Weekly Writer's Challenge

[weeyellowbloke]

He sat watching the pub, calmly, patiently. There was all the time in the world. Gradually his thoughts began to wonder towards the loud wild throng that surrounded his solitude as the bell tolled for closing. A mass of fake corpses, sexy murder victims and mythical beasts. "Why do they do this?" he muttered to himself. Perhaps by creating a celebration around death the levity made this envitable universal constant bearable. Without such a release the reality might become crushing. His mind often turned to such matters, but he never reached any philosophical conclusions. Too much of a realist. "Why do you dress like that?" he asked a stumbling half-unraveled mummy, all breasts and blood. "'Cause it's scary innit!" she replied, frowning in slight confusion unable to quite focus on his features. "No doubt about that," he thought to himself "I'd be terrified". At last there was his man exiting the premises, red facepaint dripping from a theatrical headwound. He was joshing with several others in a drunken play fight. Suddenly he tripped and veered into the road. A screech of tyres. A thump. The facade of horror was replaced by its actual counterpart. Slowly he pulled out a large tome and opened the pages, jotting down details. 31st October 2009, 11:37-Michael Hendry-Class: C9-Profile reference: 234897F5G8-Cause: Head trauma. He shut the book and took a last look at the scene outside the pub. "Another one for the road" he muttered without hint irony before disappearing. Death never was one for humour.

[ReZourceman]

He sat watching the pub, calmly, patiently. There was all the time in the world. Gradually his thoughts began to wonder towards the loud wild throng that surrounded his solitude as the bell tolled for closing. A mass of fake corpses, sexy murder victims and mythical beasts. "Why do they do this?" he muttered to himself. Perhaps by creating a celebration around death the levity made this envitable universal constant bearable. Without such a release the reality might become crushing. His mind often turned to such matters, but he never reached any philosophical conclusions. Too much of a realist. "Why do you dress like that?" he asked a stumbling half-unraveled mummy, all breasts and blood. "'Cause it's scary innit!" she replied, frowning in slight confusion unable to quite focus on his features. "No doubt about that," he thought to himself "I'd be terrified". At last there was his man exiting the premises, red facepaint dripping from a theatrical headwound. He was joshing with several others in a drunken play fight. Suddenly he tripped and veered into the road. A screech of tyres. A thump. The facade of horror was replaced by its actual counterpart. Slowly he pulled out a large tome and opened the pages, jotting down details. 31st October 2009, 11:37-Michael Hendry-Class: C9-Profile reference: 234897F5G8-Cause: Head trauma. He shut the book and took a last look at the scene outside the pub. "Another one for the road" he muttered without hint irony before disappearing. Death never was one for humour.

 

*Applauds*

[Ganepark32]

Right, I've finally got time to read through everyone else's stuff today so I'll be editting this at various points throughout the day with thoughts and critiques on people's work.

 

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ReZ: I enjoyed your story. It showed your imagination very well. You're innuendo laden description of Knobbled Knees Newton's costume brought a smile to my face, providing a light hearted, and playful nature to the beginning of your story that felt very much akin to the feeling of halloween for kids. The move from this, though, to the more gore filled splatter-fest that came afterwards though definitely segregated the story to the point where the two halves sort of felt like they were two different stories entirely. Perhaps a greater build up to the boys being killed or creating a greater feeling of suspense would have helped the transition. Your grammar and sentence structure got a little repetitive at points and I think opening up to a wider use of words would have prevented this and perhaps instead of starting a new sentence after certain areas you could have used a semi-colon or something just to make it flow a little bit better.

 

Apologises if it seems like I'm purposefully picking holes in your work, but these are things that perhaps I'd change if I'd written it and hopefully it's been somewhat helpful. It was an interesting read though. Your fat, ginger farmer's one liner to end it was a nice touch that pulled that part of the story together nicely.

[ReZourceman]

Right, I've finally got time to read through everyone else's stuff today so I'll be editting this at various points throughout the day with thoughts and critiques on people's work.

 

---------------------

ReZ: I enjoyed your story. It showed your imagination very well. You're innuendo laden description of Knobbled Knees Newton's costume brought a smile to my face, providing a light hearted, and playful nature to the beginning of your story that felt very much akin to the feeling of halloween for kids. The move from this, though, to the more gore filled splatter-fest that came afterwards though definitely segregated the story to the point where the two halves sort of felt like they were two different stories entirely. Perhaps a greater build up to the boys being killed or creating a greater feeling of suspense would have helped the transition. Your grammar and sentence structure got a little repetitive at points and I think opening up to a wider use of words would have prevented this and perhaps instead of starting a new sentence after certain areas you could have used a semi-colon or something just to make it flow a little bit better.

 

Apologises if it seems like I'm purposefully picking holes in your work, but these are things that perhaps I'd change if I'd written it and hopefully it's been somewhat helpful. It was an interesting read though. Your fat, ginger farmer's one liner to end it was a nice touch that pulled that part of the story together nicely.

No way man I totally appreciate the feedback (I'm happy someone even read it.) In some ways I was channelling what I've learnt from Harry Potter/JK Rowling (I can't exactly say I'm a fan of her writing style btw. Or her plot holes. Etc)

 

Which reminds me, she's always saying "Harold started towards the stairs" is that even good English.

 

This FTW though;

 

could have used a semi-colon or something just to make it flow a little bit better.

 

Ain't that the truth.

Edited November 8, 2009 by ReZourceman

[jayseven]

RE: the 'use of english; yeah, that's fine. You shouldn't really get on a soap box about that topic, mind you :P

[ReZourceman]

I interpret the language as I see phit.

[Molly]

I can't exactly say I'm a fan of her writing style btw. Or her plot holes. Etc

To be fair to JK, you're comparing her writing style to that of comics.

[ReZourceman]

To be fair to JK, you're comparing her writing style to that of comics.

 

Nah I'm not. Just because I don't read books doesn't mean I don't know what I like in writing style. I don't like shit loads of things about her style. Anyway I have read books before.

[Paj!]

I never found J.K's writing either bad or good, it's was fine, and she wrote well. I enjoyed her books a lot. She's not Stephanie Meyer.

[Molly]

They're a set of children's books at the end of the day.

 

ReZ, you told me you hadn't read books since school

[ReZourceman]

They're a set of children's books at the end of the day.

 

ReZ, you told me you hadn't read books since school

 

Yes.............?

[Molly]

 

Yes.............?

Perhaps you just don't like the way books are written. You like comics and you don't read books. You then read a book (Harry Potter) and you don't like how it's written, which is fair enough.

 

I just think you should read some different authors to get an idea of the differences in writing style.

[Coolness Bears]

Woops! I forgot to finish mine. :p

 

Here is it uncomplete... so it will just stop.

 

The Day Of The Great Pumpkin

 

”Look Pipo the streets are lined with the misadventures from last night.” Striker hobbles over to a tattered shirt that was caught in the fence. He sniffs it “bleggh, I’ve never enjoyed the smell of vomit” Striker then opens up the tool bag that is around his waist and pulls out a pair of nail scissors and disentangles the shirt. He gives the shirt to Pipo, his son, who places it in his little pouch. “It’ll have to do” says Striker who still has a disgusted expression across his face. Pipo follows his father further down the road passing by houses as they go.

Striker checks the windows as they past but he could only see darkness from within. “There must be some around here somewhere they can’t all have gone! The number we bring back each year gets fewer and fewer” exasperated he picks up speed and sprints past more houses quickly glancing at them as they all blurr into one giant brick monolith. Striker stops at the end of the road out of breath and frustrated. He notices Pipo is still at the other end looking lost. “Come on son we don’t have much time!” Pipo gets on all fours as he hasn’t learnt how to run on two legs yet, and begins to run over. Pipo was not as fast as his dad and he quickly sees something orange flash past the corner of his eye. He pauses and notices that on the doorstep was a Pumpkin looking forlorn. “Papa, I think I’ve found one” shouts Pipo excitedly. Striker dashes back to where Pipo was standing and then gracefully hugs him. “Oh Pipo, you found one so quickly and on your first Halloween, I’m so proud.” The pumpkin was breathing heavily in the corner “help…me...help...me…” the pumpkin repeat through painful gasps. “Son, get the Juice” Pipo fumbled about in his little pouch and brought out this little bottle of blue liquid. He poured it into the poor pumpkins jagged mouth. “Thanks, fortunately I’m not too injured the Bigs didn’t light the candle until the moon had gone down.” She sighs I hope you can save some others. “Don’t worry we will do the best we can what’s your name?”

”My name is Istrella” the pumpkin replies. Striker then turns to Pipo “I’m sorry you have to see your first Halloween like this. It’s been like this as long as I remember. For one night a year the Bigs commit pumpkin genocide and take great pleasure in doing so. It’s disguised as a night where ghosts, goblins and other ridiculous creatures are meant to be more capable of entering this world but we all know they don’t exist.” He addresses the Istrella “hey can you roll okay?”

”I sure can luckily they didn’t cut the top of me open!” her broken mouth contorted into a disturbing grin. The three of them trundled to the end of the down into Shoppers valley. Pipo’s eyes stretched as wide as they could go as he stood at the edge of this cobbled monstrotity that dipped into obscurity. The bottom wasn’t in sight but directly infront of him was an assortment of unusual decorations littering the floor. Strikers face looked heartbroken amoung the stuff on the floor were a few fake bats, a black skirt, plastic pitchforks and several broken bottles. One item caught his attention more than the others though. One was a leaflet which was entitled “Pumpkin Party @ the Blue Bell Pub” it read all welcome £3 entrance, those in fancy dress go free” he shredded it with his claws.

“Okay that’s where we are heading, lets get moving.” Istrella instantly lost her grip and flew awkwardly down the hill the cobbled stones denting her precious outside. She was out of control and bouncing all over the place gaining momentum as she went. At this speed she was going to smash into pieces at the bottom. Striker immediately leapt into action and sprinted down after her. He manages to sprint past her. Istrella continued to rush down, she as now going so fast she was now being tossed into the air. She was almost at the bottom of the hill. Striker was waiting there running in all directions unable to decipher where Istrella would end up. Eventually he dives to the left and Istrella lands squarely on top of him knocking him to the floor. “I’m glaf yer sav” mumbles Striker. “What?” asks Istrella as she rolls off his face. “I’m glad you are safe.” He lies flat out on the floor panting. After awhile Striker dusts himself off and gets into action. Suddenly he realises that Pipo is missing. He looks back up the hill but there is nothing insight, he stares at it hoping that Pipo will be slowly crawling over the horizon but to no aveil.

He goes into panic mode and starts shouting out for him. “PIPO, PIPO WHERE ARE YOU!?” There was a faint yelp to his left and he could see his son cornered up against a shop wall by a dog on the otherside of the road. Pipo notices his father and Istrella and screams louder. Striker tries to march across the road but as he is doing so he notices a Pumpkin just lying there in the middle of it. “Istrella stay with him for a moment I have to help Pipo” Istrella sits beside the moulding pumpkin and...

 

Bullet points for the rest of the story:

 

- Istrella goes to rescue pumpkin. Some drunk Bigs dressed up accidently squash the pumpkin

- Pipio is saved from the dog by his dad and other creatures like them who poke it with sticks until it runs off.

- Strike then goes over the pumpkin in the middle of the road and takes its pumpkin seeds.

- they then end up in the Bluebell where they meet another injured pumpkin and find a metal bottle cap amoung the broken glass.

 

 

Striker pulls out a thin strip of metal and slides it into his specially designed cloak on his back. “Pipo can you pass me the shirt please” Pipo rummages about in the pouch and pulls out the ripped cloth. Striker scrapes the sick off with his claws and then...

 

- They tie a make shift carrier to Striker and put the pumpkin in it.

- They shine the bottle cap to attract the attention of a magpie

-They tie the pumpkin stretcher to the magpie place Istrella and the other pumpkin it and get on top of it and fly back to where they live.

- they get to where they live (which is in a field) and it's like a refugee camp full of injured pumpkins.

- There they celebrate " The day of the Great Pumpkin" which falls on the same day as Halloween.

- This is where the pumpkins came and saved the creatures from the attack of Crows. Strikers wife was killed but one of the Pumpkins protected their life and saved his Son Pipio which is why they try and save the Pumpkins from the Bigs every year.

- Also they plant the Pumpkin Seeds from the pumpkin they couldn't save so he lives on in some way.

 

Edited November 9, 2009 by Coolness Bears

[ReZourceman]

Perhaps you just don't like the way books are written. You like comics and you don't read books. You then read a book (Harry Potter) and you don't like how it's written, which is fair enough.

 

I just think you should read some different authors to get an idea of the differences in writing style.

 

No, its the way she writes books. I've read books in school and I've read stories online, and I read half of Eldest. Innit.

 

Coolness, I'll read yours tonightz. No thyme naw.

[jayseven]

This week's new challenge!

 

Shorty'll recognise this as a task we were set in our creative writing class a couple of years ago.

 

Your piece must be about the view from a window. I'll post my shoddy efforts from the actual class if I can actually find it.

 

It's not going to be too constrained this week - but try to keep it short, because we all know everyone on the internet has ADHD.

 

(also - if you are posting something, then it would be good etiquette to have a go at analysing the piece previous to yours)

[Gentleben]

This week's new challenge!

 

Shorty'll recognise this as a task we were set in our creative writing class a couple of years ago.

 

Your piece must be about the view from a window. I'll post my shoddy efforts from the actual class if I can actually find it.

 

 

 

Un-view

 

Once more I turned my eyes towards the window and let out a sigh. Why did I ever think it was a good idea to brick up my window.

[Ganepark32]

^ I like the simplicity of that. I think many take the view out of their window for granted (depends on what it is you can see from your window) and like I personally use my window as a way to get a respite from the things going on around me; just stand there and take it all in. So yeh, I like that Gentleben.

 

My attempt is below. So wanted to do a poem but with people seemingly not bothering to read/make critiques of the poetry because it's either too personal or not by one of the well known poets, I though why bother. Not that my prose will prove otherwise because it is personal so will probably suffer the same fate. Anyway, for the record if you do read mine please bear in mind that the view I wrote about is the changing view from the window of a bus. Now...

 

Shifting View"]

[un]Shifting View

 

As Apollo makes way for the forthcoming day, the station shakes itself awake. The sun peeks its face through a blanket of greyness, bringing everything to life in an instant. Buses to and fro on the concourse like ants on a coffee table covered with the spills of the day's first refresher. Inside, it's as if time itself has ground to a halt. The passengers remain stationary; the occasional murmur splitting the silence. Tens of eyes sparkle like imperfections in the glass, watching the workers as they go about their day.

 

But in an instant, the image dissolves. Station; Houses; Cars; Factories. All gone and replaced by serene nothingness. Where buildings once were rise trees; hundreds of trees attempting to pierce the very fabric of the sky. And fields of green, brown and yellow stretch out as far as the eye can see, covering crest and valley. The joyously cold surroundings compliment the attitude contained within. The world and the passengers are, at this moment in time, hand in hand; motionless; peaceful; without a care in the world.

 

Yet, as before, with the passing of time the image dissolves. A bridge carries them from an area of timeless effect, bringing their care-free dreaming crashing down, into one of harsh realities. Synthetic lines and structures section the horizon creating a stark contrast to that which had come before. A haze of metal, glass and concrete greet the onlookers on one side and with the simplest turn of a corner, the view of the river and that serene nothingness, that existed for a short time on the other, vanishes. The drop of moisture rolling down the window, as a result of the condensation, looks as though the bus itself sheds a tear for the loss of the beauteous landscape. And with a jolt, the journey is over, surrounded by the industrial shortcomings of a city which has seen better days. Nevermind. In a few short hours, you'll once again be leaving this place of chaotic order for the emerald surroundings of Nature's warm embrace.

 

[Paj!]

My attempt is below. So wanted to do a poem but with people seemingly not bothering to read/make critiques of the poetry because it's either too personal or not by one of the well known poets, I though why bother. Not that my prose will prove otherwise because it is personal so will probably suffer the same fate.

 

Oh no. I just should have kept it to myself.

 

---

 

I read yours, and liked it a lot. I thought the first bit was almost too crammed with jarring images, but after that it was all flowy.

[Ashley]

Loathsome working class,

Rusty old Peugeots all over,

Young mothers smoking.

 

Haiku for your ass!