hey now!!! are you writeing storys , and getting stuck well im suure one person here could help you out alittle.. so here's a threas to knok the ideas around in.

not getting stuck-but I've been writing scifi since I was eight, right now I'm 14. I hope to publish me first book by the time I'm out of high school. I've posted parts of the two books I've been working on but not too many people looked at them. If you want to know more just tell me.



P.S By the way, don't think automatically that since I'm 'just a kid' that my writing is inferior to real works like Arthur C. Clarke or Michael Crichton. I assure you it is much the opposite.

;) Whoa! Cool off, little sister. I assure you, Pollux, Arthur C. Clarke would be mighty proud at that brash display of self-pride. Good for YOU!

;) Honestly, I never saw the value in writing 'stories'. maybe it's because I can't do it, that I can't stay in the little confined box of narrative that a sotry demands. I like to write essays, poems, things of that nature. I get a lot from reading novels and books, but I can't imagine myself writing one, or even trying. I'd end up looking like a buffoon.:eek:

;) iced-earth, you're definately the story guy. You have the patience to focus on the comprehensible I sadly have not. I'll put up a little excerpt from an essay I wrote about rebuilding Lower Manhattan anyway:


I envisioned the rebuilt WTC, right from the plans drawn up in the 1960’s. A cold, unforgiving structure to begin with, it was the child of the same school of New York architecture which produced the massive housing projects along the Hudson river, plans for freeways to bisect Manhattan, and the general consensus that the grid pattern, the one defining hallmark of American ideals, was dead. I then envisioned how people would react to this outdated structure: first with reverence and awe, then with contentment, and then with all-out horror for the mistake we had made. While the general public is massively in favor of rebuilding the twin towers, I choose to be a heretic and say no, absolutely not. The general public, which supports this idea, does not understand the scope of the 9-11 disasters. The general public is in denial.

When you look up at the new twin towers, you will see vast walls of steel, thousands of windows, and equally belittling amounts of people scurrying about on the ground. You’ll also see two passenger jets crash into the sides; the towers erupt in flames, and then ultimately collapse. If you’re lucky you won’t see someone jumping from the sides, but if you stare too long and resist the animal urge to duck and cover, you probably will. You might not see these things with your eyes, but it will be very easy to imagine them happening. These are the same buildings we are talking about. They are in the same alignment, the same height, and the same environment. It would be far too easy to superimpose death onto them.

We might not admit it, but we will be afraid of these new buildings. We will say, “Let’s show the terrorists who’s boss. We’ll show them they can’t scare us.” But in reality, we will have to find a deep well of courage just to step foot in the shadow of these monsters. No one in his or her right mind would rebuild a crime scene and expect people to live in it, not knowing whether their office was the place someone burned to ashes in. Not knowing whether the old office had the same color walls or who worked there. The people working in the twin towers would feel a retching sense of guilt that they had been the ones who took away the freedoms of 3,000 people, and that’s a terrible thing.

The survivors or the victims’ families would see some sort of memorial inside the complex yet would not be able to reach it for fear of seeing someone who looked just like their son and asking “ Is that him?” Of course it isn’t him, of course he is dead and gone, but it still hurts. It hurts more because the place he would have died in is there, standing tall and indifferent like nothing happened. He went down with the buildings, but the buildings came back. They came back without him. Although on a smaller scale, the general public would experience similar thoughts, along the lines of “Aren’t those people supposed to be dead?” and “shouldn’t I be watching my head?” They’d catch themselves, of course. We all would. Then they would think, “I’ve got to get out of here” and leave. They certainly wouldn’t come back. They’d be embarrassed and sickened just thinking about what they thought.

People are disturbed, mainly, by seeing images of dead people. How about seeing images of dead buildings that have received the personification of 3,000 dead people? You would be stupid, cold, and unfeeling to say that people want their buildings back, and that’s it. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust the people want it now and we’re getting it quick? People are going to have feelings we cannot readily comprehend now, and we shouldn’t rush to pave over them.

We cannot doubt that money is one of the major drives in the rush to rebuild the twin towers, all 25 million square feet of them. The owner is already involved in rebuilding his land with his plans, and he is not exercising his moral obligation to consult us. That simple fact, that the Ground Zero site is being treated as a big hunk of tasty real estate ripe for the picking, is shocking and degrading. Any attempt at creating something moving would be lost in that initial liquid rush of greed. If we follow our financial instincts to the bone and max out our square footage potential, we will have maxxed out our potential of creating something worthwhile on the most important piece of land in the history of our nation. That would only fuel the feeling of fear within these buildings, and would inject a feeling of horrific nausea into those walls. The fact that we failed at these buildings simply by following our own capitalist instincts would put in stone a victory for the terrorists. We would be left with the feeling that yes, our own way of life was the reason they attacked us, and we are all at fault for being American. America would not only be the failure for these buildings, but it would become the failure of 9/11. It’s a big understatement to say that we should try to steer clear of these feelings. We would fail ourselves to think them.

I'm definately one more for the abstract, but how's that? It isn't a story, but I liked it.


;)

I'll submit an exerpt after some SERIOUS editing.

this is some of my work im working on right now ,

Anathema

INTRO

AS HIS TIME COMES TO AN END , THE GRAINS FALL AND DRIFT
HIS BLOOD AND SOUL NOW FLOWS OUT OF HIM, HIS GIFT
ITS WATCHED, WITH HORROR OF HIS END
BUT MAN AND KNIFE ARE NOW FRIEND
HE SEES HIS LIFE ONLY HOW HE COULD PERCEIVE
WORSE THEN ANYTHING HE COULD IMAGINE OR BELIEVE
HIS TORTURED LIFE, NOW WILL FADE, DUST AND PLAGUED
HE SEES NOTHING AS HIS EYES LOSE ALL LIFE, AND RENEGED (RENOUNCE)
EVERY THING HE ONCE KNEW, FADE OUT , A EMPTY MIND
HIS THOUGHT AND THINGS, WHAT’S TO BE, WHERE TO HIDE
HERE, IN THE PLANE, WHERE THE STORY’S OF HIS HELL TAKES PLACE
IN THIS, FOREVER ETERNAL, SPACE



SYBIL (DARKNESS)


NOW MY FRIEND I’LL BE YOUR GUIDE YOUR ESCORT , THE LEAD ,
THROUGH YOUR HELLS AND TORMENT FOR YOUR DEED
YOU WILL WALK THROUGH ALL OFF THESE , NOW CAST TO DARKNESS
YOU ENTER YOUR NEW “LIFE” ETERNAL, AND WAITING FOR THIS
HELL IS MANS BROADEST OF ALL HIS TERMS
YOU WILL SEE WHY, AS YOU LEARN
THE DARK WILL TAKE AHOLD
YOUR BODY APPEARS ON THE ROAD, AND LET HELL UNFOLD

DARKNESS

ALONG THE PATH OF COBBLE STONE, RED AS THE BLOOD , THAT I BLED
I SWIM IN THIS, THE DREAMS OF DEATH, NEVER AGAIN LIVE, I DWELL WITH THE DEAD
THE SKY, SET TO DARK WITH NOTHING UPON IT , NO STARS TO SHINE , JUST LONELINESS
THE STARLESS SKY REFLECTED BY THE POOLS OF BLOOD, ON THE PATH
THE NEVER ENDING REMORSE OF MY THOUGHT, NOW FACED WITH ITS AFTERMATH
THE FOREST OF DEAD STAGNANT THINGS, OVER LAPSE THE WILLOWS
AND THIS INTENSE NOTHING, IN THE PRESENCE OF ME, IN THE SHADOWS
CREEP BENEATH, NO GROUND JUST VASTNESS OF DEPTH, AND FEAR
THE SILENCE IS KILLING, DEAF TO THOUGHTS AROUND ME, NOTHING ALIVE IS NEAR

ONCE AGAIN TAKE A TURN TO WHAT’S ABOVE, NOTHING IS THE SKY
YET DARK, BUT NO STARS, NO LIGHT, NO BEAUTY TO VIE
THE GROUND WARM OF WHAT I FEEL, THE PASSING OF THE BLOOD OVER MY TOES
THE NEVER ENDING, SILENCE TAKES ME, MY MIND IS LOST IT SHOWS
WITH NO SOUND ALL I CAN HEAR IS MY SELF THINK OF THIS
THE DARK , THE ALMOST COLD FEAR ERUPTS, FROM THIS NOTHINGNESS
I’M ALONE WITH MY THOUGHTS, IN THE DARK, AS I WALK WITH THE BLOOD
IN MY MIND THE THOUGHTS SCATTER, AND I CAN’T SEPARATE THIS FLOOD
THOUGHTS, RABBLES, PRATTLES, I CAN’T HEAR THE STREAM
WHERE IS THE NOISE I’M CONTEMPT TO SCREAM
BUT , I CAN’T HERE MY VOICE, THE SOUND, THE ACOUSTICS, FROM THE WOODS
WHERE IS IT, YOU TAKE IT SO I’M ALONE, WITH MY SELF, TO THINK OF FALSEHOODS
AND I WALK DOWN THIS STREAM OF BLOOD VIVID TO MY LOVE
THE ONLY THING THAT TIES ME TO LIFE
IS THAT , MY LOVE, BUT WHAT HAVE I DONE , THE HATE WILL RIFE (RISE)

THE DARKNESS IS FADING ITS FAILING, THE SKY STILL DARK BUT TURNING TO LIGHT
WHAT IS THIS AFTER A MILLION MILES IN THE RIVER OF BLOOD A NEW SIGHT?
I CAN SEE SOMETHING DIFFERENT A COLOR A HUE
AND THEN HIM AGAIN, YOU!

thats part , on of 10 parts , just to let you all know

Wonderful, beautiful writing iced. It's very....dark. Why don't you write happy poetry about bunny rabbits?

Here's a looong quote:

Guonomo sighed and knelt to the ground, aiming his rifle at the door. Sparks began to fly wildly from its edges as the drones precisely cut through, the horrifying buzz of their antigravs almost deafening by now. Soon enough the huge door fell forward with a clang, allowing the insect-like machines to speed towards him. Guonomo unleashed a barrage of eerie green bullets towards them, causing them to maneuver erratically, dodging every one of his shots. He ceased his assault and waited until they came closer.
Kile could see the tiny motors whirring away as they maneuvered the crafts into position around him. He desperately sought out a plan to defend himself, looking around to find something that would help him in any way. His eyes caught the closest mainframe, and in the blink of an eye he had seized the white monolith and hurled it towards the nearest drone, knowing that it was not possible to dodge such an attack. The rectangle crashed onto the metal hull and shattered the components in a fiery explosion, the other drones backing away warily as their counterpart was destroyed.
He had felt a tractor beam projector before, felt its icy cold grip and the weight of a boulder pushing at him from all sides. He did not want to relive the experience ever again. It appeared that Guonomo had run out of trump cards, if he threw another mainframe the drones would foresee his move and dodge it before the machine was in the air. All he could do was shoot at them. And that’s all he did.
Thick torrents of las bullets pummeled the air and created a deafening thunder, each shot was precisely aimed but always missed its target due to their incredible maneuverability. As the long tube gained in warmth the inferno flaring into the air abruptly ceased. He pressed the trigger to the enormous weapon again but heard only a steady click. He was out of ammunition. He was finished. After hours of intense pain brought on by the tractor beams he would be hauled in to the nearest imperial garrison and tortured until he either exploded or told them everything he knew. If he survived he would be forced into slavery for the rest of his life…
He wasn’t going to do that. He had worked and toiled through the mines of countless worlds as a slave before being rescued, had felt hopeless and worthless. He would rather die. In one last futile effort he heaved his weapon at one of the drones and back flipped out the window, feeling the breeze grace his cheeks and the warm sunlight heat his clothes. He was so high up it would likely be minutes before he reached the bottom.
Windows flew by in a blur, it was almost surreal for Kile, he knew this was the end, knew the Domare would only find out what happened to him on the evening news transmissions. He gazed towards the fading top of the starscraper, lost in all of its beauty, his eyes roaming the heavens where thousands upon thousands of large and small ships frolicked and sped. He noticed that one of them, shaped like a staple, was floating outside of the window he had fallen from. It was busy launching explosives into the building before it pulled away and began to dive directly towards him. Smoke billowed out of the window; it appeared that they had to fire quite a few torpedoes into the structure.
Kile sighed. There was no way in hell that they could reach him. He was falling very, very fast, and now he could only pick out the windows as they flew by if he moved his head in unison with their blur. A bright, fiery eruption of blue flames licked the air behind the craft as it screamed toward him, the cockpit glinting in the morning sun. On one of its thin wings a chain gun retreated into a compartment to be replaced by a grappling hook launcher. A thin cord of rope shot out of the weapon and snatched Kile’s torso, its spidery appendage grasping him firmly.
The Domare banked away from the building and began to lift its nose back into the yellow-blue sky. From the other side of the structure a volley of bright red light streaked towards its hull, striking it and shoving the craft back towards the ever-nearing surface of the world. Three light Sparrow-class Imperial interceptors stormed overhead of the Domare, coming around for another pass. This was way too much for Kile, and he began to feel dizzy and within moments he had become unconscious.


Adriana Blake cocked her head to push a thin wisp of her black hair out of her eyes as she maneuvered the Domare into a corkscrew, avoiding the bright las bullets that peppered the sky around her. The ship’s elevators had been hit, and it would take a dangerously long time to pull the ship out of its incredible, spiraling dive towards the scattered buildings of the city. She typed furiously into her console, ordering what remained of the shields to be angled towards the rear.
Her eyes caught a tiny speck in the distance and realized that it was Kile, still attached to the grappling rope. One of her hands strayed to the edge of the console where she ordered the weapon to reel itself in, her other gripping the flight stick. Red warning lights flashed all around Adriana and klaxons chuckled in her ears. The situation looked hopeless.
The tops of the buildings were becoming larger and already she could make out tiny markings and outcroppings on the surface, even some crowds watching the dogfight. Her craft was still hurtling straight down at almost the speed of sound, and as she jimmied and yanked on the control stick she found it to no avail. Her view surpassed the top of one of the shorter buildings, and she prepared to draw her last breath as she heard a distant clank sound across the hull of the craft. Kile had finally returned to the ship.
She reversed the throttle and activated every braking system the vessel came with as a small transport banked out of her way. She pulled back on the flight stick with everything she had and noticed a slight incline. The red las bullets that had continuously surrounded her were now smashing into the road and blooming bright, fiery explosions. She could also see hundreds or even thousands of people scattering the pavilion that she had landed on only minutes before.
The craft had turned only slightly and Adriana was about to give up as another blast hammered the craft. Instantly the ship whirled upwards as the sound of screeching metal blurred her ears. She had actually touched the ground. Adriana accelerated and tore out of the atmosphere of the planet, activating the tachyon drives as soon as the gravity well of New Decimes had dissipated.

i do write happy stuff cheak poetry ara, "the perfect sunrise" and " wishes of teilight"

But what about the exerpt???

its extreamly good, but id like to see your handlingas in dialoge

this part seemed wrong

"There was no way in hell that they could reach him. He was falling very, very fast," the very very fast kinda takes away for me


Kile sighed. there was no way in hell thed reach him, for he was falling with incressed acclaration, and now he could only pick out the windows as they flew by if he moved his head in unison with their blur.

sounds better to me but its up to you

can't wait to see the book, i'll buy a copy.

exxcellent.

Thnx for your help.

your welcome , glad i could help,

this is part 5 of my poem , mentioned above , what do you people think

this is part 5 of a poem i've wrote , tell me what you think


FIRES AND DAMNATION

THE CONFLAGRATION, BURSTED INTO ALL AROUND ME, DAMNATION
FILLED THE AIR, WITH THOUSANDS OF SOULS, BITING, TEARING AT EACH OTHER, AND THE SMELL THAT BURNED WITH THE PROCESS OF INHALATION
LOATHING, DESPAIR FILLED THE LAND, THE LEDGES OF ALL THE HELLS FILLED MY MIND, GUSTAVE DORE
IN THE BACK WITH WINGS FLAPPED, THE COLD WINDS OF COCYTUS, FILLED THE AIR, AND TEMPTED TO LORE
THE WAILING THE LETHE, I ALMOST FORGOTTEN LIFE, I HELD ONTO IT WITH ALL I COULD.
BUT THE PAIN OF FIRE, ANGUISH AND SHOCK TOOK ITS FORM, AND BEAT ME TO SOMETHING LESS THEN A MAN SHOULD
IT WAS REAL, THE PAIN I COULD FELL, THIS WAS HELL, AND WHAT IS THIS
HE WALKS ALONE NOT A WORD TO ANY, THAT WAS DIS
HE STOOD AND FROWNED AS THE TORTURING OF SOULS BURNED FOREVER.
I WAITED IN LINES OF MILLIONS OF SINNERS, ACHE AND TWINGE AT EVERY SIGHT TELL MY EYES FACED WITH NO FEAR, I LAUGHED SOMETIMES, TO MY SELF AS I COULD NOT BARE, THIS WOE, AND MY ENDEAVOR
MY BODY WAS TENDER, HEALTH HAD LOST , MY SKIN GONE AND ALL BUT LOST, I STOOD ORGANS EXPOSED, AND ALL TORMENT I KNOW.
I BEGGED TO THE WHAT I THOUGHT WAS THE SKY.. ARE YOU THEIR FATES, CAN YOU HEAR ME SCREAM IN THIS TORMENT, AND THE STIGMA SHOW
I AM NOT A MAN, AS IT MELTS AWAY A SHADOW OF NOTHING, ECHO’S OF THINGS NO ONE SHOULD HEAR
ALL THIS WAS A RENEWED AND EVER PRESENT FEAR
PIERCING METALS THROUGH WHAT WAS LEFT OF ME, THE PAIN DISTRESS DID HELL NEED THIS
I FINALLY MOVED UPON THE LEDGES, ONE BY ONE, TIME TICKED ALONG, BUT NEVER SEEMED TO MOVE IN THIS

ADVANCING PAINS CRAWLED ON TO ME , MAGGOTS AND BLOOD RIVERS FLOWED, GORE AND BONE
SHOWED THE LACK OF , ALL BUT IF YOU LOOKED TO THE SKY, A HEAVENS GATE OPENED EVERY TIME TO TAKE SOME ONE HOME.
I CRIED A DRY TEAR EVERY TIME SOMETHING FLOATED ABOVE, AND THEN REMEMBERED IT WAS NOT ME
IT WAS SOMEONE ELSE I SEE
THROBBING PAIN ENTERED MY WOUNDS AS BUGS AND WASP’S PICKED AT ME, IN FAMINE AND DISEASE
I STOOD IN A SEA OF MISERY, WITH OTHERS AS FAR AS THE EYES COULD SEE, THE DAMNED AND ME
EXPLOSIONS TO VOLCANOES AND MAGMA ERUPT TO THE SKY, BLOCKED BY ASH, WAS THE STARS
ALL WHO DARED TO LOOK WERE IN THE PAINS OF ALL THAT CHARS
I AWAITED THE END SURELY THEIR WAS ONE FOR ALL. THE TORTURE MUST BE DONE, AND EVEN SCREAMS FILLED HORRID TONE
I WAS NOTHING LEFT BUT SOUL AND BONE

HE WALKED THROUGH WITH NO HARM
THE FIRES WERE NOTHING TO HIS CHARM
SYBIL I SAID, HOW MUCH MORE
AND HE STOPPED, AND GARBED MY ARM, AND TOOK ME TO A DOOR



this is copy written, thanx you very much , but what do you peoiple think

I'm blown away. Your use of description is admirable and rivals even my own (students at my school in this voluntary writing class I have always say 'whoa' when they read what I've said, but yours is extraordinary).

Tell me, iced_earth, do you write a first draft and spend a week hammering it and forging it into a final copy or longer or just write out something once and draft it only a few times? For me I usually do the latter.

i well just go, then when i'm done and the dust settels i go back through it and read it a couple of time and change the words if i misinturpetted it when i wrote it , then thats really it.

Yeah when I'm in 'inspiration mode' I whirr through pages and pages of writing in minutes and then days or weeks later I look back and realize I used the word 'explosion' eight times in a paragraph.

Since I'm kinda bored now I think I'll post a very basic plot of my story.

Called Evolution

Starting when humans invent the tachyon drive-a device that sort-of works like a podracer, using a tractor beam to hold onto subatomic particles that would pull a ship around the universe very, very quickly.

The first part deals with when humans start to genetically engineer themselves to be extremely acrobatic and able to speed through the air at incredible speed amongst many other things. They use guanine to enhance their DNA every time they want to go into the matrixy-like mode. During this period the Union, a democratic nation governing most of the explored and colonized galaxy, has its beloved Praetor (leader) overthrown by military generals after he cuts military spending significantly because the military in a peaceful galaxy is illogical. The Empire takes over for several months but the leader of the Lexau organization, a contingent of mercenary gene warriors overthrows its capital, a dyson sphere orbiting the star Aldabaran. This leaves only the military to terrorize the galaxy, which results in total anarchy for the milky way.

The second part deals with the integration of machinery into humans, creating cyborgs and eventually transplanting human brains into hologram projectors that simulate a human body but are actually just floating spheres with sensory equipment. I haven't really worked out a plot yet but unlike the first one it will be very calm and will take place in the outer reaches of the universe.

The third and final part will involve an archon, or a powerful psychic entity that is the last human in the universe and sports the most powerful mind in the universe. It descends to help a burgeoning civilization on the brink of nuclear war, and then dies. So ends the story of human evolution.

Hey iced u never showed me that poem send it to me. As for your story plot pollux V i think it is very intresting i would love to hear more of what u got.

messor , come come your not on aol

Well what more would you like to know? I still have to really forge the second and third parts and would be willing to post more exerpts of course.

I could also chat with you two buddies if you had the msn instant messenger. If you do when it asks you for my name and nickname type in shrike116@hotmail.com then just this guy, you know?

Origianlly posted by Pollux V:
I'm blown away. Your use of description is admirable and rivals even my own (students at my school in this voluntary writing class I have always say 'whoa' when they read what I've said, but yours is extraordinary).

;) Ahem...? Since when was writing a self-gratification party? I don't mean to sound like a critic (and holy christ, haven't I recently...:eek: ) But in a thread for writing, I must say that i feel writing has not much to do with ability, or knowing, or having the patience to write. It has to do with creating meaning, and that comes not from analytical, length-based creativity but rather from the heart. Try Mulism. That comes straight from the heart, and it certainly isn't long. But does it have meaning? Sure, it has plenty.

;) I'm sorry, I just can't control myslef. We just must have very different views of writing, that's all.

It's just criticism congrats. GOOD criticism.

But the question remains: What did you think of my exerpt?

1. It's lengthy
2. It's drawn out
3. It's just describing the action as it happens.
4. I can look into it as far as I can and still only see 'events'.

It's creative, but if you look into it, it means nothhing. Look at Ray Bradbury-he's scifi, yet with tons of cultural meaning.

1Could you give me a better idea of why the exerpt is lengthy, maybe with some quotes you think are unnecessary?
2-kinda the same as number one, right?
3-Isn't that the way books work? They describe the action as it happens, you can't know what's going to happen before you read the book. I don't really get this comment, could you be more precise?
4-I also don't really know what you mean by this however yours and anyone's criticism is extremely appreciative.

;) What I mean to say is that you have to ask yourself: "What do I mean by this; what idea am I conveying? IN the long run of this narrative, what does the narration represent in terms of an idea? Love, Humanity, Greed, the victory of optimism over pessimism, or perhaps an even broader artistic statement."

;) It's long, because even though it is a short excerpt, it is basically stuck in the same place all through it. What you are doing is describing something, and true, life is describable. But however, you cannot simply 'pick up' the meaning that life holds by reporting on it (or in your case, predicting it). Words are inhernatly limited, and you have to create as much meaning with them as you can. Meaning comes in the form ofdeliberately created symbolisms, ideas, or relations. However, those have to come from your head, and you cannot acheive it from the volume of words that comes out of your mind in an inspired frenzy, nor does it come from close-up description of every element at play. By giving a little more to one priority, and a little less to another, you can make your story unique. That means abandoning your 'leaving no stone unturned' approach and instead thinking:
"Maybe I should leave three stones turned on one side, color three stones red, and get new stones for the other half.

;) A story is a complex web of menaing that does not simply exist moving forward in a nether-realm of action. It exists in 4 dimensions- forwards, backwards, left, right, and all throughout it in its entirety. The 4th dimension you create is meaning, and that renders all of the action in the book as important To make the step from 'extremely well-done and thought out' to simply 'powerful', you need to think on more levels than simply a narrative. You need to take chrage of how you feel in what you say. What you say is a connection to your soul.

I think I may have something in the 25 pages of my story that you're talking about when you mean 'cultural reference.' But you have to remember it is an action scene and from what I know most action doesn't really need to have too much cultural reference.

Although this isn't the whole chapter and you really can't get a crystal clear picture from an exerpt I think of this scene all the time, the golden sun and a small transport diving into the ground to save someone who fell from a starscraper (my own word, by the way). I'll post another, more cultural exerpt when I get home in a few hours.

And although it doesn't appear that you've gotten back to this thread, congrats, I'm posting the quote now: (its much shorter)


Ben Tsukul slammed his fist on the slightly greasy blue counter, his eyes piercing the glowing sockets of the service android. “I didn’t order this you hunk of brainless scrap metal,” he slammed a wrapped spheroid onto the table. The bot’s head pivoted to face the food, then returned to Tsukul’s face. It said nothing, and continued to stare at him for upwards of a minute.
Tsukul sighed and raised both is arms into the air, staring at the ceiling whispering “Why, why, why?” The machine turned around and strolled behind a door into the back room. Ben glanced at the near endless line behind him of people and aliens holding their arms at their hips and tapping their feet on the floor. He lifted his hand over his forehead, trying to mask his face.
Ten minutes later the automaton returned holding a new sandwich. Ben snatched it from its extended arm and tore open its wrapping. It still wasn’t the type he had ordered.
“I asked for a turkey club, not an assorted slime surprise,” he growled, and paused, considering the circumstances, “I’ll take my business elsewhere!” He hurled both sandwiches at the robot’s face (both harmlessly flew by and splattered on the colorful menu screen) and stormed away, each member of the line issuing him a malevolent scowl.
He burst out into the plaza, the glass doors swinging behind him. That was the very, very last time he would take any crap from those cheap service bots at any McFadden fast food chains. It was just too much.

Too much description can be a bad thing sometimes. It takes away the emphasis from the most important things. Sometimes you've got to leave stuff not so well described so that when there's something really important describing it will still be able to add emphasis to it and make it stand out from the rest... without having to drone on so long that it bores the reader.

Also, I guess I just don't like the mass-produced type of sci-fi that uses the typical sci-fi plots and sci-fi tech and is basically just rehashing the same things thousands of other writers have gone through in slightly different ways. In other words, Issac Asimov bores me. ;) IMHO, the great authors just have a flow to what they write. Kurt Vonnegut for example -- my favorite. The style is more personal, draws the reader in. Having meaning behind it is also key of course, there has to be something that the reader can really relate to. I agree with what Congratulations said as far as Ray Bradbury, Bradbury wrote a lot of sci-fi that meant something to the individual in the here and now, it wasn't just about the future. The characters should be going through something that we face ourselves, even if they're going through it in a much different setting.

Maybe it's just the sequences you've posted that don't show it, but how much do your characters think? Is there any reflection going on internally in their minds? They don't seem very solid and real if they never question themselves. Do they grow internally, are they fuller people at the end of the story than at the beginning?


I'm a retired writer, haven't written much since I hit old age at about age 17 or so. :p Basically all I've done since then is occasionally go back to edit my favorite novelette (which I started when I was 16). I've got it online at http://spacetowns.com/pgk if anyone is interested in reading it. It's sort of philosophy set against a sci-fi background. The main plot is about an immortal being forced by the customs of his species to face death after ten billion years. It basically deals with questions of the meaning of life, time, and the place of god-like authority. Deals with human nature a bit also, and violence. I admit what I wrote probably isn't publishable, it's shaky in spots, but I do like it overall and especially the last chapter. I might as well post an excerpt like others are I guess, even though it's all online anyway:


Favuxo paused, looked away from his journey and towards himself, and contemplated a particular thought that had been bothering him, a question he'd been unable to answer: "The Elder brings me out of the nothingness, then after ten billion years gives me back to it. What do I gain from the long wait?"

The thought that his life was without a true and guiding purpose had for many years been buried deep within Favuxo's mind. Only the daily rigors of collecting knowledge for the benefit of the favuxian species had separated him from such thoughts. He'd pushed them out of his way by telling himself that the meaning of favuxian life was inherent in the collection of knowledge. In recent times, Favuxo had begun to ask himself why that might be such a meaningful activity.

Hundreds of favuxian voices echoed inside of Favuxo's mind. They repeated their message to him over and over again: "The Elder gives meaning to whatever he wishes. His wisdom is unquestionable." The explanation no longer satisfied Favuxo.

Frustrated, Favuxo projected a strong thought outward, towards the rest of his species: "What is the meaning of the Elder, and what is it about his nature that makes it wrong to question him?"

Fringend, the favuxian to whom the Elder had designated the responsibility of watching over Favuxo until the Inabilin, halted the question before it could reach any others. He joined Favuxo, in physical form, on the planet he was at. "It seems that each person asks the same sort of questions when approaching the Inabilin. No one ever seems to realize what dangerous questions they are to ask."

Fringend's sudden appearance startled Favuxo, as he'd forgotten that someone was observing him. He collected himself quickly, and responded. "Is it not more dangerous to live a lie?"

Standing motionless, Fringend stared curiously at Favuxo. "Why do you think the inferior life forms came into existence, when perfection had already been achieved?"

Not expecting that question, Favuxo tried to remember what the Elder had told him on the subject. "It has always been the way of things, to move away from the perfect and towards the chaos that will culminate with the end of this universe -- and the end of all favuxian life."

Fringend nodded. "The Elder was the first, and so the most perfect. He has arranged matters so that every favuxian has a purpose, as a small but significant part of a greater continuum. He is that continuum. The Elder uses the Inabilin to put the chaos to good use. Through the Inabilin, the Elder uses mortal life to declare the meaningfulness of favuxian life. The gift of the Inabilin is freedom from time, and thus from the imperfections associated with time." Fringend paused. He contemplated how he might explain himself to Favuxo in the simplest possible terms. "For a life to be meaningful, it of course must have a meaningful conclusion. The Elder can arrange this because he is a point unto himself; he is a meaning that no one can question, from which there is no outside. One cannot question this, for if one questions it one is in error."

Hoth all I can really see wrong, at least from my perspective, is the lack of pronouns. Is this guy, Favuxo, one of those alien types who doesn't use pronouns? It's not quite uncommon so I understand if not using them is on purpose.

Yes, my characters do think, again just not in this quote. And, as before, I'm at school right now with no way of putting it on the website. Tsukul is supposed to be the comedy relief, he's not stupid he's really just a reflection of me, being actually intelligent just never given the chance to shine and always at the wrong place at the wrong time.

part 6 of my epic poem


SUFFERING


Streams of gore and pus
I await my exodus
The mucus covered bodies
And their never ending supply’s

Calling out to me with wailing cry’s
Shout and yell, for their years of lies
Never to be an end, no limit to the torment
Feces fills the mouths of those who now repent

The coals of fire
Burn forever, never tire
The screams of thousands
Make the winds, while hands,

Protrude out of the fiery water
I sit with eyes looking while I suffer
For my sin, death to self
I must watch this, torture of every one else

My eyes with no lids to cover
Are a constant flow of tears that smother
All that is my vision
And the sky, ground and dirt all crimson

Blood filled the air, for all to breathe
Watch and hear the endless moans and screams, of souls pushed to fiery sheathe
Gasp for that air as I sit, pustules break all around and discreet
In to the atmosphere, and pools of urine evaporate to thee ether, from the heat

the smell of decay, like that of compost, lie stagnant and never turned
smoke to steal the very breath from you and obscure the vision with black suit of coals rise, as fires burned


(c) jonathan ryan alligood 2002

This sounds like hell.

My hell is nothing. Existing in a dark world of nothing, no feeling, no smells, no sights, no tastes, nothing to experience: forever.

Call me crazy but I think you'd get used to watching your skin boil and the etc.

Call me crazy but I think you'd get used to watching your skin boil and the etc.

yeah i know what you man , but thats the thing part 10 of my poem damnations twist reflects this, as torment you would be immuned but theirs something else about hell that makes the torment all ways be and hurt. i will post it later..

(british voice) well then, cheerio!

Here's the freshest new slice of warmth from my story: (BTW the first paragraph with her thoughts are supposed to be in italic)

Arius awoke from her slumber in a stark white room wearing a gray tunic and loose pants.

This is it, she thought, cracking her eyelids, a pit forming in her stomach; I must’ve been unconscious for days. Wait! I just said unconscious, I never say unconscious-I hardly know what unconscious means, much less use it in my vocabulary. Vocabulary? I hardly ever use that word either…

She immediately felt the side of her left eye, her fingers running over metallic veins and plating. Her other arm grasped the sides and undersides of her legs, touching more and more cybernetic implants. At will her mind raced with calculator-like speed, whizzing through complex equations at her command. She jumped off of the soft bed onto the polished, tiled floor and sprinted through the corridor outside of the room, searching for a doctor of any type. She glanced at each end of the hallway. The place was barren and devoid of any intelligent life.

She sped down the beautiful stairs made out of some type of alien stone and out the door to one of the floating cities. Arius glanced at the desolate arena of buildings around her, at the amber shell of particles enclosing Vantanas, and at a long wave of ships departing the planetoid, their azure streams of fire all that she could see from this distance. She patted the obvious metallic implant encircling her left eye, activating a sensor sweep. She switched through various menus and submenus with her pupils, finally ordering her robotic components to search for a ship that could leave this place. There’d been a mass exodus for some reason and she didn’t want to wait around to find out why.

And then at the edge of this floating metropolis there was a lightfighter, and as she zoomed in and analyzed the infrared readings she realized that it was in perfect condition, engine ready to go and nearly bursting with enough fuel to take her to the other side of the galaxy. She activated the leg implants and rocketed through the bowels of the megaliths, the buildings entire structures hurling by every few moments. The wind smothered her face and pushed her mane of short, black hair directly behind her head, each strand swirling as if they were all independent beings. Her legs pounded the concrete, thumping and even cracking it with each meter-long stride. She quickly reached the lightfighter, climbed inside and programmed part of her brain to handle the controls while her eyes gazed outside the canopy of the ship and into the fizzing particles of the atom shield. She scanned the amber-tinted void of space, her pupils catching a group of moving lights, causing her to quickly order her eyes to zoom in as her arms danced about the control panel of the craft. She could see what they were, now. Each was in the shape of a thin isosceles, almost sliver-like triangle and many miles long. They were smooth and sprinkled with bright windows, and at some points she could even glimpse people moving about inside.

But they were approaching very quickly.

The lightfighter lifted into the air and screamed away from the city towards the top of the bubble, Arius switching off the mechanical side of her brain and piloting the ship herself, activating the nuclear las cannons and blasting a sparkling hole through the metal catwalk that generated the shield itself. She rocketed through moments before the molecules that made up the metal repaired themselves, the hole shrinking into nothingness.

The planet quickly shriveled into a tiny dot as she sped away, her mind racing as she tried to figure out where to go. Arius had no family, she had run away from the filthy rich pigs she called her parents and siblings, had joined the Lexau at age fourteen and lived in Vantanas for the rest of her life, until she heard about Pluribus, and the promise of a life without problems that could not be solved in fractions of a second. Where could she go? There was no one in the known universe with as many cybernetic implants as she had volunteered for, how could they accept her? She had trouble with just being genetically engineered, but now she would be the obvious focus of anyone who happened to notice her. She whirled the nose of the silvery, mercury-skinned lightfighter around to face the distant planet and brought up a navigation display inside the cockpit, running the edge of her armored pointer finger on its leathery skin, the white nail encompassing thousands or even tens of thousands of stars. She selected a random area in the Orion arm towards its outer edge, and the map zoomed in. She pressed a star at the opposite edge of the screen, noticing immediately that that it was a binary star system with only a single planet, luckily perfectly ideal for humans and rife with oceans and clouds. She plotted a course for it and was about to shove the tachyon throttle forward but her concentration was distraught by a gigantic explosion in the distance. Huge fireballs rained away from a blue core in all directions until they dimmed into nothingness. The planet was gone.

Arius sighed and pushed the lever forward, switching her body into recharge mode, ready to experience for the first time the flow of subatomic neutrinos powering her generators.

I am now faced with a total bummer. I'm stuck hundreds of miles from my home and have forgotten to email myself Evolution (the scifi story) and the as yet unnamed fantasy that I've been tinkering with. But it so turns out that I may be able to make these few days useful. I picked up a copy of The Lord of the Rings and luckily it came with a map, and let me tell anyone who hasn't read the series or looked at the maps that J.R.R Tolkien's son, Christopher Tolkien, is a genius mapmaker!

I've used a very basic style of his to make my map lookgood , and I've almost completed the first of three continents. I plan to post a picture later, but I really thing they are just gorgeous. It's my belief with fantasy that a complete map really enhances the ability to make a complete story, and this is just one step to make a plot frothing in my head come to life on paper.

Does anyone have anything good or bad to say about the last quote? Or do you just have nothing to say? Say something, at least!

It's nice, Pollux.

Happy 200 posts, congrats, ya never know, someday you might feel the pride of heaving a thousand and twenty something under your belt.

Now to your reply: "and.....?"

I've written a language and drawn out a fourth draft of the map. I'm going totally overboard.

;) My. my you are proud of that story. Could you possibly scan that map? If you keep talking about it, people are going to want to see it.

;) And about that language... are you sure you didn't use Babelfish for it?:D

Oh, ha ha congratulations, you DEVIL child. I'll see if I can take a picture of it this saturday or sunday and maybe have it up here posted on monday, since at the moment I am stuck on vacation away from home (needless to say its not much of MY idea of a vacation).

Honestly, I never saw the value in writing 'stories'.
Hello, I am from the planet known most commonly as earth. We write these "stories" in an attempt to advance ideas. Every idea that has any impetus has come from this medium. Often our poems reveal a medium too abstract and limiting for any real ideas. The Love Song of J. Alfred Proofrock is a good case in point. It says very little, a message of the impact of hesitation, yet dresses the idea in uninteresting, vague prose. In this way poetry can only be viewed as the inferior little brother of actual writing.
Look at Ray Bradbury-he's scifi, yet with tons of cultural meaning.
Stop sending people in the wrong direction. Bradbury was an interesting side note. His works forma good start for the actual sci-fi writing to come. It was also very plain, with no real merit. Try instead something from a talented author; Clarke as you said is a good example. IMHO Frank Herbert represents the true pinacle of this genre. Dune being his most heralded work.

Try not to emulate the form of other authors, though. You need explore and find your own. Clarke, Bradbury and Asimov all focused on more banal structures of what could best be deemed robot-writing. Herbert broke the mold with the merging of epic and sci-fi. Just find the form that best fits your style.

I was working on a piece that could be classified as science fiction. It is now on the back burner for a project that seems more relevant right now. I am writing a modern high-school drama. It follows the events leading to a school shooting. It was the stem from a long outburst of idiocy. "How is it possible? They are just kids." "Why would they do that?" It started as a way with coping with my experiences and has progressed to a mission. It is an issue of increasing gravity.

I did like Herbert and read up to 'God Emperor of Dune.' My only problem with him was the lack of any real action whatsoever except the very end, this excludes 'Children of Dune,' which was probably (in my humble opinion) the best science fiction book ever. I did read the first book of Asimov's Foundation Trilogy and started the second but couldn't quite get through it, however I really did enjoy 'Foundation' even though it really had no action at all (except for this guy who was vaporized), just more...intellectual psychological storytelling. I always loved Clarke and read every book I know of that he wrote (Rama series, the songs of distant earth, one more that he wrote a long time ago that I forgot, the 2001 series). I did read Bradbury but his worked seemed really grounded in the sixties, you wouldn't believe there was life on Mars now, which shows how linear I think his work is.

The greatest feat a science fiction or fantasy writer could hope to achieve above all is the ability for his work to last throughout the ages and be continuously thought of as what the future will be. Tolkien has done this as has Herbert and Clarke. Asimov was close but his ideas were grounded in nuclear technology which will probably be as obsolete as oil lamps are now.

I went through the Foundation series. They were interesting yet lacking in complexities. You stopped at the wrong point in the Dune series. The last two books are the best in the run. Heretics was the best in the series. All of course IMHO. They each have easily a factor of ten times the action in the earlier pieces. The twists are also superior. Teg must be the best character introduced so far. He may appear a flat persona of a hero, but then you need look closer. In the last book he breaks free of the training. It is a cryptic ending. But would it be a Frank Herbert novel lacking that?
I did read Bradbury but his worked seemed really grounded in the sixties, you wouldn't believe there was life on Mars now, which shows how linear I think his work is.
Exactly. They are extremely dated. Martian Chronicles is the only work I've read so I may be a bit jaded.

Clarke's works are not action driven, yet their believability compensates easily.

I am currently reading David Copperfield. I am only wading in, but so far it is pure genius. I had to run for the dictionary on ab archaic term (caul), but the work truly is timeless. Huckleberry Finn is yet another example of such writing. Twain's use of Southern Drawal and excellent storytelling put this one above the rest. Catcher in the Rye is also a great tale about a youth exploring his surroundings.

My last choice of great work may surprise: Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas by Hunter S. Thompson. The best excercise in coherency yet written.

At the moment there seems to be a lack of good new science fiction, however I have found one excellent series known as the Sword of Truth [series], by Terry Goodkind (who, before moving to california lived thirty miles or so away from me. One of my coworkers said that she met him once at a store). That and the 'His Dark Materials' trilogy written by Phillip Pullman.

The best new fantasy book in my opinion is either Fate of the Fallen or The Amber Spyglass, while for science fiction the only new book in that genre I've read so far is called 'The Stone Canal,' by an up-and-coming scifi writer who's name escapes me. The Stone Canal was good however like Bradbury's stuff it was very, very anchored in late nineties culture, the more extreme aspects like nuclear war and war on large fronts.

The biggest problem I've ever found with science fiction is how the characters and humans themselves just cannot travel to other stars, other galaxies, in a meaningful amount of time. Star Trek's books don't appear to sell well or even get reviewed by the critics, however Next Generation is just an incredibly well done science fiction tv series, at the end of each episode I'm just out of breath they're done so well. I really want them to bring that series back, its just...uncivilized not to have picard and gang back on the networks (the REAL networks, not UPN, the only channel I don't get) where they belong.

But in my scifi story humans and aliens can travel anywhere very quickly, from one end to the galaxy to the other in weeks . Unlike other science fiction (or the scifi I'm aware of) the 'warp drive' of mine isn't some ancient alien device that cannot be explained, its something that humans invented that uses tachyons like horses to carry ships (chariots, if you will) across the stars.

It was also very plain, with no real merit. Try instead something from a talented author; Clarke as you said is a good example.

Is being plain automatically equated with being unable to write good fiction? It's not called 'not knowing how to write much', it's called being succint. It's probably the greatest attribute that a writer can have.

I think Bradbury is moving; stirring. I don't read much for alleviation from day-to-day humdrums, (except if I'm reverting to my good ol' Dean Koontz collection. Nice, to say the most.) There are a few books I've found especially relelvant:
1. Geek Love, By Katherine Dunn
2. Hearts in Atlantis, By Stephen King
3. How The Dead Live, by some young British guy
4. Truck, by Katherine Dunn

It's short, but those books are probably the most important ragtag collection of crusaders I have ever read. Really, I read very little scifi; I find it tedious and drawn-out. I tried to read Dune once, but it died in its own lethargy, or rather mine. However, I can understand how you could find scifi coherant, inspiring, and readable- it's like fiction squared.

Is being plain automatically equated with being unable to write good fiction? It's not called 'not knowing how to write much', it's called being succint.
Twain used plain language. I do not assault the geinius of that. There is a difference between plain language and plain ideas. He was succinct, but he was also banal. Farenheit 451 handled the destruction of knowledge in a very straight-forward matter. In that Orwell's ideas in 1984 were more subtle, they were also superior. In general his thoughts were more orderly and thought out. As I said, Bradbury is a good starting point.
The biggest problem I've ever found with science fiction is how the characters and humans themselves just cannot travel to other stars, other galaxies, in a meaningful amount of time.
A few notable exceptions: Dune, Foundation, and Ringworld. They are also older pieces. Consider the limitations we understand to exist: space is large. We can't even traverse our own solar system in a manned craft, much less travel to others. The closest system is 4.2 light-years away. In order to have a sense of believability they attempt to present technologies that are not far from our current progression. Interstellar travel is not forseeable.

Although scifi and fantasy (books and movies) can, to be frank, be written badly in a majority, the minority really, really strikes gold and worms its way into our pop culture, like lord of the rings (Frodo Lives!), harry potter (priests wanting to burn the books because children read them more than the bible), 2001 (the ballet scene is repeated over and over again), Star Wars (use the force), Star Trek (He's dead, Jim). Non Fiction or more grounded fiction just doesn't do that, and it can't, because its just too linear . Scifi readers and watchers look to the words of the greats for an escape from their normal toils of everyday life that normal fiction writers exploit.

Interstellar travel is forseable but not at the moment workeable. Scientists talk about wormholes and solar sails and warp drives, they know the concept, just not the bare blueprints. The case was the same back in the 1500's with that italian inventer, Michaelangelo (I think his name was), who drew out a diagram for a crude airplane, and who may have actually flown one. Up until the Wright Brothers took off in the early 1900s many different teams of scientists had, over the centuries, come up with new ways to make things fly. That is at the moment occuring now, but we have a much greater advantage than these people working in the dark: the internet. The internet will be the key to understanding everything in the near and distant future.

Interstellar travel is forseable
We have vague references to warp, hyper, or other designs of engines. The schematics of these do not offer a depth of science. They are not built on existing technology. They are 100% fiction, no science.
The case was the same back in the 1500's with that italian inventer, Michaelangelo (I think his name was), who drew out a diagram for a crude airplane, and who may have actually flown one
That is completely different. Leonardo DaVinci was basing his designs on observed wing movement from birds. The diagrams were for a set of wings. The idea never took off because of the fact that humans don't have the right bone density for flight.
Up until the Wright Brothers took off in the early 1900s many different teams of scientists had, over the centuries, come up with new ways to make things fly. That is at the moment occuring now, but we have a much greater advantage than these people working in the dark: the internet. The internet will be the key to understanding everything in the near and distant future.
The problem: Planes and boats navigate a breathable environment. They both go throughpockets of matter. Add the monumental distance between stars and you a quandary. Our existing technology, nor any extrapolation thereof, has the capacity to solve these problems.

I have heard much about a craft filled with a self-contained ecosystem. This would require a source of infinite energy, something that is also not forseeable. Fusion is a fallousy. The sun would be a good source to harvest, from a distance. The problem then is the fact that as you travel that source will deplenish.

The internet is a free exchange of ideas. Generally technologies are spoken of here. The problem: most of these are hoaxes. Even if one should prove true no one will give attention to it, much less attempt to collaberate with it. Information here is often judged with a grain of salt. Maybe some day when we are all on the same page.
Non Fiction or more grounded fiction just doesn't do that, and it can't, because its just too linear .
I generally don't enjoy Non-fiction either. I like history, though. Define "more grounded fiction".

The problem: Planes and boats navigate a breathable environment. They both go throughpockets of matter. Add the monumental distance between stars and you a quandary. Our existing technology, nor any extrapolation thereof, has the capacity to solve these problems.

If you could find someone that lived that long ago I bet they'd say that everyone around them thought it was near impossible to fly, while some scientists even said it was impossible. We just have to wait for a breakthrough.

Define "more grounded fiction".

Anything that isn't extraordinary. Ahahaha, just kidding. Grounded fiction deals with the basics of life, soap operas that are overall just the same, people falling in love and having their sister's baby, a rebellious girl, stuff like that. science fiction is not grounded and no sky is the limit, it can go anywhere, as can fantasy. It is unlimited, therefore it is not grounded, and can fly.

The moon, a bright ovoid of intense, wavering light, rose above a horizon of rippling ocean bathwater, the stars awakening from their slumber and brightening across the sky. In the middle of it all, and in the middle of the dark blue Zesphyran Ocean there was an isolated, tropical island called Shibale by its stranded island natives. Behind its perimeter of soft, white sand there were several small towns of huts and wooden buildings, and climbing into the moonlit sky a towering, dormant volcano formed the very center of its landmass. Caressed by the soft ocean breeze the young Salax Pluvia shook a good deal of sand out of his curly hair, moments after standing in victory from a brief battle with his friend, Élan.
He stood, raising his arms into the sky.
“I am king of this lonely land! None dare oppose such a frivolous ruler, such a compassionate hero, such a—”
Out of the sand an arm stabbed through the air, snatching his ankle and yanking it swiftly, throwing the young man onto the soft ground. Moments after landing with a thump he lifted his face from the beach and laughed while puffing clumps of dirt out of his mouth. He chuckled and whirled around, pushing Élan away and fighting to stand up. Soon he completed the feat, trying to end his speech while his shorthaired buddy recovered.
But as he spoke only muffled gibberish escaped his mouth, followed by clouds of expelled sand. Élan chuckled and crawled to his feet, running at full speed with his body hanging from his legs at Salax. They collided and hurled through the air down further toward the water before Salax sighed and shook his head while fighting not to laugh.
“No—no I’ve had enough,” he said, barely, savagely cackling the whole time.
“The king hath been toppled, thou girlfriend is impressed by thee, and shall be taken to thee castle at the top of thee mountain, while thou recovers from such a strenuous conflict,” said Élan with a chuckle.
Hara, the gorgeous companion of Salax, stood at the top of the hill, giggling, her hair dancing wildly in the wind, white dress flailing about like the tail of a comet. “The king shall save me! I fear not—the brigand may take my body…but never my soul.”
Hara continued, “The king hath better hurry, though, Hara is not excited by recent events, and the brigand Élan is getting closer.”
“The king is wiped from too much activity and is in danger of falling asleep,” muttered Salax, shaking his head and breathing heavily.
(care, lazy, expendable in italics) Élan was quick to respond. “Or maybe he just doesn’t care. Maybe he’s lazy. Maybe he has other girls in other towns waiting anxiously beside their doors, waiting for his familiar knock, his tall stance, his handsome features. Hara is only one of many damsels, Hara is…expendable!”
“No!” Shouted Salax, darting from the bottom of the hill and yanking on Élan’s feet, pulling him down the sand while dashing up to Hara, embracing her the moment he came near enough. “Good always prevails over such immaculate evil,” he glared at Élan for only a moment before bursting out laughing and collapsing on the sand.
“Come on, Salax, it’s not that funny,” muttered Hara.
“You just don’t know how to have a good time!” Shouted her boyfriend.
Before Hara could get angry Élan stepped in. “The king risks his relationship with such a beautiful girl like yourself…maybe he is not worthy of such treasure?”
“Oh knock it off Élan,” shouted Hara, pausing as she turned to the still grinning Salax. She pushed him in the shoulder, toppling his body into the sand. “You’re lucky that I’m going to ignore such a harsh, relationship-altering comment.”
“Would it alter the relationship in a good or bad way?” Asked both friends at once.
Hara sighed and dropped to the sand next to Salax, whirling him around to face the ocean. The sea was black against the dark blue sky, a triangle of light marking the location of the bright moon in the heavens. Each of the stars flickered; it was a gorgeous night, one better enjoyed outside away from the school and the three towns.
For hours they just sat in awe, watched the axis of the world tilt, the stars slowly climbing from one point to the other. Hara slumped in Salax’s arms, and Élan fell backwards onto the sand and began to snore. The curly-haired young man hugged his girlfriend with one of his arms, gazing deeply into the distance, peering and pondering at the same time, remembering the wonderful time at the party.
About half an hour later, long past the time when Élan finally stopped snoring and began to mutter about female private parts Salax’s keen eyes picked a dim light out against the heavens. It was slowly moving across the sky, lumbering towards them. It didn’t appear to be too far off the ground, maybe a few hundred feet, but it was still amazing. The thing was flying. It was in the air, floating about. As it neared it looked like a blimp, looked like the transport that had crashed on this island centuries ago, stranding his ancestors on Shibale.

Even though there seems to be a lack of interest in my recent posts on this thread I'm announcing now that a map of 'Eastern Ociedes' is ready and will be posted at the earliest on tuesday.

Comments on the exerpt, or on my current quote (Salax is latin for desire, BTW, and his last name, Volup, means fulfilled)?

Phillip Pullman is the best writer ever! His Dark materials trilogy was awe-inspiring! Best books i've ever read!

Northern Lights was the best IMO.

I agree that NL was the best, and I think he's a good author, but probably not gonna read anything of his other than HDM trilogy.

Anyone gonna post more of their stories? It's fun reading them. :)

Ahh, the evolution of Intertwine...yes yes yes, quite an extraordinary thing, looking at it from its humble beginnings. I've written a second draft about eighty pages long now, one that goes through only about twenty pages of material from the original. It is radically different than the original, with what I believe to be improved writing and character development.

(I guess this looks like I'm trying to sell something)

Although the basics of the story remain the same (two planets joined by a tower, evil dictator trying to take over the world, birth of a messiah, political leaders bogged down in beurocracy--the ones on the good side), I've spent the time I was banned from my home computer developing the backdrop in several short stories, all together I call 'Prelude to the Twining,' which chronologues the period of Salax's (messiah) birth and Tertius Trantus' entire two and a half hundred year rule (the dictator). At the moment I have the feeling of a universe that really works, an ornate tower from the pile of clay I started with.

Generally I plan to have the occurences in the modern world serve as some backdrop, to give more meaning behind the words and the story itself, as well as to end the story proclaiming that 'good cannot exist without evil, so stop fussing about getting rid of it you pantyhose.'

Without further adieu, I present the only short story I've copied onto the computer and edited to the best of my abilities. To those of you who read it, enjoy.

Perhaps this belongs in here:

The doors were huge. A mechna could easily walk through. Off to the side was a small door for people. A peeling scencil on the door stated: CARGO BAY 4. Also on the door was a plaque bearing a quote that they both recognized, he from familiarity and the old man from a physics book. "A monkey on a typewriter would hit keys at random, porducing gibberish. But, if you had an infinite number of monkeys, eventually one would randomly type an exact copy of A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens." The old man noted that the quote wasn't finished.

"That is the only part that matters. You will soon see why." A lock was opened, and they went inside. The old man was immediately hit by the size. The cargo bay was easily a quarter of a mile wide and at least twice that long. Then he saw what was on the enormous shelves filling the vast space. He followed the young man through the narrow isles between cases, and stared in awe at the miliions of books around him. They were divided by little markers similar to a hanging file. Teh dividers were marked in a strange language. IN each section was at least on book, often several. They were writeen in thousands of languages. Included in many of the sections were plain volumes bound in red leather. The young man stopped in front of a section of books written in English. Books by people he knew. The young man profered the ladder and he climbed slowly, his arthritus forgotten.

"Eighth shelf, they should be on your left." Came the young man's voice. There, on the shelf were his books. They were written by him, an addition to the likes of Tolkien, but not so well known. Beside his books were several of the red volumes. Curious, he took one and opened it up. In English, were notes. Things about the world he had created. details he hadn't thought of. Things he han't put in his books. All written in plain English as if the author had been writing a travel log.

Unbidden, the young man's voice cam up to him, "Come see how." Now they traveled again through t he labarenthine ship, coming to a small door. runes had been etched in the door and on the wall. Another plaque read "Monky in the Middle." A gesture of the youngman's hand, and the door slid into the wall. The floor walls and cieling were carved with runes. Two things stood out. One was a pool near the center of the rectangular room. The surface was about waist high. The water swirled, dropping into infinity in a whirlpool. Looking into it made him dizzy. At the far end of the room was an arch. The young man was standing in front of the arch, hands palm down out in front of it, the runes on the arch were glowing a dark blue.

He felt the hair on the back of his neck rise, and he got goosebumps all over. a roaring sound filled his mind, drowning out the ship's great engines. Lighning snapped and crackled between different areas of the arch and between the arch and the young man. The glow of the runes completely enveloped the arch and spread to fill the space formed by the arch. He felt rather than heard the snap that shook his old frame and made him see spots.

When his vision cleared, he saw the young man standing in front of th eportal, waiting. through the portal he could see the view from a hill seeing out over a farmers fields. Teh young man lost his patience and dragged him through. Nausea and vertigo overwhelmed him. He felt like something was trearing his body into atoms, and puting them back togather again, but somehow not quite right. Then they were standing on the hill. Teh arch was behind them, showing th einside of the room they had just left.

"Now you see the source of my information. While you draem, I wander an infinite omniverse where somewhere, some persons dream is replicated on a universal scale." He laughed, and swepted his arm the indicate the countryside, and a column of men marching at the base of the hill. The old man watched with horror as the dark banner splashed with blood that was the trademark of the evil villian in his books waved above the soldiers as they marched past. "This monkey did a good job, now, didn't it? Trust me, you're not alone, though I show this to few people. You're one of the more graphic writers that I know, and it's difficult enough knowing what you write about a character's love life, and then having to talk to them. Imagine what they would think of your books."

The old man's mind spun as they repeated th eprocess of traversing the portal, and the whiskey he found stopped working when he was told it was made in the universe he just saw.

How's that?