Change the way you begin sentences. It reads like each sentence is being rebooted instead of flowing continually. Also, you began most of them with "the" and not every introduction of something requires as many adjectives as you've used (probably your concern about "wordiness"). Proofread, then proofread a few more times. Give it a day or a few days, then proofread again.

Not terrible, but rather jilted to read.

That's exactly what I was thinking but couldn't put my finger on. Thanks a ton, I'll do some revisions.

The line of people seemed to get no closer the more he walked, but Johnny continued to do so anyway out of fear of the Fare-keeper. The only thing that got any closer was the clanking sound. Again and again the same sound.
Clank,,clank, clank...clank,,clank ,clank...clank, clank, clank.
The sound was terrible and, for reasons unknown, foreboding. There was a certain dread inspired by it. A singularly oppressive quality that put a damper on the soul.
Johnny stumbled out of these thoughts and into the path of a short, skinny women that had the look of emaciation hung about her as though it was sewn into the rags she wore. Her eyes were white with cataracts and her lips as cracked as the ground Johnny lay on. She walked over him without noticing his obvious presence directly in her path.
Johnny still scrambled to his feet apologizing the entire time, in spite of the women's indifference. The women was not alone in her complacent walking. There were people all around Johnny. Every way he faced there were the same dead faces. Johnny stepped backward, in an attempt to remove himself from the walkers. He was tripped and once more painfully on the ground. The moment his body hit the ground the line stopped in unison. At that moment, every ragged, decaying body within Johnny’s range of vision turned and faced him. Thousands of rotting fingers pointed. A myriad of faces contorted with rage.
Johnny scrambled away from the crowd as frightened as he had ever been. He didn’t know what to do or what he had done in the first place. At any rate, he managed to get himself off the ground and on his feet. As he took his first step away from the crowd, they broke into a frenzied run. Charging at Johnny.
Johnny ran. It was all he could do and It seemed like the only plausible idea. He certainly wasn’t going to let them catch up any more than they were and do whatever it is they wanted to do. He sprinted in the direction he came from, but the single house disappeared. It was replaced by a set of steps that looked like the entrance to a subway. He couldn’t decide if he wanted to run down them or if he should run around and see if their inclination to run lessened with the distance he gained. The ten or so seconds he had to choose elapsed without a decision. Instead, Johnny made a half-hearted attempt at dodging the stairs, hit the rail, spun around and fell backwards down them. He rolled three times and hit is head on the concrete. The world exploded inside his head and went black.
The ground was cold and rough against Johnny’s arms as he moved them towards his pulsing head. He shielded his eyes from the fluorescent lights above him. Everything from his lower back to his feet moved but only with a lot of effort and pain. He lifted his head off the ground and grunted as his hair was pulled out of his head. He sat himself up against the wall and looked at the ground. Blood had coagulated where it ran from the gash on the back of his head. Little hairs and pieces of dirt were visible on the shiny surface. His gaze drifted from the blood to his surroundings. He couldn’t see much. To his left is was dark and he couldn’t see past three or four feet. To his right he could see for a long way. Lights similar to the one above Johnny lit what appeared to be a deserted subway. Near the end of the area visible he could see movement. People in a line. Walking through a turnstile. Walking through the source of that sound Johnny just realized he could hear very well now. That was what Charlie was talking about. That’s where he paid his fare. Johnny leaned against the wall and clumsily stood up. He walked in a similar fashion towards the line. Nothing would stay still or in focus. Johnny had to stop twice and regain orientation before reaching the line. This one was different than the last. The people all looked just as confused as Johnny. Although none of them seemed aware of each other they all look people that had yet to begin to rot. Not at all like the walkers. They walked down steps similar to the ones Johnny fell down, turned and walked through the turnstile on at a time. Johnny reluctantly stepped into the line. All of the new walkers disappeared. All that remained was the turnstile. Charlie Was there. In the small windowed building attached to the turnstile. There to collect the fare Johnny supposed.
He stood there slightly bewildered. A thought came to him. That’s why no one seemed to be aware of one another. There was more to this thought, but it was cut short by Charlie. He was leaning out of the small window yelling at Johnny. “Get your ass over here soul. You have a fare to pay. Unless you don’t want to go to hell.” This was followed by slow chuckle.
Johnny listened and walked the five or so feet past the stairs to Charlie.
“Put your fare on the counter and go soul” Charlie said in an almost playful voice.
“What fare? Am I supposed to have one by this point?” Johnny responded.
“Just put your damn hand up here and I’ll show you something” Charlie said while obviously holding back more chuckling. Johnny did as he was told. His palm flat against the polished steel counter. In the second it took for Johnny to think of something to say the Fare keeper’s arm jerked. Johnny saw a flash of steel and felt immense pain emanating from his hand. He instinctively grabbed his wrist and his head snapped toward his hand. When he saw what happened he screamed. Almost as loudly as Charlie was laughing.
The pinky finger on his right hand was severed where it used to connect to his knuckle. Blood flowed freely out of his hand and down his forearm. It collected on his elbow and dripped on the concrete floor. Charlie reached over the bloody counter and pushed a sobbing Johnny through the turnstile. Johnny stumbled through and immediately dropped to his knees. He crawled to the wall and propped himself against it. Tears ran down his face and he couldn’t stop shaking. He held his wrist, stared at it blankly, and tried to think. He didn’t know what to do. Johnny had never had a pinky cut off. He felt dizzy and little spots of darkness invaded his world. Johnny was still losing blood at a rate that alarmed him. He tore a piece of fabric from the bottom portion of his pajama shirt, and wrapped it around the stump. It felt as though some one was holding his entire arm in a pot of boiling water and steel nails. He pulled it around the stump and the other side of his hand twice before managing to tie it. Tears blurred his already impaired vision and his throat hurt from screaming.
A distorted Charlie stood directly in front of Johnny. He reached down and grabbed Johnny’s wrist. Johnny was too disoriented to know what was happening. It hurt, but not bad enough for him to resist. It looked to Johnny like Charlie was simply examining his make shift bandage. In a movement as fluid as the one that took his pinky, Charlie ripped the fabric off and proceeded to mash his thumb into the wound. A scream erupted from Johnny as he flailed. Throwing his body around, trying to escape the impossibly formidable grip Charlie had on his wrist. The pain became more intense the longer Charlie mauled his missing digit. He screamed until his voice was gone. He couldn’t see anything through the pain, and he became unconscious once again.

Message too long. Click here to view the full text.

I thought it was going to be about mario...

Suggestion: If you're going to post on the internet, use line breaks.

If you break everything down into small, easily digestible bits it makes it easier to wade through your writing.

This is true especially for long stories.

But when it's just a giant mountain of text like this, it becomes a chore to read.

It might not be trouble for you to read it, but no one ever has problems reading their own posts.

Also, I know it's not grammatically correct to do it that way, but it's a courtesy to your readers. If this was in a book or magazine, then of course it would follow the normal format.

On the internet, however, people have little patience.

Message too long. Click here to view the full text.

>>163
>On the internet, however, people have little patience.

This is not "internet writing," this is creative writing. Dostoyevsky had long paragraphs that would take up several pages, as did Remarque, DFW; the paragraph is a structural denotation that can lend artistic expression into the story. Don't sacrifice your work for readability or some such nonsense when it can be effectively disregarded.

>>166

>This is not "internet writing,"

No, actually it is. OP posted this on the internet, for stupid, lazy internet people with short attention spans to read. If he wants more responses, he should use line breaks more often.

That said, people who wouldn't read this whole thing as it is are probably not the kind of people who would give the best advice or criticism.

THAT said, he is asking us to read this for him, and we are doing this on our own spare time for no reason other than whim. So it would... behoove him to make the reading a little easier.

Even the smarty-pants glasses-wearing types who would be more likely read this whole thing without proper line-breaks are probably going to give up and go back to /b/ or wherever once they realize how minute the fuck they give actually is.

That's no reflection on the OP, that's just how it's done here.

Now, if OP went to a site solely dedicated to creative writing, it might be a different story.

Message too long. Click here to view the full text.

I was really feeling sick now . I decided to lay down right on the side walk. I was afraid I was going to throw up. I slowly lowered my head down on the concrete. I felt a little better once I was horizontal. I curled my knees up to my chest. Fetal position. This also made me feel better. I didn't care if anyone was staring, or taking pictures.

I woke up in a hospital with no memory of how I got there. Two people in white were standing over me. I looked at myself lying on a stretcher (maybe it was a bed) . I saw the blood all over my stomach, waist, hips , knees, forearms, and hands. It was all red. Blood red. I realized how other people must have seen me in the street. I realized they were staring at me because I was covered with blood.
Not because I was shirtless.
I asked the two people in white "Do you guys see any grape jelly on me?.
Neither of them said anything at first. Then the older of the two, an older black woman, said.
"...No baby, just relax, your going to be all right. " Her voice was very relaxing to me. I passed out again.

I woke up a second time in a different room. There was an older, gray haired man standing over me and a very young nurse.
Every muscle in my body seemed to be sore. I had a head ache and I take a leak in the worst way. I tried to sit up but my muscles were so sore I changed my mind. I groaned out loud as I did this . The doctor looked at me and said." Hello Mr. Mitchell, relax, don't try to get up.
I looked at my self and saw most of the blood had been cleaned away. I asked the two of them "Did I get shot and not know it?"
The nurse laughed a little and the doctor said "No, you werent shot, your going to be fine "
I asked " How did you know my name?". He said "You told us earlier, and we went into your wallet"
I let out a louder groan. I realized I had been having whole conversations that I know could not remember. I noticed my vision and my hearing seemed to be OK.
"Whats wrong with my muscles?" , "Why am I so sore?" .

Message too long. Click here to view the full text.

Our little city made CNN and every other big news show in the country. "Mass shooting in Wilmington" was one the headline. "Three different shooters injure five people". was another . Five people were injured. Three at the shelter, Teeter in the grass, and one of the high school girls broke her leg as she was running away.
The final story was complicated. It seems that two drug dealers had decided to have a "shout out" right at the bus shelter, during rush hour.

Jonas Burk and Lavar King , eighteen and nineteen respectively, both of Wilmington , Fire two shots each at each other on twelve street in front of a crowd of people at a bus stop. Police say one of the shots fired by Mr. King hit Mr. Jeremy Fadder in the shoulder, critically injuring him.

Teeters real name was Jeremy Fadder. It still sounds strange to me, even today.

...Mr. Fadder almost certainly would have died at the scene had it not been for the efforts of Keith Mitchell. Mr. Mitchell held pressure on Mr. Fadder's wound untill paramedics arrived. Mr. Mitchell himself was later taken to Wilmington Hospital. He was treated and released for Dehydration and exhaustion

No 'bloody' pictures of me made it on the news or papers. They made no mention of ' Hysteria '. I was grateful for this.
Someone emailed me the pictures that were taken of me on the side walk with the cops. I saw that I also had a good amount of blood on my face and in my hair. They were horrible, gruesome pictures.
Later I got to talk to the lady cop who first stopped me. She said when she got out of the car, she wasn't completely sure wether I was one of the shooters or not. She asked if I remember the things I had said and I said yes. I told her the whole story. I told her about he purple blood. I told no one else about that untill now. Only the people at the hospital and her.
I have had to tell and re-tell this story about four thousand times, to about two thousand people, but I always gave them the short version. What your reading here, is the full version.

There was a third shooter. A middle aged woman named Martha Bell. She was the woman I saw being lead away in hand cuffs.

Message too long. Click here to view the full text.

This mental patient, Martha bell, had simply whipped out a gun and fired on random teenagers. The gun shots from the two drug dealers had put her over the edge. The gun she had was reported stolen from Allentown Pennsylvania two years earlier. Either she couldn't , or wouldn't, tell police how she came to have it. Today I have no feelings towards this woman one way or another. None at all.
I hope they never let her back out on the street though.

Teeter and the boy who was shot in the stomach were both in critical condition. The boy, Toby Weston was released seven days later. He's going to be fine.

The third shot , fired by King, struck Mr. Fadder in the shoulder. The forth shot, also by King , Hit the statue of Sir Rodney that sits at the top of Rodney Square, on Market street.

The gong sound I heard was the forth bullet hitting the brass statue of the horse. I went back to the park few days later and saw that the bullet had hit the horse in the Right shoulder. Teeter had been hit in the left shoulder. I was very relieved to learn I had not imagined the gong sound, as I had imagined the blood being Purple. It turned out the purple blood was my only hallucination.
I never heard anything about the mother and daughter from the bench. I'm sure if they had been hurt- I would have.
Perhaps if the mother ever reads this, she will come and find me.

The police caught both the teenage drug dealers that same afternoon. Before the sun went down, they were both in jail.

I got to meet Joe Biden. He came back to Wilmington and made some poignant comments about the shooting. I don't remember much what he said but I remember one line he uttered. He said " ...When Wilmington bleeds, ...I bleed...We all bleed..."
This comment makes me shiver. I dislike any and all "Blood metaphors" now. I hate them. I think their gross.

Message too long. Click here to view the full text.

I no longer flirt with the idea that God pays any special attention to drunks or crazy people or anyone else.
I don't think God likes to get involved.
Teeter was the drunk, Martha Bell was the crazy person, and the Dora-backpack-girl was the small child. I don't know what my role was, or if I even had one.

[ I didn't notice all the spelling mistakes and stuff until now, Sorry]

no one is reading anyone else stuff.

Fuck all you guys, I'm old school.

>>130

Really? Although its neat and portable it does make the hand hurt like a bitch. And its not awesome like a typewriter.

>>131

I'm not anywhere near prolific enough to worry about hand cramps, and the fact that you can't erase or edit typewriters without white-out would piss me off. I can't deal with misspelled words, I just can't.

>>136

When it comes to writing by hand. Try cutting and pasting and realizing you've written on both sides.

I write my scripts by hand, since the computer is basically a gravity well for creativity. After I'm satisfied with whatever I've written, I use Final Draft to digitize and edit it.

>>124
I thought Celtx was alright in high school when I hadn't heard about Final Draft. Now it's just annoying to use. Different strokes, I guess.

When we were still sitting through the powerpoint, the one's who'd been OC certed before were already starting to get watery eyes. Me and the other cherries had been talking about how it was supposed to feel. Bad sunburn. Satan's piss. Satan's semen. Microwave.

I thought about how the Stars and Stripes quoted a Silver Star recipient in Helmand Province after he pulled someone out of an MRAP. Said the screams of a man on fire would haunt you forever.

600-Bravo (greensuiter) and PM9-Mid (bluesuiter) finish passing the riot extinguishers to all snatch n' grabbers. I check the extension on my SX-36. Pin's set. Look back up to see the shield men already taking knees and the lucky ones with Mossbergs pumping the second round of beanbags in.

I volunteered for this when my brother called on the DSN, shouting from the inside of a wailing NYFD engine to tell me that Mom and Dad never found out how to get to the keyhole behind the safe's keypad back in Arizona, right before I listened to what must've been his arterial blood shorting out the handmike.

Wading into the screams and protests crowding the gate--they have to be human, the infected wouldn't have made it this close to us so quickly--a ten-year-old rolling on the asphalt's grabs my ankle and undoes the blousing. Boy? Girl? I can't tell, the child's too young, but I can make out freckles against his face turning blue. At least the part that isn't covered in foam we sprayed. One of the beanbags've completely dented in his undeveloped sternum. And the Mk-46 tanks we're using got upped to .30% concentration. When I got certed, I never got anything past .18%.

Fog and tears under my helmet's spit mask are from the residual fumes going around. Something moving too slow for someone covered in so much chemical irritant is a couple steps ahead. I jab its stomach before I remember what I'm doing, and take it off at the knees before the end of the SX-36 buries itself into the remaing good eye, and I wrench the grip like a prybar. Don't have to listen to what it sounds like. One of the shotgun detail just hit someone a couple steps behind me, where I was a moment ago. Maybe it was the boy. I've decided it was a boy.

Without turning around, I shoot back a thumbs up as the sound of plexiglass edges scrape closer to the gate. We're advancing.

Right after high school, in the summer that I turned 18, I remember when my eldest aunt hooked me a internship where she worked over at Fort Detrick and National Cancer Institute. I stuck out as one of the only male junior counselors in a staff of menopausal military mothers, taking care of soldiers' and scientists' kids. Ten bucks an hour and it was the most money I'd ever made as a post-adolescent.

Academic dismissal, two deadbeat roommates, MEPS, OSUT, and a deployment later, I stare at the dot of blue paint on the first hollowpoint in my magazine before I palm it into my sidearm and slingshot the slide.

"Weapon is red status and on safe, sir--sergean--uh, Specialist." M9 goes into the Uncle Mike's and I manage to crack half a smile at the platoon guide while I click the thumb break into place. He performs a salute which I answer with only a nod, before executing a perfect about-face. Him and those under him all vary under eighteen years of age.

I light a menthol light wide as the males and females in front of me load their arms, and inspect each others' gear. The gun shop at Freedom Crossing was one of the first things to collapse prior to the initial outbreak. Scouting details in the regular component managed to ruck it down the I-10 West all the way to Academy in Sunland Park. The fact that we even have scouting parties would be reassuring if not for who I'm in charge of right now.

Pink-stocked 10/22s and Circuit Judges with a slug in every chamber. Some of the teens have their parents' ARs, at least the ones that can handle government ammo. A couple lever-actions, bolts. Fair enough. It's the uniforms that I can't get used to, and likely that's a good thing.

I was never a Wolf Cub or Brownie or whatever, so if there's a difference between their merit badges and whatnot, I can't tell. Some kids have clothes from private school, Catholic crosses, patent leather and all. The ones in families that hunt have their field camo sans safety vests. Everyone's shit is pressed and washed, tinged around the edges where the detergent didn't get the bloodstains out. It's a wonder the base still has running water, gas, and electricity, off-the-city-grid notwithstanding.

LBVs in ACU pattern are standard. I count six individual juveniles with AAM and ARCOM ribbons pinned to right chest pockets, where I've ordered the Military Dependent IDs to be carried. One Bronze Star. There are no Purple Hearts.

Gone are the days of School Age Services. After all the mutinies, desertions, and summary executions, the last letter 's' in 'Services' has been dropped per memorandum from the post CG and I guess that's the best way he can show his gratitude to the mothers and fathers in uniform that stood their ground against the infected for Uncle Sam and paid the no-longer-ultimate price. Extended BAH per each drafted minor within the household. Money still means something to some people, I'd guess.

Message too long. Click here to view the full text.

Hi. So, I'm going to go ahead and lock this thread, not because your advice and knowledge isn't welcome here, but because it's really difficult to judge how good your advice is going to be. No offense, but this is the internet, we have absolutely no idea who you are. If you'd have established yourself around here as a good writer, it may be a little different, but waltzing into an imageboard anonymously and declaring "ASK ME FOR TIPS BITCHES!" is a tad haughty, no?

In any case, feel free to stick around and give advice to people who post their stories, or you may find yourself comfortable posting a screenplay of your own, but being that we're a tridizzle board (and tridizzle ain't no joke y'all) I'd really prefer we don't clutter up the front page with threads that don't make people want to come back.

why did i work so hard on this?

Late morning sun shone in to the motel room from above the cheap air conditioner in the window, picking up millions of tiny dust motes hanging in the air, their negligible masses overcome by the breathing, the moving, the sweating of the man and woman below them.

His eyes moved across her naked form only thinly veiled by a translucent polyester sheet. Her long legs caused the sheet to form around them, revealing their sinewy, lean strength, their power, and the perfect smoothness of their skin. The continuous line formed by her shin bent purposefully around her knee, which stabbed up in to the air like a graceful but defiant mountain. It ran over her hamstring and on to her hips. The sheet just teasingly brushed her pelvis, barely covered her vagina, and stopped just short enough to show an inviting bit of her pubic hair. He stared in to that region, that heart of this woman, that gateway to her sex. He marveled at her hips like a prehistoric Venus figurine, the only thing in the universe capable of motherhood. That gated garden he had been allowed in to so recently, but that he had no invitation to. He had been let in through back door like a thief, and he didn't know how or why, could never repeat it. He moved up to her stomach. No bikini tan lines here, just the same shade of natural and indifferent white. The skin covered her abdominal muscles like they were hot coals just barely contained. A thin, lightly defined line in between them connected her navel to her ribcage, her beating heart, her breathing lungs, combusting, burning, moving inside of her, like her soul was on fire. No, not, just on fire, in the middle of a nuclear reaction. Hydrogen was fusing inside of her like a star, on to helium, then helium fusing in to beryllium, decaying quickly but fusing again to carbon, oxygen, neon, magnesium, on and on, producing immeasurable amounts of heat and energy. And her breasts sat atop this fusion reaction, bare, naked, unashamed, like two massive mountains barely affected by gravity. And his eyes moved on to her collar bones, the tendons in her neck and the blood vessels that transported the heat of the nuclear fusion in her chest on to her brain, her face. Her sharp, shadowed, defiant face. She always looked like she knew more than you, like she was thinking something beyond you and above you. Her dark eyes were closed now but when open they shot at you like black lasers. Her bare, makeupless face and her mid-length dark hair spread out on the sweat-stained pillow. She was like a desert landscape, pure, arid, untouchable and outside of time.

He wished he could have been touching her with his eyes the whole time. He wished he could touch her at all, really touch her. They had barely kissed, when they got the room and jumped through the door. Barely talked, barely known eachother's names. They just fucked, and he meant fucked, not had sex, not made love, fucked was the only word for it. It was dirty and meaningless and fun and distant. He was allowed in to her garden only when it was unlit and unclean. He knew he could probably never go back, and had expected her to be gone by the time he woke up. She was this perfect circle, this running, revving, infinite engine, and he was a line. A line going nowhere along an exacting and unchangeable path, entirely predictable and inescapable. And he had been allowed to be tangent to her circle just this once, this one day, intersecting at exactly one zero-dimensional point, then moving on, forever, never touching again, for his line could never bend back around. He had one dimension and she had two, three, four, so many dimensions he couldn't fathom them. He was like a plastic bag being blown around by the winds of the world, getting caught in this living, breathing sequoia of a woman for just one moment before being kicked out of her branches. Please, let me know you. Please let me touch you again, just one more time, just to know you once more. I love you. I need you. I have so much to give, so much I can be and I can't be any of it on my own. I've never met anyone or anything like you and I can never go back. But no, she was beyond him. He couldn't even say it.

"What?"

She woke up right then, with no grogginess, completely alert as if she had never slept. He hadn't said anything. He was sure he hadn't said anything. He felt uncomfortable with her nakedness, as he could now see her vagina after she had moved, seeing her show it like it was just another part of her body while to him it was so much more. He guarded his penis closely and suddenly wanted to be fully clothed, but couldn't move from her gaze.

"What? Nothing. I didn't say anything."

"I'm pretty sure you did."

Message too long. Click here to view the full text.

He had only just silenced her life a few minutes ago. Panting, his head resting on the frame of the blood-soaked bed. bedding was strewn across the also blood-soaked carpet, a sign of a struggle as sure as the steak knife lodged in his former girlfriend's back. The voices in his head had been crowding his head for so long, whispering commands into his ears, and finally he had given in to them. And instead of feeling sad at brutally murdering his girlfriend, he felt happy. Why? Because for a brief few minutes, the voices had stopped rushing about. He now knew what he had to do. He needed the precious silence.

He whips his head around to her splayed corpse.
"What did you say?" he thought she might have still been alive, that someone might have seen, that the police were already on their way. This WAS the first time he had done something like this, the possibility for error was incredible, or so the voices in his head told him. -Aah, that was it, there was no witness, she was indeed dead. It was just the voices in his mind starting up again. Paranoia recedes as he leaves her grave through the fractured doorframe. A chuckle, or a sob, (impossible to tell) escapes his lips in a remark of what his new life would be, trying to find silence from himself.

>>87
I was ABOUT to go in this direction but decided against it. It's really close to what I was gonna write too. Scary.

She mumbles something and I look over at her. I can't hear what she says. She says it again. I look into her eyes. I say speak up, speak up I can't hear you. She rolls her eyes, closes them, goes limp after a few minutes.

Wait.

She's not there is she. She can't be there because she's in the bathroom. I sent her there because she was being too noisy. I sent her there because I could think. I need my brain I need my ears I need to think if I can't think I can't do anything. So I put her in the bathroom. I told her, go to the bathroom. Maybe she's still there.

I open the door quietly, half expecting her to scold me because she was in the bathroom for some long. But why would she scold me I should scold her after all she took away my ability to think.

She's taking a bath, that's good. She should be clean and if she's taking a bath she won't be annoying me with all those words she can't say anything to me if she's behind the door in the bathroom if she's behind the curtain she can't take away my ability to think can she.

What's that sound what is it is it her again is she trying to take away my ability to think? Can she do it with that small sound? It better not be her. Oh god its her. She's making noises again. Why is she making noises I told her to stop I made her stop. Fine. Its time to make her stop again, this time more forcefully.

Why is this on the floor this should be in the kitchen why is this here is she going to use it. Oh my God she's planning something.

Oh my God she's planning to kill me with this, this knife, I knew it. She's in the bath planning to kill me with this knife. She left it on the floor here she's planning it what do I do. Oh my God what do I do. But I can't make her not. If she speaks then I can't think. And if I can't think then she kills me.

Message too long. Click here to view the full text.

I spied her through the small gap between the door and the doorframe, taking advantage of this rare and wonderful opportunity to observe her form without having to quickly glance away.

The sheets are twisted around her full figure, indicating a restless night. I know she pines for the return of her husband, but I am certain that will never happen.

I allow my thoughts to accelerate through ideas, fantasies, memories, possibilities, plans that I will never dare go through with, glimmers of hope quickly destroyed by the realisation of reality. I want her but not in the way that she wants me.

I'm suddenly brought back to the present by a stirring coming from the bed, and an incomprehensible murmuring. Did she just tell me to go away? Shit, she knows I'm here. She knew I was watching the whole time. She was just pretending to sleep. What shall I say?! What- Oh wait, I'm pretty sure she's asleep. She wouldn't roll over exposing her bare behind like that... Or would she.. I don't think so.

Damn I don't know. Jessica, mother I wish you felt the same way.

I'm going to assume at least one person is reading this and that person is just shy.


"Now bring your son down here. And your husband."

"No, not my husband, he's asleep, or, I mean, he's not-"

"Will we have to go up there and get him ourselves? Because we will drag him out of-"

"No. No I'll...."And the woman walked up the stairs, with resignation and exhaustion masking a horrible fear, as she had countless times before.
"Bring that little shit down here."
"No- Gordon, no, please it's not his-"
"Go get my fucking faggot son and bring him down here!"
"Gordon you're drunk! Please he didn't do anything! What if that text you saw was just a joke or if it was to the wrong person or-”

Message too long. Click here to view the full text.

He didn't look at her, but took one last look at his house, his home for the past fifteen years. The head of the deer his father hadn't really shot mounted above the cold, dusty fireplace. The wallpaper, the art, the cabinets of fine china and porcelain figures. The molding and the window sills and the matching floorboards, and the fine hardwood floors. His mother, sitting in her chair, drinking her tea with a dead, comatose calmness. Her body and mind had shut down, given up, when she first let the intruders in, but she had given up her life long ago. Her eyes, staring the bloated figure of his unconscious father, like a sleeping dragon protecting its pilfered horde. Except this horde was not really his. It belonged to dead men and, really, to no one. There was no value here, nothing to be stolen, to be gained. No one had won today. Today was not a day of victory but of solemn and cold change, of blood and tears, and of the death of an old life. Whether it was a victory or a defeat depended on the days to come.

"Yeah. Yeah, ok. Let's go."

They stepped through the back door in to the cool afternoon air and the blinding sun of the Spring day. The three people squinted and stood in the yard and looked around for a moment, like newly released prisoners stepping on to soil for the first time in decades. Without speaking they all walked out to the front of the house and in to the small, white, otherworldly vehicle double parked in front of the house. Howard got in the driver's seat as the boy and Fields climbed in the back. She looked at the boy.

"Are you alright? Physically?"

"Yeah, I'm fine."

"Are you sure? Do you have to go to a hospital?"

"No, I'm ok."

"Alright. Wait, your leg is bleeding."

Message too long. Click here to view the full text.

That kid sounds like a pussy.

I like it, well written.

Is this story a way to deal with problems in your past, or is this a way to say that you don't see a realistic way out of your current situation?

>>104
It's not actually about me, it's about my friend. Well he's not really my friend but I do have sympathy for him. It's basically me saying that in order to solve situations like this, you need people willing to work really hard. You can arrest the dad and throw the kid in a probably shitty foster home/orphanage or you can more than likely do jack shit, but in order to effect any real healing we need committed people and institutions. Thanks for reading gaiz.
>>100
you're just uncomfortable dealing with emotions. you pussy.

The narrative is very harsh. It gets the tone across well but as it goes on it feels alittle forced.

Other than that I like it. Is this an excerpt from a longer story or just as is?

>>25
the story itself is larger, but I haven't written it down, apart from a few notes here and there. This was the first draft, there are going to be rewrites of rewritten rewrites all over the place.

I'm still experimenting with the way I should tell the story. The above part is a terrorist talking to one or more of his new recruits after a long day of training. I think I can make it work, but I can't tell the whole story in this form.
The next step is to tell part of the story in the form of diary entries, I hope it works.

This story will be boring if you make it about machines taking over and eating people. Make it about one group of people taking over and eating another group of people. Then you'll be saying something.

Dear Diary

Today was a good day according to the statisticians. Only one death in the family, 0.12% growth in prosperity, safety in the mid section has increased by 5 and the army expenditure has shrunk once again.
Efficiency of the machines has also increased significantly thanks to research done by one of my uncles, so we could shut down even more of those horrible things. Machines that is, not uncles.

In contrary to what the statisticians try to tell me every day, I thought today was rather dull. Like most days are to be honest. Today was yet another day that no one will remember.
Except maybe for that entertainment girl I had a very interesting conversation with behind our fountain.
She said that I was a cruel man. Sitting in my 'ivory' tower, letting other people work while I did nothing to ease their suffering apart from killing them when they dared to say anything about it.
The fun part of course was the fact that it took her four tries to completely say the whole sentence and even needing my help with it.
In the process she unknowingly admitted one of the lower families had send her. Those people only want power, but fail to understand that they could never handle the kind of responsibility that I have to deal with every day.
I do not think that poor girl could understand the world if she wanted to.

Thank you for listening once again.

Note to the clerk analyzing this log entry for the Safety Service; Fuck you.

Message too long. Click here to view the full text.

I really do like this; it has the feel of an accomplished sci-fi writer, like Niven or Heinlein, but without being either of their styles. Keep writing, you have some potential.

The intro needs a little work. Much of the information is superfluous and can be cut out without detracting from the story; try to express your ideas in a more cogent manner. This isn't so much a problem when we get more into the meat of the story, your pacing, description and dialogue is solid, but your characters lack depth. It seems you're using them as a construct to state a philosophical point that isn't clearly defined rather than allowing them to act and think through their own personalities. Alice is just some girl. The entirety of Carlo's persona is the warm, supporting figure, and the mission directors are the stereotypical bad guy bureaucrats. They're cold, evil and dedicated to getting things done, which isn't complex at all. That's a problem since your story is centralized around the thoughts, feelings and actions of the characters. I really like the plot, but it seems like you need to flesh out the conflict a bit more. She tells them to fuck off and that's it? Shouldn't they have been able to foresee a rebellion and placed countermeasures to prevent that? Why does she try to kill herself if it's obvious they can't control her actions?

Your writing in and of itself is great. You've got the facets down, but try to develop your characters into real, tangible people. They seem flat. Since this is sci-fi the logistical probabilities can be ignored, but it's a rudimentary mistake to make your characters stupid.

that was a good story

Thanks everyone, I appreciate the comments. This is a complete short story, I've not worked on the idea any more. I've done plenty of other sci-fi like this but not a continuation of this plot/character.

Because it's a short story, I didn't want to spend too much time on solely developing characters. I don't like it when authors dump a paragraph or two at the start of their stories describing the characters physical appearance and personality, it feels like a cop-out. I've always thought that stuff is more believable and enjoyable when you get character development over a long period, through their actions and interactions, instead of just one lump sum at the start. And there's not alot of room in a short story for it.

You're right, Lucifer, that some of the characters are a bit stereotypical, another thing I despise. As for why and how she got away with what she did, well the ship was never meant to have a crew in transit, so they wouldn't have anticipated a need for a countermeasure, and Alice does mention that she had taken steps to disable any remote operation of the ship.

As for her wanting to kill herself, well that would be more out of depression and loneliness than anything else. And it would be some pretty hardcore depression, living like that and feeling abandoned by every single person you've ever met.

Thanks, I'll keep writing.

I really enjoyed this, good work.

>>40
I did. It was no easy feat but I finished it. Ah.

protip: don't use one word too many times in a work that's not meant to burn the eyes.

In all seriousness though, Buffalo buffalo Buffalo buffalo buffalo buffalo Buffalo buffalo is one of the greatest English tricks(i would have said fuck ups, but eh) there is and I applaud you on creating a literary work based entirely around it.

After reading this fucking thing I just couldn't read the word "buffalo." It started looking like a foreign word. Sometimes if I stare at words long enough I start to realize how silly they look. Does that make sense?

>>79

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Semantic_satiation

>>79
I know what you mean bro. Imagine what it was like writing the damn thing.

Maybe you'll like my other masterpiece (you'll recognize the first sentence):
James, while John had had 'had', had had 'had had'. 'Had had' had had a better effect on the teacher. Peter, while James had had 'had had' had had 'had had had'. 'Had had had' had had 'had had' a 'had', but 'had had' had had 'had had had' had.

>>90
Sorry, missing a comma after the fourth 'had' of the second sentence.

Go on....

Is this meant to be a comedic piece? It's certainly reading like one.

>>57

"Comedic" isn't the write word, it's satire, but yeah.

I'm having a bit of writer's block. I'll try to write some more tomorrow, but the words aren't coming out like I want th

>>64

*like I want them to.

This was pretty great for some reason. Keep up the atmosphere of it. " Operation Thunderfuck: Bitch Slappin' Mother Nature" is a pretty modern name though and kind of breaks the feeling that it's happening during the korean/vietnam war. I think it should be slightly more serious. The actual story thus far is ridiculous enough that you don't need to start talking silly.

you type while staring at the keys? Shit bro get it together!

yea weed makes my typing worst then it already is

If we're making up ideas, I think it'd be fun to have a couple collaborative google docs. It's easy to revert and ban, so pages of "NIGGER NIGGER NIGGER NIGGER" wouldn't be an issue.

No. This is creative writing, people should be transcending genres and categories, not nickeling themselves into them.

>>74

What this dude said. You can't just categorize my pre-modernistic steampunk zombedy bromance epic poem, it would almost be a crime against literature.

I'm not really writing that.

Yet.

Fuck yeah, I'm going to the gym now.

This was awesome.

Get rid of the "alpha/beta/LMAO2whatever, etc." though. We don't do that here.

Some things I've learned along the way:

1. Revise. Revise a lot. Books are never finished, only abandoned. There's no such fucking thing as a flawless work, it can always be improved, but we can try to get closer and closer every time. Revise your work about 3 or 4 times before you post it, which means leaving a day in between revisions.

2. Read a lot. More importantly, read good books a lot. If you read strictly Harry Potter, Twilight and Dan Brown, you're not going to be any good at all. Expose yourself to different styles of writing, different genres, and look into "high level" books you were forced to read in class. And genres doesn't mean sci-fi vs. action, I mean postmodern works, modern works, Victorian, realist, transcendentalist (ugh), etc.

3. Know the basics. Know how to construct sentences, know how to create a simple story, learn literary devices and how to implement them, keep meter and rhythm in mind, etc. Crawl before you can walk.

4. Don't worry too much about grammar. If it's horrendous and getting in the way, then yeah, knock it down, but if it's just a little off and it adds to the pacing/voice, then go ahead. Suggested reading: The Elements of Style by Strunk & White.

5. You're going to be shitty. Live with it. A good writer thinks he's innately better than everyone else, but knows he's not at that point yet.

6. Don't be afraid to ask why someone thinks this or that! People are wrong too, and in every craft there's a group of idiots walking around thinking they know more than everyone else. Don't ignore people's advice, but don't discount yourself because Shakespeare said you're terrible and he left his shoes in your mom's bedroom.

7. Try to be original. Experiment. Be ballsy. That's how genius is created.

Message too long. Click here to view the full text.