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[hops]

pls

I'm still trying to muster the willpower.

[GiglameshDespair]

_{Actually, someone else posted, so there's a fourth one, if you're counting that.}

Go Objective, critique those stories!

[Gamerlord]

Do any of you have advice on writing horror, specifically survival horror with the pov of a child?

[Cryxis, Prince of Doom]

Speaking of which I might start copying and pasting bits of my survival/apocalypse/zombie/horror/other games for critiquing, I feel like I need better story telling in my games.
Would that be ok to do here?

[GiglameshDespair]

Do any of you have advice on writing horror, specifically survival horror with the pov of a child?

Can you expand on this a little?

[Gamerlord]

Do any of you have advice on writing horror, specifically survival horror with the pov of a child?

Can you expand on this a little?

Its for a quest I want to run on the Sufficient Velocity forums and it's going to be focused on more... Otherworldly monsters. Things that are just wrong.

[TD1]

Lovecraftian?

[Gamerlord]

Lovecraftian?

Sorta, but only if you really start delving deep. So long as the players only scratch the surface and don't mess around with the Geas or Circle (binding oneself with promises to try and resist fey creatures and borderline pagan superstition/habits/rites) too much they shouldn't take too high a SAN loss.

[GiglameshDespair]

If you're going the eldritch horror theme, you want knowing too much to be more dangerous than knowing too little, and klnowing too little to be pretty deadly.

The opponent is greater than humanity, powerful, beyond comprehension - they should rarely be seen, and at most just enough to give hunts as to their nature. Instead, they utilise minions - twisted in form or not. Ordinary people should be sleeper agents, to give the notion that no one can be trusted.

Eldritch horror runs off the fear of the unknown. Don't explain things, but have a common thread between them. Recommended reading for good, strange horror.

[Gamerlord]

Things won't be explained, but there won't be too many minions. The beings in this will be relatively small-time; most won't have enough power to do much more than take a human form; they'll rely on trickery and the belief of children to do their work. The bigger ones will be a lot more dangerous though and a Deal With The Devil to get knowledge or help will be in the cards. Thanks for the link!

[Xantalos]

Ooh, interesting. I'd also recommend reading some of Lovecraft's works - after all, he pioneered the genre. Haunter in the Dark I remember as a good one, Rats in the Walls, etc.

Also, could you shoot me a link once you've got the game set up? I'm interested in this.

[piecewise]

Do any of you have advice on writing horror, specifically survival horror with the pov of a child?

Writing from the pov of a child is hard because kids see things in fundamentally different ways then adults. Here, watch this:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TRF27F2bn-A

Thats pretty technical, yeah, but it should give you an idea of one of the major differences between adult perspective and children's perspective: Logic. The way a child thinks, plans and acts tends to be much more short sighted and much more easily influenced. They are not completely illogical, rather they simply have a sort of logic which makes leaps and connections that older people find difficult to comprehend. This is compounded by the fact that children are often oblivious to dangers they don't understand. Children do not understand death, they can't fear for their lives because the idea of dying isn't real to them, at least not really.  But they can fear pain; because that is a very primal and easy to comprehend thing. So a child that is watching the city it's in being bombed or burnt down won't care or be afraid until the noise hurts their ears or the smoke stings their eyes. Then they'll be afraid.

Likewise, children, especially in the toddler and a bit older range have a definite fear of the unknown. They are terrified of things they don't understand, even if those things aren't really causing them any problems. The classic example is the child which erupts into tearful hysterics when placed on santa's knee. The combination of separation from the parents and immersion in a completely incomprehensible and new environment with this big, strange thing talking at you is enough to cause a break down.

I want you to imagine for a moment what it is to be a 4 year old who gets lost in the mall. You are separated from your parents, from the things which are, to you, the source of life and comfort. You are plunged into a world in which the geometry and architecture resembles what you are familiar with- with the innards of the average American home- but is all together harsher and more angular, all glass, metal, concrete, humming halogen and muttering pop songs on the overhead speakers. The beings which are walking past you are several times your size and engaged in activities you don't understand, and they do these things with seeming apathy to you, ignoring you as they walk past. You want to go home, you want to find something familiar, you want to be safe, but all there is around you are things which you don't understand, which are just familiar enough to frustrate but alien enough to frighten.

To be a child, lost like that, is quite similar to lovecraft's idea of humanity as similarly trapped in places which we do not understand, crawling under the busily hurrying feet of vast beings which do not care for us one way or another.

Helplessness. Thats the key.



Oh and this is completely unrelated to the above, but I once wrote a Lovecraftian story about DF style dwarves exploring a fort which dug into the HFS. It may be something you could use, so steal from it if you want.
http://www.bay12forums.com/smf/index.php?topic=58081.msg1280853

[hops]

Contest Final Round-up

You know how the old-school depiction of hackers is that they always wear sunglasses, even though that makes no sense? And leather trenchcoats and stuff?

I had the idea that that was a type of memetic image that resulted in death to those who saw it. It could only be displayed on an image above certain resolutions.

The hacker's sunglasses are actually specially designed. They distort the memetic image enough it doesn't trigger the brain impulses that lead to death.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

I found her on the street. Nothing surprising there. Since the Screenshock, there had been a lot of orphans. Lot of parents used to leaving their child in front of a television for the day now without a brat, too, but society has a way of letting these problems go unsolved. People prefer the things they’ve made to second hand. Whatever the case, there were a whole lot of children leftwithout a home.

Actually, it wasn’t quite right when I said I found her on the street. Technically, first I found her on the Net. The sprites in my implant flagged her up as a wealthy family’s kid. I was going to kidnap her.

Hey, times were hard. Unless you had a job on the lightpusher ships heading outsystem or in the orbital industries, there’s not all that much wealth sloshing around for people not a shareholder of one of the mega-corporations. I was thinking I’d grab the kid, wipe her brain-chip so she couldn’t be traced, contact her family and arrange a nice sum to be paid to a lunar bank account.
When I found her, though, she was curled up in an alleyway. She looked like she hadn’t eaten in days (she hadn’t). I may not be a good man, but I’m not an evil one, and something about the kid tugged my heartstrings. She was pretty obviously going to die soon if I didn’t help.
I felt pretty awkward carrying her back to my place, a grubby apartment in one of the hab-hives in what used to be Birmingham. The steady stream of people took no notice of the pathetic bundle in my arms as I carried her past the lifts to the stairs. I lived on the fifty-eighth floor, nearly half way up. It was a long climb. The lifts had had an ‘out of order’ since the cable for one broke and the lift fell 200 metres. That had been four months ago, and they still weren't fixed. At least I was getting a work out.

I sat the child – Amanda Tulkoviz, I read from her brainchip – down on the worn seat in the kitchen. She hadn't said a word. Not even offered any resistance to a strange man picking her up and carrying her off. My sprites – semi-sentient snippets of code – read deeper into her brainchip.
 Amanda Tulkoviz. Date of Birth: 5/5/2074. Allergies: Thermixan B. A sprite plucked data from the Net about it, some medicine that helped against sleeplessness. I read deeper into her history, my sprites scavenging info from the Net and weaving it together, feeding it to me through my own implant. Reasonably wealthy upbringing in what little remained of the middle class. Good grades at school. Few friends. Screenshock happened, her parents both saw the thing they shouldn’t and died. Was in an orphanage for around two years, was treated from sleeplessness and nightmares, allergy found. Orphange ran out of cash, kids got turfed on the street three months ago.
All the information I received in about two seconds. I placed a bowl in the autochef and waited for it to reheat the slop inside.

“It’s just the gunk Mars sends in food aid, nothing great. But it’s, err, got all the stuff you need. All the minerals and shit. Good for you.” I trailed off. Shit, I had no idea how to talk to kids. I hadn’t even had a pet before. Christ. The autochef dinged and I placed the bowl in front of the kid. She twitched, and for the first time her expression changed from a sort of dull misery. She looked at me, and I nodded as I placed a mostly-clean spoon in front of her.
“Go ahead, kid. All for you.”
After she had finished, her eyes started to droop, worn out by months of unending unhappiness and lulled by the first meal she’d had in days.

It was a year after that she spoke to me for the first time.

It was three years after that she called me ‘Dad’.

So I made a setting. Look around you - how many big (or small) high definition (e.g above early CRT) screens do you have? What if they all suddenly showed an image that if you saw it, you died, convulsing? A lot of people would die. Coupled with an economy mainly moved off-world or to more advanced robotics, there's not many jobs available. Displays have regressed to old, crappy style, where there's no risk of malignant code displaying a screenshock image.

I'd appreciate a better name than screenshock, but it's the best i could come up with on short notice.

OH man, I was actually in the mood for cyberpunk. I feel like the story could elaborate more on the screenshock, though, since it plays a pretty important role in the story by providing the circumstance for it to happen in the first place. You didn't even explain what the screenshock is in the story. It just appear to me that all information I can glean is that it's a thing to do with people seeing stuffs and dying. The story didn't mention anything about it being memetic, nor it explain what caused it.

The protector prompt:

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

The world outside was a blaze of colours. Lines of white shot through the midnight sky like skeins of silver in a darkened cloth. Along these lines, dark against the brilliance, pods of people travelled. So small. So small to one so far from them as I was. A light cough came from behind me, and I turned from the city scape, turned from the light and the people. Great buildings loomed out there also, but the darkness hid them in a cloak of mystery. The one before me bore such a cloak, one that hid their face and intent.

“You have been here too long! Begone!”

Such frantic words from one so hidden in their purpose. The shaded figure drew closer, loomed larger. “Shaded fiend,” I said with quiet certainty, “I assure you I am exactly where I want t…”

Hood was cast back. Light from outside, light from inside, flooded that darkened chamber. A mass of flesh, changing features, changing emotions- Anger, Hate, Avarice!- all mixed into one terrible visage. Words caught in my throat, terrible thoughts coalesced in my head…and still, the now revealed figure inched closer, hand outstretched.

“Begone!” Came the cry, a guttural, rattling noise. The figure was close, so very close, and terror seized my limbs. The hand-such waxy skin, pale and gleaming fell!- crept nearer my throat. Somehow, I forced my frozen throat to work.

“I feel I should be here. This is where I belong.” My voice came as a stutter first, then came out loud and firm. “I BELONG HERE.” The mutilated flesh before me twisted, one of its eyes opening and closing, staring at me. Deep in its depths, I caught a wary form of regard, before it was swept away. With a howl, it leapt, and I fell backwards into the inky darkness behind me. Falling. Falling. Eyes closed, I waited for the end….

And then opened them. Green light, strained through the roof of an ancient forest, greeted my sleep-grimed eyes. Another dream. Another dream of such vivid reality. All in the same place, all with the same sense of belonging- all containing the same rejection. With a sigh, I turned over and got to my feet. A small, diminutive figure was lying beside me, and I shook it awake. We had many miles to go before the next town. I had kept her spirits high with tales of the Bards of Falston, kept her trudging on this miserable trek.

I didn’t really care about her at the start, just another burden on my journey, but one that a frantic mother, knowing my reputation as a renowned woodsman, had begged me to take along. In front of the tide of Barbarian invaders. Ahead of the beasts they brought with them from over the icy wastes. She had taken an injury in helping the men-folk repulse the first wave, and could not come with us.

But my lack of care changed. Her emerald eyes caught me on our trip, her easy laughter, and even her sulky moods. One day she felt herself a princess, the next a fellow Ranger of the Woods. And throughout it all, she missed her mother with a passion that twisted my heart. I fashioned crude dolls out of twigs and moss, carried her over bog and field.

We walked the trail again, the terrors of the night fading from my mind. Long was that day, and weary, with a drizzling rain that seeped through all cloth coverings. The girl trudged on alongside, perking up only when the smoke-wreathed chimneys of Falston came into view. “The Bards, The Bards!” She cried, and ran on ahead.

My indulgent smile slipped from my face. Smoke wreathed, aye, were those chimneys…but they should not also be flame-wreathed. With a cry, I ran after the girl…and was too late. Ambush sprung, they leapt from hiding- the Ice Barbarians had, it would appear, not taken the time to secure their new holdings to the North, but sped Southwards to their next conquest along the roads we were forced to eschew.

A yell in my throat, terror in my heart, I ran faster than ever before. Wind parted before me, time slowed. The sun glinted on the harshly curved blade as it swung down towards the young girl, no more than ten, who looked on with puzzled bemusement. I watched, a phantom in my own body, as my own blade went between, flipped the sword around, and my hand drove it into the throat of the attacker. Time renewed its flow to the screams of a little girl.

The Ice Barbarians stared, shocked. Then they leapt into motion like a well oiled machine. Spear bearers held out their bristling fence of six thorns, and three archers behind let loose their arrows. The first I dodged. The second tore a hole in my cloak. The third I blocked with my blade, sending it clattering into the shadows of the wood surrounding the path. Laboured breathing as the archers hastily pulled out more arrows, too late.

I vaulted as I would over a hedge- the spears did not touch me for they were too low down, and I sailed above. I landed, and my blade took off a hand. Blood spurted, a bow was dropped, and then the spearmen were on me. A cry of pain echoed as I danced the forms, flowed from one step to the next, my hair hanging low over my eyes. I stopped. All archers dead, four of the spearmen on the ground, immobile or groaning. The girl, no fool, was up a tree, pelting the ambushers with stones. The smile of a killer spread across my face, and I finished them quickly, efficiently, weaving through their vain thrusts of spears.

She was crying, even as she continued to throw stones at corpses. I helped her down, and we got back on the thin trail before us, taking a branch further away from Falston. Gore on my face, tears on hers, we continued on. That night, as we settled down, I dreamt again of my futuristic paradise, the dream I had spun for myself. Instead of a gruesome figure hounding me back to life, this time a little girl gently tugged on my arm, and the tears on her face willed me to return, along with plaintive gestures. And return I did, for the sake of that girl, for the sake of the regard I hold for her and the protection I mean to grant.

A man can’t live in a dream paradise, he can only try to build one in the real world. The child at my side showed me that.

The intro dream sequence was a bit confusing. You might want to just simply state that he was dreaming, since otherwise the reader is unsure what the story is actually about. Apart  from that, this was a solid story. For a moment I even thought the  girl would have been killed off, so personally I would say that a way to add more sense of urgency to the combat is to keep the in harm's way longer, if you want to.

Can we do both prompts in one?

Spoiler: Both prompts (click to show/hide)

The first thing the undead feel is cold. Not the teeth-shattering numb winter chill. Nor the razor blade winds which cut feet and face. Nor the heavy, bone-deep cold that settles in the lungs and condenses breath. These are but relative; whatever cold the living feel, however cold, it is only a shade from their warmest parts, it is only a contour, a comparison. True cold, is the wolf spider eating its newborn or the theft of a blind man's walking stick or the murder of a child, when she dreams. True cold is devoid of warmth, disconnected. And it is the truest proof of death. For life itself, is warmth.

At the heart of us, we feel such cold. We have no wills of our own, and no senses and no emotion. We are thinking beings, but hollow, like ants or termites. We can move and fight, but we cannot sweat, we do not bleed, we do not feel pain. The better necromancers will arm us, though we have no killing instinct. The better necromancers will armor us, though we feel no caution. When we draw blood it is the same to us as drawing water from a well. When one of us falls, it is the same to us as when an autumn leaf falls from a tree.

We have no purpose, but the one that is planted. We can stand forever at a word, and cannot stand at all without one. We do have memories, though they are long and faded and chipped at places. We are strong and tireless and unbroken. But we are playthings, merely.

I, myself, have served many masters, unlived, many years. To the undead, time is erosion. It is not measured or metered out, but, like hair or fingernails, grown unnoticed. Once, I was fair and swift, I rode on steeds of pale roan. Once, I felt the wind on my cheeks and soft hands through my hair. Once, I felt hunger and thirst; I felt fear. Now I am speed itself and the wind cannot catch me. Now I am fear itself.

My current master keeps me close, gives me a weapon and mail of wrought steel. I protect at all times. My master has many enemies. But there are many mounds outside the keep. I am good at my work.

When my master walks, I walk also; when my master fights, I fight also; when my master sleeps, I remain awake. And when my master finally dies, I will live. My master is cautious but capricious; powerful, but naive. Death approaches now. Steadily. Steadily. An group of bandits looking for trinkets. The mounds are dug. A group of heroes looking for glory. The mounds are dug. An army with banners looking for revenge. The mounds are dug.

A necromancer looking only for sport. Ah! the time comes.

The little hands draw runes on the clear stone, the little lips mutter words. The little cheeks redden from the cold, I no longer know. An arrow lands before her feet. She yelps and jumps back. She gestures with her tiny hands, I move in front of her. More arrows; they clink against my armor and fall. The doors begin to shake. The walls begin to crack. The stone pillars shed dust. She breathes out the words in panic. I watch her; her eyes well with water. She is young. She is a child. These are facts, only; I feel nothing. The door begins to creak, arms push through and splinter wood. She looks up and backs away. She covers her ears with cupped hands and closes her eyes. I protect at all times. When my master sleeps, I remain awake.

The door smashes open, the untiring charge. They have no weapons; they have no armor. They need none, numbers suffice. She gestures behind closed eyes. I move back toward her and protect. They are biters. I sever their necks and arms and legs. Their teeth break against my steel chest. But there are too many. One slips past my sword, then another and another and another. I hear a scream. I feel nothing. I hear the crunch of bone and the scream cuts short. I begin to fall.

Everything happens at once. I feel the sun. I am dead. I feel pain. I am dead. I feel wind on my elbows and knees. I am dead. I feel fear and sadness and hunger and happiness and remorse and failure and every mote of every emotion that ever was. I am dead.

I am warm. I am defeated. I am victorious. I am alive. I am dead. I am dead. I am dead.

How much time passes? A day? A decade? I know not. My flesh hums with true cold and the bones begin to clack again. I am in the keep. The little girl is replaced with an old man. I protect at all times. The old man has many enemies, and there are many mounds within the keep. Large...and small. I feel nothing. But the moment will come. Steadily. Steadily. Perhaps then, my mound will be dug. But I cannot will it on my own, I cannot ask or speak, or even desire.

But, I can wait.

I can only see this fulfilling the guardian prompt, since I don't really see any particular victory. I'm also particularly confused why the undead was suddenly put out of commission. Most parts of the story is solid, but like I said, a lot of the details are kind of confusing. Are the little girl's assailants human? I mean, they have arrows, but they also bit her? This really confuses me.

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[Gamerlord]

Ooh, interesting. I'd also recommend reading some of Lovecraft's works - after all, he pioneered the genre. Haunter in the Dark I remember as a good one, Rats in the Walls, etc.

Also, could you shoot me a link once you've got the game set up? I'm interested in this.

Sure thing man.

-glorious amount of help-

Thanks!

[TD1]

Whilst I appreciate "winning," Objective, wasn't Arx in the running too?

Okay then!

Spoiler: Blood on an Axe (click to show/hide)

James stood back against the wall shielding his face as Erin swung the old hatchet with savage purpose. She was young and untrained, but the hatchet was long-handled with a solid steel head, and her purpose didn’t require the hatchet to remain usable. Chips flew off the concrete pillar and the axe-head in almost equal numbers, but those off the pillar were larger. Occasionally she would wince as the axe viciously jumped in her hands, ricocheting off a reinforcement bar with a spray of sparks. She stopped only to shift her hands on the haft and circle around the pillar, putting her whole body into the work without regard for the blisters forming on her hands or the shards flying at her face. Halfway through the pillar, she stopped, satisfied, and moved onto the next.
“Don’t just stand there like a chump,” she snapped at James, “Get something and start working on one of these pillars!”

Confused, he cowered against the wall and she snorted, pausing to wipe the sweat from her brow – smearing blood on instead – before grasping the bloodstained axe haft with both hands and started her swing again. As chips flew out of the corner of the pillar, the other support she had already damaged began to buckle perceptibly, as did the roof above it. She smiled grimly, taking two more wild swings at the pole before lifting the axe onto her shoulder.

“Alright, Jamie-boy. If you want to live, get out of here, the gate’s that way.” She gestured at the signs running along the ceiling of the grungy garage. “I’ll be along just now. Go find Mommy and then tell her to take you to the police. I’ll see you tomorrow, alright? Off you go, there’s no point staying here.”

James sniffed and stood up, dragging his sleeve across his face. On impulse, Erin moved forward and gave him a one-armed hug. She’d never been the strong big-sister type, even to her own siblings, but something compelled her to help him.

“Run along now. Just follow the signs and you won’t get lost.” She breathed a sigh of relief as he finally walked off towards the exit, pushing her fringe out of her face and sitting down to face the boom in the closest gateway. Not the one she’d sent him to. It was only a matter of time, now.

Tires squealed and a car ploughed through the boom and the – thankfully unoccupied – security guard’s booth, in what was either a highly skilled or spectacularly lucky simultaneous turn and stop. Almost immediately, a man stepped out of the car.

“Where is James, girl?”

“Away.”

“Make it easy on yourself. If you just give us the heir, your life will be easy. You can’t be more than fourteen, you’ve got a long life ahead of you.” He took a step forward, his hand moving towards his jacket.

Erin stood up, pulling the axe into her bloody hands. The man recoiled, obviously suddenly noticing the bloodstains but not the fact that they were all near her hands. His hand jerked into his jacket, but too late.

Erin completed a graceful spin with all her strength behind it. The abused axe, with its head now almost flat at the point, bit deep into the buckling pillar and the roof groaned.

Twelve was too young to die, but six was worse.

She hurled the axe at the man and began running, staggering slightly as she tried to weave, hunch over, and move quickly all at the same time, both resigned to the possibility of death and terrified of hearing the sound of a gunshot. With an anticlimactic crunch, the pillar buckled and the roof fell in, pulling the other part-cut support with it.

As she felt the breeze suddenly cut off, Erin stumbled and fell. With no attempt to catch herself she hit the ground and curled up, crying.

She had survived, and James was on his way out.

Both prompts. I'm not sure if the sad ending would have been better, and if the 'antagonist' has enough of a motive.

I think this is the only submission for the contest.