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[TD1]

That was good. I liked the premise.

[GiglameshDespair]

I, uhh, notice now that this is 1200+ words, which is a bit over the limit. I hope that's not too much of a problem. Formatting might need a lil' tweaking, too. Anyway, Red Lines, here goes;
-snip-

Write more, would you kindly.

Entry for Draignean's contest. If I do continue entering in his contests, I want to have all my entries link together in one continuity. For giggles, I guess.

Spoiler: No Exit (click to show/hide)

Stardate Log, 4.6.2155

The apocalypse came gradually. We did not notice it, until we began killing each other.

The replicators were the first to arrive. They allowed us to create anything we want, whenever we want. Scarcity was eliminated. Hunger and poverty were banished.

Then, augmentations were discovered. We can continually improve and upgrade our bodies to accomplish any task set out for us. We were able to do things that we never even dreamed we wanted to in the real world.

But if we didn’t want the real world, new virtual realities were invented, where people could experience new sights and wonders that reality could never offer.

And finally, the clones. If we were to ever die, then we can simply transfer over all our memories over to a specifically-prepared clone and live once more. Through this method, we were functionally immortal.

We were gods.

But gods are remarkably petty.

Sarte once said “Hell is other people”. But we deal with Hell because we need other people to survive normal day-to-day life. When you eliminate the need to struggle, you eliminate the need to socially deal with others. You can hold grudges, sometimes even for centuries. And if someone does kill you, the grudge doesn’t end…because you can just come back with a new clone and kill them back.

Our transhuman society of plenty is dead. We are still transhuman, yes, but we are not a society. Every transhuman belongs to ad-hoc cliques, whose sole purpose is to inflict revenge on all the other “jerk” ad-hoc cliques. That is, when they’re not infighting with each other. And when a transhuman gets bored with the endless slaughters, he will just flee to the comforts of virtual reality, ignoring the real pain and anguish that exist in our reality.

…I hoped that maybe, one day, some artificial intelligence would arise to kill us all and put us out of our misery.

I still hope for that day.

Spoiler: Note (click to show/hide)

This story is inspired by "Mad Max", a movie series about an post-apocalyptic society driven by scarcity. I wanted to invert that, to have a post-apocalyptic society driven by abundance.

Entry for Draignean's contest. If I do continue entering in his contests, I want to have all my entries link together in one continuity. For giggles, I guess.

Spoiler: No Exit (click to show/hide)

Stardate Log, 4.6.2155

The apocalypse came gradually. We did not notice it, until we began killing each other.

The replicators were the first to arrive. They allowed us to create anything we want, whenever we want. Scarcity was eliminated. Hunger and poverty were banished.

Then, augmentations were discovered. We can continually improve and upgrade our bodies to accomplish any task set out for us. We were able to do things that we never even dreamed we wanted to in the real world.

But if we didn’t want the real world, new virtual realities were invented, where people could experience new sights and wonders that reality could never offer.

And finally, the clones. If we were to ever die, then we can simply transfer over all our memories over to a specifically-prepared clone and live once more. Through this method, we were functionally immortal.

We were gods.

But gods are remarkably petty.

Sarte once said “Hell is other people”. But we deal with Hell because we need other people to survive normal day-to-day life. When you eliminate the need to struggle, you eliminate the need to socially deal with others. You can hold grudges, sometimes even for centuries. And if someone does kill you, the grudge doesn’t end…because you can just come back with a new clone and kill them back.

Our transhuman society of plenty is dead. We are still transhuman, yes, but we are not a society. Every transhuman belongs to ad-hoc cliques, whose sole purpose is to inflict revenge on all the other “jerk” ad-hoc cliques. That is, when they’re not infighting with each other. And when a transhuman gets bored with the endless slaughters, he will just flee to the comforts of virtual reality, ignoring the real pain and anguish that exist in our reality.

…I hoped that maybe, one day, some artificial intelligence would arise to kill us all and put us out of our misery.

I still hope for that day.

Spoiler: Note (click to show/hide)

This story is inspired by "Mad Max", a movie series about an post-apocalyptic society driven by scarcity. I wanted to invert that, to have a post-apocalyptic society driven by abundance.

Huh. Never heard of a post-apocolyptic setting caused by the end of scarcity. Interesting concept.

[Caz]

Short-ish Fiction Contest: Draigcorp 2014 Edition

"Because I can."

I wanna do this, but can't think of a good trope to invert. Hmm.


To TVTropes! ^{oh god why}

[Caz]

Kinda pointless excerpt from the novel I started back for NaNo. Doesn't really follow the prompt so discount it for the contest. Was more of an experiment in writing 1st person text than anything. Drugged-up nutcase dreamwalker is looking for his cat in strange places. It's more supernatural/horror if anything. Usually I write more medieval fantasy crap.

Spoiler: Acid Rain (click to show/hide)

21 – acid rain

There's a pocket world over the World of Darkness, in a state of disrepair. It's a wasteland field of cracked grey earth and volcanic pits, a dead world with a blistering white sun.

I try to unravel the meaning of what the world looks like to me. What I see and describe are just fancful portrayal of a world that has more to offer than to be squashed through the tube of human perception. I stand and watch the silence, trying to look past the world. It's no use. My attention has been grabbed completely, and spins this false earth. Whatever true magics lay beneath the surface are simply lost to me.

I notice a crack in the earth, a tunnel opening. There's no tell-tale rise of steam or ash, so I step down the crude stairway. There's a dim orange light reflecting on the walls, from exposed gemlight. The walls are filled with cave paintings, creatures with a dozen limbs drawn in ochre. Continuing in the corridor reveals a low table from scavenged wood – though I remind myself there are no trees in this world. Tin mugs and plates sit upon it, and there's a creature on a bedroll in the corner, snoozing. It looks like a lobster and a magpie had the ugliest love-child. I leave it be, and step to what I feel to be a doorway. There's one small crack in the eerily smooth wall. I take out the sword given to me by the shapeshifter, and ease the blade between the stone parting.
It whirrs with a click, and the stone walls part like gravel, a thousand oscillating cubes that roll backwards smoothly into the ceiling. I pass through into a dimly lit chamber, the floor is a fine sand or the dust of bones. The same cave paintings from before decorate the walls, along with scratches made by claws.

Is this a riddle? I tried to get into the usual entrance of the insect's hive, but it just pointed me to this world. Another test, I suppose.

The corridor winds and splits like a labyrinth. All of the corridors are identical except for the painted scrawls that are hardly decipherable.

At one archway, I find a wooden chest, in the classical style of old RPGs. I flip the latch and open the velvet-lined box, but it's all but empty. A few wood shavings line the bottom of the box, another dead end. I turn around.

There's a corpse on the floor, where bare earth was a minute past. It's a human, like me, in shabby traveller's clothes. I step closer, cautiously, and tap him with a foot. No response. I turn him onto his back and let out an unmanly scream.

The knowledge of whether he was pretty or not is lost to us now. His face has been skinned off, leaving a grinning skull's mask, right down to the cheekbones and left ear. I cringe and examine the rest of the body. His right hand is gripping a golden key, and I prise it from fingers stiff from the effects of rigor mortis.

The pattern of the key is burned into his palm. I wipe it clean on my sleeve before pocketing it. Maybe the key was to the chest? If so, where was the loot?

I hear a shrill whine go throughout the corridor, along with a stiff breeze. I've been detected. Well, good, I was tired of waiting for the damn insects to receive me.

The breeze stops by me, as if it is alive itself, a being of wind. Could that be possible? I remind myself again that this world is not as it seems. What seems like wind to me could be something else entirely. With this in mind, I look at the whorling sand, and it almost seems like a yawning face peeks out at me. I jump.

The wind picks up again, and I swear I felt a ghostly hand on my cheek, as if someone was turning my head as they looked at my face. Then there is a blast of wind as sand enters my eyes, and the corridor goes quiet.

I'm on my knees, blinking the sharp particles from my eyes. Is this sand real? If not, why does it still hurt so much?

I can almost see again when I hear the sound of unoiled gears. There's a creature at the archway, looking down at me curiously. It's made from metal and wires that flash with electricity, a metal ape around twelve feet tall, shoulders that almost brush the ceiling.

"What're you, then?"

It snaps to attention and begins to walk forward with manic energy. This feels very dangerous.

I make for the exit, but the creature is absurdly fast.

Maybe this isn't an entrance to their world. I feel like I've stumbled onto something different entirely, and whoever lives here doesn't take kindly to my transgression.

I leap out of the way from a cutting blow, and then something strange happens. There's a blast of light, a crackle of thunder. The creature infront of me has gone dead, mid-grab. Its face is a mask of welded iron, but the wires that ran with light and power earlier have gone inert. It's just a skeleton.

I look past infront of me and notice the man with the smiling face. It's the corpse from before. He has a baton in one hand, and folds it in half.

What?

The man works quickly, and puts the baton into a bag that disappears even as I lock eyes onto it.

"Who are you?"

"Just passing through," he says. "Thanks for the distraction, by the way. If you're going to pass through here, you need the map."

"Where's the map?"

"In the chest. You have the key. Hurry, though, because they'll be sending another guardian soon."

"They?"

"The stone faces. Seeya,"

With this, the strange traveller steps through the stone wall and disappears.

I hear the sounds of broken machinery long before I see the creature. I run to the chest and stuff myself inside. The latch snaps shut and I am hidden. It's cramped in here.

The mechanical footsteps get closer, and the creature pauses just beyond me. I can almost tell that it's examining the gate the revived human left behind. If I'm lucky, they won't suspect another.

I hold my breath, waiting for it to leave. It's still scanning the room, I guess. But I'm out of luck. The creature picks up the box I'm in with it's clublike hands, and we begin travelling through the corridors at a fast pace. I peek out the top of the box, and the winding corridors are passing with speed. I feel dizzy. The chest snaps shut and bumps my head. I smell mint.

[Digital Hellhound]

Will the person in charge of the writing prompt announce the results? I wanna see my name in the lights, so to speak.

[Skyrunner]

I wrote a story for Draignean's contest! But I feel apprehensive about uploading.

[sjm9876]

You could PM it to him and have it as an anonymous?

[Draignean]

I wrote a story for Draignean's contest! But I feel apprehensive about uploading.

Indeed. You would not be the first to do so. I promise to not be offended or think less of you for anything your write. Unless it's just a 25 word 'yo momma' joke, in which case I'll break your kneecaps for not adhering to guidlines.

EDIT: I can't use the english language in the morning. Seriously, reading what I sleep-type is equal parts humiliating and hilarious. It's entirely phonetic.

[GiglameshDespair]

We need the next prompt!

[Skyrunner]

I give up on editing more.

Spoiler: 1494 words, Draignean contest (click to show/hide)

The hero felt a dull shudder as his cold steel sword punched through the black plate armor of the continental tyrant, Mentis the Bloody. The man, whom the hero once thought was invincible, stumbled back, lowering his huge sword in what might have been shock. The man looked down, and with a pained grunt fell backwards, wrenching the hero's sword out of his hands. And like that, the deed was done.

The hero stood for a moment there, just thinking. Three of his closest companions were left behind to an unknown fate so he could reach the Tyrant's inner chamber and slay the hatred man once and for all. Was it worth it? Was having done a great thing for the world worth the possibility of never being able to see his beloved Lylai's smile again? He hadn't wanted to leave her ...

The hero shook his head, whether in denial or to shake off the depressing thoughts, and went to retrieve his favored weapon. As he stepped towards the hulk of a man lying there, he heard a tortured, wheezing breath. The man was not quite dead. His fortitude alone seemed to be enough for three men,  and his height one-and-one-half.

The tyrant spoke:
"Hero...," rasped through his visor, him sprawled against a wall. His gauntleted hands were open and limp, the tyrant's weapon abandoned a meter away from his grasp.
"Do a dying man a ... last wish, of sorts. My visor..."

The hero hesitated, but for some reason took his dagger and carefully raised the tyrant's visor. He saw the true face of the tyrant beneath the helmet, and was perhaps one of the few in the entire world to do so. The man had green eyes, he noticed. The tyrant had a rugged face that survived four separate wars, three of them started by him. He had a scar across his eye, and were not he a villain he might have been popular with the women. He had lines etched deep around his old eyes, testimony to the long era of suffering he had perpetuated til now. His dry lips were apart and straining; clearly he was on his last breath.

"Thank you," the tyrant managed to the hero.

One stood and one sat, and for a dozen heartbeats all was quiet.

"Hero," the tyrant said, "I know you must ... feel, must think that I am the greatest villain the continents and the archipelago has seen. And... perhaps I am. But I wish you did not see me as a through-and-through evil man, corrupted to the bone. For I, too, once was as young, as naïve, as optimistic as you and your friends were."

The tyrant tried to chuckle, but could only wheeze weakly. The hero winced, but made no move.

"It's strange, you know. Empires last... If the bureaucracy is anything, it knows how to be forever there. Do not be mistaken, even a tyrant has bureaucracy in his dominion. And bureaucracy is what makes the nation tick. It's what makes all nations tick. Well, before I conquered them and oppressively annexed them, that is."

The tyrant made a movement, trying to sit up straighter. He only managed to sink another inch to the bloody floor.

"You know, dying kinda... hurts. They say that it gets better but I frankly do not see that."

The tyrant managed to laugh a single deep laugh. The hero grimaced slightly in response.

"I see my attempt at humor failed. Well, where was I... Hmm, yes, empires last. When I was a freshly-minted hero, you know--yes, I, too, once fought to overthrow an evil figure of continent-arching importance, some dark wizard--my only thought was that me and my good friends must save the world, free it from evil. And free the world we did.
"Once the wizard was dead, all rejoiced. Long live the king, except he was dead. Long live the queen... nope, dead. Do we have royalty in convenient reach? Negative, the wizard casted a mighty king's kin-slaying spell and killed all of them. The countries were in disorder, what with paper-pushers vying for a little bit of power, the politically-savvy jockying around in thusfar suppressed political battles, and every minor lord attempting to claim a parcel of land for his own.
"The countries were in disorder, hero, and what else would a hero exist for if not to bring peace for the people? My companions--at least the ones who were left--and I took up the mantle. And at first we did a good job."

The tyrant exhaled slowly.

"But no matter how we... how I tried to make things work out, they didn't. It's as if the ones with power never ever look beyond their own greed. If they could give up a single gold piece to make it five pieces, but cut between five men, they would never agree. They thought everyone getting power was worse than nobody having power. The minor lords were the most disgusting, vile creatures I had ever the pleasure to meet."

He had clenched his fist sometime during the past few minutes, the bulky gauntlet now looking like a rough spiked ball of metal. The beaten man's voice rose with passion.

"I knew I could not feed the starving folk of the country if for every ten pence given, the lords took nine and nine-tenths. So I organized a little accident, by counsel of a roguish friend of mine. And it worked so well. You will never know how good it is to make a decision and have it fully carried out. It was then I realized what I had to do."

"Kill thousands of men while trying to conquer every last bit of the mainland?" The hero asked in a surly tone.

"No, my hero, unite the continent for its own good, and let no man go hungry and cold. Think about it. Have you seen a man starve any time during my 'reign of terror'? Perhaps the minor and major lords took my sovereignty a bit poorly. Maybe I crushed any rebel cells I could sniff out, and snuffed out even the embers of the thought that man has certain unassailable rights to freedom and liberty and speech. But I question you, was I truly a bad ruler?"
"Food was collected, hero, every harvest, and carted away to a local storage facility. Perhaps to your biased rebel eyes it looked like I was stealing from the poor underprivileged yeomen. But enough food to comfortably live on came back every week without fail. The extras got carted away to regions with famine. Have you never noticed how, even when half the crops fail to dough very few died of starvation, hero? I wish I could have told you this--" the tyrant broke into a coughing fit, bringing up blood "-- before the oh-so-mighty hero decided to inconvenience me by shoving a sharp stick into my guts, but it is over. I hope you are happy,  hero. I know I am content. I did the best I could. Tyrant I might have been, I am ready to face whatever gods who shall weigh my heart against a feather, because I am the benefactor of a legion. Can you say the same, hero? I do not blame you, but neither would I commend you."

The tyrant... the man slumped further down the worn brick wall of his inner palace. The hero noted that the inside had nary a chunk of marble as dictators are wont to do. All that was there was down-to-earth, practical brick and mortar.

"Well, it seems my time on this gods-forsaken earth is drawing to an end. Thank you for listening to an old, beaten man's rant. It puts my soul at ease, or at least what is left of it. ... I did order the deaths of many people. Maybe my heart will be heavier than a feather, hero. Maybe, just maybe."

The man's piercing gaze grew dimmer. He murmured,

"Thank you, hero. I ... I sincerely hope you find your lover. Was she Lylai? I am bad at names, as I always was. Lyali... That is a good name."

The hero was taken aback. He tried, but failed to regain his stony façade. Lylai... his heart ached for her so. He turned, ready to run to wherever she was, but on some whim decided to glance back at the dying one behind him. Before the hero left, he could swear he saw the ex-tyrant mouth a name...


And thus records say Mentis the
Bloody died an lonely death in the fifth tower of the eastern wing of what is now known as the Peoples' Assembly in the capital of Zenith, a lesson to future generations of the ignominious ending to all dictators and tyrants alike.

This text was written to commemorate the sixth century of the rule of the God-King, may his grace shelter and feed us all for eternity.

[Doomblade187]

Spoiler: It's dark, rambly, convoluted, and not the best thing I've written. It switches tenses occasionally, I think. Not edited, except for spellcheck. I call it 'The Contract'. (click to show/hide)

The hunter stalked his prey. It was an alien environment, yes, but by no means an unusual one. New yet old, strange yet familiar.

A city.

Nothing too fancy about it. Good side of town, bad side of town, everything in between, corner stores and supermarkets. A little bit of everything.
Including killers.

Yes, there were more of his kind. More people like him in the city of many, where hiding places are many and yet places to run are few.
Especially when your opponents are killers.

People similar to you, yet different. Different in all those subtle little ways that make them think entirely different from you, act in a different manner, move in a different way.

And you walked onto their turf.

Mind you, it's not an instant death sentence. Provided that you were honestly in error, and that you didn't mean anything by it, you would normally be fine. It's the little restraint that allows them to remain in relative peace there.

But no.

You just had to go kill their guard because he looked at you weird.

And now you're being hunted.

You. The newcomer to the city.

The rising star in your own little world, moving through life like a skittering beetle madly dashing through tunnels and streets in search for a way out.
A way up.

The chase began a half-hour ago, the silent alarms ringing in the distance as the blood dripped fresh from your knife, pooling on the floor next to the warm body.

The first sign they were onto you was the guard, the speaker stitched into his shirt crackling to life. "If you're still standing there, you have about one minute before we find you. If you aren't hearing this, then you're either very smart or very scared.

Probably both. Now, in case you're still listening- you're an idiot. Run. Run for your life."

And so you did. Not too far, but just far enough. Far enough to lead them out of their territory, and into neutral ground. You weren't anywhere close to your hideout, but you could deal with it. You had all you need.

So when the first of the three dropped to the floor in front of you from a ledge above, you attacked. You thought you could take him, yes.
You were wrong.

He grabbed your hand as it flew clear of your coat, traces of blood still drying on the blade, catching your wrist in his grip, and twisting to make you drop your weapon. You followed your blade to the ground, driven by a sharp kick to the chest.

As you stared up at your hunter, you saw a man very similar to you. Average in almost every way.

Almost every way except for the eyes. The empty, cold eyes.

Empty yet filled with menace. Menace and hunger. The hunger that drives and pushes, the hunger that makes you thirst.

He breaks the silence with two words: "You, huh?"

"You know me?" you ask, curious to see if you're actually that well-known.

"I've heard of your work. Rather impressive, really. You had potential. I mean, you obviously don't anymore, since you crossed us, but let it be known that we thought you held promise."

You grin, despite your situation. "It's all good. I understand. Feels good, honestly, to know that I have the rock stars complimenting me and my work."

He laughed. "Hey guys, we got ourselves a friendly intruder," he said to the other two figures approaching out of the darkness, the shapes resolving themselves into a man and a woman, their figures dim in the streetlight's glow.

You grinned wider. "You bet. I always wanted to know what it felt like to be the victim."

The three of them burst into laughter at this. "That has to be the funniest thing I've heard in a year!" you heard one of them gasp out. You don't know which one it was, though, because your eyes were closed.

Because that's when the guns started firing.

Sitting up, you push one of the corpses off to the side as the three killers fall to the pavement, riddled with bullets from the barrage of gunfire that came from the police snipers encamped across the street. Waving to the hints of glass in the dark windows, you stand up and step out of the way of the slowly spreading puddles of blood, the tainted blood that bore so much murder now spilled on an unimportant street in an insignificant city.

A perfect end to the 'Glorious Three'.

You smile, slipping your badge out of your jacket lining before pinning it to your coat and walking to meet the snipers.
It was a good month's work.

You're still proud of it to this day.





Only this day, the snipers found you.

Your replacement led you to them.

It's time for the changing of the guard, you think as the first bullet hits home in a moment of time so short and so long that there never has been one to compare.

You wish him luck as the second bullet hits home, tearing through your right lung and shattering your ribcage.

You wish him long life as the third bullet hits home, snapping your spine at the solar plexus.

You wish for him to run as the fourth bullet tears out your heart.

And then you can wish no more.

You don't feel the last five bullets.

You don't have the will to.

And then you lose the will as your head explodes in a shower of bone, blood and brains.

And then you are ended in your term.

Expired.

Retired from service.

Contract signed and sealed in blood.

I will serve in any capacity. I will do anything needed. Anything. I agree to serve in this capacity.

And it is done.

[Draignean]

Grading has begun. Last call for stories.

[Draignean]

Contest 1
Redactions are noted by a red strikethrough. Insertions in green, comments in blue boldface.

Spoiler: Entry 1, Unnamed and Anonymous (click to show/hide)

   ‘Now, I have received word that there is a traitor in our midst.’ Dialogue traditionally has double quotes. I get this, but just remember industry standard.
   The commander was a short man, but his lack of height was more than made up for by the steel in his expression. His greying hair was clipped short despite the fact that his active service has Wrong tense and unnecessary. ended a number of years ago. A black beret hid it from view, I don't like this arrangement, it introduces some brief confusion to the 'it' you mention. See ReOrg 1. leaving only his piercing blue eyes to express his military service - shadows clustered at their corners, memories that he would never tell.
‘Now, if you are this traitor, you may leave now. The guards on the door will escort you to the cells, and you will remain there until you die.’
He pauses for a moment, eyes flicking towards the nearby desk as if in thought, before amending -
‘Peacefully.’ Another dialogue rule: Except for emphasis (Dropping "Peacefully" a line is fine) and looong dialogue blocks you try to keep dialogue and the speech tags what go with the dialogue on the same paragraph.
Resuming his walk, He never started walking. Makes me do a double take to see if I missed something he turned to pass Why pass? Seems an awkward phrase here. around the rear of the desk - it was the only furnishing in the otherwise grey room,. and tThe polished mahogany did not appear to have ever been used., Tthe only sign of work was a small stack of files in the far righthand corner, and a single open dossier. in front of the seat - tThe page visible was clearly stamped with the word classified.
The rest of the men stood in a row between the door and the desk, facing the latter. I would have just said: In front of the desk. They all wore the same uniform as the commander, except that their berets lacked the gold star that anointed his brow. Wait, commander has a gold star? Mention that when you're describing him. That part is important. Each stood with their gaze fixed almost impassively at the bare wall before them. - iIt would have taken significant inspection of their eyes to tell the hint of fear that resided within. Hmm. See ReWord 1 below
The commander had now reached the rear of the line, blocking the route to the door. A click resounded around the room as he turned the key in the lock and pocketed it, and one man in particular winced at the noise. Even from the rear, the commander saw the twitch and leapt upon it like a fleeing deer. Action confusion here. If you want to use prey analogies, you usually have to establish a predator for the commander to leap like, otherwise the the literally meaning of this is that the commander himself is leaping like a fleeing deer. I don't think that's what you mean.
‘Private Ryan. Would you happen to have anything to confess?’
The breath caught in the Private's throat as the I really think it would be better here if you didn't use these 'the's. 'The Commander's face' is better than 'the face'. And certainly easier when you get to mouths. face materialised Oh you crazy Brits. over his shoulder - the mouth held uncomfortably close to his ear, and the tone too calm and quiet to match the situation.
‘No sir,’ came the whispered response, and the breathing withdrew.
‘How... fortunate, Briggs.’ His name is Briggs Ryan? Just stylistically I'd swap those.
The words rang full of menace, as the sound of the commander’s boots marched back to the rear of the desk. He stood for a moment, staring with apparent interest at a point some three inches above his line of vision on the back wall, before turning to face the men.
‘Now, as there has been no admittance, please allow me to make the situation clear. One of you will not leave this room alive.’ Good set up for your particular twist
He crouched down for a moment, and opened a drawer with a dull rattle. It was filled with a soft grey foam, cradling gently I'd switch the order of those last two word. a military grade pistol I want to see this pistol. See it as clearly as the troops see it. Is it a revolver, a semi? Is it an engraved officer's piece, or is it a plain field sidearm?. As he stood back to full height, he lay laid it almost reverently on the desk before him, light catching on the cool metal. See ReOrg 2
‘I do not care if you have a family. I do not care if you were only doing your job. You were offered your escape.’
The pistol was lifted, The Commander raised the pistol Textbook passive language. It's okay to say 'the commander' a bajillion times. It's better than a verbal construction that lacks force and he sighted gently I don't like this. How do you sight gently? You can sight quickly, casually, calmly, etc, but I don't know how you would sight gently. along the barrel, sweeping it slowly down the line over to each man in turn. At the last - Briggs - he lowered it, and a touch of humour entered his face. Another click filled the silence as he disengaged the safety.
‘Now, I know who you are. I know what you have said. And I know the appropriate punishment.’
The ensuing pause is was laden with meaning. I would have said 'The silence that followed was laden with meaning.' but I don't think it's that major.
‘However, appropriacy ended at the door. You are in my squad, and your betrayal is an internal matter. You will not receive a court marshal - instead you will receive a bullet. Do you follow me, Briggs?’
The private nodded, slowly, seemingly afraid to even move.
‘And so you will not be surprised by what I am about to do next?’
Again, a slow nod, this time almost all but imperceptible above the trembling jaw. The commander, stroked the barrel, before levelling leveled the pistol at Briggs' chest. He traced it the sights up the unflinching man’s neck, until its his Always make sure that it is clearly the commander behind these actions. aim rested upon his forehead, before bringing it back down. Then he lowered it once more, cocking his head slightly to the side. He stepped out away from the desk, and three paces later stood before the private.
In a swift motion, the commander gun lay pressed the gun against his belly, and the commander's mouth again stretched up towards his the private's ear.
‘I would strongly advise you not to flinch. I would strongly advise you not to speak. In fact, I would strongly advise you not even to breathe, unless you desire aid in that particular matter.’
His lip trembled slightly - almost invisible but to the commander, who simply sneered, raising an almost primeval fear in his gut. I think I see what you're trying to do here. See ReWord 3
‘But sir -’
The complaint was cut short, and the grey wall turned grey. This is the typical behavior of grey walls. I believe you mean red? The private slumped to his knees, lungs gasping for air that immediately left through the bullet wound, and his hands clutching uselessly in an attempt to hold back the flow of his precious life.  An odd rattling filled the room as he took his last breaths, still kneeling. Then the slightest of sighs rose above the bubbling, and a second bang filled the room.
Another soldier collapsed, slumped against the side wall, groin slowly staining red. This is actually a fairly fatal place to shoot someone at close range. We have a lot of blood vessels down there. His eyes rolled back in his head as the pain struck him, and consciousness left him almost thankfully fast mercifully quickly. The commander surveyed the two men, and gestured to the two others nearest to the second. This sentence is much more confusing than it needs to be. Just use 'and gestured to the two men nearest the unconscious soldier' or some such.
‘Take him to the medical bay.’
They stood, confused and unresponding, as the smirk grew larger. When did the commander start smirking?
‘His pain is only just beginning.’
With that, he turned, Would he need to turn? He was facing these guys when he shot them, and they had their backs to the door. and passed through the massacre stepped over pooling blood to the door. The key slipped into the lock and the Commander pushed the door openand opened before him Again, the key isn't opening, the door is., but he paused on the threshold. hHe glanced backwards, a shadow of what could have been remorse flickering across his face, and the gun fired for a third and final time. - bBlood trickled down between what was once the private’s eyes, now unseeing.
He The Commander nodded once to himself, and left,. a A fading line of red footprints the only sign og of his passage.


Applause highlighted the thin winter air.
‘We now honour the hero of Clapham himself, Commander Foster!’
The applause grew louder as a man stepped out onto the stage outside the base. Deep in the crowd, a child cried.
‘For services above and beyond the call of duty, single handedly defending the Clapham North shelter from three platoons of the German invaders, we award him the Victoria Cross.’
The man stepped forward, another volume surge marking the moment when the medal was pinned upon his chest. He turned and waved to the crowd, his blue eyes momentarily softening beneath a jauntily worn black beret. A single gold star marked its brow, and upon the point of the star, undisturbed by polish, rests a single drop of crimson blood, fresh dried to a crust.



ReOrg 1: The commander was a short man, but his lack of height was more than made up for by the steel in his expression. His greying hair was clipped short despite the fact that his active service has ended a number of years ago. A black beret hid it from view, leaving only his piercing blue eyes to express his military service - shadows clustered at their corners, memories that he would never tell.

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   The commander was a short man, but his lack of height was more than made up for by the steel in his expression. A black beret hid his gray hair, still clipped short despite the fact that his active service has ended a number of years ago. Only his piercing blue eyes express his military service - shadows clustered at their corners, memories that he would never tell.


ReWord 1: It would have taken significant inspection of their eyes to tell the hint of fear that resided within.

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The hint of fear each carried was only visible to the sharpest eye. Still not happy with the way this sounds.


ReWord 2: As he stood back to full height, he lay it almost reverently on the desk before him, light catching on the cool metal.

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The commander straightened and laid the pistol reverently on the desk, adjusting its position until light glinted across the cool metal. 



ReWord 2: His lip trembled slightly - almost invisible but to the commander, who simply sneered, raising an almost primeval fear in his gut.

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Brigg's lip trembled slightly, a tic visible only to the commander. Primeval fear spiked through the private when the Commander responded with a sneer.


Overall Commentary: Not too shabby at all. I'm not exactly sure what troop you're playing with, except perhaps that the Commander goes the full monty instead of faking out. My biggest comment for you is to look at the number of times you say 'almost'. I've done this too, and it's seems cool at the time, but it needs to be done sparingly. Only in certain uses is 'almost x' better than 'x'.

Work on hammering out unnecessary language and passive statements. A lot of this piece comes from the fact that the commander is doing x action. If it's written in such a way that the commander isn't directly referenced as the instigator, it becomes weaker, and the commander becomes weaker as a consequence. Keep things clear and concise, and work on your word order to keep things from getting confusing. Commas are temptresses, but we don't honestly need as many as we think we do.

Spoiler: Entry 2:No Exit. Servant Corps' Entry (click to show/hide)

Stardate Log, 4.6.2155

The apocalypse came gradually. We did not notice it, until we began killing each other.

The replicators were the first to arrive. They allowed us to create anything we want, whenever we want. Scarcity was eliminated. Hunger and poverty were banished.

Then, augmentations were discovered. We can continually improve and upgrade our bodies to accomplish any task set out for us. We were able to do things that we never even dreamed we wanted to in the real world.

But if we didn’t want the real world, new virtual realities were invented, where people could experience new sights and wonders that reality could never offer.

And finally, the clones. If we were to ever die, then we can simply transfer over all our memories over to a specifically-prepared clone and live once more. Through this method, we were functionally immortal.

We were gods.

But gods are remarkably petty.

Sarte once said “Hell is other people”. But we deal with Hell because we need other people to survive normal day-to-day I might omit 'normal day-to-day' life. When you eliminate the need to struggle, you eliminate the need to socially deal with others. You can hold grudges, sometimes even for centuries. And if someone does kill you, the grudge doesn’t end…because you can just come back with a new clone and kill them back.

Our transhuman society of plenty is dead. We are still transhuman, yes, but we are not a society. Every transhuman belongs to ad-hoc cliques, whose sole purpose is to inflict revenge on all the other “jerk” Jerk, even in quotes, is out of tone with the rest of this piece. ad-hoc cliques. That is, when they’re not infighting with each other. And when a transhuman gets bored with the endless slaughters, he will just flee to the comforts of virtual reality, ignoring the real pain and anguish that exist in our reality.

…I hoped that maybe, one day, some artificial intelligence would arise to kill us all and put us out of our misery.

I still hope for that day.


Comments: As you may have noted, I have very few problems with this piece. Of course, this may be due to the fact that I support the H+ movement and I'm already familiar with the techs you describe. The possibility you expound is interesting, I may not agree with it, but it is fascinating.

My complaint, however, is still rather large. This isn't a story. It's a world setting piece, the introductory section of a good story, the first five minutes of a movie, the glow before actual dawn. It's good. It just needs characters, a story, and another couple thousand words.

I can see you having a lot of fun with this piece, and I can see a couple cool stories to tell, but it cannot be finished here. Mad Max is not a story about the apocalypse, it is a very familiar story of duty and revenge set in the apocalypse. 

Spoiler: Entry 3: The Contract. DoomBlade's Entry. (click to show/hide)

The hunter stalked his prey. It was an alien environment, yes, but by no means an unusual one. New yet old, strange yet familiar.

A city.

Nothing too fancy about it. Good side of town, bad side of town, everything in between, corner stores and supermarkets. A little bit of everything.
Including killers.

Yes, there were more of his kind. More people like him in the city of many, where hiding places are were many and yet places to run are were  few.
Especially when your opponents are were  killers. Switching everything to past, since the first line is in past.

People similar to you, yet different. Different in all those subtle little ways that make them think entirely different from you, act in a different manner, move in a different way. I would have clipped this to just think differently, act differently, move differently.

And you walked onto their turf.

Mind you, it's not an instant death sentence. Provided that you were honestly in error, and that you didn't mean anything by it, you would normally be fine. It's the little restraint that allows them to remain in relative peace there.

But no.

You just had to go kill their guard because he looked at you weird.

And now you're being hunted.

You. The newcomer to the city.

The rising star in your own little world, moving through life like a skittering beetle madly dashing through tunnels and streets in search for a way out. I’m slightly confused as to what the rising star refers to exactly. I believe it refers to the general you, but the line break makes it a little hard to be sure.
A way up.

The chase began a half-hour ago, the silent alarms ringing in the distance as the blood dripped fresh from your knife, pooling on the floor next to the warm body.

The first sign they were onto you was the guard, the speaker stitched into his shirt crackling to life. "If you're still standing there, you have about one minute before we find you. If you aren't hearing this, then you're either very smart or very scared.

Probably both. Now, in case you're still listening- you're an idiot. Run. Run for your life." Why would they give warning?

And so you did. Not too far, but just far enough. Far enough to lead them out of their territory, and into neutral ground. You weren't anywhere close to your hideout, but you could deal with it. You had all you need.

So when the first of the three dropped to the floor in front of you from a ledge above, you attacked. You thought you could take him, yes.
You were wrong.

He grabbed your hand as it flew clear of your coat, traces of blood still drying on the blade, catching your wrist in his grip, and twisting to make you drop your weapon. You followed your blade to the ground, driven by a sharp kick to the chest.

As you stared up at your hunter, you saw a man very similar to you. Average in almost every way.

Almost every way except for the eyes. The empty, cold eyes.

Empty yet filled with menace. Menace and hunger. The hunger that drives and pushes, the hunger that makes you thirst. Good Line.

He breaks the silence with two words: "You, huh?"

"You know me?" you ask, curious to see if you're actually that well-known.

"I've heard of your work. Rather impressive, really. You had potential. I mean, you obviously don't anymore, since you crossed us, but let it be known that we thought you held promise."

You grin, despite your situation. "It's all good. I understand. Feels good, honestly, to know that I have the rock stars complimenting me and my work."

He laughed. "Hey guys, we got ourselves a friendly intruder," he said to the other two figures approaching out of the darkness, the shapes resolving themselves into a man and a woman, their figures dim in the streetlight's glow.

You grinned wider. "You bet. I always wanted to know what it felt like to be the victim."

The three of them burst into laughter at this. "That has to be the funniest thing I've heard in a year!" you heard one of them gasp out. I think this tag needs work. You don’t need the you in the beginning, since we’re firmly embedded in the POV from the beginning. You don't know which one it was, though, because your eyes were closed. This sentence and the next are both a little clunky. Having two adjacent because statements will do that.

Because that's when the guns started firing.

Sitting up, you push one of the corpses off to the side as the three killers fall to the pavement, riddled with bullets from the barrage of gunfire that came from the police snipers encamped across the street. Waving to the hints of glass in the dark windows, you stand up and step out of the way of the slowly spreading puddles of blood, the tainted blood that bore so much murder now spilled on an unimportant street in an insignificant city.

A perfect end to the 'Glorious Three'.

You smile, slipping your badge out of your jacket lining before pinning it to your coat and walking to meet the snipers.
It was a good month's work.

You're still proud of it to this day.





Only this day, the snipers found you.

Your replacement led you to them. I have a few questions about this, which I will expound on in the comments.

It's time for the changing of the guard, you think as the first bullet hits home in a moment of time so short and so long that there never has been one to compare.

You wish him luck as the second bullet hits home, tearing through your right lung and shattering your ribcage.

You wish him long life as the third bullet hits home, snapping your spine at the solar plexus.

You wish for him to run as the fourth bullet tears out your heart.

And then you can wish no more.

You don't feel the last five bullets.

You don't have the will to.

And then you lose the will as your head explodes in a shower of bone, blood and brains. I think this part pushes the violence too far. One, you already lost the will in the previously line, so losing it twice isn’t a good thing. Worse is that you really don’t need this much gray-matter spattering, goop spewing, skull-shard spraying violence. Violence in writing is like sex/sexual material in writing. Both are good and both have their place, but neither should be overplayed. Everything in moderation.

And then you are ended in your term.

Expired.

Retired from service.

Contract signed and sealed in blood. This is a sudden move that I would have expected to constitute a twist. Yet there isn’t enough background for it to make sense to me.

I will serve in any capacity. I will do anything needed. Anything. I agree to serve in this capacity.

And it is done.
Comments: Very nice. I think, however, that you could use some serious formatting. I put this into word and relocked the paragraphs and it started looking a lot nicer. I also think that your story needs more. In particular the end feels rushed and without place in the rest of the story. The contract aspect in the beginning is simply surprising, because it was never given any background.
   What I’m getting out of this is a law enforcement bureau where “Protect and Serve” has been taken up to 11, and, in order to combat worse and worse criminals, the officers themselves have become killers. Thus, “Protect and Serve” becomes a requirement of execution when an officer becomes more dangerous than he is useful, and retirement involves a younger officer executing senior officers as part of their own contract of protection.
   Granted, that’s wild extrapolation, but it’s a cool story. If that isn’t your story, then you need to do some serious retooling so I can understand what the contract us, why his replacement is killing him, etc, etc. If that is your story, then you need to some serious retooling so I’m not guessing randomly.
   Read the Wheel of Time Series for an interesting example of sudden oversaturation of sexually charged terms. While you deal with a sudden saturation of violent terms, the effect is essentially the same. Later in the series, just before Sanderson takes the series over, Jordan goes through this weird phase of describing nearly every woman in terms of breast size. It’s downright strange.
    Jim Butcher’s Dresden files series is a great read for a balanced storyset that can still be very physically brutal or intimate without getting bogged.

Spoiler: Entry 4. The Onslaught. GilgameshDespair's entry (click to show/hide)

The Alien fleet filled the skies. Defensive batteries hurled magnetically-accelerated ferrous slugs at hypersonic velocities, tearing gouges in the enemy's ships, setting off explosions of debris to rain down amidst the ruins of our defensive satellites and eradicated fleet. Where had they gotten such numbers? Considering opening with the raining debris, it’s a good image, and it really gets the point across. See ReOrg 1 below.

Drop pods sprayed out of the orbiting ships, seeds of steel that promised death. Megacity-9 had been hit little more than an hour ago. The reports had been blood-chilling: radios screaming with the enemies smashing through defences, the flame-units they favoured burning soldier and civilian alike. Our army had been obliterated or pushed back everywhere they'd landed – the civilian shelters cracked open like eggs and everyone inside put to the torch.

I was clutching my mag-rifle, shivering with fear inside a reinforced barracks in the outskirts of Megacity-4 when the first drop pods landed nearby. The very Slows it down, you want to stay fast in this kind of writing. ground shook with the impacts. Atmospheric fighters screamed past, the angular shapes favoured by the invaders, overwhelming the elegant curves of our own interceptors. The sounds of explosions and screams got closer.
“Easy, kid.” One of the sergeants was talking to me. “They'll come round the corner and we'll gun them down. No sweat.” He slapped the side of the heavy mag-gun on it's its  tripod, the long, double-railed barrel glinting with the light of explosions outside. I nodded, but I could still do nothing but shake. This is one of the few sections where we even get a hint as to what the character feels, and we need more of that. The strength of writing in the first person is the ability to have the reader feel everything the character is feeling, and that means using I/my a lot. Not like candy, but a lot. The computer in my combat suit beeped a warning about heart rate.

“There, there!” One of the other rookies shouted. Round This should either have an apostrophe at the front, which is an archaic version, or it should be changed to ‘From around’. See ReOrder 2  a street corner appeared the bulky figures of the aliens. [ A screaming civilian was running in front of them, concrete exploding near it's its feet as it ran. They were playing with it, Gender this alien or use them instead of it. It is impersonal, and reduced our sympathetic connection. If these aliens don’t have conventional genders, then get creative or stick with phrases like them, they, etc. I realised. Any one of them could have put a round through it's its chest or head with ease, but they were enjoying it's its fear.

“Take 'em out!” The sergeant roared, and the crack-hiss of mag-rifles rang out. A dozen of the bulky figures tumbled to the ground, crying out in their harsh, violent tongue. The rest dived for cover, replying to the mag-rounds with solid rounds and flame-capsules. The civilian made another four paces before flame licked out and set it ablaze. The rookie who had shouted grunted and fell back, head missing half it's its mass. Despite the heavy fire we were laying out, the aliens were getting closer. Despite the bodies that fell all around them, Two despites in a row, think carefully about whether that’s something you want to do for style, or if there is something that would fit better. mortal wounds gaping redly, they forced on, deploying ablative combat shields and weathering the storm of slugs. Their marksmen fired regularly – crack – crack – crack – I, personally, tend to avoid writing out sounds like boom, crack, bang, etc. What I would have written would have been ‘Their marksmen fired regularly, and each explosive crack represented …’ and each represented another defender lost, slumping back with chest blown open or head burst like fruit. Okay BIG note on this section, this entire lens is impersonal and detached. Our prot’ is a rookie soldier who is so piss-scared that he’s getting a heart warning from his armor. This is written almost from the standpoint of a war-correspondent, detached by training.

A grinding roar sounded as an If the next letter is a vowel, a becomes an. alien tank ground around Again, just round refers to a shape, ‘round means an a has been dropped in the beginning and is usually used to denote a particular voice, around is the word you’re looking for. the corner. Mag-rounds plinked ineffectively against the alloy hull as the turret swiveled into position. There was an expectant pause – a lull in sound – before the cannon fired, and then everything was a chaos of concussive force and tumbling masonry.

I came-to pinned beneath the rubble. The alien soldiers sorted through the scattered bodies of the defenders, kicking them to check for signs of life. Any that moved was were stilled with a quick burst of gunfire or made to writhe as flames licked along their incumbent forms. An  alien approached, and a hard boot made me groan with pain. Reword this, seriously. This part is actually critical. The hard boot didn’t make you groan with pain, the alien ramming the hard boot into your chest did. Your current statement is a little disconnected.

“Why...?” I gasped. The alien paused and regarded me for a second before it spoke.
“Because Earth is ours, xenos. We've come to take it back.” it's its Xanian was rough, full of the wrong inflections and alien accents. I had a second to look through it's its faceplate, at the grim satisfaction on it's disgusting chitin-less flesh, at the mere two eyes the aliens have as it raised the rifle. Reword the eyes section of this. You can do it, but it has to be fast. You don’t get to think long thoughts when there’s a rifle pointed at your head.

I had a second to thank the gods it didn't use it's its flame-unit before the gun roared.


ReOrg/ReWord  1: The Alien fleet filled the skies. Defensive batteries hurled magnetically-accelerated ferrous slugs at hypersonic velocities, tearing gouges in the enemy's ships, setting off explosions of debris to rain down amidst the ruins of our defensive satellites and eradicated fleet. Where had they got such numbers?

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Debris rained down amidst the combined ruins of our defensive satellites and eradicated fleet, striking the burning city in a hail of bloody stars. Defensive batters hurled magnetically-accelerated ferrous slugs upward at hypersonic velocities, tearing gouges into the enemy’s ships and setting off explosions that fueled the storm of falling slag.  Yet the Alien fleet still filled the skies. Where had they gotten such numbers? Hmm. Now it’s unclear what the debris is raining from in the beginning. Problems problems… I kinda want to do a re-version of this entire story now.

Comments: First, Its and It’s are not interchangeable. It’s is the contraction of ‘it is’ (It’s a beautiful day). Its is the possessive (Its back was wide and covered with jagged scales). Learn this once, and slap yourself soundly across the face with progressively larger fish every time you make this mistake again. This one weird trick will ensure that you lose weight and learn the English language.
     Now as to the story, I like it, but I think your psychic distance is WAY too far out. This is a first person, and that lets you get into the nitty gritty of your prot’s head. Use that. Use his fear, his revulsion, his anger, his raw emotion as a tool. He’s watching his home destroyed, his race being carefully and systematically eliminated. He’s not going to be detached, yet we’re getting the information like it was coming off a set of tapes. Work on that.

FAKEEDIT: Doing this in stages. I have some HW that I need to get done over the weekend, and the recolors make this take a lot longer than I expected. Other writeups coming later.

RealEdit: Cut the original of the Anonymous entry. The annotated version is pretty much unreadable, but the post is breaking the character limit otherwise.

[Tiruin]

Aw great, nearly a week away and Im too busy to submit my stuffs, and they're due already! >_<

I'll..just PM them later-ish, when I get my wits about me..

[Draignean]

Aw great, nearly a week away and Im too busy to submit my stuffs, and they're due already! >_<

I'll..just PM them later-ish, when I get my wits about me..

Not done grading yet. So, if you can finish them before tonight then you'll be fine. I'll only hate you a little.