The Writing Thread
- Thread starter darkhorse816
- Start date
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🔧 Actively working on site again.
- Joined
- Feb 3, 2013
I'm not much for the writing, but I haven't felt like drawing lately so here's some words about stuff.
A sweaty night like this was no time to be in bed, or at least not resting comfortably in one. The fan was a piece of shit and kept making this irregular clunking noise just often enough to be more annoying than the heat it could have mitigated. Besides, the cold hardwood floor kept me just as cool as the fan could have, with the added bonus of making me feel like corn covered in plastic wrap.
Better still, I was certain being about two and one half feet lower than where I was on my bed would save me from the small plane I was certain would be crashing through the wall at any moment and killing my family. Not entirely sure if that’s a real sensation that people other than me have ever felt, but in hindsight it was selfish of me not to attempt to warn any of them of the impending danger, and downright nonsensical that I felt that way at all. No planes have ever flown remotely close to here, probably because there’s nothing to see in the middle of nowhere and it wasn’t between any important plane-having places.
Nonsensical as it may have been, I was goddamn right, which didn’t help at all since up was the direction I should have been paying mind to. If only my cat had left some room under the bed, all this could have been avoided or maybe been passed on to my sister instead. Just goes to show what just one lasagne too many can do I suppose.
The ceiling caved outward, falling into a light above and taking with it the one useless light bulb that flickered every so often and made me self-conscious about the duration of my blinks. My dangerously moist back peeled away from the floor like a meaty banana as I was lifted away. Catmander Stryker watched from the relative safety of beneath my bed, kicking himself in the head repeatedly as cats often do. I called him a bitch and he flopped over to get a better view of me spiraling out of control, or maybe his crotch since he hadn’t licked that in almost four whole minutes.
Falling upward was like falling downward except objectively worse because you knew witchcraft was involved. Since witches hadn’t invented anything worthwhile since the moving picture I wasn’t holding out much hope for the giant glowing sky machine that sucks you in while your cat watches to be the next big thing. On the other hand, I didn’t have to spend $8 on popcorn so it’s a bit of a tossup.
Taking a closer look at the giant glowing sky thing I realized I was a bit quick to blame the whole thing on witches, they were the target demographic for cauldrons, not saucers. After taking another moment to note that the saucer was indeed flying I knew the true face of my nighttime visitor, the president of the United States.
Having recently seen through the coded messages hidden in my alphabet soup and children’s cartoons it was pretty clear that nearly every position of power was taken by a subterranean reptiloid shapeshifter. As an aside, it turned out the only notable exception was the British royal family, who were actually human meat puppets piloted by their corgi overlords. Regardless it was only a matter of time before they’d come for me, my dozens of blog viewers were making big waves and reptiloids hate surfing. Incidentally, that’s why they invented Pearl Harbor to get back at Hawaii, but that’s a tale for another time.
It then occurred to me that subterranean reptiloids would have no need of a flying saucer, even if they were aliens, they have more than enough hyperspeed tunneling machines left over from when they conquered the mole people. They could get anywhere on earth in the time it takes to panic at the concept of reptiloids suddenly appearing to kill you and your family for uncovering their secret plots. This left only two possibilities, aliens from beyond the stars or beyond beyond the stars if they were particularly high achieving.
To outside observers our departure might have looked like a cross between a comet and a Japanese businessman late for work. For me it was more like the sort of motion blur that makes you throw up, close your eyes, then open your eyes and throw up again and pass out.
I woke up to an irregular clunking sound, the unmistakable sign of my shitty fan. Wouldn’t have expected the cord to be compatible with space electrical outlets or for the fan to even survive a three foot regular drop, but here it was working just as poorly as it usually did. The room had no need of this fan; I was already comfortably chilly lying on the periwinkle metal floor. I guess aliens really dig periwinkle because pretty much everything except me and my fan was some sort of periwinkle or muted indigo. Not to say that there was much else in the room, just some counters, a stool and desk with a peculiar rod resting on it.
The rod would be best described as an ass destroyer from the 25th century built for a horse, but I sincerely hoped it was just a neck massager or maybe a disintegration beam. Of course there wasn’t much point in wondering, whether or not I ever found out what it was it looked like I was fucked now. Maybe Catmander Stryker would send for help, but he’s a pretty selfish dude and more importantly a cat incapable of understanding the situation or requesting help to begin with. Suffice to say the odds weren’t very much in my favor; I’d be more likely to be abducted by aliens or something.
Damn you probability.
Better still, I was certain being about two and one half feet lower than where I was on my bed would save me from the small plane I was certain would be crashing through the wall at any moment and killing my family. Not entirely sure if that’s a real sensation that people other than me have ever felt, but in hindsight it was selfish of me not to attempt to warn any of them of the impending danger, and downright nonsensical that I felt that way at all. No planes have ever flown remotely close to here, probably because there’s nothing to see in the middle of nowhere and it wasn’t between any important plane-having places.
Nonsensical as it may have been, I was goddamn right, which didn’t help at all since up was the direction I should have been paying mind to. If only my cat had left some room under the bed, all this could have been avoided or maybe been passed on to my sister instead. Just goes to show what just one lasagne too many can do I suppose.
The ceiling caved outward, falling into a light above and taking with it the one useless light bulb that flickered every so often and made me self-conscious about the duration of my blinks. My dangerously moist back peeled away from the floor like a meaty banana as I was lifted away. Catmander Stryker watched from the relative safety of beneath my bed, kicking himself in the head repeatedly as cats often do. I called him a bitch and he flopped over to get a better view of me spiraling out of control, or maybe his crotch since he hadn’t licked that in almost four whole minutes.
Falling upward was like falling downward except objectively worse because you knew witchcraft was involved. Since witches hadn’t invented anything worthwhile since the moving picture I wasn’t holding out much hope for the giant glowing sky machine that sucks you in while your cat watches to be the next big thing. On the other hand, I didn’t have to spend $8 on popcorn so it’s a bit of a tossup.
Taking a closer look at the giant glowing sky thing I realized I was a bit quick to blame the whole thing on witches, they were the target demographic for cauldrons, not saucers. After taking another moment to note that the saucer was indeed flying I knew the true face of my nighttime visitor, the president of the United States.
Having recently seen through the coded messages hidden in my alphabet soup and children’s cartoons it was pretty clear that nearly every position of power was taken by a subterranean reptiloid shapeshifter. As an aside, it turned out the only notable exception was the British royal family, who were actually human meat puppets piloted by their corgi overlords. Regardless it was only a matter of time before they’d come for me, my dozens of blog viewers were making big waves and reptiloids hate surfing. Incidentally, that’s why they invented Pearl Harbor to get back at Hawaii, but that’s a tale for another time.
It then occurred to me that subterranean reptiloids would have no need of a flying saucer, even if they were aliens, they have more than enough hyperspeed tunneling machines left over from when they conquered the mole people. They could get anywhere on earth in the time it takes to panic at the concept of reptiloids suddenly appearing to kill you and your family for uncovering their secret plots. This left only two possibilities, aliens from beyond the stars or beyond beyond the stars if they were particularly high achieving.
To outside observers our departure might have looked like a cross between a comet and a Japanese businessman late for work. For me it was more like the sort of motion blur that makes you throw up, close your eyes, then open your eyes and throw up again and pass out.
I woke up to an irregular clunking sound, the unmistakable sign of my shitty fan. Wouldn’t have expected the cord to be compatible with space electrical outlets or for the fan to even survive a three foot regular drop, but here it was working just as poorly as it usually did. The room had no need of this fan; I was already comfortably chilly lying on the periwinkle metal floor. I guess aliens really dig periwinkle because pretty much everything except me and my fan was some sort of periwinkle or muted indigo. Not to say that there was much else in the room, just some counters, a stool and desk with a peculiar rod resting on it.
The rod would be best described as an ass destroyer from the 25th century built for a horse, but I sincerely hoped it was just a neck massager or maybe a disintegration beam. Of course there wasn’t much point in wondering, whether or not I ever found out what it was it looked like I was fucked now. Maybe Catmander Stryker would send for help, but he’s a pretty selfish dude and more importantly a cat incapable of understanding the situation or requesting help to begin with. Suffice to say the odds weren’t very much in my favor; I’d be more likely to be abducted by aliens or something.
Damn you probability.
Okay, so this is pretty lame, if not just because it's something that because it is often done so badly, has become cringe-worthy when uttered. Fanfiction. However, being the young sperg I am, I have hopes that it's something of an exception in comparison to what one usually thinks of when they do think of fanfiction.
It's written for BioShock, but it doesn't focus on shipping, a pairing, or really any speshul sue OC's that get to be heroes. What I am in love with when it comes to BioShock is the setting. The concept of the deep sea city Rapture. The ideals, the corruption, how paradise became Hell in a great downfall. How character flaws in people could be magnified in a place like Rapture and how the dirtier sides to people could be worn on the surface in an intense way, and the biological chances that occur when they become Splicers.
Even if the concept and the writing aren't that great and possibly borderline autistic, it's something I still get really starry-eyed and excited about. Here's a sample of the actual writing. It's a super brief bit just to show character interaction, not the actual story itself. Just kind of a show of what my writing style is like. The cut off is a little abrupt but this still needs heavy revision.
I haven't uploaded the entire story up anywhere and probably won't ever, as I have a long way to go on terms of being an incredibly skilled writer, but it's still something I really enjoy doing with my free time.
I just REALLY hope that all of this doesn't come off as... Well. Redesigning Rapture, if you catch my drift.
The scene after this plays more with setting, aesthetic, and the feeling of being surrounded by deep sea as opposed to being trapped in an elevator, but I've already put way too much text into this forum post. Enough of me to last into next year.
It's written for BioShock, but it doesn't focus on shipping, a pairing, or really any speshul sue OC's that get to be heroes. What I am in love with when it comes to BioShock is the setting. The concept of the deep sea city Rapture. The ideals, the corruption, how paradise became Hell in a great downfall. How character flaws in people could be magnified in a place like Rapture and how the dirtier sides to people could be worn on the surface in an intense way, and the biological chances that occur when they become Splicers.
My fan story focuses on a few citizens of Rapture that I designed. It details thoughts, feelings, and motivations when going into Rapture, having a life there, and what the experience is like as the downfall of the city begins and comes to a violent head. I suppose you could say that the first half is all about what it was like to live in that booming indulgent (and struggling) society, and then problems begin to arise in the center before that explosive New Years incident that began the ruin of Rapture. Certain characters become splicers, while others struggle to survive. Seeing as when you actually play the first BioShock, there aren't really any ordinary citizens left, you can probably guess how things tragically end.
One character in particular is a demure woman who dreams of being successful in business, but due to background, gender, and a lack of prestigious education, has to build herself up from the bottom. In order to better ensure her chances, she masquerades as a male and takes on the pseudonym Tucker Mandel. She begins working at the fishery seeing as it was one of the few jobs she could even begin to get, and is surrounded by far more intimidating men. This character gets one of the only brief direct interactions with a canon character, as the somewhat shady businessman Augustus Sinclair takes notice in the wiry 'boy's determination and tries to put it to use by hiring her. This is a device which is used to expose Tucker into a glimpse of how the higher society in Rapture is, allowing her to see both ends of the spectrum. When she is masquerading and directly interacting with characters, I tend to use male pronouns as to seduce the reader's mindset into believing that this character is a male as the other characters are perceiving her. Scenes where she is not masquerading slip back into feminine pronouns. In comparison to the other characters with very vivid personalities, she can appear a bit dull beyond her anxiety, but that is something I hope to work through in having the character develop further, particularly after the fall of Rapture.
Another character, tied to Tucker, is Miss Darlene. She is, for lack of a better term, a total floozy who basks in high society and is obsessed with marriage and the concept of a 'white picket fence' life to an almost unsettling, manic manner. She has a bit of the Southern Belle trope to her, but she's really too psychotic to be universally appealing. She seems to think that Tucker makes the perfect man/arm candy and decides to pursue, or attempt to get Tucker to pursue her. Tucker is... not interested, as her focus is business, but if she were to reveal herself as a woman to deter Darlene, it would be putting her rising career in jeopardy. The further the story goes, the more bitter and tryhard Darlene becomes, going so far as to hint at Tucker being gay for not wanting her and how that might complicate things for his success. As you can imagine, she becomes probably one of the most terrifying Splicers, shrieking about 'love' or her own twisted understanding of it.
Another character is someone who worked for Sinclair Solutions for a long time, clawing his way up the corporate latter and devoting himself to being the ultimate brown nosing lapdog that he can be, only for this frail 'boy' to be hired at a higher position than him because the boss sees 'promise' in him. As you can imagine this makes him begin to crack and turn to Plasmids and Tonics, leading to another Splicer. I'm still playing with the idea of which type of Splicer each character that becomes one will be, but I thought it might be nicely horrifying if Darlene was a Houdini Splicer (teleporter) or a Spider Splicer (creepy fuckers that climb on ceiling and the like).
There's a lot more but I feel like I've sperged long enough into extreme tl;dr territory. Anyways, I thought I'd give a little sample to see how it goes? This is just a really brief excerpt of Tucker running into Darlene in an elevator on his way to go meet with Sinclair about a particular plot point.
One character in particular is a demure woman who dreams of being successful in business, but due to background, gender, and a lack of prestigious education, has to build herself up from the bottom. In order to better ensure her chances, she masquerades as a male and takes on the pseudonym Tucker Mandel. She begins working at the fishery seeing as it was one of the few jobs she could even begin to get, and is surrounded by far more intimidating men. This character gets one of the only brief direct interactions with a canon character, as the somewhat shady businessman Augustus Sinclair takes notice in the wiry 'boy's determination and tries to put it to use by hiring her. This is a device which is used to expose Tucker into a glimpse of how the higher society in Rapture is, allowing her to see both ends of the spectrum. When she is masquerading and directly interacting with characters, I tend to use male pronouns as to seduce the reader's mindset into believing that this character is a male as the other characters are perceiving her. Scenes where she is not masquerading slip back into feminine pronouns. In comparison to the other characters with very vivid personalities, she can appear a bit dull beyond her anxiety, but that is something I hope to work through in having the character develop further, particularly after the fall of Rapture.
Another character, tied to Tucker, is Miss Darlene. She is, for lack of a better term, a total floozy who basks in high society and is obsessed with marriage and the concept of a 'white picket fence' life to an almost unsettling, manic manner. She has a bit of the Southern Belle trope to her, but she's really too psychotic to be universally appealing. She seems to think that Tucker makes the perfect man/arm candy and decides to pursue, or attempt to get Tucker to pursue her. Tucker is... not interested, as her focus is business, but if she were to reveal herself as a woman to deter Darlene, it would be putting her rising career in jeopardy. The further the story goes, the more bitter and tryhard Darlene becomes, going so far as to hint at Tucker being gay for not wanting her and how that might complicate things for his success. As you can imagine, she becomes probably one of the most terrifying Splicers, shrieking about 'love' or her own twisted understanding of it.
Another character is someone who worked for Sinclair Solutions for a long time, clawing his way up the corporate latter and devoting himself to being the ultimate brown nosing lapdog that he can be, only for this frail 'boy' to be hired at a higher position than him because the boss sees 'promise' in him. As you can imagine this makes him begin to crack and turn to Plasmids and Tonics, leading to another Splicer. I'm still playing with the idea of which type of Splicer each character that becomes one will be, but I thought it might be nicely horrifying if Darlene was a Houdini Splicer (teleporter) or a Spider Splicer (creepy fuckers that climb on ceiling and the like).
There's a lot more but I feel like I've sperged long enough into extreme tl;dr territory. Anyways, I thought I'd give a little sample to see how it goes? This is just a really brief excerpt of Tucker running into Darlene in an elevator on his way to go meet with Sinclair about a particular plot point.
Even if the concept and the writing aren't that great and possibly borderline autistic, it's something I still get really starry-eyed and excited about. Here's a sample of the actual writing. It's a super brief bit just to show character interaction, not the actual story itself. Just kind of a show of what my writing style is like. The cut off is a little abrupt but this still needs heavy revision.
I haven't uploaded the entire story up anywhere and probably won't ever, as I have a long way to go on terms of being an incredibly skilled writer, but it's still something I really enjoy doing with my free time.
I just REALLY hope that all of this doesn't come off as... Well. Redesigning Rapture, if you catch my drift.
The boy’s awkward footing could only carry him so far after a run-in like that. Every joint on his wiry frame faintly screamed with each movement, unevenly laced shoes as though they were crafted out of lead each time the ventured to pick them up. His face stung with a throbbing pain, something similar at his chest with each strained inhale. Tousled hair winged out here and there, creating an owlish appearance with those large eyes of his. Palms sliding over the grooves and bumps of the wall’s faux Venetian plaster finish, Tucker Mandel overcame the urge to limp, pushing away from the surface to venture into the elevator. Back slumped against one side of the box, he pawed around without looking until he felt the give of a button. The tired little dog’s head hung, lifting only when he didn’t hear the doors seal him in.
The sight was jarring at the very least, springy blonde curls practically glowing from the overhead light. The young woman leaning in the frame was wrapped in a cloudy pink dress, banded tightly at the waist and skirt splayed out like an overturned flower. Finely manicured nails toyed and twisted among a string of false pearls, the red-painted lips that smiled over them glimmering with moisture. True blue eyes sparkled under dark lashes that weren’t her own, so fixated on the slender rabbit of a male that was caught in the boxed trap. Sucking at her lower lip, she slowly allowed it to slip from under the rake of her teeth, whiter than the spheres that hung over her collar. The statuesque way she stood clearly spelled it out – she was waiting.
Tucker found his voice, however much it cracked in his throat.
“Darlene…”
“Why, hello there, Tuck. What’s a li’l lost pup like you doin’ here, sugar?” She lilted, free hand still firmly pinning the elevator’s door open.
“I… hah,” A forced and breathless chuckle came from behind his overbite. “I was just—“
“Off to visit the big bad boss man? You really overwork yourself, you know that, shug?” Mewing like a mischievous feline in the face of a frightened smaller animal, her hips swung to the side, replacing her hand as her arms folded over a pronounced chest.
“Ah, gee, y-yeah. How’d, uh. How’d you know?” More uneasy laughter decorated the cherubic-faced young man’s words.
“Oh, it’s just that everyone knows it, sweetheart. If people don’t think you’re his pet, they think he’s got you workin’ like one.”
“That… that’s silly. Mister Sinclair treats me real well.” Hat lifted and replaced, his fingers combed straight back through his hair, pushing long bangs off from his forehead. They only fell back in disarray. “This ought to be quick, anyhow. Just a quick meeting.”
“A meeting? At his place of residence, and not at the office? Ain’t that just peculiar? I’m sure, handsome. Now, tell me…” Having already invited herself pages ago, Darlene slipped into what was now something of a cell, the doors finally rolling shut in her wake. “Did he give you that ripe lookin’ shiner the other day? Or for that matter… “Her steps became a saunter, the woman not stopping even as the elevator jerked and shifted, her breast brushing and sinking against that stark firmness. “Did he give you this little number.… ‘Sport’?” A fingertip teasingly pushed into the weeping split lip from the full pair, nail slipping like a puzzle piece into the crevice.
Breath hitching, his brows gave an uncontrollable twitch, followed by a wince. Head retreating, he swallowed, suspiciously small Adam’s apple shifting in his throat. His fingers pressed into the m.etal behind him like they sought out a secret exit, head turning completely to the side as his tongue ran over that cut. “… That’s not right at all, Miss.” Glancing back to her weakly, he went on. “I’d trust my life with Mister Sinclair. He’s never done me wrong, at least.” With assuredness in his misguided words, he corrected his posture, staring down at the girl who kept her nose mere inches from his.
“Such a fool, Tuck. Such an adorable little fool.” She cooed dotingly, hands slipping over his shoulders. Squeezing, she let one heeled foot pop up behind her, head tilting and a peck laid at the corner of the lad’s mouth. As she spoke, she murmured closely, words heated at the other's temple. “I almost don’t have the heart to tell you… I’m sure you’ll find out on your own. Augustus Sinclair is not a good man, darling.” Reaching up with both hands, she adjusted the news boy cap that had fallen back on his skull, tucking a short lock of hair behind his ear.
“Ma’am—“
“Darlene. “
“Darlene,” The door made way with a chime, the Mandel boy’s glance seizing it. “I’m running late.”
Pixie nose wrinkling, the lady let herself unfurl like a silken scarf hanging from around the male’s neck, falling to the side with the jaded look of being discarded by him. “Puh-lease. Don’t let me stand in your way. Business is important, after all.” Her cool blues followed every step that Tucker put between them. “I’m sure I’ll see you around. We do have a way of findin’ one another, after all.”
A wayward glance over his shoulder secured the boy with the sight of a wriggling-fingered wave, his polite obligations ushering forth a raise of his digits in reply. Whirling back around, a deep withheld breath was finally released the very second those ever-patient doors slid shut. ‘Lord, please keep that woman away from me. She seems lovely enough, but…’ Passive aggressive in the most vicious manner possible? There were many different ways to end that train of thought. Many ways that, as a young business assistant, she simply didn’t have time for. Rubbing at her eyes with her thumb and forefinger, Mandel waited for her vision to fade back into focus before continuing on to Mercury Suites.
The sight was jarring at the very least, springy blonde curls practically glowing from the overhead light. The young woman leaning in the frame was wrapped in a cloudy pink dress, banded tightly at the waist and skirt splayed out like an overturned flower. Finely manicured nails toyed and twisted among a string of false pearls, the red-painted lips that smiled over them glimmering with moisture. True blue eyes sparkled under dark lashes that weren’t her own, so fixated on the slender rabbit of a male that was caught in the boxed trap. Sucking at her lower lip, she slowly allowed it to slip from under the rake of her teeth, whiter than the spheres that hung over her collar. The statuesque way she stood clearly spelled it out – she was waiting.
Tucker found his voice, however much it cracked in his throat.
“Darlene…”
“Why, hello there, Tuck. What’s a li’l lost pup like you doin’ here, sugar?” She lilted, free hand still firmly pinning the elevator’s door open.
“I… hah,” A forced and breathless chuckle came from behind his overbite. “I was just—“
“Off to visit the big bad boss man? You really overwork yourself, you know that, shug?” Mewing like a mischievous feline in the face of a frightened smaller animal, her hips swung to the side, replacing her hand as her arms folded over a pronounced chest.
“Ah, gee, y-yeah. How’d, uh. How’d you know?” More uneasy laughter decorated the cherubic-faced young man’s words.
“Oh, it’s just that everyone knows it, sweetheart. If people don’t think you’re his pet, they think he’s got you workin’ like one.”
“That… that’s silly. Mister Sinclair treats me real well.” Hat lifted and replaced, his fingers combed straight back through his hair, pushing long bangs off from his forehead. They only fell back in disarray. “This ought to be quick, anyhow. Just a quick meeting.”
“A meeting? At his place of residence, and not at the office? Ain’t that just peculiar? I’m sure, handsome. Now, tell me…” Having already invited herself pages ago, Darlene slipped into what was now something of a cell, the doors finally rolling shut in her wake. “Did he give you that ripe lookin’ shiner the other day? Or for that matter… “Her steps became a saunter, the woman not stopping even as the elevator jerked and shifted, her breast brushing and sinking against that stark firmness. “Did he give you this little number.… ‘Sport’?” A fingertip teasingly pushed into the weeping split lip from the full pair, nail slipping like a puzzle piece into the crevice.
Breath hitching, his brows gave an uncontrollable twitch, followed by a wince. Head retreating, he swallowed, suspiciously small Adam’s apple shifting in his throat. His fingers pressed into the m.etal behind him like they sought out a secret exit, head turning completely to the side as his tongue ran over that cut. “… That’s not right at all, Miss.” Glancing back to her weakly, he went on. “I’d trust my life with Mister Sinclair. He’s never done me wrong, at least.” With assuredness in his misguided words, he corrected his posture, staring down at the girl who kept her nose mere inches from his.
“Such a fool, Tuck. Such an adorable little fool.” She cooed dotingly, hands slipping over his shoulders. Squeezing, she let one heeled foot pop up behind her, head tilting and a peck laid at the corner of the lad’s mouth. As she spoke, she murmured closely, words heated at the other's temple. “I almost don’t have the heart to tell you… I’m sure you’ll find out on your own. Augustus Sinclair is not a good man, darling.” Reaching up with both hands, she adjusted the news boy cap that had fallen back on his skull, tucking a short lock of hair behind his ear.
“Ma’am—“
“Darlene. “
“Darlene,” The door made way with a chime, the Mandel boy’s glance seizing it. “I’m running late.”
Pixie nose wrinkling, the lady let herself unfurl like a silken scarf hanging from around the male’s neck, falling to the side with the jaded look of being discarded by him. “Puh-lease. Don’t let me stand in your way. Business is important, after all.” Her cool blues followed every step that Tucker put between them. “I’m sure I’ll see you around. We do have a way of findin’ one another, after all.”
A wayward glance over his shoulder secured the boy with the sight of a wriggling-fingered wave, his polite obligations ushering forth a raise of his digits in reply. Whirling back around, a deep withheld breath was finally released the very second those ever-patient doors slid shut. ‘Lord, please keep that woman away from me. She seems lovely enough, but…’ Passive aggressive in the most vicious manner possible? There were many different ways to end that train of thought. Many ways that, as a young business assistant, she simply didn’t have time for. Rubbing at her eyes with her thumb and forefinger, Mandel waited for her vision to fade back into focus before continuing on to Mercury Suites.
The scene after this plays more with setting, aesthetic, and the feeling of being surrounded by deep sea as opposed to being trapped in an elevator, but I've already put way too much text into this forum post. Enough of me to last into next year.
- Joined
- Feb 3, 2013
I felt like continuing the thing from last week, then I did exactly that.
A few seconds later the door opened in a disappointingly ordinary way, inward by hinges and everything. They really missed out on a chance to make one of those cool motion sensitive vertical sliding ones or some sort of force field barrier. I might have been on a spaceship but I’ve seen better doors on earth, so that’s one point for the humans right there.
The one opening the door on the other hand, wasn’t ordinary at all, or maybe they were ordinary to space people but that doesn’t really matter because I’m not one of them. Point being I had never met a robot in person before, and I never expected to meet one so pretty. For the most part they looked like a human lady except for the vaguely unsettling chrome skin and that they seemed to be tolerating my presence, Their face had an odd sort of smile to it, like a polite smile not quite masking a genuine one underneath, though that’s probably not very indicative of emotion being on a robot and all. They had some hair too, it was fairly short and as black as it was unnecessary, which is to say entirely. The clothes were unnecessary as well, unless it was space law that everyone needed to wear a jumpsuit at all times in which case I was already a space criminal.
They walked over to whatever exactly that thing sitting on the counter was and pointed it in my general direction, their gait was graceful like a cat and some part of me felt that they should have cat ears to reflect that. The other parts of me joined forces to stuff that particular part of me into a locker for being such a dweeb and wondered why they even had a locker inside my mind. Why would I even need a locker there, I already had a backpack that could hold pretty much everything I needed and I’m pretty sure I didn’t write the combination down. Not only that, but in a non-material place inaccessible to anyone but myself was there even any point of locking something in a given place, especially considering that the mind has no spatial dimensions.
While I was pondering the state of a mental locker that didn’t exist, the robot fellow operated that newfangled doodad. It made enough beeping and booping sounds for any man from the 50’s to know they were in the future and even the deaf ones could have seen the blinking lights. Just as I suspected, it did indeed vibrate, score two for humanity and our collective knowledge of things that vibrate.
“The test results are positive.” They spoke without moving their mouth and their voice was like a typewriter possessed by the ghost of a phone sex operator and I wasn’t even paying a psychic by the minute. “You were going to get cancer anyway so I will not inform you of the potential health hazards of receiving such a high amount of gamma radiation. The scan indicates that you are shirtless and also that you should not be seen shirtless because quite frankly your chest hair is a jungle, complete with the varied and disgusting wildlife.”
I couldn’t fathom why they had built a device dedicated to detecting the presence of a shirt or why they would elect to use gamma rays in order to do it, but I guess I had cancer now. I wanted to reply but mom always said not to talk to strangers because they deserve better than you. Then again one of us was dead and the other wasn’t so who do you think was right?
“Your eyes also appear to be in working condition, they are not required to be fixated on my chest.” This is why I needed feminism, it’s such a double standard for them to be able to talk shit about the rich fungal ecosystem growing on my chest and for me to not be able to appreciate a good pair of metallic titties. I knew deep down that dozens of engineers had worked in collaboration to get them just right, but what they got wrong is that I’m really more of an ass man and they didn’t really dedicate many resources to the booty. I consider this another small victory for humanity.
“I’d be looking at your butt too if you had one, robobitch. How about you stop giving me cancer and give me a shirt if you hate looking at my bare chest so much?” My shitty fan clunked in agreement, or maybe it was just even more broken than when I last checked.
“In the future please refrain from such rudeness. Clothing will be provided following a short intermission of consciousness. Have a nice day.” Before I had time to ask what they meant by that or even flip the bird the space vibrator was quivering with excitement and energy. Zipping white light beams streaked across the room from its tip, at first I felt a bit more sideways than usual, then went back to sleep.
The one opening the door on the other hand, wasn’t ordinary at all, or maybe they were ordinary to space people but that doesn’t really matter because I’m not one of them. Point being I had never met a robot in person before, and I never expected to meet one so pretty. For the most part they looked like a human lady except for the vaguely unsettling chrome skin and that they seemed to be tolerating my presence, Their face had an odd sort of smile to it, like a polite smile not quite masking a genuine one underneath, though that’s probably not very indicative of emotion being on a robot and all. They had some hair too, it was fairly short and as black as it was unnecessary, which is to say entirely. The clothes were unnecessary as well, unless it was space law that everyone needed to wear a jumpsuit at all times in which case I was already a space criminal.
They walked over to whatever exactly that thing sitting on the counter was and pointed it in my general direction, their gait was graceful like a cat and some part of me felt that they should have cat ears to reflect that. The other parts of me joined forces to stuff that particular part of me into a locker for being such a dweeb and wondered why they even had a locker inside my mind. Why would I even need a locker there, I already had a backpack that could hold pretty much everything I needed and I’m pretty sure I didn’t write the combination down. Not only that, but in a non-material place inaccessible to anyone but myself was there even any point of locking something in a given place, especially considering that the mind has no spatial dimensions.
While I was pondering the state of a mental locker that didn’t exist, the robot fellow operated that newfangled doodad. It made enough beeping and booping sounds for any man from the 50’s to know they were in the future and even the deaf ones could have seen the blinking lights. Just as I suspected, it did indeed vibrate, score two for humanity and our collective knowledge of things that vibrate.
“The test results are positive.” They spoke without moving their mouth and their voice was like a typewriter possessed by the ghost of a phone sex operator and I wasn’t even paying a psychic by the minute. “You were going to get cancer anyway so I will not inform you of the potential health hazards of receiving such a high amount of gamma radiation. The scan indicates that you are shirtless and also that you should not be seen shirtless because quite frankly your chest hair is a jungle, complete with the varied and disgusting wildlife.”
I couldn’t fathom why they had built a device dedicated to detecting the presence of a shirt or why they would elect to use gamma rays in order to do it, but I guess I had cancer now. I wanted to reply but mom always said not to talk to strangers because they deserve better than you. Then again one of us was dead and the other wasn’t so who do you think was right?
“Your eyes also appear to be in working condition, they are not required to be fixated on my chest.” This is why I needed feminism, it’s such a double standard for them to be able to talk shit about the rich fungal ecosystem growing on my chest and for me to not be able to appreciate a good pair of metallic titties. I knew deep down that dozens of engineers had worked in collaboration to get them just right, but what they got wrong is that I’m really more of an ass man and they didn’t really dedicate many resources to the booty. I consider this another small victory for humanity.
“I’d be looking at your butt too if you had one, robobitch. How about you stop giving me cancer and give me a shirt if you hate looking at my bare chest so much?” My shitty fan clunked in agreement, or maybe it was just even more broken than when I last checked.
“In the future please refrain from such rudeness. Clothing will be provided following a short intermission of consciousness. Have a nice day.” Before I had time to ask what they meant by that or even flip the bird the space vibrator was quivering with excitement and energy. Zipping white light beams streaked across the room from its tip, at first I felt a bit more sideways than usual, then went back to sleep.
- Joined
- Oct 29, 2013
80 pages into the disasterpiece. I've taken the liberty of placing comments in the Word document to remind myself of what to change and take out when I'm finished with it.
- Joined
- Nov 14, 2013
After a long period of not writing, I tried to write again. Got stuck, so I wrote the epilogue. I have no intention of ever including it, because of how terrible of an ending it is, but at least I know how its supposed to end.
- Joined
- Oct 9, 2013
Sorry for the necropost! I've been away for a while, working out a good way to generate Pixyteri photoshops programatically. No luck so far.
I enjoyed this. It applies to any form of writing, I'd say, and not just comics. What caught my attention the most was the first "method" listed for dialogue. I think it's equally valid for non-dialogue. I've noticed a disturbing trend in readers that is almost the opposite: a text will present itself as "difficult" (and in my mind this is always done either ingenuously, ironically, or, as you describe, for cheap effect) and the reader will shut down completely.
I think in the first use case, they might have a point. Often the fullest meaning, subtlety, etc. will only come if you can understand whatever is difficult. Technical or specialized terminology, allusions or references to obscure works, large words with precise meanings, gigantic sentences, stuff like that. Sometimes this allows those in the know to make connections more easily, or it lets them get some joke, or the author tries to express an idea that really does require a lot of verbiage. I try to tell people who are discouraged by this that they should either not let their lack of knowledge or patience bother them and push on, or they should pause and take this opportunity to struggle through the text.
For the second use case, I always expect a reader to enjoy the opportunity to commiserate with the narrator (or author or whoever/whatever is presenting this text) and poke fun at over-the-top erudition. I think, like a lot of irony, this might be difficult to detect or ignore. The effect is often the same: people say "I'm not smart enough" and move on to something else - which, especially in this case, is kind of sad. The whole point is to realize you are smart enough and that the author is on your side.
The last case... well, this is the worst part of it all. Even when a writer isn't trying to be edgy, she or he might use purple prose to inflate the value of the work. This has a few effects. The first is exactly as you describe in your piece: readers assume they don't understand, don't want to admit it, and praise that dishonest writing as an example of high art. A corollary effect is that this sets a standard for what is really deep and meaningful, even though the real purpose of this type of writing is to mask a lack of depth and meaning. Others begin to write like this. It never ends. But when Twilight, for example, with its hypertrophied diction, is a million- or billion-dollar property, why not?
I think many readers assume that they should know everything but the plot before they read. I've had to eat a lot of humble pie in my time as a reader, and am now more than willing to read and re-read parts that I find myself skimming. Sure, if you just can't get into a text, and you hate reading it, find something else. But if you can detect whether the thing you're reading is obscure for a reason or if the writer is just trying to impress you, it's worth the elbow grease. It sure helps you eliminate a lot of authors from your reading list.
I enjoyed this. It applies to any form of writing, I'd say, and not just comics. What caught my attention the most was the first "method" listed for dialogue. I think it's equally valid for non-dialogue. I've noticed a disturbing trend in readers that is almost the opposite: a text will present itself as "difficult" (and in my mind this is always done either ingenuously, ironically, or, as you describe, for cheap effect) and the reader will shut down completely.
I think in the first use case, they might have a point. Often the fullest meaning, subtlety, etc. will only come if you can understand whatever is difficult. Technical or specialized terminology, allusions or references to obscure works, large words with precise meanings, gigantic sentences, stuff like that. Sometimes this allows those in the know to make connections more easily, or it lets them get some joke, or the author tries to express an idea that really does require a lot of verbiage. I try to tell people who are discouraged by this that they should either not let their lack of knowledge or patience bother them and push on, or they should pause and take this opportunity to struggle through the text.
For the second use case, I always expect a reader to enjoy the opportunity to commiserate with the narrator (or author or whoever/whatever is presenting this text) and poke fun at over-the-top erudition. I think, like a lot of irony, this might be difficult to detect or ignore. The effect is often the same: people say "I'm not smart enough" and move on to something else - which, especially in this case, is kind of sad. The whole point is to realize you are smart enough and that the author is on your side.
The last case... well, this is the worst part of it all. Even when a writer isn't trying to be edgy, she or he might use purple prose to inflate the value of the work. This has a few effects. The first is exactly as you describe in your piece: readers assume they don't understand, don't want to admit it, and praise that dishonest writing as an example of high art. A corollary effect is that this sets a standard for what is really deep and meaningful, even though the real purpose of this type of writing is to mask a lack of depth and meaning. Others begin to write like this. It never ends. But when Twilight, for example, with its hypertrophied diction, is a million- or billion-dollar property, why not?
I think many readers assume that they should know everything but the plot before they read. I've had to eat a lot of humble pie in my time as a reader, and am now more than willing to read and re-read parts that I find myself skimming. Sure, if you just can't get into a text, and you hate reading it, find something else. But if you can detect whether the thing you're reading is obscure for a reason or if the writer is just trying to impress you, it's worth the elbow grease. It sure helps you eliminate a lot of authors from your reading list.
- Joined
- Nov 14, 2013
It is November, and Nanowrimo has started. So I'm doing that. I cheated, though, and used the ~27k works I had typed up prior to the start of the month. But I'm just doing it because seeing a bar graph motivates me.
Thankfully, I'm almost to the point where the story will come easily, so it's all easy from here on out.
edit: I've also fallen in love with my protagonist. fml
Thankfully, I'm almost to the point where the story will come easily, so it's all easy from here on out.
edit: I've also fallen in love with my protagonist. fml
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- Joined
- Feb 3, 2013
- Joined
- Oct 29, 2013
I'm kind of taking a break from RE. I'm still working on it, and I could have it finished soon, but for now, I'm taking it easy. I've also been outlining and prepping for my post-RE project, Sean Gillespie: The Alphaboy.
- Joined
- Jul 12, 2014
I've been working on a comic called, Mythica (working title), and it's an urban fantasy. The problem is affording an artist, but a friend of mine did some pages for me (I paid her). Here's the first five pages and the next six.
- Joined
- Oct 29, 2013
I actually feel more comfortable writing stories with a vague idea of what I want to do rather than extensively planning them. So sue me.
- Joined
- Nov 14, 2013
I have 5000 words left. I still have to kill her best friend's boyfriend and her grandmother before I'm satisfied.
- Joined
- Oct 29, 2013
- Joined
- Nov 14, 2013
I have finished the first draft. Editing and formatting remains, but the story is there in the way I want it to be.
- Joined
- Nov 8, 2014
This semester, I've been working on a novel that I started in freshman year and only began revisiting in junior year. I told my professor that my goals were for a wordcount of 80,000~. He said I wouldn't be able to do that in just one semester. I'm at 77,000 right now.
The secret is giving your protagonist a sidekick who really wants to go on a killing spree.
The secret is giving your protagonist a sidekick who really wants to go on a killing spree.
- Joined
- Oct 29, 2013
- Joined
- Aug 13, 2014
One thing I have been working on is a series of "for-fun" stories called Imaginations Collide. I'm sure there are some people who remember my outlandish and wordy explanation of it from before around here somewhere, but for those who haven't, allow me to try and explain it again, this time in much fewer words.
Earth and Humanity in this world is pretty much the same, except we have the ability to create our own worlds and possess godlike powers when inside Cyberspace. This is meant to be a critique of fanfiction, as well as a satire and commentary of the Internet and society as a whole. It's probably more than we can handle if we were to try and make it an Internet sensation or anything like that, but we consider those elements to be part of the fun.
We already have a kind of first Draft of the first story, one we didn't finish and decided to start over, over on Fanfiction.net. We are aware that the first story was about a troll, and that we were trolled hard, but we decided a long time ago to finish it anyway and even got permission from said troll to continue with our writing by taking the troll persona and making it into a character.
So, right now we are working on rewriting the first story, and I am trying to start one with Chris in it. I'm not sure if this is even the right place for this, I'm sure someone told me where to go for this, but I feel that I could use a bit of help with that, because I am convinced that I am not getting Chris' personality right. My goal is to present him as he is, but write the story in a way where he isn't the villain, despite being the douche that he came to be known as.
If this is the wrong place, if anyone wants to help, or if anyone wants to see what I have so far, feel free to let me know. And also, feel free to call out any mistakes that you see as you see them if you decide to read it. I'm afraid I don't have the text for my story with me because my laptop won't connect to wifi for some reason, but if someone wants me to post here, again, just let me know.
I'll try to figure out a way to get my laptop to work in the mean time.
Earth and Humanity in this world is pretty much the same, except we have the ability to create our own worlds and possess godlike powers when inside Cyberspace. This is meant to be a critique of fanfiction, as well as a satire and commentary of the Internet and society as a whole. It's probably more than we can handle if we were to try and make it an Internet sensation or anything like that, but we consider those elements to be part of the fun.
We already have a kind of first Draft of the first story, one we didn't finish and decided to start over, over on Fanfiction.net. We are aware that the first story was about a troll, and that we were trolled hard, but we decided a long time ago to finish it anyway and even got permission from said troll to continue with our writing by taking the troll persona and making it into a character.
So, right now we are working on rewriting the first story, and I am trying to start one with Chris in it. I'm not sure if this is even the right place for this, I'm sure someone told me where to go for this, but I feel that I could use a bit of help with that, because I am convinced that I am not getting Chris' personality right. My goal is to present him as he is, but write the story in a way where he isn't the villain, despite being the douche that he came to be known as.
If this is the wrong place, if anyone wants to help, or if anyone wants to see what I have so far, feel free to let me know. And also, feel free to call out any mistakes that you see as you see them if you decide to read it. I'm afraid I don't have the text for my story with me because my laptop won't connect to wifi for some reason, but if someone wants me to post here, again, just let me know.
I'll try to figure out a way to get my laptop to work in the mean time.
- Joined
- Oct 29, 2013
- Joined
- Nov 26, 2014
A place for just the arts in general?! Dang, this forum has everything!
I'm currently doing a creative writing course at Uni, hopefully a lot of the stuff I've learnt will help me towards being a published novelist. I also write fanfiction/creepypastas (Found here and here for those of you who wish to see my attempts to write decent stuff) as a way of keeping my writing muscles in check, too.
I'm currently doing a creative writing course at Uni, hopefully a lot of the stuff I've learnt will help me towards being a published novelist. I also write fanfiction/creepypastas (Found here and here for those of you who wish to see my attempts to write decent stuff) as a way of keeping my writing muscles in check, too.