The Official IFM write-off (MkII).

The_West_Wind · 26-10-06 04:05:53

Ok. With all the budding young writers in the forum it was suggested that a writers thread should be created to show eachother what we can do.

You read, you comment. Simple.
To the writers, I think the only limit is the reach of common sence, the board's moderator will remove anything inapropriate.

Post your piece in the form of a quote, that way it will be easier to read.

Let's get Crackin!

The_West_Wind · 26-10-06 04:10:03

Here is some a piece I've been working on for a friend. Here is a bit of background on the characters in this bit.

Patrick a young man who travels the world to find a cure for his friend who has been cursed. He wears a pair of iron shoes.

Crystal a little girl of about 12. She wears an old canvas blindfold over her eyes and another over her ears. She is gifted with sight and sound.

Velos a giant gifted with speed and strength. He wears heavy iron weights on his wrists and ankles.

The story so far. The three have made their way to the palace of an evil Sultan who sets Velos on a task that no man can acomplish. He has a choice, take the challenge, or die with his friends... Now read on.
Pt:1

“I know of Velos the bandit of the sands, but you two I have never seen. Why does this man feel to need to wear shoes of iron in my court?” said the Sultan with an air of arrogance that came only from royalty as he looked at Patrick’s feet.
“If you please, sire.” Patrick tried to explain, “We are searching for a item that is on the other side of your city. All we ask is that we continue on our way without hindrance.”
The Sultan’s expression didn’t change. “So you expect me to simply let you walk through my city and straight out the other side with no thought of any kind of tribute for my kindness. I am no fool. Any man who travels with Velos must pay a price of super human significance. Otherwise it may take me a lifetime to find the horrible method of your death for trespassing.”
Velos’ eyes narrowed. “Sultan, you of all people know that I answer to no man. I am not bound by your rules, nor the rules of any other but my own. But if it means that my friends and I may cross your lands, then so be it. What is it you ask of Velos?”
The Sultan ordered the guards to make Velos stand at his full height, casually the Sultan walked around the giant of a man.
“The tales tell of your many deeds over the sand dunes, some good, some bad. Some… questionable. They say you are a man of great speed and strength.” Said the Sultan.
“I have been told this.” Said Velos, never letting the Sultan or his guards out of his sight.
“Then I shall put this to the ultimate test. A test of your speed and strength. To the west is a land of many carnivals. It is said that everyone who walks the streets wears a mask and that every night is a celebration. It is further than any of my citizens have ever travelled; in fact it is a journey of, so I have been told, one hundred and eight thousand leagues. At your fastest speed, you will make your way to this land and bring me back one of these ornate masks that their citizens are said to wear.” Said the Sultan.
“Hrumph.” Grumbled Velos, knowing that this wasn’t the full extent of the Sultan’s bargain, “And if I succeed?”
“Then you and your friends shall be allowed to continue through my lands and I will supply you with provisions that will last you all until the next major kingdom.”
“And if I fail.”
“The these two will be executed on the very second you are late to return to this palace.” The Sultan laughed and signalled to the guards to place Patrick and Crystal in a large cage on a mantle of the Sultan’s thrown room. Another pair of servants brought out an elaborate time keeping device made of weights and solid steel balls. The balls were lined in a trough and every minute one ball would drop until there were none left, the empty tray would trigger a bell to sound signalling that time was up.
“If you are who you say you are Velos, then I believe thirty minutes will be ample time for you to complete my challenge.” With a snap of his fingers, the servants loaded the large balls one by one into the trough.
“If I am to complete this challenge, then I have a stipulation of my own. You may keep my companions as your hostages while I am away, but they must remain outside the cage until I have left the palace.” Said Velos.
“I don’t see how much use this chap in the iron shoes can be to you. More though, I am intrigued as to how much use the deaf, blind whelp is to you. I agree to your terms. They will be released.” The Sultan called for the guard to open the cage, and the three left the thrown room. They made their way to a high balcony on the tallest tower of the Sultan’s palace, once there; Velos lifted Crystal onto his shoulder.
“Show me where this land of masks is, Crystal.” Said Velos.
Crystal listened to the wind and slowly scanned the horizon. Never once did she remove the blindfold from her eyes or the wadding from her ears, it was as if she knew what she was looking for without even showing the need to look.
“I hear music. And laughter.” She swayed gently to the wind, “The Sultan lies. The land of masks is to the northwest, but it is as he had said. The distance is close to one hundred thousand leagues. No mountains, no valleys, no rivers or caverns.”
Crystal slid down the broad back of Velos, and the three made their way back to the Sultan’s throne room. They found him slouched back on a mountain of pillows while veiled handmaidens fed him grapes.
“I trust you three found what you were looking for, are you ready?” the Sultan said with all the smugness of a man who held the power of life and death.
“I am.” Velos looked to the iron shoed youth, “Patrick, on my belt you will find a ring of keys. Each one unlocks the weights on my arms and legs. You will unlock all four, now.” Not once did Velos take his eyes off the Sultan as Patrick turned each key. The first weight landed hard on the polished marble, chipping the tiles as it fell from Velos’ wrist. Crystal whimpered and tried to cover her ears as the other weights fell. There was a cold stand off between Velos and the Sultan that seemed as old as time itself. Patrick unlocked the weights on Velos’ ankles and they rolled away with a low rumble. He took off the ring of shot and chain from around his neck and the belt from around his waist. Velos ever so slowly walked to a fountain in the middle of the room and washed his wrists and his shins taking all the time in the world as he dried himself off and walked just as slowly back to the Sultan.
“Where do I start?” he asked.
“You may start from anywhere in this palace.” The Sultan answered.
“Then I shall start here, this very spot before you. Now.”
The Sultan raised his hand to his servant who pulled the pin that set the time keeping device. The first ball rolled down the trough and into a lower trough where it stayed.
And with a yawn the Sultan said, “Go.”
Patrick caught the sparkle in Velos’ eye, he took one look at the Sultan, and in a cloud of dust and debris the giant raced from the thrown room with a speed the likes that had never been seen. He was a blur as he sped down the great halls of the palace leaving a trail of shredded tiles, dust and a wind that almost ripped the walls from the castle. In less than a few seconds Velos has left a trail of destruction greater than any enemy of the Sultan who tried to storm his palace.
“Velos kept his end of the bargain. I will keep mine.” Said the Sultan as he motioned to the guards to place Patrick and Crystal back into the cage.
Crystal hated being in the cage, she huddled in the corner and covered her ears every time a ball rolled and dropped. Patrick did everything he could to keep her calm, while all around them, from outside of the cage the Sultan’s servants swept and cleared the debris left by Velos. The Sultan stood at his balcony watching the great wave of dust fade off beyond the horizon. He may actually do it, thought Patrick.
One by one the balls fell from the time keeping device until there were only five left. “Crystal, can you see him?” asked Patrick.
The little girl unfolded herself from the corner and stared at the bars of the cage through her blindfold. A smile crept slowly onto her face as she spoke.
“I can hear him,” she paused, “but he isn’t going to make it.”
A guard burst into the thrown room, “Sire,” he cried, “the giant has been sighted, he will arrive soon.”
The Sultan looked at his captive guests. “I’m afraid this doesn’t look good for the friends of Velos. Well, I could show mercy as soon as he arrives and have you released. But what kind of a leader would that make me?” He didn’t expect an answer. “I’m afraid that if I was to let you live that would be seen as a sign of weakness to my people. Velos has less than three minutes to arrive at this very spot, but seeing as he is not going to make it on time, I can’t see why we just cant execute the two of you now. Cruel to be kind, that sort of thing, you know how it is.” And he wandered off to pace around his chambers.
Crystal began to stir uncomfortably in her corner. “I see the water in the fountain rippling. The ground shakes. Can you feel it?”
“I can’t feel the ground shaking.” Said Patrick, “But there is a breeze coming from the hallway.”
Not only was there a breeze, but the scream of a guard as he came sprinting into the thrown room. The Sultan stood at the doorway of his personal balcony and watched the guard collapse in a cold sweat.
“Sire, the giant returns!” he cried.
No sooner had the guard finished his sentence, the Sultan felt the wind rushing through his hair, and in the moment of a blink from the Sultan there standing before him was Velos. He was shimmering with waves of heat radiating off him like a mirage.
“Time.” He said.
There was a small “click” as the servant replaced the pin to the mechanism of the time keeping device. And then the roar of wind ripped through the Sultans palace like a mighty sandstorm, blowing away everything in its path. Columns cracked and crumbled, doors bucked and splintered, some flew off their hinges and imbedded themselves in the walls of the palace. The delicate silks that draped the walls and antique rugs tore from their fixtures and flew out the windows. The tiles on the floor and walls were a path of destruction, crushed and splintered. Almost every room was filled with dust and sand.
It soon began to die down, Velos saw Patrick as he held Crystal close to him, protecting her from the debris, covering her eyes and ears. The ground hissed as Velos walked, ever so slowly, to the timekeeper and again she spoke with the waves of heat distorting his voice.
“Time.” He said.
“T-twenty n-n-nine minutes…” the servant stuttered and looked again, “Fifty s-s-seven seconds.”
Velos walked to the cage and with a single hand he ripped the door off its hinges. Patrick and Crystal crawled out and brushed off the dust from their clothes.
“Sorry.” He said, “Now I need your help to lock me up.” He threw Patrick the keys and arranged his weights around his neck and replaced the belt around his waist. One by one they heavy weights were clamped back on to Velos’ wrists and legs.
With the ground quaking around him with every step, Velos stormed on to the Sultan’s private balcony. He looked over the balcony and saw the citizens of the city as they lined both sides of the street in silent shock. Velos followed the street with his eyes and saw the Sultan slumped against the dead end wall of the far street. The entire city was silent all were shocked by what they saw. Patrick and Crystal stood either side of their giant and watched the spectacle. From the crowd, an old man in a turban turned his head to the balcony. He saw the giant looming from high over them. A smile came to the old man’s face.
“Ve-los! Ve-los! Ve-los!” he chanted, waving his hands above his head.
Others turned to see him in the balcony and chanted with the old man. Soon there was cheering and dancing in the streets, the guards of the palace kneeled before their new master as the crowd chanted for their saviour.
“Ve-los! Ve-los! Ve-los!”
The captain of the guard made his way through the wall of soldiers and kneeled before the giant, “With the death of the Sultan you have freed us from his oppression. He had no heirs. By our law, you are now our ruler, Hail Velos!”
Velos breathed a heavy sigh and looked to Patrick and Crystal, walked closer to the balcony and watched the crowd.
“Patrick?” He called. Patrick stood by Velos and watched as his brow furrowed deeply, “Patrick, cover Crystal’s ears, please.”
Patrick didn’t question this. He walked back in his iron shoes “Are you ready?” he asked her. She gave a nod, and Patrick gently placed his hands over her ears.
Velos clenched his fists and raised them high above his head with a mighty roar.

Nowaysis · 26-10-06 13:27:33

I rather liked it. It took me back to the time (oh, all those years ago) when I read Eddings, and believe me, that's a good thing. It also somehow seemed reminiscent of a typical adventure/RPG video game, with the three different protagonists displaying very apparent different qualities, obviously each one meant to further their quest by whatever means they have at their disposal. Whether that's a good or a bad thing is probably a matter of personal taste, but it definately didn't bother me.

It could use a once over to fix some spelling mistakes and such, but then that doesn't really change the overall quality of the composition. If there's one thing I would alter, it's the fountain. You might want to consider mentioning it in some earlier paragraph, so it doesn't seem to appear out of thin air when Velos goes to wash his wrists and ankles.

Last edited by Nowaysis (26-10-06 13:30:39)

Nowaysis · 26-10-06 13:46:48

Oh yes, now that I've commented (I hope I wasn't too harsh, I'm unfortunately much better att nitpicking than at highlighting the better qualitites of other people's work), I guess I'm supposed to post something myself. Luckily, I managed to dig up another English piece that I hink bears the scrutiny of the internets:

The author within wrote:

i'Tis the fate of one
whose soul is easily stirred,
to claim undying love today
and 'morrow set his sights anew
That that which once
did shine the most in all creation,
be cast aside like so much trash,
in favour of what curiosity has found
But do not call us weak
for strength is not an issue,
and do not call us fickle
for it has to bleak a ring
Nor should you call us gullible
Our faith is truly without question
Call us but susceptible, to that
intangible which seeks to strike a spark
We are not simpletons,
who frankly know not better
and neither are we fools,
whose minds are tricked and dazed
We are but wrought,
our souls carelessly crafted,
of fabric most inflammable,
and kindling apt to frequently erupt.

*takes cover*

Last edited by Nowaysis (26-10-06 13:47:54)

The_West_Wind · 26-10-06 14:27:02

Damn.

I should have done poetry. That was awesome.

Thanks for the comment, I'm looking for any criticisim, good or bad.

Burlesque · 26-10-06 14:44:48

West Wind: you are clearly a good writer with a superb imagination for fantasy. I enjoyed your contribution here. One question, though: why are you in such a rush? You have got some good, solid material here, but you don't really give the reader any moments, just a swift, admittedly entertaining, narrative. My suggestion would be that you set the scene a bit more fully (I do realise this is an excerpt), put in some more detail of the surroundings and reactions here and there, in short give the scene some resting points so that the reader can really take in the atmosphere and the events. Other than that: good work! Do post more, if you have anything suitable.

Nowaysis: striking a blow for the romantics of the world, are you? That's really good, deliciously archaic English. The rhythm limps now and again, but the poem must be good, as it makes me remember what it was like being romantically inclined, and anything that makes me even more bitter and cantankerous gets a high rating from me.

Burlesque.

Nowaysis · 26-10-06 14:52:51

Yeah, I was never one to fiddle with the syllables all that much.

The_Elfman · 26-10-06 15:36:41

This is an extract from a Sword & Sorcery novel I am writing (although this project is now so far back on the proverbial stove it has fallen over the edge).

It is your standard S&S quest type story. A small band of travellers must reach their destination before their enemies. They have been delayed in their journey by heavy snow and a bog which lay across their path and all have given up any hope of reaching their destination (Carthenor Pass) in time. The party consists of Tallin, a young Duke. Mallakon, a wizard. Emelea an eight year old sorceress and her small pony Mimla. Elovan, an elf. Paladon a diplomat and a small group of soldiers led by Jarron.

The snow stopped during the night and the wind dropped. Daylight revealed clear skies above a carpet of white which covered the moor now nearly knee deep. Jarron pointed out that this only increased their peril as in the absence of the blizzard they could clearly be seen for miles. Dark forms struggling through the snow. Suddenly Elovan stiffened and called for silence, staring intently into the west. Fearing discovery the others dropped to the snow, finding what cover they could. When the elf crouched to address them however he was smiling. “Help comes”, he said. “Quickly. We must go”. At that he started forward towards the West. The ground ahead rose now and they were out of the mire. The nimble elf soon out paced the rest of the party, heading ever Westward. Unable to argue or question the others followed on as best they could. They were all soon breathing heavily from the demands of hurrying through the thick snow. Paladon was near collapse. He was supported by Yarrad and Merrill now and his face was deathly pale. His life as a courtier and diplomat had not prepared him for the rigours of this journey. If not for the elves malenil he would have crumpled long ago. Just after mid day Elovan stopped on top of a small rocky outcrop. When the others caught up with him he was staring intently to the west. “Rest now”, he said. “They come. All may yet be well”.
Despite all of his comrades demands for an explanation he refused to elaborate. He continued to stand on the outcrop smiling into the west. At last, about mid afternoon, he said “They approach”. At first none of his companions could see anything above the glare of the snow but soon they became aware of something moving towards them in the distance. After a while they could make out several distinct shapes which appeared to flow over the snow. There were nine of them. Puzzlement turned to alarm however when the shapes had approached close enough to be recognised. They were mountain lions. “Be not afraid”, said Elovan, running forward to meet the approaching cats. “They are friends. A gift sent by the mountain elves”. The party followed. Most of the men were hesitant and all had drawn their swords. Mallakon and Emelea however showed no concern. Trusting in her friends assurances the little girl ran through the deep snow behind the elf as best she could squealing in delight. Mallakon appeared familiar with the concept of greeting several large predators in the snow and walked towards them smiling a welcome. As the animals reached them he spread his arms wide and cried out a salutation in the elven tongue. He threw his arms around the neck of the largest of the animals, embracing it like a prodigal.
They were big. Tallin had seen lions in the mountains which surrounded lake Telpheled but these were many times their size. They stood five foot high at their shoulders and were over twenty five foot in length from nose to tail. Their fur was dense and shaggy to keep out the mountain’s cold. Their purpose there was obvious, but preposterous. “You are not seriously suggesting that we ride these beasts?!” said Jarron. “And what may I enquire do you have against mountain lions, Captain Jarron?”, asked Mallakon, stroking the head of the animal which appeared to be the pride’s leader. “They eat people”, came the terse reply. Emelea was beside herself with joy, and beside the smallest and youngest of the pride. “Help me! Help me!” She cried, Fervently gripping the long fur behind the animals neck. Laughing Elovan came over to her, lifted her and deposited the squealing little girl on the cats back. The young feline showed no concern with the presence of the child and evidently was unaffected by her weight. Elovan leapt lightly onto the back of another of the enormous predators. “Come”, he said urgently. “We must go. We have lost much time already. We must ride all night and all of tomorrow if we are to stand any chance of reaching the pass ahead of our foes”. Mallakon leapt nimbly onto the back of the alpha male who seemed to be unconcerned by the wizards great weight. The others approached the waiting animals somewhat more hesitantly but soon they were all mounted.
Once on the back of his mount, a large champagne coloured female, Tallin actually felt more ridiculous than afraid. There was no saddle or stirrups and his legs dangled uselessly by the she-cat’s slender flanks. In the absence of reigns he gripped the long fur at the nape of her neck and prayed to all the gods that had ever lived or that ever would live that he would not fall off. But Mimla was not there. The little pony had halted some thirty feet from the big cats and stood trembling with fear, Whinnying plaintively. She was a hill pony and all of her equine instincts rebelled against the proximity of these huge carnivores. Elovan dropped from his mount and ran to the terrified animal. He stroked her gently for a while whispering softly into her ear. At last her trembling stopped and Elovan was able to lead her closer to the pride. The thought occurred to Tallin that she would not be able to keep up with the giant cats. He voiced his concerns to Mallakon. “Perhaps not”, replied the wizard, “but she will follow”. “She will be all right, wont she?” asked Emelea, concerned for her beloved pony. The wizard laughed, but there was kindness in his voice. “She will be well. She was born in the hills and the creatures who hunt in these mountains will not harm her. Indeed they will ward her for she has the blessing of the elves”.
Then they were moving. Flowing over the snow. The great cats seemed to travel without effort. They were clearly unhampered by the burden of their riders. Tallin had seen fine horses bred for racing or hunting and despite his fear of the animals had ridden some. But no horse could match the grace and athleticism of his present mount. When a horse is in full gallop it’s muscles are tense, straining with exertion. The cats in contrast were relaxed. Their movements seemed unhurried, belying the speed with which they covered the ground. In place of the broken stutter of a horse’s gallop the cats bound over the snow in a series of long, smooth leaps. As their front paws touched the snow at the conclusion of one leap their back paws came forward to just behind them driving the animal forward again. A symphony of power, grace and rhythm. Their progress was so smooth that Tallin had no difficulty in keeping his seat. He sat astride the big cat as all his companions quickly learned to do, leaning forwards grasping the fur behind his mounts neck with his lower legs parallel to the animals body. The thick snow seemed to present no obstacle to the great cats progress. A million years of evolution had fitted them for the harsh demands of the upper mountains. They poured their lithe bodies over the snow, inured to their environment.

Burlesque · 26-10-06 15:50:52

The language could use a little smoothening in places (and perhaps you should remove a few of the "west's" at the beginning), but other than that, this is gorgeous stuff, imaginative and evocative. Yes, it's S&S, but what it perhaps lacks in originality it makes up for in detail and atmosphere. The lions are beautifully depicted. Been holding out on me, haven't you, you tight bastard?

Burlesque.

Last edited by Burlesque (28-10-06 02:03:34)

dyslexius · 26-10-06 16:04:27

(I decided to move my poem to this thread. It's the only literary text I've ever written that was not intended for music...) A little background for my submission: The city of Chicago resides in Cook County, Illinois. The population of the county is about 5,000,000 and the entire Chicago metropolitan area is about 9,000,000. In July 1995, a killer heatwave struck. Temperatures rose to 108° fahrenheit (42°C) for three days, and something like 600 deaths in Cook Country were attributed to the heat. I found wrenching the fact that anonymous burials had to be conducted in a civilized society -- in my very backyard -- and thus emerged this free-verse poem. This poem is an exception for me, as I normally do not write formally unless I already have a plan to use text in some new music. The epigraph is the first paragraph of an article from a local newspaper.

August 25, 1995, CHICAGO, IL: "The Cook County Coroner's office has reported that the unclaimed bodies of forty-four victims of the recent heatwave will be buried at Homewood Memorial Garden Cemetery. This is one of the largest mass burials in the state's history."
We Gave Them No Mirrors
We gave them no mirrors, those solitary
and unclaimed who share hot midsummer winds.
Denied reflections for relief
on inside surfaces of unknown regions.
Unkept, unimpaired, unbefriended;
unwashed?
...Unknown.
Those acrid breezes pass wilderness
whose every forest leaf cannot be known,
but known that each is expelled,
then carried on windborne twigs,
long since buried in ancient humus.
Phantoms are the eyes, the voices
that glint and steal our reflections.
But leaves, yet tethered and green,
on what do they reflect? Blown
from birth to death on a zephyr
whose warm, moist current nurtures,
then coils up, strikes searingly, and moves on.

Shout, shout, shout
into the scorching wind, lest our
shoes be topped by fresh humus
from the soil of Homewood Garden,
where forty-four, and more, are
rendered, finalized, transformed, put to rest
Claimed not by society, yet buried by the body-politic.

--dyslexius

The_Elfman · 26-10-06 16:14:33

Burlesque wrote:

The language could use a little smoothening in places (and perhaps you should remove a few of the "west's" at the beginning), but other than that, this is gorgeous stuff, imaginiative and evocative. Yes, it's S&S, but what it perhaps lacks in originality it makes up for in detail and atmosphere. The lions are beautifully depicted. Been holding out on me, haven't you, you tight bastard?
Burlesque.

Good point about all of the "Wests". I hadn't noticed. Thanks for that and for your comments. I'm not sure what you mean by "The language could use a little smoothening in places". Care to elaborate? Please feel free to be frank. You know that you wont offend me.

Elfman.

gala · 26-10-06 16:22:13

this is not a space where i would tend to offer up much of my non-ifm-related work, but i've shared this in several places. it has nought to do with swords.

Particles of Wayne

With the vast sigh of his departure, Wayne released the innumerable atoms of his earthly existence. The surrounding atmosphere became heavy with his presence. Many came and went, exposing themselves to particles of Wayne, absorbing as much as each could bear. That which was left was converted to dust and cast to the sea off the southern California coast.

The total amount of mass and energy in the universe is constant. The dynamics of birth and death, of coming and going, are barely perceptible. All around us these processes are taking place, converting, transforming, dispersing, resorbing. Most of the universe did not notice Wayne slip finally into the dawn. The exact conversions between mass and energy that accompanied this event were never calculated or recorded. But among those who gathered there and took part in the exchange, there was a sense that the exact composition of infinity had been eternally altered.

Neither matter nor energy can be created or destroyed. Curiously, we learn to speak of death in a language of loss. We notice the empty seat at the table. We experience void, silence. The Dearly Departed have Passed Away. We stare at the empty space, then down at the flimsy paper plate holding undifferentiated portions of the donated casseroles of the bereaved, and decide that we arent really feeling very hungry right now. Nothing that enters will sufficiently occupy the void.

Wayne was massive. Neither before nor since have I come into contact with an entity of such voluminous character. He accumulated more wisdom in his nearly twenty-one years than most gain in three, even four times that. He drank it in deeply and thoughtfully, in much the same way that he enjoyed a good sarsaparilla. It is irrefutably unfair that he did not live to have another. The only way I can justify this apparent karmic blunder is to attempt to account for the posthumous particles of Wayne. To locate the numerous instances of presence which debunk the language of loss.

The moment of death is a moment of dispersal. Much like the explosion of a star into fragments of cosmic dust, this is an immediate and magnificent action. Those who loved him most dedicated themselves to guiding Wayne into this moment with constant care and open arms. To be physically present at dispersal required of them the ability to absorb concentrated amounts of him, and it follows that a rather considerable portion of the particles of Wayne still exist in the synapses and daily body chemistries of those people. This was initially experienced as weight, which in the language of loss is a side effect of mourning, when it appears as though something has disappeared. The laws of conservation of mass and energy insist, however, that the millions of atoms of Wayne did not just go missing. They were expelled and resorbed. We took these things into ourselves and became more massive than we had been before. At first we had difficulty identifying this weight and learning to carry it as our own. To compensate for the new humility and humor and love we had acquired, we had to walk around with it and try it out. At the time this process is being put to words, we are walking all over the earth, carrying with us a new dignity and new ways of perceiving and articulating. Evidence of Waynes continual terrestrial presence. But hes other places, too.

The waters of the California coast now hold a million ex-corporeal particles of Wayne. I imagine him gliding with the California current, on to other reaches of the ocean, a counterpart to those who are carrying fragments of him over the continents. The waters of the sea reach everything. The expanse of Wayne is greater now than it was in life. Wayne reaches everything. The sea has a new seduction for me now, a new presence. Its the closest I will come to the envelopment of a conversation or a hug or a Rice Krispie treat with Wayne. The adjustments to my processes of perception that were required upon the addition of his mass to my own make it possible for me to experience the embrace of the ocean with the same affection I reserved for Wayne in the flesh.

Surely in the midst of all this exchange, there was something of him that escaped into the cosmos. Something he got to keep for himself. It is impossible to account for the whereabouts of cosmic Wayne, but there are frequent reminders he is there. He comes to us in the dreamworld, ravishing us or educating us or telling us fart jokes. He comes through on promises to haunt us regularly. Somehow, he is everything in death that he was in life.

Change is entropic; it disperses rather than staying concentrated. The amount of Wayne in the universe is constant. And now its everywhere.

The_Elfman · 26-10-06 16:28:44

Wonderful gala. That is marvelous writing. It makes me want to hit the "delete" tab of my post. Is this an extract from a novel you have written or are working on?

Elfman.

Burlesque · 26-10-06 16:29:45

The_Elfman wrote:

Good point about all of the "Wests". I hadn't noticed. Thanks for that and for your comments. I'm not sure what you mean by "The language could use a little smoothening in places". Care to elaborate? Please feel free to be frank. You know that you wont offend me.
Elfman.

I am going to be so vicious, rude and unspeakably offensive that this forum isn't the right place for such a display of gleeful, disemboweling evil. I'll email you a bit of my bile instead.

Burlesque.

Nowaysis · 26-10-06 16:36:57

Dyslexius: I really liked your poem. It was very moving, and set a very effectful atmosphere. Unfortunately, some of the language actually went over my head, what with creative license allowing for non standard word order and such, but all in all I thoroughly enjoyed reading it. Particularly the repeated "shout" worked very well when read aloud.

dyslexius · 26-10-06 17:58:22

Nowaysis wrote:

...some of the language actually went over my head, what with creative license allowing for non standard word order and such...

Um, that's 'cuz I wrote it in Swedish and something got lost in the English translation.

Nowaysis wrote:

...Particularly the repeated "shout" worked very well when read aloud.

I trust your neighbors know you and attributed that intensely vocal reading to something wholesome. If not, I'll be happy to write a note to excuse your abherant behaviour (they may need reassurance it's not a permanent condition).

But really -- thanks for reading, I appreciate your kind words.

--dyslexius

Last edited by dyslexius (26-10-06 18:17:43)

dyslexius · 26-10-06 18:14:29

How cool is this: Twice in this still-youthful thread I've come upon two unknowns and had to refer to the encyclopedia. First, to look up S&S, second, for Eddings. This forum continues to repay modest effort!

--dyslexius

1. David Eddings
2. Sword and Sorcery

Last edited by dyslexius (26-10-06 18:19:20)

dyslexius · 26-10-06 19:02:40

I plan to comment on every submission in this thread, and intended to do so in chronological order of their appearance. But I'm gonna shuffle the deck a bit because I want to contribute in some way today before totally succumbing to my current sleep deprivation. I've read them all so far, and one of the pieces seemed to flow into my temporarily enfeebled brain with directness and ease.

"Particles of Wayne" pierced my heart with seemingly very little concentration. This is because, I think, it's simple (but no less subtle than the other submissions), and it's not a story, per se -- no plot, no characters, no quest to keep track of. There seems to be uncanny use of leitmotif -- certain key things -- like dispersion -- are repeated, and Gala makes a circle -- the end refers back to the beginning. The genre/form: I don't know what it is. Is it an ongoing eulogy to Wayne? ...a pean to nature and the cosmos? ...a Zen-like affirmation? Maybe it's all of those. Or, in my case, today, in my present mood, it's whatever I wish it to be.

--dyslexius

Last edited by dyslexius (26-10-06 20:01:24)

polarchill · 26-10-06 19:40:13

gala wrote:

Particles of Wayne

Absolutely stunning. You captured, seemingly effortlessly, what I expressed with only limited success with my father's eulogy.

Now, if you will excuse me for a few minutes, I don't make it a habit to hang around forums crying like a little kid.

--
Polarchill

The_West_Wind · 26-10-06 23:28:16

Burlesque wrote:

West Wind: you are clearly a good writer with a superb imagination for fantasy. I enjoyed your contribution here. One question, though: why are you in such a rush? You have got some good, solid material here, but you don't really give the reader any moments, just a swift, admittedly entertaining, narrative. My suggestion would be that you set the scene a bit more fully (I do realise this is an excerpt), put in some more detail of the surroundings and reactions here and there, in short give the scene some resting points so that the reader can really take in the atmosphere and the events. Other than that: good work! Do post more, if you have anything suitable.
Nowaysis: striking a blow for the romantics of the world, are you? That's really good, deliciously archaic English. The rhythm limps now and again, but the poem must be good, as it makes me remember what it was like being romantically inclined, and anything that makes me even more bitter and cantankerous gets a high rating from me.
Burlesque.

I rushed it because my friends birthday was actually last week and I promised her I'd do something for her birthday. I was determined to do atleast six pages. Then six grew into eight, and eight grew into ten. Now I think it will grow into sixteen and I still wont be finished.
It's one hell of a short stroy, eh?

gala · 27-10-06 16:51:52

The_Elfman wrote:

Wonderful gala. That is marvelous writing. It makes me want to hit the "delete" tab of my post. Is this an extract from a novel you have written or are working on?
Elfman.

no. it's just that. i don't write fiction, particularly long form fiction. i submitted it to a lit journal at a university, but the editors didn't feel it 'fit in' with the rest of the pieces. i can understand why an editor wouldn't want to publish it. it's a bit odd. and what was more significant to me was the process of writing it. wayne was a writer as well, a very good one.

dyslexius · 27-10-06 18:48:17

gala wrote:

...and what was more significant to me was the process of writing it.

Like, writing as catharsis, Gala?

--dyslexius

gala · 27-10-06 22:57:15

umm sure, but i think it's more complex than that. but yes, certainly that's an element.

The_West_Wind · 28-10-06 01:21:51

The philosophical refferences that Gala puts into her work combined with a plot element that is a real life in an unreal, almost unbelieveable situation, was great. I really enjoyed it.

dyslexius · 28-10-06 09:05:59

TWW, Velos, and the Land of Masks...

TWW, through your preface, you establish right way the magical powers of the characters: their innate strengths are in direct conflict with their external handicaps (Crystal is gifted with sight and sound yet wears a blindfold and ear-stops, Patrick has travelled the world over with iron shoes, and Velos is gifted with speed and strength but wears iron weights all over his body). So before even entering the story fragment, I'm intrigued by these characters and feel like I'm about to enter a fantasy tale.

At this point I have to mention I'm already biased in favor of your piece before reading its first sentence, as I'm into myths as allegory, my main study being Wagner's Ring of the Nibelungen. I invested a lot of treasure and energy feeding that habit, and, as Nietzsche once wrote about the "disease of Wagner", I too may also be cured, but that disease left me with a great appreciation of the ineffable value of mythology.

Upon reading this "Pt:1" I conclude that it is still in rough sketch form. In its present form, it lacks continuity -- there is exposition of some intriguing ideas and symbols but no development of them.

The Sultan desires a souvenir from the Land of Masks -- this seems like a crucial plot symbol, but once Velos leaves for this Land of Masks, we hear no more of it. Did Velos bring back an "ornate mask" as requested by the Sultan (maybe Pt:2 tells us)?

Patrick unlocks Velos. Velos leaves debris as he runs off toward the Land of Masks. Velos returns, more elaborate debris in his wake. Patrick re-locks Velos. I love this outline, but what does it mean (again, Pt:2 ?).

So, you had me on the edge of my seat awaiting development of a few of the symbols: The fact that Velos is to some degree, except when on a mission, "locked," as if a servant to Patrick, or locked so as to not present a danger to his friends when not on a mission, and perhaps the most sensational aspect of this so far -- a symbol that seems destined to become key to the whole story -- the debris that Velos leaves in his wake. And the one moment of poignance in the sketch so far, right at the end: Patrick is ordered by the conquering giant to cover the ears of Crystal with his hands. This conjured for me a lovely little tableau, the one moment of pregnant repose in your sketch, so far.

When you tidy up this part, and complete "Pt:2", connecting all of these ideas together into a coherent whole, I think you might have quite a captivating tale. Do go on with it!!

--dyslexius

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The Official IFM write-off (MkII).

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