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[Emma]

I was thinking of writing a book or perhaps a selection of short stories about 3 Vikings who are accidentally sent to the Old West in a block of ice intended for a refrigerator.

Is this crazy enough to be funny or exactly as stupid as it sounds?

And here it is, several months later.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Chapter  1

The old-timer sat on the porch, working a wad of chewing tobacco. It was a hot day in the little frontier town of Dirt Gulch, Texas, and everyone was feeling it. The baking, dusty streets were deserted, everyone taking refuge in what little shade they could find. The old-timer was no exception, his chair pushed as far back into the cool shade from the porch roof as it would go. He spat a gob of tobacco into the spittoon and went inside to fix a sweet iced tea.

   As the tea boiled, he took the pot off the fire and poured it in a glass. He stirred in the sugar, waited for it to melt, and went over to the little icebox in the corner of the room. He chipped off a small chunk of the ice block inside with his chisel, taking care not to get the three heavily-armed Vikings frozen inside. Wouldn’t want to hurt the poor lads.

Wait a minute.

There were three heavily-armed Vikings frozen inside his icebox.

The old-timer’s mouth dropped open, and the tobacco dropped to the floor.
























Chapter 2

   The old-timer pushed the icebox out into the street. With a final grunt, he set it in the middle of the dry, dusty dirt road outside his little house and opened up the lid. Even directly under the baking Texas sun at high noon in August in a heat wave while... It was hot, alright? As I was saying, even in this extreme heat the block of ice took about an hour to defrost, the old-timer watching from the porch. After that hour had gone by, 3 very confused Vikings stood up in the dry, dusty dirt road. The three were soaking wet, and nobody could tell how much of it was ice and how much was sweat from their heavy cloaks and chainmail.

   The tallest and most confused looking Viking slowly said in Old Norse:

“Guthorm? Sven? Where the Helheim are we?!"

By all means, do continue.

Please do, I'd be interested to see how this develops.

[Emma]

I had to write this for and English class, this means that it's slightly better edited than usual. I'd be interested to see what you guys think of it as I'm quite proud of it even if the ending is really rushed.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

The Tragedy of FreshBuy

Inside the room, one man sat with a thick sheaf of papers in front of him. Placing the sheets down with a sigh, he leaned forward on his elbows and pushed his glasses further up his age-wrinkled nose. Straightening in his chair he looked across to the three men sitting opposite him. They were looking at him expectantly, their bodies not tense but… Ready, they were ready for any arguments he might give; ready for anything he might say. He furrowed his brow in a frown; he’d never liked working with bankers.

“Well gentlemen,” he said, breaking the silence, “What do you want me to do about this?” The men shrugged as one, the man sitting in the middle looked to his companions, as if for permission and then he began to speak.

“Mr Doe, as you can see here,” he said, in a flowery voice, “the current CEO is in a little,” he paused, considering his next words, “financial trouble.” He stopped speaking and his colleague began to speak.

“We do believe, however, that FreshBuy is a… Worthwhile investment.” He stopped talking and the final man spoke,

“You appear to be the most competent of FreshBuy’s current managers. Mr Doe, would you like to be a CEO?”

---

John Doe pulled the key to his house from underneath a flowerpot. Unlocking the door he returned the key to its hiding place and pulled the door open, stepping off the shadowed porch and into the strangely darkened room. Taking a few more steps he spoke his customary greeting into the stagnant air,

“Honey! I’m home.” He waited for several seconds, expecting his wife’s usual greeting. After a short while he frowned and took three more steps into the room. He repeated his greeting, more loudly this time,

“Honey! I’m home!” Sensing that something was wrong, he didn’t wait for a response this time. Instead, he ran through the corridor. He stuck his head through several doors along the way. None of the rooms held anyone. Frightened now he ran at last into the kitchen. It was there that he found the reason for his wife’s absence.

In the kitchen table, stuck to a pasta strainer, was a note. John rushed to the table, and tore the note from its post. Bringing the note before his eyes he began to read.

Mr Doe,

Your wife is unaware that I have written you this letter. Apparently she would prefer a “clean break”. I, however, have decided that you should know what has happened. Your wife has ran off with me, apparently a minister of the Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster is preferable to the manager of a supermarket.

Regards,

Geoff

---

John Doe stood in his office, dark-bags hanging below his eyes. The palms of his hands were stained with black ink, splotches covering the tips of his fingers. A door opened behind him and he turned, seeing his secretary enter the room. She placed a folder of papers at his desk before inclining her head and leaving the room. He sighed and walked over to his desk and sitting at the table. Rubbing at his eyes he opened the folder and began making his way through the papers. Several hours later half of the pages were spread across the table and the other half were in John’s grasp. Clearing his eyes of the sleep that had gathered in the corners of his eyes he pressed the button that connected him to his secretary.

“Ms Grant, is my guest here yet?” He didn’t have to wait long for an answer. His pager buzzed with a short, grey sound and his secretary’s voice emanated,

“He’s been here for a few minutes, Mr Doe. Would you like me to send him in?” She said. John rubbed his eyes once more; he sighed heavily and pressed the button again.

“Yes Ms Grant,” he said, “Send him in.”

---
George Elcaza smiled at John’s secretary as she held the door open for him,

“Remember Jenny,” he said “Your boyfriend told me that he’s planning something big for your anniversary.” Ms Grant smiled at George,

“Don’t worry Mr Elcaza, I’ll remember.” She said as she closed the door behind him. George walked over to John’s desk, still smiling widely, and shook his hand. John forced a smile onto his face as he shook George’s hand. George’s smile drooped slightly as he felt John’s hand. John’s palm started to sweat slightly and his hand shook as he saw George’s smile drop. He knew, George knew what he was going to do. John forced the smile back onto his face, a rictus of a grin forming, spreading from ear to ear in a grim mockery of a real smile.

“Sit, George. Please.” He said gesturing towards his desk and the chairs placed there. George nodded at him but frowned, the smile now fallen from his face. As soon as George had sat down at the desk, John walked around to the other side of the desk and sat down heavily.

John swept his arm over the surface of the paper-covered desk and bent his head,

“Do you see this, George?” He sighed, “This is the cost of being a CEO.” He raised his head and looked at George through his tired and sad eyes, “The other cost,” he said, quietly lowering his head again, “is this. You’re fired, George.” John looked at George again and saw him go catatonic. George stood, his body stiff and nodded to John with tightly controlled movements. He turned on his heel and left the room, the door swinging wildly in his path.

---

John stood in his office, the stark greyness of winter facing him through the window. The door opened behind him and he turned, anger already etching lines onto his face.

“What is it?” He yelled, all civility he had once possessed gone. Ms Grant walked in quickly with her head bowed and placed a thin slip of paper on his table. John walked over to the table and looked at the paper. Fury began to overflow from the lines of his face and he slammed his hand down onto the table before beginning to cry, he never should have taken pasta from his supermarkets. Two years ago, in the winter of 2019, the great Pasta Crash. It had changed everything. His passion, his hate of pasta, it had led to one thing, the words that were written on the paper in front of him, debt.

Sorry for the double post but this topic hasn't been posted in for ages.

[GiglameshDespair]

I daydreamed about some sort of angry message demanding the surrender of a castle, and decided to write it out. Then I somehow wrote a snippet about a soldier besieging that same castle. The events below take place in some nondescript 'verse I smoked up in half an hour, but I tried to keep things somewhat consistent.

Spoiler: Eight hours before the fall (click to show/hide)

IT was high noon when they finally made their choice known. It all started with a sound that was felt more than heard, like an extra beat in the steady rhythm of Umida's heart. The gates burst open, and then the Consularies were on their feet all around her, shouldering their shriekers, falling into line with the usual calm precision. Her feet took her to her place in the second row, then her hands did their usual thing – cartridge, pan, barrel, ball, wad, ramrod – while her eyes observed the keeper infantry trooping out and fanning into formation. Those, she knew, would get to her last. First, if the Jumhuriyat forces got lucky, there would be cavalry, and some time to get back behind the lines.

They didn't get lucky.

It was hard for her to get a good look such as she was, with the sun in her eyes and the dust obscuring the field – but it seemed as if dappled patches of noon-light and shadow erupted from the keepers' green-clad ranks, and sped forward with a swelling wail that grated on nerves she didn't even know she had. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Yulduz pale.

Dust sprites. Somewhere in the vicinity of each blur, she knew, would be a keeper soldier pumped to the gills with battle-stims and forbidden magics, his image smeared and torn from him by the signs on his wargear. Do keep calm, she told herself. This is a job for us. We are the Second Consulary Reconnaissance, bright and bold, and we have the longest range with our rifled muskets. It's up to us. Do keep calm.

She counted the blurs with a practiced eye. There were twenty-three in all, and the first would enter her range in about fifteen seconds. They would wait longer after that, to get as many as they could with the first volley – she estimated they would only get four volleys off if they got lucky.

They didn't get lucky with that, either.

The sergeant, Rustam, held them for eight seconds – she counted – before giving the word. The first row spewed gunsmoke, then knelt. One blur of the four that veered for them instead of the Third in the ridges to the north or the mass of stubs to the south flickered and faded. She saw the sprite tumble like a ragdoll, propelled by the inhuman momentum it had attained. Their turn. She took aim over Timur's head. Waited for the sign. Fired, feeling her shrieker's familiar kick. The glare made it impossible to see if she hit anything, so she got to reloading again as the first row stood up. She heard them fire, then kneel. She hefted her rifle again, and saw that her life was over.

In that moment, it all seemed so clear to Umida, as if she was observing the scene from outside her own head, perhaps from one of the ridges behind her – oh, what she would give to be there now. Here, the Consularies with their black coats, their tall hats, their gleaming brass buttons. There, the displaced images of the dust sprites, rippling with the light of faraway suns. In front of her, Timur, with his crooked nose and his sharp jawline, Timur with whom she argued Council politics just yesterday. And there in front of him, a footprint, still billowing with little whirlwinds of dust.

He was thrown against her feet, dead – surely he was dead. Nobody can lose this much blood in so short a time and live. To her left, Yulduz fell, missing an arm, even paler than she was before. On instinct, she whirled round, and the glare was finally gone. The sprite's image was there, but she looked upon it and saw through the lie. Her shrieker pointed at the spot forward and to the left of it like an accusing finger. The sprite, which had just finished its U-turn, took a ball to the throat and went tumbling forward to stop at her feet, and she clubbed it savagely with her stock.

Then she felt something, and began turning to shield herself with her rifle, praying desperately that this time, this one time and never again, please, there will be no need for it again, some stroke of luck would save her.

She didn't, as it goes, get lucky.

Curiously enough, she felt no pain. The world just spun and spun until she fell flat on her back, squinting into the sun. The rifle had gone somewhere. Her fingers felt numb, and there was a strange lightness in her head, so that it bobbed up and up until she was looking along her body, at her stomach.

She had known before that they were rather long, but she was still surprised to see how long exactly. There were what, three – no, four meters of it, she estimated quickly, glistening white and red, coiled over the ruined front of her coat and trailing off into the dust. She found herself strangely curious about the slick texture of it, reaching toward it with her cold, cold fingers, but then the sun dimmed and the green-tinged darkness burst forth from behind her eyes and she was gone.

*****

She came to in an airy medical ward, awoken, it seemed to her, by the familiar thundery smell of sigil disinfectant. The smell had pervaded her dreams, which had all turned to rumbling clouds, but would give her no rain no matter how she begged. Her throat was dry. She tried to speak, but all that came out was a croak.

Then cool, strong hands held her head, and water poured down her throat. She drank, and drank, and drank until she choked again and coughed water all over her sheets. Her caretaker chuckled quietly at that.

- Up, then, are we?

She turned her head to look at him. Her first impression was that of extreme tiredness – the man had patchy stubble, bags under his eyes, creases marking his otherwise fairly young face. The crow's nest of his wiry black hair and the deep set of his eyes did nothing for this impression, making him look for all the world like the dark-eyed revenants on the walls of the Old Palace. Still, under all that, his smile was kindly enough, and she found herself smiling weakly back.

- Good, good. I was beginning to get worried. You really were a bad case, you know? You were lucky – a case of these new scrivened insets arrived just before you did. I had to cut out a meter of your intestine, if that's of any interest to you – I put it in an icebox to show you, but you took your sweet time sleeping it off, so I had to throw it away.

The grin became wider. Umida felt like laughing – she was alive in this room filled with storm–smell, and now there would be real storms and real rain and real sun and she would go to markets and eat cherry sorbet and attend drills and get yelled at by sergeants again – a tinge of concern went through her at the thought of Rustam, but was quickly drowned out by her growing elation. She felt like hugging this sleep-deprived mess of a doctor, like pressing her fingers to his skin for him to see that they were now warm, warm.

Instead, she just let them twitch slightly under the covers.

- How long – her voice was still hoarse – How long?

- Nine days.

- Then the Keep..?

- Gone. Awakoum spoke the word and it's gone now. - He looked unsettled. I will be too, she decided, when this feeling passes.

- My platoon?

He paused.

- Can't tell. Lots of casualties here. Probably not good, though, I have to tell you.

Umida smiled again, this time grimly.

- Don't have to tell me, I've been there.

He nodded.

- Yes. Now. I have a few more patients to attend to. Would you like to go back to sleep for a while? A nurse will come around in a few hours to change your bandage.

- No, I'll be fine. And thank you.

He nodded again and left, shutting the glass doors of the ward behind him. She looked around properly for the first time: there were seven other beds around her, two of them occupied. With some trepidation, she lifted her covers: there was just a loose white shirt split at the sides and the bandage there. She patted her stomach gingerly. Ow. Alright, so I won't do that again, she thought.

Leaning back down, Umida pontificated the inevitable scar. That'll show that braggart Yulduz, she told herself, imagining a walk down Grand Market Avenue with just a chest-wrap around her torso, her black soldier's coat thrown carelessly over her shoulder, pretty young things admiring her toned stomach and her new battle–scar, market guards tipping their hats to her with respect, stall-keepers offering her discounts – a veritable bucket of cherry sorbet – an evening of cold beers and dice at the Ball and Rod, perhaps a pleasant enough night as well, should anyone likely catch her eye...

Then she remembered Yulduz falling, armless and paler than marble. Shaking her head, she dove back into the giddy thoughts, where that image couldn't find her. Perhaps I should get a tattoo around that scar, she thought. Some thorns, or maybe a severed creepvine, to show that I got it under the walls of Patimat's Keep.

She fantasized like this for another half-hour until sleep again overcame her.

With this I'm mostly interested in whether my sentences seem too long or hard to read, whether it's easy to comprehend what's going on in my action scene, and whether my description of being injured feels apt. If anything else feels wrong, I'd like to know, too.

Spoiler: Inscribed on a strangely seared brass plate (click to show/hide)

To the Lady Patimat, by herself styled Heir to the Locked City, First Among Equals, Mistress of the House that Shines Above All Others, by us styled Betrayer, Murderess, Guest – killer

Word has reached us that you excuse your crimes by saying that they were committed in the name of Love. You shall, then, be amused to hear that the devastation which we shall wreak upon you shall also be done in that sacred name.

It has occurred to us that you think yourself a hero in this play of dust, and that you feel that the lives of lessers are but a small price to pay for a happy ending. Let us then remind you of them, so that you are informed of the magnitude of your crime. They were:

Hassan Faradhi, who loved Messim who waits for him now in a house full of silence
Kasim al-Arani, who loved his people and gave an arm and an eye in their service
Mariyat Fatim, who loved light and and air and traveled sixteen lands of ash for this love
Ionatan Hurion,  who loved the Mountain, which is now bereaved of her last son
Nuriyat Never - Blind, who loved her soldiers and was beloved by them in turn, whom you hated with a low hatred for her honesty and her honor

Those five entered your house as guests, and left as corpses. While you have already given us much to drink from the cup of grief with your disgusting and deplorable attacks on our soldiers, with this act you have exhausted our patience, of the magnitude of which we mortals make no boasts.

For the lives and loves of those five, and the lives and loves of all others who are dead for the sake of your vanity, whose stories we shall never now know and whose merit is now beyond our reward -
For the lives and loves of those who have trusted us with their safety and entrusted us with the force of their labor -
With this missive we profess unending hatred for you.
We hereby declare that we shall bring down your house, unravel and end all that reside within, and leave that place forever desolate, as a reminder to all who would dare mistreat our ambassadors and endanger our citizens. To pay no more in life or love for the demise of one such as you, we shall accomplish this by speaking the word that is not to be spoken. To prevent this, you must return to us the bodies of our ambassadors, and submit yourself to the judgment of the Final Court.

You have until sunset.

Signed on the roots of the Mountain by the Council of Four, of the Jumhuriyat:

Awakoum
Farida
Bulat
Hakim

With this, my primary interest is if this feels threatening enough, and if there's some way to inject additional pathos into it.

But anyway, I would be interested in any other comments as well.

The way you do dialogue is... unique. Personally, I think it'd look a lot clearer if you used " or '.
I vaguely recall you being russian? So maybe it's a country thing. Either way, to me it'd be a lot better with speech marks.

Your writing is pretty good, though.

Here's the first of 6 connected scenes.

Spoiler: A Steady Rhythm 1 (click to show/hide)

   She shrugged the gun up to her shoulder and set her eye to the scope. From her kneeling position, the sniper lay uncomfortably, but the weight was bearable. She looked down the scope, finding her determined target. He was in a windowed room of a small one story house. He sat at a glazed wooden table. A compact laptop sat in his lap, and he was typing intensely. It was a file on the Terminus project, or so she had been told.
Beside the door stood a bodyguard in a black suit over what was probably body armor. He was most certainly armed and held a comms in his left hand. No doubt other guards stood watch in the rest of the building, each with their own comms, ready to rush to each other’s aid at any moment.
She shifted the crosshairs and rested them on her target’s head. Kyle Jorn was his name. He’d been involved with the Terminus project for years.
   On a desk right before the window was a shadowy piece of paper. He’d opened it a few minutes before to place that sheet just there. Then he’d examined it and typed on his laptop. None of the other windows were open.
   She’d been told about this. It was to be her opening, her chance. The bodyguard by the door concealed whatever anxiety he had about opening the window for this procedure.
   I’ve got my sights on.
   The glass shattered. A small hole appeared in it. The man’s head bled, the red pouring out. The bullet lodged in his skull.
   She clutched the gun to her side and ran to the emergency exits. The alarms had already been disabled.

Issues:
Call it a sniper rifle. A sniper rifle is a gun. A sniper is a man who shoots that gun.
She's either kneeling or laying down - she can't be both.
Is the piece of paper placed outside the window or inside? You mention it's placed on a desk. Why did Kyle Jorn place it there, then look at it?
Why was the window being open important if she shoots through it anyway?
The sudden switch to first person is disruptive. If you want to show it as her thoughts, either add it elsewhere as well or get rid of it. Italicising it would also help, as it then would stand out as different to the rest of your narrative.
We know the bullet hit him in the head if his head starts bleeding. It feels clunky to add it lodged in his skull.

The way it's written isn't descriptive in an interesting way - and it doesn't describe the important parts. What does this Kyle Jorn look like? You briefly describe the bodyguard. You describe the table. But you don't describe what her target looks like.
You also mostly ignore the other senses. You also don't describe her thought processes at all, what she feels or thinks about assassinating a man. What can she hear, smell, feel?
What time of day is it?
You want the shot to be visceral, dramatic. A man was just murdered. It feels too... dry.

Spoiler: A Steady Rhythm 2 (click to show/hide)

   “Yes, room 37 please.”
   “Ok,” The clerk checked his room list. “That room is open today. How long will you be staying?”
   “Just for the night.”
   “That’ll be fifteen, then.”
   She fished in her pocket and pulled out a tattered wallet. She looked inside and took out fifteen dollars in cash. Her backpack was on the ground.
   “Could you pay credit or debit instead?” The clerk asked. He drummed his fingers against the desk. She shook her head.
   He sighed, took the money, and popped open a drawer. Inside were cash slots, but there were only a few bills in there. He put both the ten and five into the first slot. When he looked up, she was gone.

   She stepped softly up the stairs and made her way to the third floor. The hotel quality was rather poor, but a room still consumed quite a bit of her cash. The quality didn’t bother her, though. She wasn’t planning to stay long.
   She opened the door and locked it behind her. A mini-fridge caught her eye. She could use the food. She pulled the handle of the small door and looked inside, but there was nothing in there.
   “What did I expect?” She muttered. Of course there wasn’t food. This was a fifteen dollar room - the food would probably cost more than that. If it was worth eating, that is. She set down her backpack near the door.
   She walked over to the window and brushed aside the curtains. She looked through the glass and saw below her two people in black body armor entering a building across the street. They were going to exit soon, judging by the number of people there and the unmarked compact black car. She covered the window again, leaving a small gap, and picked up her backpack. She took out the sniper and set it aside, and then she grabbed the bandolier.
   Nine bullets. There had been ten to start with. She loaded the gun.
   She held the sniper behind her back and peeked out. They hadn’t left yet.

   The sound of a starting engine snapped her out of her doze. She kneeled and held the butt of the sniper to her shoulder. She inserted the gun barrel into the gap in the curtains, keeping clear of the glass. She’d waited much longer than expected. Nothing had happened. In that time, she figured that strange sounds weren’t too uncommon in a place like this, and smashed the window. She wasn’t about to stick her head out and check where the shards landed, but she hadn’t heard anything out of the ordinary. As it was, there finally seemed to be activity. She looked through the sights.
   Down across the road there was a bit of a commotion, but it settled quickly. Moments later, the two guards came out. Behind them came two more guards, and she wondered if she was being misled. Her target, Jamie Lasco, was a good friend of her previous target, and also affiliated with Terminus. It made sense for extra security, or maybe this was a plot to deceive assassins like her.
   Then he stepped out himself. Three guards quickly surrounded him, but she had vision with her elevation.
   My sights on a brand new beginning.
   The guards panicked. One shouted into a radio while two others got into the car and drove off. Within minutes a medevac vehicle had arrived, and it transported him away. Police swarmed the area, initiating lockdown. Yellow police tape cordoned the block. Then a news chopper came in.
   The results were out two days later. Jamie Lasco, a juvenile rights lawyer, died of intracranial hemorrhage and brain herniation caused by an assassin. The bullet was sniper grade, and curiously marked. It was engraved: 8.

Same problems as above.

Hmm... apparently we'll be doing a fantasy unit in class after break. Should I use something I have ~partly developed, go with something completely new (and probably sucky, my ideas always suck at first, before I refine x100), or combine two things?

Without knowing any of what you're referring to, it's impossible to say. However, you probably want to go with the most developed idea.

I had to write this for and English class, this means that it's slightly better edited than usual. I'd be interested to see what you guys think of it as I'm quite proud of it even if the ending is really rushed.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

The Tragedy of FreshBuy

Inside the room, one man sat with a thick sheaf of papers in front of him. Placing the sheets down with a sigh, he leaned forward on his elbows and pushed his glasses further up his age-wrinkled nose. Straightening in his chair he looked across to the three men sitting opposite him. They were looking at him expectantly, their bodies not tense but… Ready, they were ready for any arguments he might give; ready for anything he might say. He furrowed his brow in a frown; he’d never liked working with bankers.

“Well gentlemen,” he said, breaking the silence, “What do you want me to do about this?” The men shrugged as one, the man sitting in the middle looked to his companions, as if for permission and then he began to speak.

“Mr Doe, as you can see here,” he said, in a flowery voice, “the current CEO is in a little,” he paused, considering his next words, “financial trouble.” He stopped speaking and his colleague began to speak.

“We do believe, however, that FreshBuy is a… Worthwhile investment.” He stopped talking and the final man spoke,

“You appear to be the most competent of FreshBuy’s current managers. Mr Doe, would you like to be a CEO?”

---

John Doe pulled the key to his house from underneath a flowerpot. Unlocking the door he returned the key to its hiding place and pulled the door open, stepping off the shadowed porch and into the strangely darkened room. Taking a few more steps he spoke his customary greeting into the stagnant air,

“Honey! I’m home.” He waited for several seconds, expecting his wife’s usual greeting. After a short while he frowned and took three more steps into the room. He repeated his greeting, more loudly this time,

“Honey! I’m home!” Sensing that something was wrong, he didn’t wait for a response this time. Instead, he ran through the corridor. He stuck his head through several doors along the way. None of the rooms held anyone. Frightened now he ran at last into the kitchen. It was there that he found the reason for his wife’s absence.

In the kitchen table, stuck to a pasta strainer, was a note. John rushed to the table, and tore the note from its post. Bringing the note before his eyes he began to read.

Mr Doe,

Your wife is unaware that I have written you this letter. Apparently she would prefer a “clean break”. I, however, have decided that you should know what has happened. Your wife has ran off with me, apparently a minister of the Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster is preferable to the manager of a supermarket.

Regards,

Geoff

---

John Doe stood in his office, dark-bags hanging below his eyes. The palms of his hands were stained with black ink, splotches covering the tips of his fingers. A door opened behind him and he turned, seeing his secretary enter the room. She placed a folder of papers at his desk before inclining her head and leaving the room. He sighed and walked over to his desk and sitting at the table. Rubbing at his eyes he opened the folder and began making his way through the papers. Several hours later half of the pages were spread across the table and the other half were in John’s grasp. Clearing his eyes of the sleep that had gathered in the corners of his eyes he pressed the button that connected him to his secretary.

“Ms Grant, is my guest here yet?” He didn’t have to wait long for an answer. His pager buzzed with a short, grey sound and his secretary’s voice emanated,

“He’s been here for a few minutes, Mr Doe. Would you like me to send him in?” She said. John rubbed his eyes once more; he sighed heavily and pressed the button again.

“Yes Ms Grant,” he said, “Send him in.”

---
George Elcaza smiled at John’s secretary as she held the door open for him,

“Remember Jenny,” he said “Your boyfriend told me that he’s planning something big for your anniversary.” Ms Grant smiled at George,

“Don’t worry Mr Elcaza, I’ll remember.” She said as she closed the door behind him. George walked over to John’s desk, still smiling widely, and shook his hand. John forced a smile onto his face as he shook George’s hand. George’s smile drooped slightly as he felt John’s hand. John’s palm started to sweat slightly and his hand shook as he saw George’s smile drop. He knew, George knew what he was going to do. John forced the smile back onto his face, a rictus of a grin forming, spreading from ear to ear in a grim mockery of a real smile.

“Sit, George. Please.” He said gesturing towards his desk and the chairs placed there. George nodded at him but frowned, the smile now fallen from his face. As soon as George had sat down at the desk, John walked around to the other side of the desk and sat down heavily.

John swept his arm over the surface of the paper-covered desk and bent his head,

“Do you see this, George?” He sighed, “This is the cost of being a CEO.” He raised his head and looked at George through his tired and sad eyes, “The other cost,” he said, quietly lowering his head again, “is this. You’re fired, George.” John looked at George again and saw him go catatonic. George stood, his body stiff and nodded to John with tightly controlled movements. He turned on his heel and left the room, the door swinging wildly in his path.

---

John stood in his office, the stark greyness of winter facing him through the window. The door opened behind him and he turned, anger already etching lines onto his face.

“What is it?” He yelled, all civility he had once possessed gone. Ms Grant walked in quickly with her head bowed and placed a thin slip of paper on his table. John walked over to the table and looked at the paper. Fury began to overflow from the lines of his face and he slammed his hand down onto the table before beginning to cry, he never should have taken pasta from his supermarkets. Two years ago, in the winter of 2019, the great Pasta Crash. It had changed everything. His passion, his hate of pasta, it had led to one thing, the words that were written on the paper in front of him, debt.

Sorry for the double post but this topic hasn't been posted in for ages.

Isn't he a manager, rather than a CEO?

[Emma]

I had to write this for and English class, this means that it's slightly better edited than usual. I'd be interested to see what you guys think of it as I'm quite proud of it even if the ending is really rushed.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

The Tragedy of FreshBuy

Inside the room, one man sat with a thick sheaf of papers in front of him. Placing the sheets down with a sigh, he leaned forward on his elbows and pushed his glasses further up his age-wrinkled nose. Straightening in his chair he looked across to the three men sitting opposite him. They were looking at him expectantly, their bodies not tense but… Ready, they were ready for any arguments he might give; ready for anything he might say. He furrowed his brow in a frown; he’d never liked working with bankers.

“Well gentlemen,” he said, breaking the silence, “What do you want me to do about this?” The men shrugged as one, the man sitting in the middle looked to his companions, as if for permission and then he began to speak.

“Mr Doe, as you can see here,” he said, in a flowery voice, “the current CEO is in a little,” he paused, considering his next words, “financial trouble.” He stopped speaking and his colleague began to speak.

“We do believe, however, that FreshBuy is a… Worthwhile investment.” He stopped talking and the final man spoke,

“You appear to be the most competent of FreshBuy’s current managers. Mr Doe, would you like to be a CEO?”

---

John Doe pulled the key to his house from underneath a flowerpot. Unlocking the door he returned the key to its hiding place and pulled the door open, stepping off the shadowed porch and into the strangely darkened room. Taking a few more steps he spoke his customary greeting into the stagnant air,

“Honey! I’m home.” He waited for several seconds, expecting his wife’s usual greeting. After a short while he frowned and took three more steps into the room. He repeated his greeting, more loudly this time,

“Honey! I’m home!” Sensing that something was wrong, he didn’t wait for a response this time. Instead, he ran through the corridor. He stuck his head through several doors along the way. None of the rooms held anyone. Frightened now he ran at last into the kitchen. It was there that he found the reason for his wife’s absence.

In the kitchen table, stuck to a pasta strainer, was a note. John rushed to the table, and tore the note from its post. Bringing the note before his eyes he began to read.

Mr Doe,

Your wife is unaware that I have written you this letter. Apparently she would prefer a “clean break”. I, however, have decided that you should know what has happened. Your wife has ran off with me, apparently a minister of the Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster is preferable to the manager of a supermarket.

Regards,

Geoff

---

John Doe stood in his office, dark-bags hanging below his eyes. The palms of his hands were stained with black ink, splotches covering the tips of his fingers. A door opened behind him and he turned, seeing his secretary enter the room. She placed a folder of papers at his desk before inclining her head and leaving the room. He sighed and walked over to his desk and sitting at the table. Rubbing at his eyes he opened the folder and began making his way through the papers. Several hours later half of the pages were spread across the table and the other half were in John’s grasp. Clearing his eyes of the sleep that had gathered in the corners of his eyes he pressed the button that connected him to his secretary.

“Ms Grant, is my guest here yet?” He didn’t have to wait long for an answer. His pager buzzed with a short, grey sound and his secretary’s voice emanated,

“He’s been here for a few minutes, Mr Doe. Would you like me to send him in?” She said. John rubbed his eyes once more; he sighed heavily and pressed the button again.

“Yes Ms Grant,” he said, “Send him in.”

---
George Elcaza smiled at John’s secretary as she held the door open for him,

“Remember Jenny,” he said “Your boyfriend told me that he’s planning something big for your anniversary.” Ms Grant smiled at George,

“Don’t worry Mr Elcaza, I’ll remember.” She said as she closed the door behind him. George walked over to John’s desk, still smiling widely, and shook his hand. John forced a smile onto his face as he shook George’s hand. George’s smile drooped slightly as he felt John’s hand. John’s palm started to sweat slightly and his hand shook as he saw George’s smile drop. He knew, George knew what he was going to do. John forced the smile back onto his face, a rictus of a grin forming, spreading from ear to ear in a grim mockery of a real smile.

“Sit, George. Please.” He said gesturing towards his desk and the chairs placed there. George nodded at him but frowned, the smile now fallen from his face. As soon as George had sat down at the desk, John walked around to the other side of the desk and sat down heavily.

John swept his arm over the surface of the paper-covered desk and bent his head,

“Do you see this, George?” He sighed, “This is the cost of being a CEO.” He raised his head and looked at George through his tired and sad eyes, “The other cost,” he said, quietly lowering his head again, “is this. You’re fired, George.” John looked at George again and saw him go catatonic. George stood, his body stiff and nodded to John with tightly controlled movements. He turned on his heel and left the room, the door swinging wildly in his path.

---

John stood in his office, the stark greyness of winter facing him through the window. The door opened behind him and he turned, anger already etching lines onto his face.

“What is it?” He yelled, all civility he had once possessed gone. Ms Grant walked in quickly with her head bowed and placed a thin slip of paper on his table. John walked over to the table and looked at the paper. Fury began to overflow from the lines of his face and he slammed his hand down onto the table before beginning to cry, he never should have taken pasta from his supermarkets. Two years ago, in the winter of 2019, the great Pasta Crash. It had changed everything. His passion, his hate of pasta, it had led to one thing, the words that were written on the paper in front of him, debt.

Sorry for the double post but this topic hasn't been posted in for ages.

Isn't he a manager, rather than a CEO?

He's meant to be a manager who becomes CEO.

[Avis-Mergulus]

I daydreamed about some sort of angry message demanding the surrender of a castle, and decided to write it out. Then I somehow wrote a snippet about a soldier besieging that same castle. The events below take place in some nondescript 'verse I smoked up in half an hour, but I tried to keep things somewhat consistent.

Spoiler: Eight hours before the fall (click to show/hide)

IT was high noon when they finally made their choice known. It all started with a sound that was felt more than heard, like an extra beat in the steady rhythm of Umida's heart. The gates burst open, and then the Consularies were on their feet all around her, shouldering their shriekers, falling into line with the usual calm precision. Her feet took her to her place in the second row, then her hands did their usual thing – cartridge, pan, barrel, ball, wad, ramrod – while her eyes observed the keeper infantry trooping out and fanning into formation. Those, she knew, would get to her last. First, if the Jumhuriyat forces got lucky, there would be cavalry, and some time to get back behind the lines.

They didn't get lucky.

It was hard for her to get a good look such as she was, with the sun in her eyes and the dust obscuring the field – but it seemed as if dappled patches of noon-light and shadow erupted from the keepers' green-clad ranks, and sped forward with a swelling wail that grated on nerves she didn't even know she had. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Yulduz pale.

Dust sprites. Somewhere in the vicinity of each blur, she knew, would be a keeper soldier pumped to the gills with battle-stims and forbidden magics, his image smeared and torn from him by the signs on his wargear. Do keep calm, she told herself. This is a job for us. We are the Second Consulary Reconnaissance, bright and bold, and we have the longest range with our rifled muskets. It's up to us. Do keep calm.

She counted the blurs with a practiced eye. There were twenty-three in all, and the first would enter her range in about fifteen seconds. They would wait longer after that, to get as many as they could with the first volley – she estimated they would only get four volleys off if they got lucky.

They didn't get lucky with that, either.

The sergeant, Rustam, held them for eight seconds – she counted – before giving the word. The first row spewed gunsmoke, then knelt. One blur of the four that veered for them instead of the Third in the ridges to the north or the mass of stubs to the south flickered and faded. She saw the sprite tumble like a ragdoll, propelled by the inhuman momentum it had attained. Their turn. She took aim over Timur's head. Waited for the sign. Fired, feeling her shrieker's familiar kick. The glare made it impossible to see if she hit anything, so she got to reloading again as the first row stood up. She heard them fire, then kneel. She hefted her rifle again, and saw that her life was over.

In that moment, it all seemed so clear to Umida, as if she was observing the scene from outside her own head, perhaps from one of the ridges behind her – oh, what she would give to be there now. Here, the Consularies with their black coats, their tall hats, their gleaming brass buttons. There, the displaced images of the dust sprites, rippling with the light of faraway suns. In front of her, Timur, with his crooked nose and his sharp jawline, Timur with whom she argued Council politics just yesterday. And there in front of him, a footprint, still billowing with little whirlwinds of dust.

He was thrown against her feet, dead – surely he was dead. Nobody can lose this much blood in so short a time and live. To her left, Yulduz fell, missing an arm, even paler than she was before. On instinct, she whirled round, and the glare was finally gone. The sprite's image was there, but she looked upon it and saw through the lie. Her shrieker pointed at the spot forward and to the left of it like an accusing finger. The sprite, which had just finished its U-turn, took a ball to the throat and went tumbling forward to stop at her feet, and she clubbed it savagely with her stock.

Then she felt something, and began turning to shield herself with her rifle, praying desperately that this time, this one time and never again, please, there will be no need for it again, some stroke of luck would save her.

She didn't, as it goes, get lucky.

Curiously enough, she felt no pain. The world just spun and spun until she fell flat on her back, squinting into the sun. The rifle had gone somewhere. Her fingers felt numb, and there was a strange lightness in her head, so that it bobbed up and up until she was looking along her body, at her stomach.

She had known before that they were rather long, but she was still surprised to see how long exactly. There were what, three – no, four meters of it, she estimated quickly, glistening white and red, coiled over the ruined front of her coat and trailing off into the dust. She found herself strangely curious about the slick texture of it, reaching toward it with her cold, cold fingers, but then the sun dimmed and the green-tinged darkness burst forth from behind her eyes and she was gone.

*****

She came to in an airy medical ward, awoken, it seemed to her, by the familiar thundery smell of sigil disinfectant. The smell had pervaded her dreams, which had all turned to rumbling clouds, but would give her no rain no matter how she begged. Her throat was dry. She tried to speak, but all that came out was a croak.

Then cool, strong hands held her head, and water poured down her throat. She drank, and drank, and drank until she choked again and coughed water all over her sheets. Her caretaker chuckled quietly at that.

- Up, then, are we?

She turned her head to look at him. Her first impression was that of extreme tiredness – the man had patchy stubble, bags under his eyes, creases marking his otherwise fairly young face. The crow's nest of his wiry black hair and the deep set of his eyes did nothing for this impression, making him look for all the world like the dark-eyed revenants on the walls of the Old Palace. Still, under all that, his smile was kindly enough, and she found herself smiling weakly back.

- Good, good. I was beginning to get worried. You really were a bad case, you know? You were lucky – a case of these new scrivened insets arrived just before you did. I had to cut out a meter of your intestine, if that's of any interest to you – I put it in an icebox to show you, but you took your sweet time sleeping it off, so I had to throw it away.

The grin became wider. Umida felt like laughing – she was alive in this room filled with storm–smell, and now there would be real storms and real rain and real sun and she would go to markets and eat cherry sorbet and attend drills and get yelled at by sergeants again – a tinge of concern went through her at the thought of Rustam, but was quickly drowned out by her growing elation. She felt like hugging this sleep-deprived mess of a doctor, like pressing her fingers to his skin for him to see that they were now warm, warm.

Instead, she just let them twitch slightly under the covers.

- How long – her voice was still hoarse – How long?

- Nine days.

- Then the Keep..?

- Gone. Awakoum spoke the word and it's gone now. - He looked unsettled. I will be too, she decided, when this feeling passes.

- My platoon?

He paused.

- Can't tell. Lots of casualties here. Probably not good, though, I have to tell you.

Umida smiled again, this time grimly.

- Don't have to tell me, I've been there.

He nodded.

- Yes. Now. I have a few more patients to attend to. Would you like to go back to sleep for a while? A nurse will come around in a few hours to change your bandage.

- No, I'll be fine. And thank you.

He nodded again and left, shutting the glass doors of the ward behind him. She looked around properly for the first time: there were seven other beds around her, two of them occupied. With some trepidation, she lifted her covers: there was just a loose white shirt split at the sides and the bandage there. She patted her stomach gingerly. Ow. Alright, so I won't do that again, she thought.

Leaning back down, Umida pontificated the inevitable scar. That'll show that braggart Yulduz, she told herself, imagining a walk down Grand Market Avenue with just a chest-wrap around her torso, her black soldier's coat thrown carelessly over her shoulder, pretty young things admiring her toned stomach and her new battle–scar, market guards tipping their hats to her with respect, stall-keepers offering her discounts – a veritable bucket of cherry sorbet – an evening of cold beers and dice at the Ball and Rod, perhaps a pleasant enough night as well, should anyone likely catch her eye...

Then she remembered Yulduz falling, armless and paler than marble. Shaking her head, she dove back into the giddy thoughts, where that image couldn't find her. Perhaps I should get a tattoo around that scar, she thought. Some thorns, or maybe a severed creepvine, to show that I got it under the walls of Patimat's Keep.

She fantasized like this for another half-hour until sleep again overcame her.

With this I'm mostly interested in whether my sentences seem too long or hard to read, whether it's easy to comprehend what's going on in my action scene, and whether my description of being injured feels apt. If anything else feels wrong, I'd like to know, too.

Spoiler: Inscribed on a strangely seared brass plate (click to show/hide)

To the Lady Patimat, by herself styled Heir to the Locked City, First Among Equals, Mistress of the House that Shines Above All Others, by us styled Betrayer, Murderess, Guest – killer

Word has reached us that you excuse your crimes by saying that they were committed in the name of Love. You shall, then, be amused to hear that the devastation which we shall wreak upon you shall also be done in that sacred name.

It has occurred to us that you think yourself a hero in this play of dust, and that you feel that the lives of lessers are but a small price to pay for a happy ending. Let us then remind you of them, so that you are informed of the magnitude of your crime. They were:

Hassan Faradhi, who loved Messim who waits for him now in a house full of silence
Kasim al-Arani, who loved his people and gave an arm and an eye in their service
Mariyat Fatim, who loved light and and air and traveled sixteen lands of ash for this love
Ionatan Hurion,  who loved the Mountain, which is now bereaved of her last son
Nuriyat Never - Blind, who loved her soldiers and was beloved by them in turn, whom you hated with a low hatred for her honesty and her honor

Those five entered your house as guests, and left as corpses. While you have already given us much to drink from the cup of grief with your disgusting and deplorable attacks on our soldiers, with this act you have exhausted our patience, of the magnitude of which we mortals make no boasts.

For the lives and loves of those five, and the lives and loves of all others who are dead for the sake of your vanity, whose stories we shall never now know and whose merit is now beyond our reward -
For the lives and loves of those who have trusted us with their safety and entrusted us with the force of their labor -
With this missive we profess unending hatred for you.
We hereby declare that we shall bring down your house, unravel and end all that reside within, and leave that place forever desolate, as a reminder to all who would dare mistreat our ambassadors and endanger our citizens. To pay no more in life or love for the demise of one such as you, we shall accomplish this by speaking the word that is not to be spoken. To prevent this, you must return to us the bodies of our ambassadors, and submit yourself to the judgment of the Final Court.

You have until sunset.

Signed on the roots of the Mountain by the Council of Four, of the Jumhuriyat:

Awakoum
Farida
Bulat
Hakim

With this, my primary interest is if this feels threatening enough, and if there's some way to inject additional pathos into it.

But anyway, I would be interested in any other comments as well.

The way you do dialogue is... unique. Personally, I think it'd look a lot clearer if you used " or '.
I vaguely recall you being russian? So maybe it's a country thing. Either way, to me it'd be a lot better with speech marks.

Duly noted. I was kind of on the fence about the formatting myself.

[Quartz_Mace]

Okay, so I used to be a little bit of a writer (when I was in middle school I was part of a writing club and started writing a book which I since gave up on due to lack of vision and story planning. It was also all fantasy stereotypes essentially, so I don't plan to continue it.) It's been a couple of years since I've done any serious original writing (I did a character journal in a community game and a couple of characters in forum games, so I'm not entirely out of practice as far as writing is concerned.) and I've finally had a concept I think could actually work for a novel and possibly form as a basis for many following stories, but that's getting ahead of myself.

I think the most accurate way to describe my idea is a post-cataclysm renaissance (in the revival sense of the word) story. One day, I got to thinking about how most "post-apocalyptic" fiction has the world devastated, but not quite destroyed, and of the small remaining people, some communities form and anarchy rules pretty much everywhere else. Well, I want to draw from that concept in a more realistic way.

So here's the deal. The year is 2084 (I want to write it far enough in the future that many of the changes are plausible, but also close enough that I don't have to write centuries of fake history and technological predictions). Many changes have been made to the world since the current day. Some new countries have formed. I don't plan on going in to detail about them here, but I've kept a list of important changes (a few highlights: Scotland seceded from U.K. Texas seceded from U.S. Kurdistan was formed.) and plan to map these out before I really start writing. The major nuclear powers of the world have a nuclear war which is swiftly over and results in the destruction/fracturing of most of these. Many countries that were out of the way, neutral, and/or had very good anti-nuclear defense programs survived. Some notable survivors include Canada, Mexico, most of South America, England (though London was hit. Capitol moved to Birmingham.), Scotland, Ireland, Switzerland (good position in mountains, neutrality, and anti-nuke defenses), the Scandinavian countries, most of Africa(not a large target for major powers), Israel (really high tech defenses.), and Australia.

This book will follow a group of U.N. peacekeepers who were working down South in the Congo at the time. After the old world falls, they find themselves stuck far away in a foreign country in which all of the insurgent groups and factions who had previously been kept in check by diplomatic pressure and threat of intervention by the West now see it as a prime opportunity to strike. With the U.N. in shambles, they find themselves cut off from aid, reinforcements, supplies, and most news of the rest of the world. They must adapt and find a way to survive in this new changing world whilst simultaneously trying to uphold their mission and their values.

Right now, I'm trying to decide if the book should be written in third person(probably omniscient) or as a first-hand account from one of those peacekeepers who looks back upon his journey. A major part of the eventual story arc I'm planning involves this group working to protect and spread history and knowledge, and I think a soldier's memoir of this particular event would be a very natural form of worldbuilding with which to accomplish this. What do you think as far as perspective is concerned?

Note about future setting: this is only a work of fiction and in no way reflects what I truly think will happen to the world. It is merely a work of fiction that attempts to be realistic. It may contain minor science fiction, but that will be far from the focus. I'll likely include new weapons that are currently being experimented with but have yet to see implementation of standardization to keep things from getting out of hand.

[Sanctume]

@Quartz_Mace, from your descriptions so far, I'm thinking X-COM diaries type without the aliens.  It sounds like you can limit the scope of the narrative from a squad POV, with an over arching of the current world political situation, newer tech that is limited by resources, but not quite down to clubs and spears and stone, and probably more use of ballistics and occasional explosives. 

It could also work like World War Z style documentary from a journalist, but embedded with troops. 

[TD1]

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

The water glistens in the bay,
The trees weep silent tears of gold.
But I, a humble pirate of the seas
Sit pale and frail and old.
I once knew many people,
Many lands and many folk.
But now they're gone, whilst I remain
To dwell on those who once had spoke
Such words of passion that they moved
A young, worn scallywag like me to love.

A ship scuds on the morning dew
And leaves a trail of silver broad
Upon the freshness of the bay,
But I, who'll shortly go to join the sod
Must hold my shoulders back and watch
And wait – and ever wait – upon the day;
For it has passed and now is gone.
Once, Jack stood in the prow and laughed
And Ham-Fist Pete would sing his song,
A yo ho ho for us who-a merrily must go.

Now, I am old and they are dead.
Red Jon, one handed and yet free
And Captain Black, ah Captain Black!
Who took me from the dock and raised me,
Gave me succour and a place to live
When others scorned a feeble dock-rat's hopes.
They gave me joy in joyless times, and hoisted
Colours 'gainst the Carribean sky on ropes
Which seemed to sing the songs of Nymphs.
Gone, but for that Will which yet drives me on.

Palm trees above me cast a shade I feel
Through all the clothes I wear.
Grandchildren owe their lives to I
Who taught the living once to fear,
But still they care to give me cloth
And food. They give me space,
And wonder by themselves of this old man
Whose weather-beaten sea-salt face
Each morning turns towards the bay
And pauses, pensive, with the light.

[StrawBarrel]

^This is pretty nice. I really liked the word choice and voice.

[Avis-Mergulus]

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

The water glistens in the bay,
The trees weep silent tears of gold.
But I, a humble pirate of the seas
Sit pale and frail and old.
I once knew many people,
Many lands and many folk.
But now they're gone, whilst I remain
To dwell on those who once had spoke
Such words of passion that they moved
A young, worn scallywag like me to love.

A ship scuds on the morning dew
And leaves a trail of silver broad
Upon the freshness of the bay,
But I, who'll shortly go to join the sod
Must hold my shoulders back and watch
And wait – and ever wait – upon the day;
For it has passed and now is gone.
Once, Jack stood in the prow and laughed
And Ham-Fist Pete would sing his song,
A yo ho ho for us who-a merrily must go.

Now, I am old and they are dead.
Red Jon, one handed and yet free
And Captain Black, ah Captain Black!
Who took me from the dock and raised me,
Gave me succour and a place to live
When others scorned a feeble dock-rat's hopes.
They gave me joy in joyless times, and hoisted
Colours 'gainst the Carribean sky on ropes
Which seemed to sing the songs of Nymphs.
Gone, but for that Will which yet drives me on.

Palm trees above me cast a shade I feel
Through all the clothes I wear.
Grandchildren owe their lives to I
Who taught the living once to fear,
But still they care to give me cloth
And food. They give me space,
And wonder by themselves of this old man
Whose weather-beaten sea-salt face
Each morning turns towards the bay
And pauses, pensive, with the light.

It's pretty great - it feels like something that would have been written a century or two ago, but in a good way. A few phrases feel off to me though, for one: "I once knew many people, / Many lands and many folk" - because it's a little redundant: people and folk are synonymous, right?

For two: "Colours 'gainst the Carribean sky on ropes / Which seemed to sing the songs of Nymphs" - I love this one in general, flag symbolism always gives me the shivers - but the "on ropes" bit sounds both redundant again and a bit too prosaic among that. I mean, what else would they have been hoisting them on?

I really like it, though.

[TD1]

Thanks for the replies.

Avis: I think the first one is excusable, as whilst you can say people and folk are the same, folk can also sort of imply a nation. So - I once knew many [individuals], many lands and many [cultures/nationalities]. That was my intent - it's good to see how it could be interpreted in another way, though.

As for the second one, I agree - that line was a stumbling block to me. Especially since I now realise I misspelled Caribbean, heh. But yes, I ought to have edited it in the time between writing and posting.

Thanks for the feedback - especially the critical elements.

[Insanegame27]

Alternate history inspired by the Girls und Panzer anime

[Insanegame27]

Alternate history inspired by the Girls und Panzer anime

Bump for lack of feedback

[Cheesecake]

Spoiler: The Red Beast (click to show/hide)

The winds howled and raged, screaming at Ko with thunder and hail. His bony fingers dug deep into the crevices of the mountainside, and he held on for his life as the storm threatened to flick him off the mountain like a speck of dirt. The stone became wetter, fickler as the storm continued, and Ko felt himself slipping.

Slowly, agonisingly slowly, his fingers came loose one by one. They were cut deep by the jagged stone, by how hard Ko had gripped. It made no matter: the storm washed the blood away, as it would wash him away, too.

The final finger slipped, and Ko began his slide to his death. The sky ran from him, the ground waiting impatiently to claim him. The ground would have to wait longer.

Ko's fur tatters caught purchase on a jagged outcrop, and he took this opportunity eagerly. He wrapped his wiry arms around the rock, embracing it. He would not fall, yet, but the slickness of the stone made it impossible to climb up. Ko dangled there, exhausted, and dreamed with his eyes open.

Only three days ago, he had snuggled in soft furs, in the warmth of the hut. His mother rearing his siblings, his father and his father's father out hunting in the crags. He could and wished to live in those furs, live out a long life, and die in those furs. That wasn't to be, the elders had decided.

They dragged Ko, and the other boys of the village, out of their huts into the village center. They were thrown before the village elders, aged and powerful like old oaks. They cast their frozen gazes over every boy, scouring them of false pride and pretense of courage. Ko had felt as naked as he was dressed.

"The moons have come and passed," one had said, his voice that of a creaking door, his face etched of rotten wood. "The time is nigh, young bloods, for the blood hunt."

"The red beast is lurking in the crags, stirring in dark caves. As is tradition, the young bloods of the tribe will venture forth and return with the beast's pelt." A second elder had spoken, this one's voice like crushed stone, and his face was as if hewn from rock.

"Return with the pelt, young bloods, or return not at all." The third elder had spoken, voice like the crackling of a low fire, and his eyes burned like that of an inferno.

His father's father would have been one of the elders, had he not been hunting with his son, Ko's father. The other elders had not seemed to notice.

Ko woke from his waking dream by the clap of thunder. The rain pours harder, more furiously, and he could almost hear the ground laughing and see it leering with jagged rocks for teeth. He thought he would die, like so many of the others, mauled or dashed on the cold rocks.

The storm was almost silent to him. He could hear his own heartbeat, and how fragile it sounded. He wanted to say goodbye to his mother. He wondered if the storm would carry his message.

Instead, Ko heard footsteps. He peered over, leaning up as far as he could. He saw red fur tossing wildly in the gale, dark eyes burning and teeth bared. It inched closer and closer, the footsteps almost deafening in Ko's ears. The footsteps stopped.

Fur began to peer over the edge of the outcrop, red and wet. Teeth like yellow rocks formed a cruel smile. Ko loosened his grip, knowing the ground to be a kinder killer. The ground grabbed him and began to rip him from the sky.

However, the ground was denied once more. Ko found himself rising, not falling. The red beast had an arm, and leathery hands. When Ko was atop the outcrop, he saw the beast had a face. A familiar face.

His father's father, wearing the red pelt of a great beast, greeted him with a smile.

"Hello, Ko," he said, with a voice louder than thunder. His face now was soft, yet Ko knew his father's father. It was the calm before the storm.

"Old one?" Ko stared long at the pelt around his father's father's shoulder. "You slew the red beast?"

He laughed, drowning out the howling wind. "Aye, Ko. Many, many moons ago."

"Then, there is another beast I must slay?"

He shook his head. "No, Ko. I am the beast you must slay."

Ko's eyes widened. He began to quiver in his father's father's arms. "I cannot!"

He tightened his grip on Ko's shoulders, face darkening like rainclouds. "You must. Aye, I'm not pleased that my son's son must face me, I'd much rather you dashed your head upon the ground." He smiled, and Ko found it crueller and wilder than the snarl of the pelt he wore. "Yet you remain, and if no child returns to the village with the pelt, our spirits will have been dishonored in the eyes of our god."

"But why you, old one? Is there no other beast to slay?" Ko asked desperately, face soft like a meadow, his pleading eyes as open and vast as a field.

"No more, Ko. Our tribe has grown too strong. Beasts will not near us. Nor will weak men. Our only worthy foe are ourselves." The old one bared his teeth, and struck quick as lightning.

Ko flew, like a leaf in the storm, and landed loudly on a rock wall. He teetered precariously on the mountain's edge. His father's father loomed darkly, silhouetted by lightning cracking behind him. He began to close in.

By instinct, some instinct Ko hadn't known, he leapt and landed a solid kick on the elder's stomach. His stupid grin only widened, and Ko answered in kind with a loose rock, sending his teeth flying like leaves. The old one lay on the ground, spewing blood. Ko wasted no time; some thing in his blood would not let him.

Ko dropped the blooded rock. He loomed over the helpless man and tore the pelt off.

"No! You mus' kill me firs'," he mumbled. "Finish me firs'."

The ground had hungered for too long. He wore the pelt. Both animals, pelt and boy, bared their teeth and snarled. Ko tossed his father's father off the mountain, and he dashed his head upon the ground.

The storm ended, sated for the moment. Ko had risen the mountain, the red beast descended it.

I originally planned it to be a 40k thing about feral Khorne worshippers, but I think it stands well on its own. Feedback please!

[Parsely]

Okay, I'm starting to notice that almost everyone formats their stuff the same way. For crap's sake, use a real word processor like Microsoft Word instead of typing it in the post box on the forum. That way if your browser doesn't have spell check you will definitely not miss the simple mistakes. Also, at least try to indent your paragraphs. You should be indenting each new section of dialogue.

I fixed indenting (I mostly didn't mess with your choices on where paragraphs began and ended) and some spelling mistakes:

Spoiler: The Red Beast (click to show/hide)

    The winds howled and raged, screaming at Ko with thunder and hail. His bony fingers dug deep into the crevices of the mountainside, and he held on for his life as the storm threatened to flick him off the mountain like a speck of dirt. The stone became wetter, fickler as the storm continued, and Ko felt himself slipping.
    Slowly, agonizingly slowly, his fingers came loose, one by one. They were cut deep by the jagged stone, by how hard Ko had gripped. It made no matter: the storm washed the blood away, as it would wash him away, too.
    The final finger slipped, and Ko began his slide to his death. The sky ran from him, the ground waiting impatiently to claim him. The ground would have to wait longer.
    Ko's fur tatters caught purchase on a jagged outcrop, and he took this opportunity eagerly. He wrapped his wiry arms around the rock, embracing it. He would not fall, yet, but the slickness of the stone made it impossible to climb up. Ko dangled there, exhausted, and dreamed with his eyes open.
    Only three days ago, he had snuggled in soft furs, in the warmth of the hut. His mother rearing his siblings, his father and his father's father out hunting in the crags. He could and wished to live in those furs, live out a long life, and die in those furs. That wasn't to be, the elders had decided.
    They dragged Ko, and the other boys of the village, out of their huts into the village center. They were thrown before the village elders, aged and powerful like old oaks. They cast their frozen gazes over every boy, scouring them of false pride and pretense of courage. Ko had felt as naked as he was dressed.
    "The moons have come and passed," one had said, his voice that of a creaking door, his face etched of rotten wood.
    "The time is nigh, young bloods, for the blood hunt."
    "The red beast is lurking in the crags, stirring in dark caves. As is tradition, the young bloods of the tribe will venture forth and return with the beast's pelt." A second elder had spoken, this one's voice like crushed stone, and his face was as if hewn from rock.
    "Return with the pelt, young bloods, or return not at all." The third elder had spoken, voice like the crackling of a low fire, and his eyes burned like that of an inferno.
    His father's father would have been one of the elders, had he not been hunting with his son, Ko's father. The other elders had not seemed to notice.
    Ko woke from his waking dream by the clap of thunder. The rain pours harder, more furiously, and he could almost hear the ground laughing and see it leering with jagged rocks for teeth. He thought he would die, like so many of the others, mauled or dashed on the cold rocks.
    The storm was almost silent to him. He could hear his own heartbeat, and how fragile it sounded. He wanted to say goodbye to his mother. He wondered if the storm would carry his message.
    Instead, Ko heard footsteps. He peered over, leaning up as far as he could. He saw red fur tossing wildly in the gale, dark eyes burning and teeth bared. It inched closer and closer, the footsteps almost deafening in Ko's ears. The footsteps stopped.
    Fur began to peer over the edge of the outcrop, red and wet. Teeth like yellow rocks formed a cruel smile. Ko loosened his grip, knowing the ground to be a kinder killer. The ground grabbed him and began to rip him from the sky.
    However, the ground was denied once more. Ko found himself rising, not falling. The red beast had an arm, and leathery hands. When Ko was atop the outcrop, he saw the beast had a face. A familiar face.
    His father's father, wearing the red pelt of a great beast, greeted him with a smile.
    "Hello, Ko," he said, with a voice louder than thunder. His face now was soft, yet Ko knew his father's father. It was the calm before the storm.
    "Old one?" Ko stared long at the pelt around his father's father's shoulder.
    "You slew the red beast?" He laughed, drowning out the howling wind.
    "Aye, Ko. Many, many moons ago."
    "Then, there is another beast I must slay?" He shook his head.
    "No, Ko. I am the beast you must slay." Ko's eyes widened. He began to quiver in his father's father's arms.
    "I cannot!" He tightened his grip on Ko's shoulders, face darkening like rainclouds.
    "You must. Aye, I'm not pleased that my son's son must face me, I'd much rather you dashed your head upon the ground." He smiled, and Ko found it crueler and wilder than the snarl of the pelt he wore.
    "Yet you remain, and if no child returns to the village with the pelt, our spirits will have been dishonored in the eyes of our god."
    "But why you, old one? Is there no other beast to slay?" Ko asked desperately, face soft like a meadow, his pleading eyes as open and vast as a field.
    "No more, Ko. Our tribe has grown too strong. Beasts will not near us. Nor will weak men. Our only worthy foe are ourselves." The old one bared his teeth, and struck quick as lightning. Ko flew, like a leaf in the storm, and landed loudly on a rock wall. He teetered precariously on the mountain's edge. His father's father loomed darkly, silhouetted by lightning cracking behind him. He began to close in.
    By instinct, some instinct Ko hadn't known, he leapt and landed a solid kick on the elder's stomach. His stupid grin only widened, and Ko answered in kind with a loose rock, sending his teeth flying like leaves. The old one lay on the ground, spewing blood. Ko wasted no time; something in his blood would not let him.
Ko dropped the blooded rock.
    He loomed over the helpless man and tore the pelt off.
    "No! You mus' kill me firs'," he mumbled.
    "Finish me firs'."
    The ground had hungered for too long. He wore the pelt. Both animals, pelt and boy, bared their teeth and snarled. Ko tossed his father's father off the mountain, and he dashed his head upon the ground.
    The storm ended, sated for the moment. Ko had risen the mountain, the red beast descended it.

It won't look very pretty on this website because the margins are quite wide on Bay12 and it makes it look like you're not writing very much, but if you throw your text in a word processor and give it a proper font type and size and formatting you might find that what you're writing starts to look like an actual book. You will start taking your own writing seriously if you treat it that way!