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[Diarrhea Ferret]

Hi all.
I haven't been on these forums in a long time, but when I started writing recently I realised I needed some unbiased feedback.
This was always such a friendly forum, so I came here to check if there were any writing threads and so that's how I found this.
I pretty much have my whole novel planned out in my head, but I really need some advice on how to improve my literary prose, specifically on pacing my choice of words. So I thought I would post the prologue to my novel first, check for feedback, then I can post the first chapter later.
Please don't hold back at all, I want as much criticism as possible. I'm pretty much determined to write this novel no matter what, so I might as well try and make it as good as possible.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

The small boy’s eyes were clenched so tightly shut that no light could enter them, and a small bead of pain pulsed behind his pupils. His tiny fists were clenched so hard that they were white as bone. His knobbly knees knocked together audibly in the grim silence that followed that single moment, that moment of ecstasy amidst anger, pain, fear. That moment when things seemed so right, troubles and bitterness had flowed out of him like a dam bursting its banks. But now that moment was gone, and he was left with reality; an iron bar thumping him on the back of the head, telling him that keeping himself tightly curled could not capture that singular moment of perfection. For the boy knew what he had done, without opening his eyes. He could feel what he had done - a warm liquid dripping from him.
   In some instances it may appear that time is something that can be measured – a quantity, a constant, a solid value – this is in maths. But in terms of life, time is merely an illusion. For the boy, he knew he was thirteen years of age, this appeared to be a constant. And yet during that time, how much truly significant had happened to him? How many times could he say that an event so powerful and significant had actually caused his illusion of time to slow down? But now, time did slow. And this period of time, that to a mathematician was a constant; five minutes, thirty-two seconds; was melded and stretched until it grew into an era. Words such as epoch, era, period are not mathematical; but they are equally descriptive, often more so, than any constant term. If an era is defined as a period of time marked by distinctive events, then that is the perfect word to describe this current situation, despite it only having lasted, five minutes, thirty two seconds.
   The boy’s emerald green eyes snapped open. Almost immediately, a foul mixture of panic and bile rose up in his throat and he fell to his knees and emptied on the floor. Three dead. He knew this. He could not fathom it, but he knew it. Only moments ago three other children had stood here, Rett, Jane and Sandy, replaced by blood and guts. He had never liked those three. They had bullied him incessantly, picked on him, even beat him in more recent times. Yet he wept. Even though he had never had a parent to tell him right and wrong, he knew what he had done was evil. He could feel it all over him, he could feel it stronger even than the physical sensation of the blood covering him, oozing off him. His eyes were clenched; charlatan wards against the incessant tears.
   Now he searched back, back in time, he wanted that feeling back, the feeling of security, the feeling he had when he had done it. His eyes were shut, so he could not see, but his hands (which were pressed against his face) began to glow with the faintest of blue lights. And the boy felt his troubles pass, as a summer mist. No dam-burst this time, merely mist. In a moment he was sleeping peacefully, still lying upon the ground, with his bloody thumb in his mouth, surrounded by the shattered bodies of three children.

Ok that's it. Be harsh please. So far I have had only positive feedback from family and friends, which isn't much use for improvement tbh.
Thank you in advance!!!!!!! 

[Ehndras]

Huh.

Have any of you ever tried to reverse-engineer a poem into a story, or vice-versa? Looking at this old poem, I think I could write a proper short story with it. Opinions?

...And yeah, its written in Haiku. DON'T JUDGE ME.

Spoiler: Fates Intertwined (click to show/hide)

Here before me lies,
A fateful tale yet untold;
Living Memories

From whence had he come?
This lord - mane of midnight black;
With pain was he Rife

Here - his eyes are dark,
As bards sing of what once was;
Forgotten Stories

A hero unnamed,
His sculpture set in stone;
Born from ceaseless Strife


Those darkened waters,
Born of winding rivers;
Doubtful Reflections

Journeying throughout,
Black-clad knight with crimson blade;
Paladin Forlorn

Hopelessness took root,
His soul - lost within the dark;
Without Direction

But light of Love
Illuminated his eyes;
Paragon Reborn


And from the shadows
Arose a god ascended;
Humanity Shed

For in his shedding
Of singularity;
Lost were earthly Woes

Forsaken was all
Merciless gripping sorrow;
On which he once Fed

No longer whipping,
Solitude undone - within;
Its final death Throes


In blinding moments,
Passion blazed like solar winds;
To heights most Divine

Ecstatic wonder,
Glistening crystalline eyes;
Tears fallen to Ground

United through Fate,
Unparalleled rarity;
The stars all Aligned

And she, his keeper?
An angel in her descent;
Soul-Bound


Though divine she was,
Hers was not a simple path;
Plagued by Consequence

Of her actions not,
But the sins of the Father;
A Saint yet Dethroned

For in abandon,
Forsaken was his blood-line;
Futile Dominance

And from their ashes
His children were lost to time;
Their future Unknown


In his place arose,
Where once lived humility;
A spiteful Tyrant

Yet even enchained,
She progressed adamantly;
Goddess Arising

Her vivid smiles
Ivory illuminate;
Forever Vibrant

Edging still away,
She fled far beyond his grasp;
Endless Horizon


To a land thought lost,
Not to sands of time, but Man;
Ravaged by War

Unwonted beauty
Helpless - torn in futile grasps;
Like fabric from Flame

Lost was their culture,
Exotic worlds - All as One;
That which they Adore

Naught but suffering
Yet lived - within their high walls;
Little remained, but Shame


The Years bled away,
As empire fell to ruin;
Her people Enslaved

Great citizens lost
To the Tyrant's grasping claws;
Torn flesh and scarred Bone

Their lives but play-things
At the hands of lusting lords;
Actions most Depraved

But as light faded
From the eyes of fellow Man;
A few hearts yet Shone


And from the remnants,
Were carved loyal warriors;
Battling to Exist

There - sheltered within,
Tattered banners were lifted;
Enemy flags Burn

Within the outskirts,
Wave upon wave clashed with pride;
Forever Resist!

Our men unyielding,
The invaders repelled;
Never to Return


But from that battle,
She never did recover;
Her body most Pale

The strains of conquest,
Too much for she - bed ridden;
His soon birthing Wife

Yet from that goddess,
Was to come a prince most dear;
That little child so Frail

In final moments,
Created was new beauty;
Sacrificed for Life


In her memory,
Emblazoned stars light the skies;
Loss is Remembered

As with her brightest
eyes - set like vibrant gemstones;
Constellation High

In loving embrace,
Passion - freely and fully;
The moments Treasured

And with her last breath,
An oath he loudly uttered;
Fervent Battle-cry


Before me he stands,
Tall as the walls that bound him;
Within his Stronghold

Shadow-bound splendor,
That Lord - mane of midnight-black;
Clad in Ebony

In his memory,
Their embrace shall outshine death;
Love - Volumes Untold

And in poetry,
They shall live on in legend;
Soaring high and Free

[Ehndras]

@Ferret

Commas, commas everywhere.

[Diarrhea Ferret]

I am confused by this feedback. Have I used too many commas or not enough? Are there any specific places where my use of commas was wrong?

And this may seem a stupid question, but did you write that poem? It is excellent. Atleast in my opinion. I'm sure a story could be written from it.

[fqllve]

I'm not sure it's so much that any of the commas were unnecessary, I didn't see any that were, but more that you have a penchant for embedding clauses in embedded clauses.

And this period of time, that to a mathematician was a constant; five minutes, thirty-two seconds; was melded and stretched until it grew into an era.

This sentence in particular was confusing, which I assume is why you used the semicolons, although they didn't really make it much easier to parse. You could combine the second and third clauses into 'that to a mathematician was a constant five minutes, thirty-two seconds. . .' It's not pretty, but at least it's clear.

Add to that the fact that you phrase details in such a way as to make them confusing, 'he knew he was thirteen years of age,' and I get the feeling you were trying to be deliberately obscure. But really, rather than having an air of mystery the whole thing is a bit frustrating because there's never really any reward for having figured it all out and there's not much to compel a person to keep reading, even though it's a difficult read.

[schrocko88]

Just a little something I wrote when bored in Spanish class my freshman year of high school. I'm now a sophmore, and still working on this story. Constructively critic me!

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

   Connor swung his hammer, striking the hot metal on the anvil with a loud clang.
   "Good," said his master, the town blacksmith, Erolon, "Very nice hit. You see how the metal shapes to your will? You were born to be a smith."
   "Yes, sir." grunted Connor in reply.
   Connor was the smith's apprentice. And, he had always wanted to be. When he was young his mother would often find him in Erolon's forge, listing to the smith's stories, gazing at Erolon like a father. Connor didn't know his father. He liked to think his dad was a great hero, off ridding the land of evil. Or a wizard, battling demons trying to break into this plane.
   He struck again, shaping the metal into a U-shape. He was making a horseshoe, for one of the farmers. He struck, and struck, plunging it into cold water to cool when the need was there. He soon finished. Erolon held it up to investigate. When he did Connor noticed a scar on his forearm. Conner had never seen it before, because Erolon wore leather on his arms, to prevent getting burnt.
   "What gave you that, master?" Connor said pointing.
   Erolon looked at where Conner was pointing and, eyes dark, covered it quickly. "It's a mere nothing, lad. This is a fine horseshoe. As a reward the rest of the day is yours to do what you will, But not in here. Now, out you go."
   "But. . ."
   "No, no buts. Get on now. I hear Kimil was asking about you."
   "She's in town?" Connor asked.
   "Yes, but not for long. Now go!"
   Connor dashed out the reed door, and turning right, ran down to the tavern. The Bloated Traveler is a moderately well kept inn. And the hub of all activity in the town of Capem. If Kimil was in town he would find her there. As he approached the door, he heard a drunk yelling,
   "Hey, preddy liddle girl, come here and sit on my lap." These words came along with a chorus of laughter. It was probably Bumis, he's always starting trouble. Connor thought. Only this time it was different. And, unknowing to Connor, was going to change the whole village.
         *   *   *   *   *   *   *
   "Get your filthy hand off me," A girl screamed "your a. . . pig!"
   "Now that's no way for a nice young thing like you to say," said a strange voice, one that Connor had never heard.  " young girls are supposed to be respectful" When he said "respectful" he smacked her across the face, hard. She fell, and lay sprawled on the floor. The man rose. "Now, you get up and apologize to Mr. Bumis here."
   "Get fucked." was all she replied.
   His fist rose, and he shot it forward at her face. She closed her eyes tight, and waited for the blow. But, it never came. She opened her eyes to see the mans fist, merely inches from her face, stopped and being held by Connors large hand.
   "What's going on here, stranger?" Connor asked.
   "This wench was being rude to my partner, so I decided to give her a little punishment."
   "Well, we don't hit girls around here." Connor said as he thought, what the hell has Bumis gotten himself into?
   The mans eyes darkened, and it seemed the whole room did, and he said. "Well, boy, where I come from we don't touch those of more power than ourselves, especially if we don't know them."
   "Oh? And, I'm sure you also mate with pigs, and walk backwards. Now begone before I beat some sense into you." Connor said with a smirk.
   The man smiled and closed his eyes. Eyes that he noticed, were the color of his mothers amethyst  necklace. Connor suddenly fell to the ground and writhed in the most intense pain he had ever known. It was worse than when he slipped and his hand plunged into the forge. It was like someone took a barbed dagger and rotated it in his head. Then, as suddenly as it began, it stopped
   "That is just a sample of what I can do, boy." He said as he walked to the door. "Mr. Bumis, we will be in contact."
   Bumis just belched in return. The man left and Kimil ran to him. She pulled his head into her lap and said.    
   "Thank you, Connor. I was so scared."
   He looked into her eyes and everything faded to black.       
         *   *   *   *   *   *   *

   "Connor? Connor? Rebecca, come quick I think he is waking!"
   Connor's head was pounding. He tried to sit up, but rough hands pushed down on his bare chest.
   "Oh no you don't, you stay right there. Don't move or it will only get worse."
   He recognized the voice of Rebecca, the town healer. He calmed down and, with eyes closed, he took stock of his surroundings. He could hear the crackle of the fire, smell the drying herbs. He could feel the rough wool on his back, scratching him. Sounds of people came from outside the door.
   "The whole towns in an uproar, you know?" said Rebecca, "They say you caused quite a stir at the inn."
   "Oh aye," said a girl, who Connor knew to be April, the granddaughter, and apprentice, of Rebecca. "I heard he did it because the man was trying to hurt Kimil. He must really love her."
   "He probably does, though he'd never admit it. He's just a young one."
   Rebecca was working some leaves into a pulp as they spoke. Then, adding water, she walked over and put the bowl to Connor's lips.
   "Drink up, lad, it'll be alright," She said gently "How are you feeling?"
   "Ugh, my head," moaned Connor. "What happened?"
   "You stopped that man from hurting Kimil," April explained to him, "Don't you remember?"
   "I don't remember anything."
   In fact, Connor could remember everything. Clearly. He saw that the sun was just rising out the window. I must have slept through the night, he thought.
   "Wha- What day is it?" He asked.
   "It is Friday, lad," replied Rebecca.
   "But that means-" He began, looking astonished.
   "Yes, you have been out for three days."
   This is crazy, he thought. Well, I have to get home.
   "I must go home now, Rebecca, but thank you for everything."
   "Are you sure you can make it, lad?" She asked in a caring tone.
   "Yeah. . . I'm fine. Thanks"
   "Well. . . if your sure, then go out the back door, we don't want that mob outside buggering you."
   "Yeah, okay," He said, it was a good idea after all. "Thanks for everything."
   April cracked the back door open a bit and, after checking for people waiting , slipped out and started off towards his fathers farm. His father was one of the two big farmers that supplied the town with crop. 
   "There you are!" a girl called from the woods lining the path he was on. It was Kimil. She stepped out and rushed to him. "I've been waiting for you."
   "Why didn't you wait outside Rebecca's like everyone else?"
   "Because, if I had, then I wouldn't have known you left at all."
   Smart move, he thought. "True, true." he said aloud.
   "Thank you, Connor. That was the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me." She said, and followed that with a quick kiss on his cheek.
   Blushing, he said "Oh. . . Ah . . it was nothing, really."
   "Ha, nothing? You were unconscious for three days because of me."
   "Oh that reminds me, did he ever comeback." Connor asked.
   "No, we haven't seen hide nor hair of him since."
   They walked down the path in silence for a while. He saw a flower, a red tulip, on the ground and bent to pick it up. Then just continued walking with it. He suddenly turned to Kimil and kissed her, she was so shocked she didn't have time to respond. Then he put the tulip in her long black hair. Her blue, innocent, eyes watered a bit.
   "Connor. . ." She started, but he interrupted with a kiss. This time she kissed back.
   At this point they were in front of his house, and from the window they heard.
   "Oh, Connor is kissing a girl!!" It was his little brother, Eric.
   "What! Connor's home?" He heard his mothers shrill voice.
   "Good, he has to tell us what has happened." His uncle boomed.
   He turned to Kimil, and gently kissing her again, said, "Go, before they catch us."
   She turned and took off at a trot south. When he got inside his uncle was waiting at the table, with a tankard of ale in his hand. His mother was pouring the last of the food into a bowl for him.
   "Here," She said handing it to him, "you must be famished."
   "He can eat after he tells me this story." said his uncle.
   And so Connor sat down and, in front of his mother, uncle and a wide eyed brother, begun to spin his tale.
         *   *   *   *   *   *   *
   "Ah. . . so you rose in defense of those weaker than yourself? That was stupid, and brash. But, honorable, and brave," said Connor's uncle. "Be sure you know your opponent next time. Don't go rushing off into a battle you don't know you will win."
   "Yes, Uncle," replied Connor, "Uncle, do you know who that man was?"
   "No, my boy. None of us do. Bumis has disappeared, nobody was able to talk to him."
   Connor thought that was strange, what could that man want with Bumis? Bumis is just a drunk, a nobody. Strange that of all the people in town, they chose him. What does he have that is so special? Oh well, it was something he could ponder fishing with his friend, Jason, in a few days. But tonight, He was off to bed. He was asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow. That night, for the first night since the incident at the inn, he had a dream. He was walking down the same road as just a bit ago, but things were different. He had changed. He was limping, his leg dripping blood from a cut on his thigh. He wasn't wearing a shirt, his bare chest was stained with blood. He was holding the hammer he was using in the shop that day, only it was dripping with blood, and there were bits of gore and brain on it. His lungs were sucking in air, but it was full of ash. The forest all around him was blazing, making it look like the very sky was on fire. He was struggling to move faster but it was like time slowed and it seemed as him home was miles away. He could see the thatched roof, it was on fire. Suddenly time was resumed and strength flooded into his limbs. He had to save his family. He began running, or as close as he could to running. He took a shortcut across the pasture to his right. When he got to the fence that went up the side of the lane, he vaulted it, and ran towards the house. Just as he got close, he saw two horses, one mounted by a hooded figure, the other empty Another hooded figure, obviously a man, emerged from the house. They wore all white robes with white hoods. The mans robes were covered in blood. The blood of his family. He raised his arm and threw the hammer. It flew end-over-end to smash into the horses head. The man looked at Connor, and spoke a few words. Connor was a mere twenty yards away, but the words spoken made the air compact into a shimmering wall, and slammed into Connor. He flew back a hundred feet or more, and landed on his shoulder, dislocating it, before bouncing to a halt. He tried to push himself up, but his shoulder screamed in pain. He craned his neck and saw them galloping right towards him. They both stopped, and looked at him. Their hoods shadowed up upper half of their faces, but he could clearly make out there eyes. They were purple, like islands of amethyst in a sea of darkness. They looked at him and he at them. And, he could feel their pity for him. Then the eyes closed and the air compacted and formed a spear. As sharp as any metal, and it flew at him. Just as it struck his chest, in a bright explosion of energy, he woke. His bed was drenched in sweat. It was dripping off his head. He moved his arm experimentally, to make sure his shoulder was okay. He returned to bed, not to dream again.
         *   *   *   *   *   *   *
   

   "Hey, Connor, you in there buddy?" laughed Jason. They were sitting in a small rowboat, in the middle of the lake on Jason's father's land. A few days had passed since the dream. He hadn't told anyone.
   "Wha-, yeah I'm all here." Connor replied chuckling. But he wasn't all there. In fact, he was in the lane to his house, staring into those eyes. Eyes like portals into another dimension.
   Suddenly, Jason's fishing pole jerked. "Oh! I got one!" He shouted.
   "Well go on, pull it in, pull it in." Connor encouraged him. He grabbed Jason's string to help pull it in. It was a big river bounter. They hauled it up and started off towards the shore. It was flopping in the boat, making it shake. The threw it out and then Connor's uncle was walking down the lane. He looked pissed.
         *   *   *   *   *   *   *
   "Connor!" His uncle shouted as soon as he saw them. "Get your ass to the over here before I kick it." Connor wondered what the problem could be. He approached slowly. His fathers face was beat red. The vein popping out of his temple gave Connor warning, for that only happened when his uncle was really upset. His fist were clenched, and his muscles tight, ready to snap into a fight in an instant. Connor noticed his uncle had most weight on his back foot, a clear sign that he was ready to send a kick. How Connor knew this eluded his mind. He just knew. Even though the closest to violence he had ever come was at the inn, and hitting hot metal at the forge. But, he knew, and adjusted so his left side was close to his father. In order to, if he needed, bring his right around in a hook shot.
   "What is it, uncle" Connor said, "what brings you here like this?" He saw his uncle glance about, as if looking for listeners.
   "Follow me, boy." He followed his uncle down the path, signaling to Jason that it was fine. When Connor expected his uncle to turn and say something They just kept walking. They passed the stream that signaled that they passed from Jason's dad's land into their own. Yet still they walked on.
   "Uncle?" Connor tried. But to no avail. Finally, when they came across a stump with his initials carved in it, did his Uncle turn and say something.
   "Son," He started, but he didn't finish that sentence, because he started choking.
"Cough. . . cough, cough. . ." He doubled over and spat out some phlegm. When he stood, his eyes. They weren't his eye. They were purple. Amethyst, one could say.
   "Boy," said the voice of the stranger, through his uncle, "You have seen. And, now you have a choice. Join us, or die. You know our power. We will destroy you, your friends, and your family. We will contact you with instructions that, if not followed, will get everything you love destroyed."
   "Wha-" Connor started, but was cut off by another coughing fit by his uncle. When he was done, he was himself again. And he was calmed, back in his normal stance.
   "Oh, my head," He mumbled, "What happened?"
   "Uncle, I have to leave," Connor whispered, "Now."
         *   *   *   *   *   *   *
   "Connor, wait!" His uncle shouted. Connor was running towards the house. He had to get out of there. Before they found him, and made him into one of them. He just wanted to be a blacksmith, nothing more. A simple life. But, that man had to come and ruin it all.
   "I have to leave, uncle," Connor yelled back, "Before I put you all in danger."
   "Connor!" His uncle was struggling to keep up. "Please, son, what is going on?" His uncle was a heavy man, and Connor soon outran him.
   When Connor got to his house, he was the only one there. Mother must have taken Eric on a walk, he thought. He grabbed a cloth sack and started putting food in it. He grabbed bread, a hunk of cheese, some potatoes, a leek, and a flask of the alcohol he knew his father had hidden in the floorboards. The illegal kind. He took up his walking stick, and a knife he found and hid when he was younger. The blade was as long as his hand, from the tip of his finger to the base of his hand. It's hilt is made of the antlers of a deer.
   He set off to the west. He knew of a cave there, with a fresh spring bubbling out inside. He would hide there for now. Just as he reached the forest, his father came out of it on the other side of the field. Connor quickly plunged into the forest and found the game trail to the cave. As he walked, his mind wandered to Kimil. What would she think about him running away like this? Surely she would call him a coward. She would not want to see me anymore, he thought.
   The woods were full of life, at this hour. It wasn't quite midday yet and the sun was shining. In all respects, it was a good day. He heard the bubbling of the stream before he saw it. But, when he got to the cave, he found it inhabited by something Something that was not happy to see him.
         *   *   *   *   *   *   *
   Connor had never seen this large of a beast before. All he could see was the silhouette, and it  was massive. Larger then a pair of horses combined. It roared, and lumbered out into the sun. It was a huge, angry, bear. Its fur was dark red. Like blood on a white cloth. It's gaping maw was full of razor sharp teeth. It's claws scraped against the stones around the cave mouth. It looked at Connor once, reared up on it's hind legs, roared, and charged him. It came fast, and snarling. He only just had time to throw himself to the side before it reached him. It flew past, claws missing Connor by just inches. He rose, drawing his knife, and discarding the rest of his gear on the ground. He didn't know why, but he knew he would have to be light, and fast. The bear prepared to charge him, but this time he was ready. Doing what the beast wouldn't expect, he took two running steps towards it, then leaped up, spinning in midair, right over it. He came down and rolled to distribute his weight. How did I do that, he asked himself, where is this knowledge coming from? The bear looked back at him, and with a pedetorious growl, charged at him again.
   "Oh, shit!" He shouted as he went to dodge to the left, but tripped on a rock sticking out of the ground, and lay on his stomach. He quickly rolled over, and tried to get up, but the monster was to close. He backed away on his back. The bear advanced slowly. It was standing right on top of him now. Its leg came down on his right are. The one with the knife. Connor knew it was over.
   "Come on then!" he shouted into the bears face. It's breath was putrid, "Just end me, kill me already!" The bear looked into his eyes, and he into it's. For a moment it seemed like time had stopped They stared into each others eyes for a minute, then three, then seven. Finally the bear stepped off him, back away slowly, then turned and walked away.
         *   *   *   *   *   *   *
   Connor laid, dumbstruck. Did that bear just walk away without eating me? he asked himself. "Strange." he said aloud. He shouldered his pack, and walked into the cave. He knew it was made of two chambers, the front and a secret much larger chamber accessible only through a small passageway, only wide enough for one person. The front chamber was full of small bones, evidence of the bear living there. As he made his was past the piles, and through the small space, he was forming a plan. He would need more food. What he took from home wasn't enough. He knew there would be some mushrooms around, but if he was forced to stay too long, he would need to steal some food. He would go to the next county over, for he didn't want to steal food from his uncle's farm, and draw attention or risk being caught. He knew Jason's older cousin, Alex, had a small farm near the border. But, for now, he decided to make his position a bit more defensible. He didn't want an angry bear to attack him or anything. He went out to look around the area for anything the could help. He would settle for sharpening a few sticks if need be, to form a sort of barrier. He soon found a stream with thorn bushes growing around it. He drew his knife and started cutting them down. These will make anything trying to come in think twice, he thought. As he was cutting, a gray squire bounded across the water and landed less than a pace away. It stood staring at him, then ruffled up its gray fur and started chattering.
   "Shut up," Connor said, "Go on, get!" Not wanting the squirrel to alert any predators in the area, he grabbed a flat stone from the ground and chucked it at the small animal. Skirting the missile, the animal ran off into the woods. Connor finished gathering the thorn bushes and, after a quick drink from the stream, he headed back to the cave. On the way, he saw the same squirrel, sitting on the branch of a young ash sapling. It watched him walk by, then followed him. It chattered, and jumped off the cherry tree it was on, landing on Connor's backpack. It climbed up onto his shoulder. "What do you think your doing little guy?" It just stared straight ahead, as if it looking for trouble.
   Back in the cave, the squirrel jumped off his shoulder and ran outside. "Well, it's been nice to know you then." But it quickly came back with an acorn. "Oh, just hungry, eh boy?" He left the thorn bushed in the cave and went to get some firewood. After he had gathered a pile big enough to last the night, the sun was falling under the mountains in the west. Connor always wondered what was on the other side. He lit a small fire near the mouth of the cave, then using the light from it, made a wall of thorns across the entrance. Throwing some wood on the fire he laid down for sleep. The Squirrel laid in the hood of his traveling cloak. And so, to the sound of the fire crackling, he faded into unconsciousness. And, the blackness enveloped the world as the sun fell all the way.
         *   *   *   *   *   *   *
   The wind whistled as it flew past the opening of the cave. Lightning flashed, and the thunder boomed. Connor awoke with a start. Jumping to his feet, he threw another log on the fire and tended it into a fire big enough to throw more on without suffocating it. The squirrel chattered, and flopped down closer to the fire for warmth. "Ye lazy thing," said Connor. He decided to tie his knife onto a wooden shaft, to make a makeshift spear. He would need to hunt, or live like an elf of the legends As he worked, he heard a noise in the front part of the cave. It was whimpers. Like a puppy. He worked furiously to finish his spear. Once he had it good enough, He grabbed a flaming branch, and threw it over the wall of thorns. The light casted eerie shadows over everything. In the corner there was a great she-wolf. It limped in a circle before laying down and looking at Connor. It's front leg was torn open near the shoulder. Three great scratches ran across it. It was obviously suffering, so Connor decided to put it out of it's misery. He moved the thorns and, with spear clutched in hand, cautiously walked towards the she-wolf. He raised the spear above his head, and prepared to end the animals life. He had never killed anything before. Not even the fish him and Jason caught. Then he plunged the spear down, and the lighting struck the ground outside the cave. The she-wolf died, as the ground was seared. That cave was coated in blood, and outside was burned. It would forever be a place of misfortune and sadness. But Connor didn't know, nor did he care. He placed the thorns back, threw more wood on the fire, and went back to sleep.
   He woke in the morning, to the sound of the squirrel chattering near the opening to the outside. He sat up slowly, and stretched The air smelled dank, almost wet. Connor looked down at himself, and his entire torso was covered in blood. He could taste it. He could feel it, dried against his bare chest. He retched, and got up to run outside but he got dizzy and crashed into the wall, where he retched again. Crawling over the sharp thorns, drawing scratches across his body, he mad it outside. He retched once again. As he tried to struggle to his feet, his stomach finally let lose. Black bile streamed from his mouth, burning his throat. Everything when black as he fell unconsciousness The squirrel ran over to him and, careful to avoid the bile, sniffed around his head. Then it laid down on his back, and waited for him to wake.
         *   *   *   *   *   *   *
   The air shimmered, and everything was cold. Connor was standing on a path in some unfamiliar place. He saw animals everywhere. Big and small. There was a bear, with a rabbit sitting on its head. A wolf nursed her cubs, as they played with some young otters. A hawk perched next to a mouse. There was a throne made of saplings, and on it sat a man with the head of an fox.
   "Connor, you took the life of one of my friends. Makil was a good beast. She only harmed others for food, she didn't take life unless it was need." The wolf stood, and Connor saw that it was the one he killed in the cave. It jumped over to him, and sniffed him.
   "You have slain me, when I was wounded." the she-wolf, Milka, said. The wolfs voice was angelic. "Why?" She asked.
   "You seemed to be in pain," Connor replied after thinking for a few seconds, "I thought it would be better if you didn't suffer. I was only trying to help." The bear growled, and shook it's huge head, sending the rabbit sliding across the floor. As Connor watched it go, he noticed the floors were made of polished, pure white, gemstones. Or rather, one giant gem. He looked into it at his feet, and was mesmerized by the way light seemed to come from within. He could see folds, and ripples inside. It was beautiful. The man spoke again.
   "Connor, you acted hastily and in fear." He said, his voice seeming to come from all sides, "You knew that Malki could have lived." He stood, and slowly approached. The hawk flew over the Connor and landed on his shoulder. It's sharp talons dug into his flesh, drawing blood. He cried out and went to push the bird. Then he thought better of it, and stood there letting it peck him, drawing blood each time. The bear ran to him, and took a mighty swipe at his legs, shattering the bone in one, and ripping the other clean off. He went flying across the floor. The hawk hovered over him, looking around. It seemed as though it were judging distances. Connor was losing blood and his thoughts were getting confused. He could have swore that Kimil stood over him, looking down at his broken body, and laughed. The hawk flew up very high, then cave diving down at an incredible pace. Just before it hit Connor in the side of the head, it spread out it's wings and stuck it's talons forward. They tore into his head, ripping off his ear, and part of his eye. The she-wolf, Malki, howled and all stopped other than the incredible pain. Connor felt deaths cold embrace soon taking him. She padded over and looked into his good eye. He looked away, ashamed, and into the gem. It was splattered with blood, his blood. Malki howled one last time before she dove at his throat, ripping it out.
         *   *   *   *   *   *   *
   Connor woke slowly. What a strange dream, he thought. The squirrel stood in front of his face, chattering loudly. "Ugh" He groaned He was laying in a pile of his own vomit, but he didn't think he would have the strength to get out. He tried crawling towards the stream, but collapsed halfway. He began vomiting again. It was choking him, he was drowning in his own puke.
   "Oh, what's that," a rough voice said,"Over there!"
   "What? Where?" said a girl,"Oh I see it, I think it's a boy." Connor heard someone splashing through the stream, and a huge hand grabbed the back of his tunic and lifted him in the air. Connor looked up, and was staring into eyes of a huge man, maybe nine feet tall. He had the build of a lumberjack, and wore a rough leather jerkin over a wool shirt. His leather leggings were tore in many places, obvious signs of battle. He held a huge two-sided battle ax, stained red with blood, and a huge bow was strung across his back. The girl was a normal human girl. On her hip, hung a sheathed butchers knife. She had light leather armor. She also had a small coin purse.
   "Look, it is a boy," the man said, "He's sick." His words were slow.    
   The girl ran over and got right in his face. She smiled, showing her white teeth.  "Hi there," she said. "I'm Alana, Alana Rhysi." She tossed her red hair. Her green eyes sparkled. She was very pretty. I must look like a wreck, Connor thought. He spit on the ground.
   "Hi," Connor groaned, "Can you have your big friend put me down, please?"
   "Fredirc, put him down." Fredirc grunted and let go. Unfortunately, he was holding Connor about six feet in the air, who came crashing down on his left arm, bruising it. "Oh, sorry about that," Alana said, "He is a bit slower than most people. He means well though"
   "I'm sorry," He said, his voice sounding like a young child that had been caught snooping in his fathers store of beer. He stooped down low, and helped Connor to his feet.
   "So what's your story?" Alana asked, still smiling. He hesitated, trying to judge if he could tell them about everything, or just make something up. He decided to tell them the truth.
   “Well, my name is Connor. I come from Capem, about ten miles to the east of here.” Connor pointed in the general direction. “I'm the apprentice of the smith there, and I live on a farm outside of town with my uncle, mother, and brother.” He noticed that Fredirc had sat down, and was staring like his little brother. It almost made him cry, for he didn't know when he would see Eric again. “What's your story then?” he asked.
   “Well, my dad was a butcher, and taught me everything about it,” She paused and looked down, “Um. . . I loved it, the butchering, I mean. I feel so alive and in control.” Connor looked at her again, more closely this time. She didn't look like the girl that liked butchering animals, if fact, she looked like the opposite. Like the fair maiden that needs to be rescued from the tower.
   “I can tell you everything about the inside of that little squirrel there,” She said, pointing to his shoulder. Connor hadn't noticed it had climbed up there. “I know how to get the most meat out of any animal, I never let any go to waste.” She carried on. Connor noticed the sun was high in the sky, and it made her red hair look like actual fire, dancing on her head. “Why were you sick?” she asked, the care obvious in her voice.
   “I... it was a dream,” he said, “a horrible dream”
   “Oh, I understand, I won't push it.” By now the sun had peaked in the sky. Fredirc had begun digging in the bag for food. “Let's eat, if your feeling up to it.”
   “Absolutely not, I couldn't eat anything. But you're welcome to my food, if you can't find anything good.” Fredirc gratefully grabbed his pack, and took the food out. The pile of food they had together was quite large, considering Fredirc could, and had been, carrying such an incredible amount. After about a minute, Fredirc had a fire going, and was boiling water with salted pork and potatoes.
   “Thank you for helping me.” Connor said, “I really owe you.”
   “Aye, ye do lad.” Boomed Fredirc. He filled a bowl, and passed it to Alana, then got some for himself.
   The rest of the day was spent in a deep, undisturbed, slumber for Connor. Though he asked Fredirc to bury Malki's body. He did, deep enough so that the wildlife wouldn't dig it up. Alana played with the squirrel. She called it Spoo. Spoo the Squirrel. Connor woke deep in the night. His stomach was craving any food it could find. Alana was awake.
   “Connor,” she said quietly, as to not awake Fredirc, “How do you feel?”
   “Hungry,” Connor said, “How long was I out?”
   “About 13 hours, it's just past midnight.” The moon was bright, but not quite full. The tress branches swayed slightly, silhouetted against the night sky. The sound of the stream was quite. The fire burnt low, barley more than glowing embers. “I like it when the fire gets low, and it gets darker.” Alana said passing him some dried meet.
   “Why?” Connor asked.
   “It's harder to see my face in the dark,” She replied, “I like the mystery of not being able to see my face.”
   “Well, that's normal,” Connor said, sarcastically, “So, where are you guys going?” An owl hooted in the trees.
   “We are just wandering,” She replied, “We met up after I got ran out of my home town. I found Fredirc unconscious along side a road. He never told me what happened, but I think he got jumped.”
   “A big guy like him got jumped?” Connor said unbelieving
   “Well sure.” She said. By now, Connors could barley hold his eyelids up.
   “I'm going back to sleep,” He said, “I'll see you in the morning.”
   “Goodnight, Connor.”
   He drifted off into a dreamless sleep yet again. Jumping awake to the sound of Alana's screams.
            *   *   *   *   *   *

[Ehndras]

And this may seem a stupid question, but did you write that poem? It is excellent. At least in my opinion. I'm sure a story could be written from it.

Yeah, I wrote it about my ex-fiance back in November of 2009, when I was in high school.

[Diarrhea Ferret]

You had a fiance when you were in high school...isn't that a little soon...? High school is american for secondary school right? e.g maximum age of 18? (sorry, GB over here)

And thank you for the feedback. I actually wasn't trying to be deliberately obscure :/ I guess I should make some things a little less confusing. I think I just wanted to make my writing a bit more interesting and varied, but if it's frustrating then that is a bad thing.

Thank you

[Ehndras]

You had a fiance when you were in high school...isn't that a little soon...? High school is american for secondary school right? e.g maximum age of 18? (sorry, GB over here)

And thank you for the feedback. I actually wasn't trying to be deliberately obscure :/ I guess I should make some things a little less confusing. I think I just wanted to make my writing a bit more interesting and varied, but if it's frustrating then that is a bad thing.

Thank you

She became my fiance after high school, obviously. We were together for 4-5 years.

[Diarrhea Ferret]

Lol ok that makes more sense. It was too early in the morning for me when I wrote that reply...
Anyway, I am going to make a revised "prologue" which I will attempt to improve and upload it at some point.
Things to do:
Less commas
Less confusing sentences

Anything else?

[Diarrhea Ferret]

Ok, well here's chapter 1 of the same story. I've tried to take into account the criticisms people have already posted. So can you please tell me if it is any better, just as bad or even worse.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

The prison was small and dimly lit. The bars on the four cells were slightly rusted, but still sturdy. A simple wooden chair with three well-worn cushions was currently occupied by Antaeus, the prison guard. Although you cannot tell while he is residing there, the indent in the bottom pillow taken up by Antaeus’ sizeable behind maintains in this position even while he has departed, due to the extended periods of time he spends there. Antaeus was annoyed. In the small village of Brickets, there are never criminals. It is a successful fishing community, a prosperous one. At a reasonable thirty-four years of age, having been a prison guard since he was a seventeen, Antaeus found that he had mainly been paid for sleeping. Of course in the first few weeks he hadn’t been quite so apathetic. Dedicated, consistent, alert, hard working to earn his pay: the opposite of his current attitude. After all, what is the point in being all of those things when ninety-nine of one-hundred nights there is no-one to guard. The rare night there is someone - an urchin stealing food, a woman accused of adultery – what point is there in guarding them? The keys secure on his belt were all that was needed to keep them here.
   When he had first started as an apprentice prison guard he had quickly been taught by his retiring predecessor everything you needed to know; sleeping in the comfy chair. Antaeus felt proud of his greatest achievement in this job: adding the two extra pillows to the sides of the chair, as Antaeus’ fatty form was wide enough to press against either hard edge, making sleep difficult. Antaeus actually considered at one point simply dragging a bed down here, but thought this might be pushing it. But tonight was different. Three of the four cells were occupied. Antaeus did not think he would be sleeping today. In the first cell was the child. Could he even call him that? Antaeus did not know. The Chief had described the scene to him, such that Antaeus could not believe. The villagers were calling the orphan boy called Ken a demon, a monster. Nobody had liked him before, the adults did not care for him and the children had made sport of him. Antaeus’ own boy had been one of those who regularly tormented Ken. Antaeus had had no problem with it; just boys being boys he thought. Besides, Ken was always strange looking, hugely underdeveloped for his age (a body more like a six year old than a thirteen year old), and of course those huge unforgettable green eyes and fluffy thin tufts of hair hardly covering his head. Something about him provoked a negative reaction in all of the villagers it seemed, including the children. But now Antaeus shuddered. Thank the Gods his son had been ill this whole week or perhaps he would have been with the others when it had happened, and Antaeus might have been one of the parents burying this evening.
   In the second cell was a tall wiry man wearing rags that revealed unusually long arms blanketed in a multitude of curly grey hairs. His bushy beard was also thick, grey and curly, obscuring most of his face. His two dark eyes poked out from the mess of tangled fur. He was standing at the front of his cell, those gorilla-like arms hanging on Antaeus’ side of the bars. He was staring straight at Antaeus. This, as much as the demon child, unnerved Antaeus and made sleep impossible (coming from the man who famously slept right through an earthquake strong enough to shake the books in his house off their shelves and have his wife running for the hills). Antaeus knew this man from the village too, a bum, known by all as useless Ulysses. He had been imprisoned today for attempted rape of a young girl, whose name Antaeus did not know. Antaeus found this charge difficult to believe, Ulysses rarely moved from his spot in the shade of the apple orchard during summer, or the cover of the apple orchard during winter. Certainly Ulysses had never showed passion or interest in anything as far as he could see. Antaeus gaze moved to every point in the room - apart from the one place he wanted to look - as he rocked back on his comfy chair. Finally he glanced at Ulysses to see he was still staring at him, seemingly unblinkingly.
   “Get your arms back in your cage!” Antaeus growled, suddenly very uncomfortable. His voice broke however, removing whatever authority he had managed to pluck up from his normally jovial voice. Nevertheless, Ulysses silently withdrew and slumped in the back of his cell, resting against the wall. Antaeus nodded his head stupidly, happy for Ulysses to be removed from immediate view.
   The final occupied cell appeared at a glance to be empty. Closer inspection revealed there was a man in there, his strange darkly coloured skin blending into the murky cell. A man with black skin! Think of that! Antaeus could not believe it until he saw him, he had never seen such a thing before. He looked awfully strange to Antaeus. He was not only black-skinned but huge, a head taller than any man in Brickets. According to those who had first met him in the village he was quite friendly, but he was arrested and taken here nonetheless. The chief of the guard had to kowtow to the wishes of the villagers, who demanded the black-skin man be locked up. The greatest supporters of this aggressive policy came from the butcher and his wife whose two children had been killed by the demon-child. They believed strongly that demons were launching an assault on the village; the child Ken, and this man with black skin.
   All in all Antaeus was totally flustered, overwhelmed. He had rarely been in this situation and on the few occasions when he had, his reaction had been to sleep it off, worry about it later. But who could sleep or keep a cool head in the presence of two possible demons and one possible rapist?
   Antaeus’ various worried thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the stark sound of a child crying. When they brought the child here he had still been asleep. For just a moment Antaeus felt sorry for Ken. He pictured his own son in the same position, trapped in a dank cell, alone and crying, no mother or father. He felt pity. Then Antaeus remembered his earlier vision that his son could easily have been one of the victims of this monster. Antaeus remembered that demons don’t have parents. Antaeus felt only anger. He drew in a breath to shout for silence, however the air left him when he heard the low, bass voice coming from the third cell.
“Hush child. Calm. Hush now.” The voice was quiet and soothing. “Hush, back to sleep now. It’s alright.” The crying quietened until it was just barely audible sniffing. The black man had moved to the front of his cell. Now his eyes moved to Antaeus.
“You keep a child in prison? I would be interested to know what his crime could be.” There was a soft chuckle. “Indeed, I would be interested to know what my own crime is.” The gaze was intense and unwavering. His manner of speech was...Kingly. The most authoritative figure that Antaeus had known his whole life was the chief of the guard, and his authority was born of rank. But this stranger’s voice alone, even while wearing nought but a loin cloth and behind thick iron bars in jail, was hugely compelling.
“Demon...” Antaeus mumbled inaudibly. The black man’s eyebrows raised questioningly.
“A demon? Obviously you and I have different definitions of demons.” He said, the corners of his mouth twisting a little upward. Antaeus frowned. Obviously it wasn’t inaudible, he thought, angry at himself for looking stupid in front of this man he didn’t know.
“...no. I mean, well, he killed three. Children. He killed three children.” Antaeus concluded lamely, again cursing his awkwardness. The black man nodded. No further reaction, not even surprised to find such an innocent looking creature to be capable of such a crime.
Suddenly a new face appeared at the bars of the second cage. It was Ulysses.
“He killed the Butcher’s two girls and the son of the hunter, didn’t he?” Antaeus at first was shocked, and for a few moments didn’t say anything. Then he realised Ulysses had guessed those three because they were Ken’s most regular tormentors. Along with Antaeus’ own son.
“Yes, he did.” Replied Antaeus simply.
“Good on ya son! I’ve seen them, oh yes me, i been watching, I see what they do to you. Surprised it’s taken this long, a little surprised me. I see how angry you is after every time they do these things to you, how you go and scratch and smash at the pieces of wood, oh yes seen these things. Surprised me, surprised it’s taken this long.” Ulysses gave a gleeful smile. Antaeus was again surprised, an emotion he was finding himself far too familiar with over this night. The most he had ever heard Ulysses communicate was a grunt of confirmation. This rant was very uncharacteristic. And his thick accent! Not a local certainly. Antaeus realised that he had never even considered that Ulysses could have come from somewhere other than Brickets.
“I wasn’t trying to! I couldn’t stop it! I didn’t want to. I didn’t. Didn’t want to...” The boy started sobbing again, as loud as before, but this time he was pressed up against the bars, as if trying to force his way out. Once again the black man hushed him until he was quieter. Ulysses was now staring at the child, an ugly smile on his ragged face. Ulysses, while never quite serene, had at least always been passive, it was for this that the villagers had tolerated his presence, even if they hadn’t liked it. But this new Ulysses was active: his eyes twinkled a little, but not in a good way, more like an evil glint.
The black man turned to Ulysses now.
“And you? What is your crime?” Ulysses reluctantly removed his eyes from the child, looking the black man up and down.
Ulysses muttered something, shook his head, and slumped again at the back of his cell. The black man smiled a little at this and turned to Ken.
“Child, tell me your name.” Ken looked at the black man. The look was distrustful, but it was the distrustfulness of someone who wanted to trust.
“My name is Scaerzimek. Now yours.” Ken could not help but feel that he had to tell him, he did not understand why.
“My name is Ken.” Said the child. He licked his lips nervously afterwards.
“I mean your full name.” Said Scaerzimek. The child frowned as if concentrating deeply. Antaeus thought he looked so very young when he did this. So innocent.
“My full name...” Ken murmured, still thinking.
“Yes. Your true name I mean.” Said Scaerzimek, more intense than ever, apparently eagerly awaiting the response, although Antaeus could not think why it would be so important.
“Kenneth. Kenneth is my full name. I do not know how I know that. I’m sure no-one has ever called me that.” Suddenly a voice floated in from the second cell. After skulking away, Ulysses had reappeared again like an apparition.
“Born of fire...” he whispered. Ken looked puzzled.
“It is the meaning of your name, the power behind it.” Scaerzimek explained, his eyes twinkling a little. There always seemed to be some humour in the Black man’s eyes, perhaps a ruefulness? Like he understood a sad irony you didn’t. But this was not a bad thing, in fact, it was endearing.
“You will find it to be fitting, methinks.” Said Ulysses, whose unpleasant stare was again resting on the boy. Ken however appeared not to notice and looked, smiling, at Scaerzimek.
“What does your name mean?” he asked.
“My name has no meaning,” replied Scaerzimek. The boy was clearly dissatisfied by this and more than a little disappointed. Ulysses glanced for a moment at Scaerzimek before returning his attention to Ken. Antaeus had not yet seen him blink.
“What happened to you?” Kenneth asked curiously. Scaerzimek raised his eyebrows.
“What do you mean?”
“Did you burn yourself? All over?” Ken’s head was cocked a little to the side. Scaerzimek realised that he was talking about his skin, and chuckled.
“Where I come from, we all look like this.” He replied.
“Why?” Ken asked, with the simple curiosity of the young. Scaerzimek realised he had never thought about it. Antaeus decided suddenly that all of this talking was too much. He liked peace in his prison.
“No conversing between prisoners,” said Antaeus. Scaerzimek did not even glance in his direction. Antaeus felt more than a little deflated when Scaerzimek ignored him and asked Ken,
“What happened to those children? I do not believe you are a demon. I have seen demons. They are not hard to spot.” Ken’s face seemed to turn instantly ashen, and he twisted into himself, backing away into the darkness of his cell.
“Still feel the evil...” He murmured and brushed at his clothing subconsciously.
“Feel the evil...” repeated Scaerzimek under his breath, frowning. Ulysses stepped up to the bars on his cell that were closest to Scaerzimek.
“Just leave the child alone, that is what methinks. You is just giving him a headache is all – aye, and me one at that.” Scaerzimek looked dubiously at Ulysses, but fell silent.
 Now Ulysses turned and spoke to Ken - a question. Here we come to yet another point where the barriers of time are weak. Because time is not a constant – it slows down and speeds up. When Ken heard the question from Ulysses, a million possibilities pulsed up and down his body in the blink of an eye. Possible futures in which everything Ken could imagine could come true. In which all of the wildest dreams of anyone could come true. It is unclear at this point as to whether this sudden epiphany was a genetic reaction to the awakening of a never before tapped resource, or merely the product of the over active imagination of a boy who was far too intelligent for his meagre years, and far too powerful. But that does not matter, either way the result is the same. What matters is the question and the answer.
“Now boy, you answer me this little question, see.” Ulysses glared into the darkness where Ken had retreated, and gave a frighteningly wide, toothy grin. The teeth were pitted black and rotted yellow. “You can get out of this cage, see. Can’t you? It cannot hold you. Can it? Not you.”
Everyone in the prison looked towards Ken’s cell. After an era, a tinny voice answered from the darkness. The sound was weak and childlike, but the words were powerful and true.
“It cannot hold me.”
Antaeus had the sudden, powerful feeling that he had totally lost control of the situation.

I know that is quite a lot of writing so for anyone who reads the whole thing I really really really appreciate it.
But I totally understand if someone just reads a bit of it spots something glaringly obvious that I've done wrong and posts.

Thank you!!! 

[Supermikhail]

Just a little something I wrote when bored in Spanish class my freshman year of high school. I'm now a sophmore, and still working on this story. Constructively critic me!

words

Well, I guess I'll give it a stab.

The more I read it, the more irritated I became (granted, I only went as far as the first stars; I've glanced forward, and I don't really feel mollified). You had better add a fatal flaw to your protagonist if you choose to start in such a happy situation.

I can't say it enough: engage, engage, engage, engage your motherfucking readers. A fantasy setting alone doesn't cut it. I don't know why I should care for it, unless my girlfriend was molested in a bar or I'm a blacksmith. In the end you could give it an alluring title, like "Beware! Here be dragons! And half-naked princesses! And lots of cruel murder!" Or you could start with a sneak-peak, like "Little did he know that today his village would be wiped off the face of the Earth, the Moon would turn pink, and sheep would start talking," or an enticing summary.

In a sense the clinch came from the phrase "It's a mere nothing." It's obvious you're trying to make it sound fantasy-like, which obviously translates into "Let's make them talk like they wrote in the middle-ages", or like Tolkien tried not to sound, because Tolkien was obviously involved in a big elf cover-up. Sorry, it's the era of realism, and I happen to enjoy it very much, among many people. So, if you could wipe off some butter, I'd appreciate it. And, of course, reading aloud is always helpful.

[schrocko88]

Just a little something I wrote when bored in Spanish class my freshman year of high school. I'm now a sophmore, and still working on this story. Constructively critic me!

words

Well, I guess I'll give it a stab.

The more I read it, the more irritated I became (granted, I only went as far as the first stars; I've glanced forward, and I don't really feel mollified). You had better add a fatal flaw to your protagonist if you choose to start in such a happy situation.

I can't say it enough: engage, engage, engage, engage your motherfucking readers. A fantasy setting alone doesn't cut it. I don't know why I should care for it, unless my girlfriend was molested in a bar or I'm a blacksmith. In the end you could give it an alluring title, like "Beware! Here be dragons! And half-naked princesses! And lots of cruel murder!" Or you could start with a sneak-peak, like "Little did he know that today his village would be wiped off the face of the Earth, the Moon would turn pink, and sheep would start talking," or an enticing summary.

In a sense the clinch came from the phrase "It's a mere nothing." It's obvious you're trying to make it sound fantasy-like, which obviously translates into "Let's make them talk like they wrote in the middle-ages", or like Tolkien tried not to sound, because Tolkien was obviously involved in a big elf cover-up. Sorry, it's the era of realism, and I happen to enjoy it very much, among many people. So, if you could wipe off some butter, I'd appreciate it. And, of course, reading aloud is always helpful.

So would you suggest a prologue maybe?

[fqllve]

So would you suggest a prologue maybe?

Noooo, prologues are the anti-hook. Save the prologues for dense novels.

Honestly, I felt like you rushed through everything far too quickly for me to form an attachment to the characters or the situation. We have to care about Kimil before we're going worry about her safety. My principle is that the reader should have questions. Not in the sense that they should be confused by what I'm writing but rather that they should anticipate what is going to happen later. So the reader should be asking not "What was the author trying to say here?" but instead "How is this going to resolve? Why is this the way it is? Why would someone behave this way?" and you, as the author, should be prepared to answer those questions because it was you who deliberately planted them in the reader's mind.

If I was going to begin the story I would start with maybe three or four paragraphs describing Kimil in such a way as to make her sympathetic to a reader. Perhaps you could also introduce Connor in that section. Maybe some friendly and amusing banter between the two would be enough to bring suspense to the situation. There are, of course, any number of other ways you could do it, that's just an example.

It might also be that your scenes are so short I'm having trouble actually absorbing what happens. As an abstraction I get it, but actual imagination and visualization doesn't really get of the ground. Everything moves by so quickly that even though I made it about halfway through I don't really remember much about the specifics. It's all very rushed. You should take a little bit of time to dwell in your world, give your readers a moment to breathe and to absorb the information that's being conveyed to them.


So I figured I ought to submit something to this. Please, supply me with only your harshest criticism.

Spoiler: The Bull Sermons (click to show/hide)

Casmus stepped into the antiquarian's qisan and was surprised at how much more spacious it seemed from inside. The antiquarian was a wealthy woman to maintain such a stall, thrice the size of any other merchant's in the square. And in truth it was no mere stall, but an exotic merchant-tent of Imayyo, thousands of miles from its home and serving as a proud display in the northern taiga of Neymsall. And if her tent's purpose was to pique interest then her wares existed to astound. It was a wondrous array laid out by a discerning eye; the antiquarian knew how to play to the desires of the people and offered only what they would find irresistible. Casmus immediately recognized a sapphire pendant, chained to silver, lying on a piece of black felt. The gem was a deep blue and he could feel himself drowning in it. It was the Sinking Stone of Sein Ascanta, last he knew in the possession of Baron Los of Jorndr. But that was the least of the treasures laid before him, some legendary some mundane, but all treasures. The antiquarian had taken special care that the mundane objects, pots, idols, weapons and jewelry of all kinds, were either ancient or foreign, but the items of legends were by far items of local legend, well-known to all but the most ignorant. Yet in spite of the multitude of objects displayed Casmus knew that what brought him here was well-hidden.

The antiquarian was sitting behind a table in the back, inspecting a bronze helm with a fine pick in one hand and a lens in the other. She looked up at him with dark eyes as he approached. "Yes?"

"Hello, my lady, I am Casmus, son of Calrend and—"

She interrupted him, "Spare me the pleasantries, son of Calrend, my time is at a premium."

He narrowed his eyes at her but quickly recovered. "Very well. I understand you deal in rare codices and it has come to my attention you may be in possession of one I most desire."

They stared at one another. He could not read her face but he guessed she could read his. Their eyes were locked but he could feel her somehow looking him over, finding his measure, finding the contours of the desire reflected in his eyes. It was unnerving, but he daren't break the gaze. "Sermons on the Bull of the Mountain," she said at length.

"Yes."

"You are not the first to ask for this book, son of Calrend. What makes you think I have it? And more importantly, am willing to part with it?"

"A true merchant will part with anything for the right price. I am willing to pay whatever the cost for this codex."

"Did you think I had never heard those words before? The truth is I don't trust you with it. There isn't anyone I would. And the very fact you desire it tells me I am right not to trust you."

This time Casmus felt his eyebrows jerk downwards reflexively. The antiquarian set her pick down on the table and her lens onto a rose silk cloth and stood up. "I'm sure you weren't here for anything else," she said, "so you may leave now."

"Now just a moment—"

"Words won't change my mind, son of Calrend. When even actions won't suffice, words are powerless."

She stepped over to him, paused, then started for the entance to the qisan. Casmus' cheeks felt hot. He was humiliated.

"You do not understand, my lady. I must have the bull sermons. I cannot leave here empty-handed!" He stepped backwards as she turned around to face him.

"You think it's here? You are a fool. If I never intended to part with the book why would I keep it in ma'qisan? We're not all as foolish as you."

His face pinched in rage and the cords of his neck tensed, lifting his shoulders. The presumptuous whore. "How dare you speak to me like that. I am Casmus, son of Calrend, Lord of Amrell, and I shall have your wicked tongue," he spat. Then he drew his sword and lurched over to the antiquarian, nearly a foot her greater.

But just as soon as he took another step he felt a great blow to his chest, though the antiquarian did not move. He felt his ribs depress then crack, and a burning, the smoke of flesh. His own flesh? He could not tell, the fire was hot beyond his capacity to sense, like the embrace of a star.

And as he fell to the ground, as flesh and ash, the antiquarian said, "And what did you hope to learn from the book? Had you even gotten that far or was it simply the idea of possessing that it consumed you?"

[Supermikhail]

So would you suggest a prologue maybe?

No, I wouldn't. Second, (first being my particular misanthropy nowadays) I believe I know why things are bust, don't mean that I can fix 'em; at least I think if I could I would have written something better myself already. It's like this: if your car got stuck I could get inside, look at the fuel meter and see that it's at zero, but I wouldn't necessarily be able to tell you how to fix it (starting with the fact that you aren't at a gas station right now).

Third, do you think I would look at your story and care for it the way that you do? Assuming the answer is no, what do you think would be the quality of my suggestion? I wouldn't take my suggestion if I were you, so I'll just spare you the trouble of coming up with the reasons why you don't like it.

Fourth, we're still not settled that your story is worth my time to come up with a prologue. You're not offering me any incentive to put in effort there for your sake (of course, you can dispute that it's for your sake only, and then I'll argue that it is). There's this widespread sentiment that giving critique is a worthwhile activity, helpful in the pursuit of writing vocation; when in reality those are usually completely separate - people either succeed at writing or at criticizing, and when they're brilliant at either they pretty much can't say anything coherent about the other side - they either deconstruct or construct. They get to the other side when they're not very successful in their previous choice.

Although, as far as I can see I'm pretty bad at both.

Well, what can you offer me?

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P.S. You can shout at me in reply if you like. I just think this style makes communication more fun.

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It's currently my firm belief that one of the most important things in writing is having something to offer to the reader. I couldn't care less about vampire romance, but some people would be very intrigued; but if you overhype a story I might give it a look just to see what the deal is about; if you overhype it as a teenage angst type I'll turn away, based on the hype; if you give me a page of banalities I'm already gone, although some people would stay because these banalities touch their lives; but if these banalities concern a foreign country, especially one I'm about to go to, or am fascinated with, I'm all yours. There's a lot of drama I don't care for, but you'll grab me if it's about the nature or freedom. If it's from a religious standpoint I'll pass, though. Generic fantasy doesn't do anything for me, and I'm neither a blacksmith, nor do I go to bars. fqlive, I don't pick up anything useful from a skimming of your story, either. Someone dies in the end, but it's this way with half the stories posted here these days, it seems. Maybe you're catering to a crowd whose motivation is to observe as many different ways to die as they can... Wait, you are!