without any overlap, write a 5-10 item list of physical ways in which those extremely specific emotions might manifest. If you want specific help with this exercise, PM me.
Avoid generic words like "giant" or "huge" or "laugh." Don't be a crazy thesaurus using wild synonyms for these. Instead, think what the mood you want to set is. Is something being large supposed to make it seem imposing? Then say imposing instead. Don't use filler where you can be creating character.
Consistency (Verb Tense, POV)
You have to decide up front what your point of view and verb tense are supposed to be.
Usually, you'll want to have a past tense style, especially in a novel. Present tense can be tough to maintain and seem gimmicky, but some authors have done it. IDK if anyone's ever written a novel in future tense, but if they have, fuck, I would not want to read it. Once you pick this, don't change it up. You could maybe change it up if you had two narrative timelines that were differentiated with chapter/section breaks, but within an individual section, tense changing is a big no-no.
For point-of-view, you've got your basics that control pronoun use: first ("I"), second ("you"), third person ("he"). Choose Your Own Adventure books are written in second person, but almost all other literature uses first or third. If you choose to do first person, you're basically asking for people to scrutinize the psychology and reliability of your narrator, and you're challenging yourself to make the narrator a good character whose perspective is revelatory for a particular reason. If that's not something you think you're up for, stick to third person -- it's the most commonly used point of view, and there's nothing wrong with it.
From there, you need to think about how much your narrator can hypothetically "see" at any given time. Is your narrator kind of a camera that follows one person, that can't really see what other people are up to? Can they see everything, and notice everyone's character traits? A lot of people pick the latter because they think this will be easier, but trying to see everything can make it so you're telling your reader what to think instead of pointing them toward the character's traits and letting them make up their own mind.
Consider exactly what slice you want to show, and exactly how much you want to tell. It's okay to keep pieces of character's reasoning hidden behind the scenes. Don't just choose point of view, use point of view to keep some things hidden and revealing others.
Hope this helps. Is there something specific anyone would like assistance with -- not a piece of writing, but a part of the writing process or product they feel they could use extra guidance about?
- Joined
- Aug 25, 2013
- Joined
- Mar 24, 2016
- Joined
- Aug 16, 2015
I've been sending short stories around to lit mags for a few months now and my rejection letters outnumber my acceptances by a truly depressing amount. At least, I think they do. I'm not sure what the average rejection-to-acceptance ratio is, but mine is making me sad.
I'm hesitant to do heavy edits on older or finished work because I've been told one of my writing's best qualities is tone and I don't want to lose that through overediting. Rereading my own work, I find that it feels stale and predictable. Maybe that's just because I already know how it ends, I don't know.
I've noticed that a lot of magazines want you to go as diverse as you possibly can, but I'm not sure how to prevent my characters from becoming boring and token-y. I'm willing to jump through hoops to get published, but not if that means writing shitty 4kids garbage.
Any more seasoned writers with advice for me? I write non-genre, SF and speculative fiction.
I'm hesitant to do heavy edits on older or finished work because I've been told one of my writing's best qualities is tone and I don't want to lose that through overediting. Rereading my own work, I find that it feels stale and predictable. Maybe that's just because I already know how it ends, I don't know.
I've noticed that a lot of magazines want you to go as diverse as you possibly can, but I'm not sure how to prevent my characters from becoming boring and token-y. I'm willing to jump through hoops to get published, but not if that means writing shitty 4kids garbage.
Any more seasoned writers with advice for me? I write non-genre, SF and speculative fiction.
TheRedRanger
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Feb 7, 2013
nier
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Apr 18, 2017
Can you show us some of your work? I think the only advice one could offer without seeing what you're doing would end up being vague and not very helpful.
- Joined
- Aug 16, 2015
I am uneasy about publicly posting potentially publishable writing that may one day connect my real name and/or byline to a forum for autistics. I can PM you, though.
- Joined
- Jan 12, 2017
I love to write, and I'm told I'm good at it, but I unfortunately rarely finish what I start if it's not a short story. I've mainly written fan fiction, but for the last several years, I have been toying around with original works, trying to come up with potential novel ideas. Currently, I have ideas for a few magical girl stories (more like magical witch, actually), but I don't know if I want to make them into a series of novels or graphic novels--I haven't fleshed them out enough to really know. I also have another magical girl idea involving a married couple who gain magical powers because the mail-order "magical girl mascot" was sent to the wrong address. At least with that one, that'd be a single novel, but I haven't really worked with that idea like with the others.
So yeah, I'm just a lazy fuck with more plot-bunnies than I can keep up with. I can't even juggle fan fiction very well, so the original works are just doomed to never get finished lol.
Well, might as well show examples of what I can do. They'll be snippets of fairly-recent one-shots I don't know when/if I'll finish them. One's for Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, the other's from the middle of an Ushio and Tora one-shot, the latter which is a NSFW shipping fic involving a young woman and the titular demon beast because I'm a degenerate:
So yeah, I'm just a lazy fuck with more plot-bunnies than I can keep up with. I can't even juggle fan fiction very well, so the original works are just doomed to never get finished lol.
Well, might as well show examples of what I can do. They'll be snippets of fairly-recent one-shots I don't know when/if I'll finish them. One's for Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, the other's from the middle of an Ushio and Tora one-shot, the latter which is a NSFW shipping fic involving a young woman and the titular demon beast because I'm a degenerate:
Michelangelo grew up a little when he adopted Klunk that Christmas Eve, everyone could see that even if he didn't see it for himself. It had to have been the sense of responsibility in keeping a pet, which was slightly different from his own responsibility of keeping up with training and when going topside. He had another life to watch out for, one that had to rely on him for certain needs—at least in the beginning (with a little help from April for the veterinarian visit).
Klunk was limited to the lair for the first few months, enough room for a little cat to roam around in. He took to his new home well enough, but he got more curious and more frisky with each passing day, forcing Michelangelo to watch him like a hawk until he slacked on it. After all, he was a cat, they were bound to get into things and come out unscathed. Even after being chased out of Donatello's laboratory numerous times, there was no harm done. Then as he grew, he got into places more readily.
“Mikey, can you go check on your cat?” Donatello asked from his computers when the feline's monotonous but unusually-loud meows began irritating him more-so than Raphael's music.
“He's just checking the place out,” the orange-clad turtle assured from his spot on the couch, eyes still glued to his game.
“It's been three months. I think he knows this place inside-and-out at this point.”
“Y'sure about that? We're still finding new holes and tunnels, and we've been here longer.”
Donatello raised an eye ridge at the comment, and Klunk's meows got lower, but not to a quieter state. “Then do you know which hole he's found himself in?”
“Uh...” Pausing and putting the controller down, he glanced over with a frown, listening intently. At the next cry, he got to his feet and stared up at the walls, worry creasing his brows. “Klunk? Where're you at, bud?”
Raphael poked his head out of the garage, a dirty rag clutched in hand. “If yer lookin' fer Klunk, I'm hearin' 'im through the air ducts.”
“He's what!”
“Weren'cha payin' attention?” he scoffed. “Ya gotta keep an eye on the little furball, or he'll bring this place down with 'im.”
“That's definitely something a pet of Mikey's would do,” Donatello agreed, returning to his work.
Running to the nearest vent, he cupped his mouth to call, “Klu-uuunk! You in there?”
Face-palming, Raphael corrected, “In here, Mikey,” and slipped back into the garage, his brother hurrying after him. He looked around as he side-stepped into the middle of the room, whipping his head back at the next meow to take in the air duct above them.
“How long has he been in there?”
“Shell if I know,” the emerald turtle huffed, returning to his Shell Cycle and radio. “I did hear some scrapin' not that long ago, but I jus' thought it was a rat.”
“Why didn't you check?”
“He's not my responsibility.”
Leaping up for the duct, Michelangelo removed the grill to crawl inside for the far wall. Klunk hung there high up like a spiderweb, thin legs stretched and claws caught into the aluminum tubing, eyes wide, and tail and whiskers bristled. A small shriek of distress came from the turtle at the sight.
“Klunk! What happened, boy?!” He reached out for him, the creak of the duct below his knees giving him pause.
The cat yowled pitifully, limbs trembling from holding himself in place.
“Hey, Mikey, is he okay in there?” Raphael called from below.
“It's okay, Klunk, I'm right here,” he tried to coax him down, his voice a little strained. He dared to sit up higher, using his nunchaku as extra leverage as if the cat would reach for them. “Come on, boy, I'll catch you.”
Klunk didn't budge, and Michelangelo didn't want to risk scaling it himself or he'd bring the tubing down. Apologetically, he gripped it for a shake to see if it could loosen his claws. With a hiss, the animal attempted to hunch backward, which did free and drop him on his owner's face, scratching him as he bounded for the exit. A yell of surprise sounded from Raphael, as was the tell-tell crash of the Shell Cycle being knocked over.
Wincing, the youngest made his way out, swinging out of reach from his brother. “Sorry, Raph!” he quickly said before ducking out.
“MIIIKEY!”
Michelangelo caught sight of the bushy tail disappearing around a corner near their bedrooms. He lightly chuckled to himself and stretched as he glanced over at a concerned Donatello. “Everything's fine,” he said with some relief. “Might have to check the garage ducts later to look for holes.”
“How did Klunk get into the ventilation?” was the next question.
Shrugging, he made the move to return to his video game. “Must've taken that wrong turn at Albuquerque.”
“And he was stuck?”
“Y... Yeah, his claws got caught. He's fine now, no worries.”
Crossing his arms, Donatello breathed out a sigh. “Mikey, I think it's time to let Klunk go out.”
“No, I'm not throwing him back out on the streets!” he exclaimed defensively.
“I'm not suggesting you get rid of him, but he's a cat. He needs more room. I think you should have him leave the lair more.”
Michelangelo rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, I have no problem with that, but... it's a maze out there. What if Klunk gets lost and can't find his way back?”
“I think Klunk has marked the lair enough to catch his scent even in the sewers. And since no other cats live down here, he can claim as much area as he wants for his territory.”
“Yo, Mikey, I found anotha of Klunk's 'presents',” Raphael growled, holding a dead rat by the tail at arm's length. “Do somethin' 'bout it, will ya?”
“And since he's got the taste of rat,” Donatello resumed, gesturing to it, “he may be trying to find his way out to get some more.”
The comment brought Michelangelo pause, stealing a glance toward the bedrooms. He wasn't against it, shell, it wasn't a bad idea in the slightest. If Klunk wanted to go outside more, then he'd have to figure out which entrance and exit would be best for him to use and at his own leisure. But the more he thought on it, the more he worried over him getting lost on his excursions and hunts despite Donatello's assurance he'd be fine.
Klunk was limited to the lair for the first few months, enough room for a little cat to roam around in. He took to his new home well enough, but he got more curious and more frisky with each passing day, forcing Michelangelo to watch him like a hawk until he slacked on it. After all, he was a cat, they were bound to get into things and come out unscathed. Even after being chased out of Donatello's laboratory numerous times, there was no harm done. Then as he grew, he got into places more readily.
“Mikey, can you go check on your cat?” Donatello asked from his computers when the feline's monotonous but unusually-loud meows began irritating him more-so than Raphael's music.
“He's just checking the place out,” the orange-clad turtle assured from his spot on the couch, eyes still glued to his game.
“It's been three months. I think he knows this place inside-and-out at this point.”
“Y'sure about that? We're still finding new holes and tunnels, and we've been here longer.”
Donatello raised an eye ridge at the comment, and Klunk's meows got lower, but not to a quieter state. “Then do you know which hole he's found himself in?”
“Uh...” Pausing and putting the controller down, he glanced over with a frown, listening intently. At the next cry, he got to his feet and stared up at the walls, worry creasing his brows. “Klunk? Where're you at, bud?”
Raphael poked his head out of the garage, a dirty rag clutched in hand. “If yer lookin' fer Klunk, I'm hearin' 'im through the air ducts.”
“He's what!”
“Weren'cha payin' attention?” he scoffed. “Ya gotta keep an eye on the little furball, or he'll bring this place down with 'im.”
“That's definitely something a pet of Mikey's would do,” Donatello agreed, returning to his work.
Running to the nearest vent, he cupped his mouth to call, “Klu-uuunk! You in there?”
Face-palming, Raphael corrected, “In here, Mikey,” and slipped back into the garage, his brother hurrying after him. He looked around as he side-stepped into the middle of the room, whipping his head back at the next meow to take in the air duct above them.
“How long has he been in there?”
“Shell if I know,” the emerald turtle huffed, returning to his Shell Cycle and radio. “I did hear some scrapin' not that long ago, but I jus' thought it was a rat.”
“Why didn't you check?”
“He's not my responsibility.”
Leaping up for the duct, Michelangelo removed the grill to crawl inside for the far wall. Klunk hung there high up like a spiderweb, thin legs stretched and claws caught into the aluminum tubing, eyes wide, and tail and whiskers bristled. A small shriek of distress came from the turtle at the sight.
“Klunk! What happened, boy?!” He reached out for him, the creak of the duct below his knees giving him pause.
The cat yowled pitifully, limbs trembling from holding himself in place.
“Hey, Mikey, is he okay in there?” Raphael called from below.
“It's okay, Klunk, I'm right here,” he tried to coax him down, his voice a little strained. He dared to sit up higher, using his nunchaku as extra leverage as if the cat would reach for them. “Come on, boy, I'll catch you.”
Klunk didn't budge, and Michelangelo didn't want to risk scaling it himself or he'd bring the tubing down. Apologetically, he gripped it for a shake to see if it could loosen his claws. With a hiss, the animal attempted to hunch backward, which did free and drop him on his owner's face, scratching him as he bounded for the exit. A yell of surprise sounded from Raphael, as was the tell-tell crash of the Shell Cycle being knocked over.
Wincing, the youngest made his way out, swinging out of reach from his brother. “Sorry, Raph!” he quickly said before ducking out.
“MIIIKEY!”
Michelangelo caught sight of the bushy tail disappearing around a corner near their bedrooms. He lightly chuckled to himself and stretched as he glanced over at a concerned Donatello. “Everything's fine,” he said with some relief. “Might have to check the garage ducts later to look for holes.”
“How did Klunk get into the ventilation?” was the next question.
Shrugging, he made the move to return to his video game. “Must've taken that wrong turn at Albuquerque.”
“And he was stuck?”
“Y... Yeah, his claws got caught. He's fine now, no worries.”
Crossing his arms, Donatello breathed out a sigh. “Mikey, I think it's time to let Klunk go out.”
“No, I'm not throwing him back out on the streets!” he exclaimed defensively.
“I'm not suggesting you get rid of him, but he's a cat. He needs more room. I think you should have him leave the lair more.”
Michelangelo rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, I have no problem with that, but... it's a maze out there. What if Klunk gets lost and can't find his way back?”
“I think Klunk has marked the lair enough to catch his scent even in the sewers. And since no other cats live down here, he can claim as much area as he wants for his territory.”
“Yo, Mikey, I found anotha of Klunk's 'presents',” Raphael growled, holding a dead rat by the tail at arm's length. “Do somethin' 'bout it, will ya?”
“And since he's got the taste of rat,” Donatello resumed, gesturing to it, “he may be trying to find his way out to get some more.”
The comment brought Michelangelo pause, stealing a glance toward the bedrooms. He wasn't against it, shell, it wasn't a bad idea in the slightest. If Klunk wanted to go outside more, then he'd have to figure out which entrance and exit would be best for him to use and at his own leisure. But the more he thought on it, the more he worried over him getting lost on his excursions and hunts despite Donatello's assurance he'd be fine.
Typical for someone her age, she had gained some meat on her bones, filling out over the years from a twiggy girl to a succulent woman. At first glance, there was little difference from all of the women Tora had snacked on over the centuries—after all, he didn't care what they looked like as long as they tasted good. The fat of their thighs and breasts were some of his least favorite textures for being somewhat of a pain to chew, and usually were the last portions to be swallowed if not discarded.
He hadn't partaken in human flesh since he was pinned in the basement, and as long as Ushio was alive and the “hambakkas” continued to be produced, he'd hold true to it. Mayuko stripping down was as if she was offering herself to him. She, the “dezzert” he claimed since the day he saw her, was willing to be the sacrifice and satiate his hunger, enticing as it was to just pounce on her and rip into her insides.
Though he hadn't had that thought in a long time.
She hesitated at the undergarments, nails skimming the fabric as she took deep breaths and visibly tried to relax. Tora kept still where he sat, unsure what to do to make the mood less awkward. Watching her intently not even a few feet away, he could feel the heat between them as her skin glowed pink.
“So what's the plan again?” he asked, breaking the silence.
Mayuko tensed up for a few moments, struggling to keep her eyes locked with his. “...i-it's only temporary,” she softly muttered. “It's just... pretend I'm the wife on the wedding night.”
“What am I supposed to do, start gnawing on your limbs?”
Her lips pursed. “N-No, you're not supposed to eat the bride.”
He scratched the bridge of his nose. “You sure? I see Ushio and Asako sucking face all the time. It's like a form of eating, yes?”
“You can't eat the bride!” she denied again, shaking her head.
His sarcasm had to be lost on the woman. “Then I'm afraid there's nothing much I can do.”
She sat down across from him, fists on her knees. “Just do what Ushio does with Asako.”
Tora raised a brow. He wasn't sure if it was normal for her to know about it while he would get kicked out just for showing up. It wasn't like he didn't know the point of it, though why they would be flustered in his presence confused him. Was it just a human thing?
Just do what Ushio does with Asako... huh?
Mayuko scrunched her eyes shut and bit her lip when his knuckles brushed her cheek, only to shiver when he slid over to sweep the hair back from her face. Her gaze drifted from the act as he combed it how he wanted it, the ends slightly curling. It was fine enough it was like brushing through strands of silk, forcing him to consciously make an effort to not grasp more than needed lest he were to yank them out. The more she relaxed under his touch, the more she leaned in his direction, looking like she about to fall asleep.
He dropped his hand then and there. “Tch. Are all women like this?”
As she straightened back up, her lips curled upward. “If we feel loved... yes.”
“If that's the case, why aren't you dragging me about getting me to do things?”
“Is that what Ushio and Asako still do when they're alone?”
“They're always bickering about some crap. Asako clearly has the reigns, though Ushio's a stubborn jackass.”
Mayuko giggled. “Some things never change.”
“Whatever, are we done here? You're going to catch cold if you keep sitting around in that.”
A spark flared in her eyes. “Is that so?”
Tora nearly leapt backward when she threw herself into his chest, her arms tightly wrapped around and fingers hooked into his fur. “Hey-hey-hey, warn me, first!”
She buried her face into him, letting out a quiet sigh. “You're so warm, Tora,” she muffled out. “It's just as I thought.”
He huffed, leering at a corner of the room. He felt humiliated she was treating him like a stuffed animal.
“Tora?”
“What now?” he grunted.
She pressed herself closer. “Will you hold me?”
“Eh?”
“Hold me and never let go.”
“Pretty specific order,” he muttered to himself.
Reluctantly, he wrapped his arms around her like a shield, nearly smothering her. Her fingers twitched against his back before she gently stroked, scarcely tugging through the fur and bits of mane she had snagged.
“I just realized,” she then said, still so soft he wondered if she could even breathe. “I can feel your chest move as you breathe, but I'm not feeling a heartbeat. And yet you bleed.”
He felt a smirk tug at his lips from the interesting observation. “You learn to live without a heart.”
“That's not true. You have one... somewhere.”
Great, now she was going to be bothersome about hearts. “We demons have different hearts from you humans.” Maybe that'd put an end to that conversation, and she'd let him go.
She was silent for a few moments. “That makes sense.”
He nearly snickered. You're one smooth talker, Tora, he mentally congratulated himself.
“You've got a big heart, Tora.”
Why couldn't she just drop it? “This is pointless. Are we going to keep hugging all night or what?”
Her hand paused in its brushing, and steadily, she tilted her head back to lock eyes with him. He wrote off her red face as a result of her being smushed against him. “You could kiss me.”
He stared. “Is that what you call 'sucking face'?”
She giggled. “Just do what Ushio does to Asako.”
There was that comparison again like she was holding them to some high standards. That was the most confusing, as he knew they weren't any different from any other couple—except they don't scream in horror and instead yell and throw things at him. And that was the other thing in that it was like the only source he had was the man he was haunting and his wife. Why should he have to copy every little thing Ushio would do?
She made the next move, straightening up higher on her knees and closing her eyes as her lips parted. Nothing out of the ordinary, he thought. But as she neared, he scowled and jerked his head away from a strange scent that was wafting from her. And deep down, he felt something sink realizing what he did. It wasn't like it was in the city where he would be reduced to sneezing fits in heavily polluted areas, however, there was noticeable change in her otherwise-pleasant aroma.
Must be new cleaning soap or something, he tried to shrug it off, blinking down at where she froze just mere centimeters away from him.
Her lips then relaxed into a small frown as her brows knitted. “So you don't want to?”
It bothered him somehow that she was a little disappointed. “You have a stronger smell to you,” he half-fibbed. “I just needed a quick breather.”
She leaned against his jaw, nose scarcely skimming his neck. “Does it smell nice?”
“Er... it doesn't make me want to sneeze... yet?”
“Is that good?”
“Yeah, it's... tolerable.”
She then cupped his cheek, still resting against him. He nearly flinched from the prickling that suddenly accompanied the touch, her fingertips just scarcely in reach of his streaks. “It's okay to tell me the truth, Tora. If there's something bothering you, let me know.”
Where to even start? He mentally scrolled through the long list of complaints he had, trying to find the right one. If it had been anyone else, he'd have blurted out the first thing that came to mind. But something or another was preventing him from speaking his mind.
When she reached further out for the back of his head, he felt something similar to static the moment her wrist rubbed against him. Growing irritated, he snatched her there and immediately felt his arm tingle.
“You're tainting your skin with metals,” he growled one of his complaints.
Mayuko blinked up at him. “You mean the earrings and watch? I need them for work—they're clip-ons.”
“Is that why you're covering yourself in other smells?”
“No, I had no intention doing that. I mean... I had no idea I was smelling weird. But you said it wasn't bad.”
“I didn't say it was good, either.”
She began to tremble—from what, he didn't know. He suspected tears were on the horizon, but she had of yet to get misty-eyed. “I must've screwed up somewhere... Maybe it is the new shampoo I've been using. It was supposed to make my hair look better, but if it smells...”
Tora didn't like how much she belittled herself. Indeed, three months of having not seen her was enough to cause a change to her. What he had admired of her had been stripped away by her having to be like the other humans. He wasn't sure if she could've ever avoided it, not when even Asako sometimes dolled herself up and changed hair-care products seemingly every week.
But he had no plans of eating Asako to begin with. Mayuko was the ideal meal. Even if it was going to take decades, she needed to take care of herself in preparation. Perhaps this was what he got for not following up on his word.
Before he caught himself, the demon bent down and licked her ear. Tremors rolled down their spines, though for different reasons.
“Wh-Wha... What was that?!” Mayuko gasped.
“Urgh, I think I burned my tongue,” he hissed, quickly regretting it. “If you had one of those earrings on right now, I could've lost it.”
The woman still remained frozen, feeling the wet prickle drip from her earlobe. Audibly gulping, she tried to catch her breath, and accidentally choked on it.
“Hey, don't tell me it grosses you out,” he snapped.
“Wh... Why?”
He scrunched his nose. “Actually, I don't even know why I did that.”
“C... Can you do it again?”
He gave her an odd look, taking in the deep blush that raged on her face and spread downward. It didn't look like it was easy for her to say, and he could at least understand why. But there was something sincere about it that he felt obligated to do it as asked.
He was careful to watch himself, knowing he could easily rip her ear off with the right movement. It felt like a rash was developing on his tongue no doubt from the lingering metal, but whether he was losing feeling in his taste buds or his saliva was washing it away, he couldn't tell anymore. Right beside him, hot air washing over his cheek, Mayuko panted and dug her nails into him from the start. Certain there was nothing more to her ear he hadn't already covered, Tora moved his attention to her neck, and there he recognized the taste. There were still parts of her that hadn't yet been tainted, a discovery he had to savor. Her pulse quickened from the first lick, a sensation he hadn't noticed in humans before.
“T-Tora!” she gasped, twitching enough in his hold he was sure he was going to cut his teeth into her.
“Hold still, Mayuko,” he growled into her. “If I cut you open, it's over.”
A small whimper escaped from her. It wasn't like her to make such pitiful sounds. She screamed in the past, as was to be expected, but there was something... off about these noises.
“And do you have to whimper? What, are you suddenly scared of me?”
“No,” she breathed out. “I'm not scared, Tora... it feels good...”
Did she have to say it like that?
He hadn't partaken in human flesh since he was pinned in the basement, and as long as Ushio was alive and the “hambakkas” continued to be produced, he'd hold true to it. Mayuko stripping down was as if she was offering herself to him. She, the “dezzert” he claimed since the day he saw her, was willing to be the sacrifice and satiate his hunger, enticing as it was to just pounce on her and rip into her insides.
Though he hadn't had that thought in a long time.
She hesitated at the undergarments, nails skimming the fabric as she took deep breaths and visibly tried to relax. Tora kept still where he sat, unsure what to do to make the mood less awkward. Watching her intently not even a few feet away, he could feel the heat between them as her skin glowed pink.
“So what's the plan again?” he asked, breaking the silence.
Mayuko tensed up for a few moments, struggling to keep her eyes locked with his. “...i-it's only temporary,” she softly muttered. “It's just... pretend I'm the wife on the wedding night.”
“What am I supposed to do, start gnawing on your limbs?”
Her lips pursed. “N-No, you're not supposed to eat the bride.”
He scratched the bridge of his nose. “You sure? I see Ushio and Asako sucking face all the time. It's like a form of eating, yes?”
“You can't eat the bride!” she denied again, shaking her head.
His sarcasm had to be lost on the woman. “Then I'm afraid there's nothing much I can do.”
She sat down across from him, fists on her knees. “Just do what Ushio does with Asako.”
Tora raised a brow. He wasn't sure if it was normal for her to know about it while he would get kicked out just for showing up. It wasn't like he didn't know the point of it, though why they would be flustered in his presence confused him. Was it just a human thing?
Just do what Ushio does with Asako... huh?
Mayuko scrunched her eyes shut and bit her lip when his knuckles brushed her cheek, only to shiver when he slid over to sweep the hair back from her face. Her gaze drifted from the act as he combed it how he wanted it, the ends slightly curling. It was fine enough it was like brushing through strands of silk, forcing him to consciously make an effort to not grasp more than needed lest he were to yank them out. The more she relaxed under his touch, the more she leaned in his direction, looking like she about to fall asleep.
He dropped his hand then and there. “Tch. Are all women like this?”
As she straightened back up, her lips curled upward. “If we feel loved... yes.”
“If that's the case, why aren't you dragging me about getting me to do things?”
“Is that what Ushio and Asako still do when they're alone?”
“They're always bickering about some crap. Asako clearly has the reigns, though Ushio's a stubborn jackass.”
Mayuko giggled. “Some things never change.”
“Whatever, are we done here? You're going to catch cold if you keep sitting around in that.”
A spark flared in her eyes. “Is that so?”
Tora nearly leapt backward when she threw herself into his chest, her arms tightly wrapped around and fingers hooked into his fur. “Hey-hey-hey, warn me, first!”
She buried her face into him, letting out a quiet sigh. “You're so warm, Tora,” she muffled out. “It's just as I thought.”
He huffed, leering at a corner of the room. He felt humiliated she was treating him like a stuffed animal.
“Tora?”
“What now?” he grunted.
She pressed herself closer. “Will you hold me?”
“Eh?”
“Hold me and never let go.”
“Pretty specific order,” he muttered to himself.
Reluctantly, he wrapped his arms around her like a shield, nearly smothering her. Her fingers twitched against his back before she gently stroked, scarcely tugging through the fur and bits of mane she had snagged.
“I just realized,” she then said, still so soft he wondered if she could even breathe. “I can feel your chest move as you breathe, but I'm not feeling a heartbeat. And yet you bleed.”
He felt a smirk tug at his lips from the interesting observation. “You learn to live without a heart.”
“That's not true. You have one... somewhere.”
Great, now she was going to be bothersome about hearts. “We demons have different hearts from you humans.” Maybe that'd put an end to that conversation, and she'd let him go.
She was silent for a few moments. “That makes sense.”
He nearly snickered. You're one smooth talker, Tora, he mentally congratulated himself.
“You've got a big heart, Tora.”
Why couldn't she just drop it? “This is pointless. Are we going to keep hugging all night or what?”
Her hand paused in its brushing, and steadily, she tilted her head back to lock eyes with him. He wrote off her red face as a result of her being smushed against him. “You could kiss me.”
He stared. “Is that what you call 'sucking face'?”
She giggled. “Just do what Ushio does to Asako.”
There was that comparison again like she was holding them to some high standards. That was the most confusing, as he knew they weren't any different from any other couple—except they don't scream in horror and instead yell and throw things at him. And that was the other thing in that it was like the only source he had was the man he was haunting and his wife. Why should he have to copy every little thing Ushio would do?
She made the next move, straightening up higher on her knees and closing her eyes as her lips parted. Nothing out of the ordinary, he thought. But as she neared, he scowled and jerked his head away from a strange scent that was wafting from her. And deep down, he felt something sink realizing what he did. It wasn't like it was in the city where he would be reduced to sneezing fits in heavily polluted areas, however, there was noticeable change in her otherwise-pleasant aroma.
Must be new cleaning soap or something, he tried to shrug it off, blinking down at where she froze just mere centimeters away from him.
Her lips then relaxed into a small frown as her brows knitted. “So you don't want to?”
It bothered him somehow that she was a little disappointed. “You have a stronger smell to you,” he half-fibbed. “I just needed a quick breather.”
She leaned against his jaw, nose scarcely skimming his neck. “Does it smell nice?”
“Er... it doesn't make me want to sneeze... yet?”
“Is that good?”
“Yeah, it's... tolerable.”
She then cupped his cheek, still resting against him. He nearly flinched from the prickling that suddenly accompanied the touch, her fingertips just scarcely in reach of his streaks. “It's okay to tell me the truth, Tora. If there's something bothering you, let me know.”
Where to even start? He mentally scrolled through the long list of complaints he had, trying to find the right one. If it had been anyone else, he'd have blurted out the first thing that came to mind. But something or another was preventing him from speaking his mind.
When she reached further out for the back of his head, he felt something similar to static the moment her wrist rubbed against him. Growing irritated, he snatched her there and immediately felt his arm tingle.
“You're tainting your skin with metals,” he growled one of his complaints.
Mayuko blinked up at him. “You mean the earrings and watch? I need them for work—they're clip-ons.”
“Is that why you're covering yourself in other smells?”
“No, I had no intention doing that. I mean... I had no idea I was smelling weird. But you said it wasn't bad.”
“I didn't say it was good, either.”
She began to tremble—from what, he didn't know. He suspected tears were on the horizon, but she had of yet to get misty-eyed. “I must've screwed up somewhere... Maybe it is the new shampoo I've been using. It was supposed to make my hair look better, but if it smells...”
Tora didn't like how much she belittled herself. Indeed, three months of having not seen her was enough to cause a change to her. What he had admired of her had been stripped away by her having to be like the other humans. He wasn't sure if she could've ever avoided it, not when even Asako sometimes dolled herself up and changed hair-care products seemingly every week.
But he had no plans of eating Asako to begin with. Mayuko was the ideal meal. Even if it was going to take decades, she needed to take care of herself in preparation. Perhaps this was what he got for not following up on his word.
Before he caught himself, the demon bent down and licked her ear. Tremors rolled down their spines, though for different reasons.
“Wh-Wha... What was that?!” Mayuko gasped.
“Urgh, I think I burned my tongue,” he hissed, quickly regretting it. “If you had one of those earrings on right now, I could've lost it.”
The woman still remained frozen, feeling the wet prickle drip from her earlobe. Audibly gulping, she tried to catch her breath, and accidentally choked on it.
“Hey, don't tell me it grosses you out,” he snapped.
“Wh... Why?”
He scrunched his nose. “Actually, I don't even know why I did that.”
“C... Can you do it again?”
He gave her an odd look, taking in the deep blush that raged on her face and spread downward. It didn't look like it was easy for her to say, and he could at least understand why. But there was something sincere about it that he felt obligated to do it as asked.
He was careful to watch himself, knowing he could easily rip her ear off with the right movement. It felt like a rash was developing on his tongue no doubt from the lingering metal, but whether he was losing feeling in his taste buds or his saliva was washing it away, he couldn't tell anymore. Right beside him, hot air washing over his cheek, Mayuko panted and dug her nails into him from the start. Certain there was nothing more to her ear he hadn't already covered, Tora moved his attention to her neck, and there he recognized the taste. There were still parts of her that hadn't yet been tainted, a discovery he had to savor. Her pulse quickened from the first lick, a sensation he hadn't noticed in humans before.
“T-Tora!” she gasped, twitching enough in his hold he was sure he was going to cut his teeth into her.
“Hold still, Mayuko,” he growled into her. “If I cut you open, it's over.”
A small whimper escaped from her. It wasn't like her to make such pitiful sounds. She screamed in the past, as was to be expected, but there was something... off about these noises.
“And do you have to whimper? What, are you suddenly scared of me?”
“No,” she breathed out. “I'm not scared, Tora... it feels good...”
Did she have to say it like that?
- Joined
- Apr 30, 2017
I should be working on my second novel right now. 
But yeah, published author in both short story & poetry. I write speculative fiction about women being violent. Poetry is about personal frustration. It's all to mostly blow off steam.
But yeah, published author in both short story & poetry. I write speculative fiction about women being violent. Poetry is about personal frustration. It's all to mostly blow off steam.
- Joined
- Jan 9, 2014
@fire_fly (sorry if I'm hella late on this one)
I write to music. Sometimes I'll hear a song and just come up with an idea and listen to the song on repeat while I write. I find that it helps both with the initial idea, but also keeping you on some sort of writing track since you can use the lyrics as a guide to what's happening.
I also have a few characters that I've had in my head for a long time and love dearly. Most of their biggest stories come from music or just daydreaming.
I write to music. Sometimes I'll hear a song and just come up with an idea and listen to the song on repeat while I write. I find that it helps both with the initial idea, but also keeping you on some sort of writing track since you can use the lyrics as a guide to what's happening.
I also have a few characters that I've had in my head for a long time and love dearly. Most of their biggest stories come from music or just daydreaming.