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[JackoftheBox]

This will be an interesting thread to follow. I've always been intrigued by the idea of writing a story of my own, but always struggle with the beginning. This thread just might give me right idea on how to do that. So so, following with interest, maybe posting if I'll get the spark.

[nenjin]

It's alright if the paragraphs look short when you're switching between speakers. It's to make it easier for the reader to know whose speaking at all times.

Yeah. Outside of dialog, a single sentence standing on its own signals to the reader that the line is supposed to have impact.

Consider:

The shaft pierced Dulon's chest and he fell to his knees, his hands clutching at the arrow. Through his agony he saw the line begin to falter, as his brothers in arms fell one by one to the axes' of his foes. He thought of his city burning, his people scattered to the winds and the throne of his King smashed into a thousand splinters. The pain of his death wound was nothing compared to the knowledge that he had failed.

On the fields of Peldror, Dulon died in shame.

Versus:

The sun was high in the clear blue sky.

The grasslands whispered as the wind passed over it.

He had been riding all day and night and he was tired.

There were many miles to go until he reached the capital city and he feared he would not reach it before nightfall.

He was afraid.

---

One is a distinct set of ideas wrapped in a paragraph. The other are isolated ideas floating out there. Is there meant to be symbolism there? Is it just being poetic? Paragraphs can help emphasize, or de-emphasize, what you write for the reader. Consider it kind of like a movie. Does a movie present a scene by showing you isolated elements, one at a time? Or does it present a scene holistically, where each element supports the next? Think of paragraphs the same way. Dialog is the same. When two people are talking, the favorite angle to use is the over shoulder angle, where each actor's face is shown while they're talking. (Most of the time, there are many stylistic ways to screw with it.) Dialog is the same way when written, where each line stands on its own just like a camera would show the face of a speaker in a movie.

[lordnincompoop]

Just don't over do it. Otherwise you put out choppy sentences and that's almost as bad.

Often, that's more indicative of the writer lacking flow and coherence than improper use of paragraph breaks.

[Willfor]

My contributions to the resource list:

http://www.writingexcuses.com/ <- A podcast by genre writers who are all published. There's a lot of good material here, and while there is material you may not need, you're allowed to skip around to what you need. They always give a writing prompt at the end of each podcast.

http://coyotecult.com/communities/sfandf_critters/references/limyaael.php <- Limyaael's fantasy advice rants. There is a wealth of knowledge in here based on one of the pickiest readers in the fantasy genre. She has her own tastes, and those may not be your own tastes, but her perspective can improve critical thought.

http://writeordie.com/#Web+App && http://editminion.com/ :

Write Or Die is a webapp (though it's available on other platforms for a price) that checks to make sure it is receiving input in a specified amount of time. Keep typing until you're done, and you're good. Stop typing, and it will start to alert you to the fact that you've stopped. You can set it to different alarms.

Editminion is a webapp that goes over your stories for the most common problems editors face. HOWEVER it is not always right. Its best use is to highlight things that might be problems, but you should always use your own discretion as to whether it has found a real problem or not.

[nenjin]

Often, that's more indicative of the writer lacking flow and coherence than improper use of paragraph breaks.

Not necessarily. For web reporting, we were urged to break paragraphs down to sentences as much as possible for readability. One idea per complete sentence was their mantra. It's just a very direct style of writing.

It has applications for fiction writing too. If your sentences sit out there like that, they should be good sentences. If they're not great sentences, they should be wrapped into a paragraph that gives them context and allows other ideas to flow from them.

[Pnx]

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

This is the tale of two warriors. The first is a tall barrel chested man known only as Half-Pint, who is rumoured to be not entirely human in lineage. The second is Iam Victorious, a "monk" who has according to rumour never actually spent a day of his life in a monastery.

Both of them are thoroughly lost.

"You've got to be reading the map wrong," Iam said.

Half-Pint scratched his head.

"It's broken," he said.

"It can't be broken," Iam snapped, "give it here."

The monk snatched the map away from his companion.

The magic map could ordinarily create an image of whatever the area surrounding the holder was. But here, in this maze of twisty passages that were all so alike, it seemed to be having trouble.

"It looks like two spider webs mating, doesn't it?"

Iam scowled. "Alright," he said, "maybe it is broken."

Iam rolled the map up and tucked it into his belt.

"So," Half-Pint said, "maybe we should use that ball of yarn."

"Right then, let's give it a shot, sit down," Iam said.

Half-Pint sat, and Iam opened up Half-Pint's gargantuan backpack, then hauled himself bodily into it.

Your average bag of holding, is worth a small fortune. Half-Pint's backpack of housing is worth a considerable fortune. The horde of magical artefacts contained within said backpack, was worth a bigger fortune still, but all of that paled in comparison to the huge piles of gold, silver, and platinum coins of various denominations most of which hadn't been in circulation for thousands of years.
The guild of merchant's and brokers had made it very clear that if they spent too much of it at once they'd quickly find themselves on trial for crimes against the economy.

I actually have to go sort some stuff out right now, so I'll try to get around to finishing this later.

[UltraValican]

Trying cause Im bored.

I was the first to enter the dungeon.
My "master", a human priest who serves some weak god of knowledge, insisted I enter first.
The bastard wasn't two steps in this cursed place and he was already using me as a meat shield.
   The dungeon smelled of blood, feces, and misery. My master urged me forward through a dark corridor that led into a rather large room. In the rooms, center rested a bright pink potion labeled: FRAGIO. I tried to pick it up, but my master promptly caned me away from the "treasure". After a few moments, my master shoved the potion into my hands and ordered me to drink. I knew the dangers of drinking unknown substances.  There was no discussion. I quaffed the potion down. The cocktail itself was sweet tasting, too sweet. My stomach began to churn as I began to howl out in agony. I inadvertently dug my claws into my own stomach as I collapsed onto the ground. I howled out again in pain. My master looked on with cold piercing eyes. I vomited onto the floor, as I prepared to see my ancestors in the Great Beyond.
   My master shushed me.
   "Be quite you..."
    Both of us could here laughter, sinister cruel laughing. Several humanoid creatures with bloody flesh red skin and the faces of dogs poured into the room. Each one held several sinister looking weapons in their hands, and a stupid look on their faces. My master began praying wildly, as the creatures surrounded us. I stared bleakly at the floor; the pain subsided, but I thought I could play dead.
Death. What a fool I was to think Death was the release I would receive. No. Earn.
Be it magic or divine intervention, every single dog faced creature dropped dead in pain. My master quickly produced some food and began to feast. After his meal, he beat my prone body about the head with a cane.
"You will die when I say die, Troll", He said. "Your little stunt just cost you meal time, now come."

I rose from the ground a shambled into the next corridor.

Okay how bad is it?
 

[Phantom of The Library]

The quest to find ORB OF ZOT!!

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Two Adventurers Jonathan and Zack go in the dungeon they are brave warriors. Jonathan is a sword user and Zack is a spear user. "Zack you afraid?" Zack looks at Jonathan "Never!! i am the best and will always be." They see there first foe a kobold far away "Jonathan im going to throw my spear at the kobold" Jonathan nod ant goes near a wall to hide. Zack throws his spear and misses Jonathan starts to laugh and the kobold starts to run at them with his club. The kobold tackles Zack to the floor and starts beating him with his club. Jonathan still laughing does nothing "Jonathan you fool!! help me...." Jonathan runs up to the kobold and stabs the kobold in the face. All the blood goes all over Zack "Ewww this is nasty" Jonathan helps Zack up "That was funny when you got beaten to a pulp by that kobold" Zack gets the club and hits Jonathan on the head with it knocking him out. "Ill leave you to die now bye i hope you die" Zack runs to his spear and runs off Zack sees a orc and 3 kobolds Zack charges at the orc with the axe and engages him in battle. Zack hits the orc with the tip of the spear the orc steps on Zack's foot and hits his chest with his mighty axe. The 3 kobolds with no weapons assists the orc and beats Zack up. Jonathan wakes up and see his friend and runs to help him Jonathan slashs the kobold in the neck killing the first kobold. Jonathans then spins with his sword slashing the second and thrid kobold in the chest killing them. While done spinning the orc hits him in the arm making Jonathan drop his sword. Zack picks up his spear on the floor and gets up and hits the orc on the back. The orc in pain holds his back with his hand to stop the pain and Jonathan picks up his sword and with enough time stabs the orc on the heart. "Zack thanks for helping me" Zack shakes his head "No you help me greatly" After hours of hours they get to the Orb of Zot and sees a demon with a shadow sword which is powerful. Zack and Jonathan uses there skills to fight the demon.   

   BOSS BATTLE PROTECTOR OF ZOT

Jonathan and Zack runs up to the demon while Jonathan hold the other end of the spear like a rope they dive down at the demon feet and trip him but while the demon falls down. The demons uses his shadow sword and cuts Zack left leg off. "AHH MY LEG IT HURTS" Zack starts to bleed Jonathan takes Zack spear and throws it at the demon chest it was sucessful but the demon is still alive. Jonathan runs at the demon and attempts to slash his head off. But the demon uses his shadow sword and about to stab jonathan in the heart Zack jumps up and saves Jonathan. The demon throws his sword to the wall and uses his claws. But before the demon can get a hit on Jonathan he slash the demon head off killing it. Zack is dead and Jonathans walks up to the Orb of Zot and takes it with him and leaves the dungeon and puts a sign up labeled Zack's resting place do not disturb or the sprits guarding him will kill you. THE END OF Jonathan and Zacks adventure.

Everything I was going to say has pretty much already been said.  Paragraphs are very important.  A piece of advice that really helped me whenever I was first beginning was actually meant to be advice for essay writing.  "Paint a picture with words"  Consider this, when you are writing, what you are doing is taking an image in your mind and making it so that others can see it.  This does not mean that you should overuse descriptive language, but rather that everything should flow and be bound together, a painting of a mountain does not look like a painting of a mountain if you randomly draw bits of a desert on it.  Each sentence should transition into the next. 
Another thing that might help is:  Read over your work and edit before you declare it finished, this is probably the best thing for any writer to do.

Also: Thanks for contributing everybody, and thanks to Willfor for the links I'll add them to the OP as soon as I finish some other stuff.

[The Fool]

It took a little while to write, but I like how it turned out. I might just turn this into a series of short stories, and write one for each prompt.

Spoiler: The Demon in the Dark (click to show/hide)

Rain pelted the deep sage half-cloaks of the two men standing outside the cave. A small crowd was gathered in silence, led by a town guard watching the men at the door of the cavern. One of the two was pressed against the wall, listening in for some kind of sound, while the other stood at the opening with a bow in hand, and an arrow notched. The ginger-haired man at the cave entrance called over to the other, “Warren. It’s all clear. Lets go.”

“After you, Red.” Warren crept into the dark cave closely after Red, still clenching his bow as well as his teeth. A foul wet stench of moss filled the caves as water dripped onto Red’s head.

Red looked around him with a paranoid glare. He whispered back to Warren “How the hell did we get here!?” He drew a short knife from his belt and held it away from himself, as if he were in a knife fight with the cave itself.

“We stole their town’s sacred urn to a fence. It was this or a hanging. Now keep walking.” He spoke over Red’s shoulder, trying to fight the urge to run. “We get the orb, and we get our freedom.” Warren sounded serious, but Red wasn’t quite as sure about his freedom. Still Red kept quiet and kept walking in the lead.

The sounds of dark melodious chanting echoed off the cave walls endlessly as they moved deeper into the darkness. At first it was only a faint whisper from within the confines of the wall, but it rapidly grew louder and louder. It was getting hard to see each other in the blackness, but neither of them dared lighting a torch with the tinder they were given. The metal clasps of their half-cloaks clattered as they both shook in fear of what may lay ahead of them. With each passing step the voices got louder and louder, until it was coming from all around them.

Without warning the chanting was cut short, and the hollow black cavern was filled with silence. Red, and Warren fumbled madly for the tinder and wood they were given, making a small amount of noise as they prepped their torches. The torches were lit and at once they knew what had happened. Looking down there was a chalk circle with a maddening array of patterns and designs, and around that circle were shadowy figures dressed in dirty crimson robes with large hooked knives drawn. “Ah. The sacrifices have arrived.” They began to slowly walk forward with grim stares, and dark smiles.

Warren looked at Red and shouted as loud as he could, “Now!” They both dropped their torches, and Warren rapidly notched his bow. Red kneeled and cupped his hands at his knee, as Warren stepped onto his hands. Warren was tossed upwards, releasing a loud primal cry as he loosed his arrow. Red tumbled backwards after throwing Warren, springing at the last second to kick a cultist square in the chest as an arrow lodged into his neck. The cultist groaned as he fell back, weakened. Red used the opening to escape to the outside of the bladed circle of robes.

The cultist who spoke earlier spread his arms wide, speaking in a more urgent tone. “We can’t afford the loss of another. We must perform the sacrifice without delay! Blood must be spilt.” Within seconds all of the cultists had their knives at their own throats. In one macabre moment a torrent of crimson blood erupted from the tears in their robes. The torches went out as blood splattered onto the wood. The room was once again dark.

A gleam of light came from a crack in the wall. Red rushed at the crack and started prying his fingers through the hole to loosen the rocks. “Warren, I don’t know about you, but I’m getting out of here. This place is scary as hell itself!” The crack began to widen, and with a sudden shift of stone an exit was made. “We did it. We aren’t gonna be hung!” Red looked back at Warren only to see the Orb of Zot upon an altar. “How much do you think that orb will sell for?” Red said with a grin.

Warren looked up from the bloody magic circle with surprise. He saw Red pointing and turned. Sure enough there it was. “I don’t know, but I think we should find out.” As they exited the cave through the fresh opening they failed to notice a large dark purple hand grasped at the ground, almost as if it were trying to pull itself out of the ground...

How was that?

[Phantom of The Library]

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

This is the tale of two warriors. The first is a tall barrel chested man known only as Half-Pint, who is rumoured to be not entirely human in lineage. The second is Iam Victorious, a "monk" who has according to rumour never actually spent a day of his life in a monastery.

Both of them are thoroughly lost.

"You've got to be reading the map wrong," Iam said.

Half-Pint scratched his head.

"It's broken," he said.

"It can't be broken," Iam snapped, "give it here."

The monk snatched the map away from his companion.

The magic map could ordinarily create an image of whatever the area surrounding the holder was. But here, in this maze of twisty passages that were all so alike, it seemed to be having trouble.

"It looks like two spider webs mating, doesn't it?"

Iam scowled. "Alright," he said, "maybe it is broken."

Iam rolled the map up and tucked it into his belt.

"So," Half-Pint said, "maybe we should use that ball of yarn."

"Right then, let's give it a shot, sit down," Iam said.

Half-Pint sat, and Iam opened up Half-Pint's gargantuan backpack, then hauled himself bodily into it.

Your average bag of holding, is worth a small fortune. Half-Pint's backpack of housing is worth a considerable fortune. The horde of magical artefacts contained within said backpack, was worth a bigger fortune still, but all of that paled in comparison to the huge piles of gold, silver, and platinum coins of various denominations most of which hadn't been in circulation for thousands of years.
The guild of merchant's and brokers had made it very clear that if they spent too much of it at once they'd quickly find themselves on trial for crimes against the economy.

I actually have to go sort some stuff out right now, so I'll try to get around to finishing this later.

For now I would say that you have the opposite problem, too many paragraphs, there are at least three places where you could have just continued on that line instead of hitting the enter button.

Trying cause Im bored.

I was the first to enter the dungeon.
My "master", a human priest who serves some weak god of knowledge, insisted I enter first.
The bastard wasn't two steps in this cursed place and he was already using me as a meat shield.
   The dungeon smelled of blood, feces, and misery. My master urged me forward through a dark corridor that led into a rather large room. In the rooms, center rested a bright pink potion labeled: FRAGIO. I tried to pick it up, but my master promptly caned me away from the "treasure". After a few moments, my master shoved the potion into my hands and ordered me to drink. I knew the dangers of drinking unknown substances.  There was no discussion. I quaffed the potion down. The cocktail itself was sweet tasting, too sweet. My stomach began to churn as I began to howl out in agony. I inadvertently dug my claws into my own stomach as I collapsed onto the ground. I howled out again in pain. My master looked on with cold piercing eyes. I vomited onto the floor, as I prepared to see my ancestors in the Great Beyond.
   My master shushed me.
   "Be quite you..."
    Both of us could here laughter, sinister cruel laughing. Several humanoid creatures with bloody flesh red skin and the faces of dogs poured into the room. Each one held several sinister looking weapons in their hands, and a stupid look on their faces. My master began praying wildly, as the creatures surrounded us. I stared bleakly at the floor; the pain subsided, but I thought I could play dead.
Death. What a fool I was to think Death was the release I would receive. No. Earn.
Be it magic or divine intervention, every single dog faced creature dropped dead in pain. My master quickly produced some food and began to feast. After his meal, he beat my prone body about the head with a cane.
"You will die when I say die, Troll", He said. "Your little stunt just cost you meal time, now come."

I rose from the ground a shambled into the next corridor.

Okay how bad is it?
 

Actually it was pretty good, the only thing that's blaringly noticeable at the moment is that you get a little repetitious at times. 

It took a little while to write, but I like how it turned out. I might just turn this into a series of short stories, and write one for each prompt.

Spoiler: The Demon in the Dark (click to show/hide)

Rain pelted the deep sage half-cloaks of the two men standing outside the cave. A small crowd was gathered in silence, led by a town guard watching the men at the door of the cavern. One of the two was pressed against the wall, listening in for some kind of sound, while the other stood at the opening with a bow in hand, and an arrow notched. The ginger-haired man at the cave entrance called over to the other, “Warren. It’s all clear. Lets go.”

“After you, Red.” Warren crept into the dark cave closely after Red, still clenching his bow as well as his teeth. A foul wet stench of moss filled the caves as water dripped onto Red’s head.

Red looked around him with a paranoid glare. He whispered back to Warren “How the hell did we get here!?” He drew a short knife from his belt and held it away from himself, as if he were in a knife fight with the cave itself.

“We stole their town’s sacred urn to a fence. It was this or a hanging. Now keep walking.” He spoke over Red’s shoulder, trying to fight the urge to run. “We get the orb, and we get our freedom.” Warren sounded serious, but Red wasn’t quite as sure about his freedom. Still Red kept quiet and kept walking in the lead.

The sounds of dark melodious chanting echoed off the cave walls endlessly as they moved deeper into the darkness. At first it was only a faint whisper from within the confines of the wall, but it rapidly grew louder and louder. It was getting hard to see each other in the blackness, but neither of them dared lighting a torch with the tinder they were given. The metal clasps of their half-cloaks clattered as they both shook in fear of what may lay ahead of them. With each passing step the voices got louder and louder, until it was coming from all around them.

Without warning the chanting was cut short, and the hollow black cavern was filled with silence. Red, and Warren fumbled madly for the tinder and wood they were given, making a small amount of noise as they prepped their torches. The torches were lit and at once they knew what had happened. Looking down there was a chalk circle with a maddening array of patterns and designs, and around that circle were shadowy figures dressed in dirty crimson robes with large hooked knives drawn. “Ah. The sacrifices have arrived.” They began to slowly walk forward with grim stares, and dark smiles.

Warren looked at Red and shouted as loud as he could, “Now!” They both dropped their torches, and Warren rapidly notched his bow. Red kneeled and cupped his hands at his knee, as Warren stepped onto his hands. Warren was tossed upwards, releasing a loud primal cry as he loosed his arrow. Red tumbled backwards after throwing Warren, springing at the last second to kick a cultist square in the chest as an arrow lodged into his neck. The cultist groaned as he fell back, weakened. Red used the opening to escape to the outside of the bladed circle of robes.

The cultist who spoke earlier spread his arms wide, speaking in a more urgent tone. “We can’t afford the loss of another. We must perform the sacrifice without delay! Blood must be spilt.” Within seconds all of the cultists had their knives at their own throats. In one macabre moment a torrent of crimson blood erupted from the tears in their robes. The torches went out as blood splattered onto the wood. The room was once again dark.

A gleam of light came from a crack in the wall. Red rushed at the crack and started prying his fingers through the hole to loosen the rocks. “Warren, I don’t know about you, but I’m getting out of here. This place is scary as hell itself!” The crack began to widen, and with a sudden shift of stone an exit was made. “We did it. We aren’t gonna be hung!” Red looked back at Warren only to see the Orb of Zot upon an altar. “How much do you think that orb will sell for?” Red said with a grin.

Warren looked up from the bloody magic circle with surprise. He saw Red pointing and turned. Sure enough there it was. “I don’t know, but I think we should find out.” As they exited the cave through the fresh opening they failed to notice a large dark purple hand grasped at the ground, almost as if it were trying to pull itself out of the ground...

How was that?

Hhhm, pretty good, you have pretty good characterization.  Near the end it gets a little choppy though, a few fewer periods maybe.

[Tiruin]

Would love to join in as a semi-mentor. Still learning the ropes on punctuation, but I've heard from others that I'm doing well in the usage of English, even if it isn't my first language.

Spoiler: Some general tips on Fiction writing (click to show/hide)

> As it is not, or partly based on reality and partly in the imagination, I cannot stress the need to describe in detail the location of the place, what state of architecture the buildings are, what types of clothing people wear...and so on.
> Your descriptions should be according to the timeline of the place: you cannot have a Medieval European knight clad in plate armor prancing about in the modern era, unless it is connected to the plot in some manner.
> Remember that as your protagonists go on with their plot, everyone else goes along their own. A town that the protagonist visits ten years ago should have changed when he visits it again, unless there is no progress or will to change.
> Remember that fantasy/fiction can be divided into sub-genre, low-fantasy and high-fantasy. Those two (IMO) are the main branches, low-fantasy has realism present but a hint of the supernatural and strange events while high-fantasy deals heavily with the supernatural and magic-- to put it bluntly

Will edit later, if anyone has questions then please post. Bay12 is a very helpful forum, from experience, so don't be afraid.

We don't bite.

[Digital Hellhound]

I heartily recommend picking up How NOT To Write A Novel, even if you're an experienced writer. It's a good book, both useful and unbelievably funny!

[nenjin]

Here's a resource I found a long, long time ago, that's made its way around the internet for years.

Behold, the Turkey City Lexicon

Consider it a document specifically about science fiction tropes, cliches and bad habits that can be applied to many fiction genres with a little extra thinking. It's a great read all around and a good place to bounce story ideas off of.

Spoiler: For example, some of my favorites: (click to show/hide)

     Show, not Tell

A cardinal principle of effective writing. The reader should be allowed to react naturally to the evidence presented in the story, not instructed in how to react by the author. Specific incidents and carefully observed details will render auctorial lectures unnecessary. For instance, instead of telling the reader “She had a bad childhood, an unhappy childhood,” a specific incident — involving, say, a locked closet and two jars of honey — should be shown.

Rigid adherence to show-don’t-tell can become absurd. Minor matters are sometimes best gotten out of the way in a swift, straightforward fashion.

    Dischism

The unwitting intrusion of the author’s physical surroundings, or the author’s own mental state, into the text of the story. Authors who smoke or drink while writing often drown or choke their characters with an endless supply of booze and cigs. In subtler forms of the Dischism, the characters complain of their confusion and indecision — when this is actually the author’s condition at the moment of writing, not theirs within the story. “Dischism” is named after the critic who diagnosed this syndrome. (Attr. Thomas M. Disch)

    White Room Syndrome

A clear and common sign of the failure of the author’s imagination, most often seen at the beginning of a story, before the setting, background, or characters have gelled. “She awoke in a white room.” The ‘white room’ is a featureless set for which details have yet to be invented — a failure of invention by the author. The character’wakes’ in order to begin a fresh train of thought — again, just like the author. This ‘white room’ opening is generally followed by much earnest pondering of circumstances and useless exposition; all of which can be cut, painlessly.

It remains to be seen whether the “white room” cliche’ will fade from use now that most authors confront glowing screens rather than blank white paper.

White Room Syndrome can be extended to any story that begins with the character dreaming or the character waking up. I'm sure TVTropes has loads of examples for it. Movies in particular love to open up this way.

    Dennis Hopper Syndrome

A story based on some arcane bit of science or folklore, which noodles around producing random weirdness. Then a loony character-actor (usually best played by Dennis Hopper) barges into the story and baldly tells the protagonist what’s going on by explaining the underlying mystery in a long bug-eyed rant. (Attr. Howard Waldrop)

You can rename this to Ian McKellan Syndrome, Christopher Walken or Christopher Lloyd Syndrome, depending on your genre needs.

    The Jar of Tang

“For you see, we are all living in a jar of Tang!” or “For you see, I am a dog!” A story contrived so that the author can spring a silly surprise about its setting. Mainstay of the old Twilight Zone TV show. An entire pointless story contrived so the author can cry “Fooled you!” For instance, the story takes place in a desert of coarse orange sand surrounded by an impenetrable vitrine barrier; surprise! our heroes are microbes in a jar of Tang powdered orange drink.

This is a classic case of the difference between a conceit and an idea. “What if we all lived in a jar of Tang?” is an example of the former; “What if the revolutionaries from the sixties had been allowed to set up their own society?” is an example of the latter. Good SF requires ideas, not conceits. (Attr. Stephen P. Brown)

When done with serious intent rather than as a passing conceit, this type of story can be dignified by the term “Concealed Environment.” (Attr. Christopher Priest)

"It was all a dream!" is pretty much this too.

    Re-Inventing the Wheel

A novice author goes to enormous lengths to create a science-fictional situation already tiresomely familiar to the experienced reader. Reinventing the Wheel was traditionally typical of mainstream writers venturing into SF. It is now often seen in writers who lack experience in genre history because they were attracted to written SF via SF movies, SF television series, SF role-playing games, SF comics or SF computer gaming.

Hurts but its true.

    The Tabloid Weird

Story produced by a confusion of SF and Fantasy tropes — or rather, by a confusion of basic world-views. Tabloid Weird is usually produced by the author’s own inability to distinguish between a rational, Newtonian-Einsteinian, cause-and- effect universe and an irrational, supernatural, fantastic universe. Either the FBI is hunting the escaped mutant from the genetics lab, or the drill-bit has bored straight into Hell — but not both at once in the very same piece of fiction. Even fantasy worlds need an internal consistency of sorts, so that a Sasquatch Deal-with-the-Devil story is also “Tabloid Weird.” Sasquatch crypto-zoology and Christian folk superstition simply don’t mix well, even for comic effect. (Attr. Howard Waldrop)

This one might be a little severe, but I tend to agree for the most part. It's probably the product of video games.

    Idiot Plot

A plot which functions only because all the characters involved are idiots. They behave in a way that suits the author’s convenience, rather than through any rational motivation of their own. (Attr. James Blish)

    Plot Coupons

The basic building blocks of the quest-type fantasy plot. The “hero” collects sufficient plot coupons (magic sword, magic book, magic cat) to send off to the author for the ending. Note that “the author” can be substituted for “the Gods” in such a work: “The Gods decreed he would pursue this quest.” Right, mate. The author decreed he would pursue this quest until sufficient pages were filled to procure an advance. (Nick Lowe)

    Eyeball Kick

Vivid, telling details that create a kaleidoscopic effect of swarming visual imagery against a baroquely elaborate SF background. One ideal of cyberpunk SF was to create a “crammed prose” full of “eyeball kicks.” (Attr. Rudy Rucker)

It even has as cool name.

     Funny-hat characterization

A character distinguished by a single identifying tag, such as odd headgear, a limp, a lisp, a parrot on his shoulder, etc.

[Tiruin]

Another note before I take on the critiquing of other's stories. (May I, Phantom?)

When you write or type as is the case, your words would seem perfect in grammar and pronunciation in your mind as you hit those keys.

Writer, beware: every single punctuation mark, space and paragraph highlight those thoughts and help convey your meaning, without them your words will have less of a meaning.

We, humans, cannot read minds by the way  .

[kerlc]

there are two stories on which i have worked for a long time. i want for someone to check them and criticise.

The Diary

The Librarian

thank you.