Writing General

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Re: Writing General

Post by Komrade Kharloth on Sun Jan 15, 2012 7:30 pm

I was thinking that, might paint over it and just use a white gel pen instead of paint.

http://www.flamesofwar.com/Default.aspx?tabid=110&art_id=849&kb_cat_id=27

Example, russian, but the principle remains the same.

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Re: Writing General

Post by GrinningManiac on Sun Jan 15, 2012 8:43 pm

Love the track details

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Re: Writing General

Post by Komrade Kharloth on Mon Jan 16, 2012 4:06 am

In regards to the fantasy WW1 setting I'm developing, I want to do something different with the elves.

Thinking medium skinnned (not fucking pale), with Arabic/Ottoman-esque culture, and a preference for hit-and-run/light infantry tactics (instead of TRENCHESANDARTILLERY) and with a large naval fleet (lots of submarines), possibility of making them be one of the few races to still use magic as an integral part of their forces.

They will primarily be fighting theorcrat/monarchist byzantines.

Yay or gay?

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Re: Writing General

Post by Xandy on Mon Jan 16, 2012 4:15 am

Make them Nazis.

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Re: Writing General

Post by Komrade Kharloth on Mon Jan 16, 2012 4:35 am

Nazis, no, fascist elements, yes.

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Re: Writing General

Post by GrinningManiac on Mon Jan 16, 2012 12:03 pm

Ooh

Ottoman Elves would be awesome

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Re: Writing General

Post by Komrade Kharloth on Thu Apr 12, 2012 1:47 am

THREADNOMANCY IN CELEBRATION OF NERDOM

Right, for the past couple of months, my WW1 Fantasy setting was kind of in limbo, until last week, I got a massive urge and wrote a bunch of shit about elves. I always like to put a bit of a spin on the races/politics of the region (no more tolkein elf clones). How's this sound for elves?

>elves one of the first sentient races, first to learn magic and develop civilization, homeland is a large collection of Islands in the middle of the oceans.

>elves eventually travel out into the world, and bump into the mainland, which is filled with resources and delicious human potential slaves, elves get an imperialism boner.

>elves start settling on the mainland, stripping it's resources and conquering and enslaving most of humanity, creating an empire that lasts for 1000 years, with humans as second class citizens that do all the dirty, shitty work.

>humans get fed up with elven faggotry, and start a massive uprising and war against the elves. Ends with the death of the elven king and destruction of the elven capital on the mainland. Humans start exterminating elves and most flee back to their native Islands. The only elves that remain are in the south, and because of a big magical cataclysm, they lose their immortality and start becoming the ottoman/arab elves they are known as today.

>sea around elven homeland now covered in a thick grey fog and has been for centuries, no ships that enter the fog ever come back. Most assume that the elves of old are long dead and that the islands are haunted/cursed.

>in actuality, the elves of the islands are still alive, they've been trapped in their islands by the fog (they can't pass through either) and have reached North Korea levels of hatred/nationalism/militarisation, they've been preparing for war for centuries, and as soon as the fog lifts, they will have their venegance on humanity.

yay or gay?

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Re: Writing General

Post by Walnutman on Thu Apr 12, 2012 2:17 am

I like it. The thing with the fog is pretty cool.

Are the imperialist era elves kinda like the Thalmor?

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Re: Writing General

Post by Xandy on Thu Apr 12, 2012 11:50 am

Sounds good. Also, out of interest will there dieselpunk in this setting?

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Re: Writing General

Post by Mr. Wiggles on Thu Apr 12, 2012 11:58 am

HUMANS ARE NOT SLAVES! INFERIOR ELVES SHOULD BE PURGED WITH FIRE! HUMANITY SHALL NOT BE COMPROMISED!

Definite yay. I'm sensing that arab elves will remain relatively neutral and adopt a side later in the conflict.

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Re: Writing General

Post by Alkaline on Thu Apr 12, 2012 12:04 pm

I've got a few ideas of my own but fuck me is it hard to put them into writing.

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Re: Writing General

Post by Komrade Kharloth on Thu Apr 12, 2012 2:17 pm

@Walnut

I want to make them almost North Korea like, military conscription for everyone, undying loyalty to a single leader, almost total isolation from the rest of the world (until the fog fades) and having great big war boners

@Xandus

Yep, good amount of dieselpunk.

@wiggles

You sense right.

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Re: Writing General

Post by Walnutman on Thu Apr 12, 2012 6:11 pm

@Kharloth: Sweet, does the leader have a cult of personality thing going on? Always found that kinda cool.

I've been thinking of writing a story myself, but can't get past the initial idea. Basically, it's about a serial killer who stalks, kidnaps and kills women, protagonist is a female detective who starts to fear that she is the killer's next victim. Not the most original idea but I just feel like writing something again.

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Re: Writing General

Post by Mr. Wiggles on Thu Apr 12, 2012 6:13 pm

*Sees title*

It all makes sense now.....

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Re: Writing General

Post by GrinningManiac on Thu Apr 12, 2012 11:45 pm

The best thing that ever happened to me was that I sat down and began writing without even having an idea for a story. Now I have a story and it's already started being written because of this.

Also the elves sound really cool and I could easily imagine their return being some kind of Winter Is Coming arc-word/theme.

The island-thing reminds me of Summerisles of Elder Scrolls but in fairness it's either an island or the mainland so it's 50/50 going to be the same thing.

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Re: Writing General

Post by Xandy on Wed May 02, 2012 4:51 pm

What language can make for some good, draconic names? Was originally going to derive some names from Latin, but they didn't sound nearly dragon-y enough. Currently considering basing the names on Chinese or Arabic.

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Re: Writing General

Post by Komrade Kharloth on Wed May 02, 2012 5:57 pm

Why not ancient Celtic/Gaul names? They sound somewhat draconic in my opinion.

-Cavarus
-Tasgetius
-Dumnorix
-Vercingetorix

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Re: Writing General

Post by Furburt on Wed May 02, 2012 6:27 pm

Cacophonix, Vitalstatistix, Dogmatix.

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Re: Writing General

Post by Xandy on Wed May 02, 2012 6:58 pm

Aren't all of those names latinized?

Although yeah, a lot of the old celtic names are decently dragon-like: http://www.behindthename.com/names/usage/ancient-celtic

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Re: Writing General

Post by Furburt on Wed May 02, 2012 7:07 pm

This might also work.

http://www.nordicnames.de/wiki/Category:Faroese_Both_Genders_Names

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Re: Writing General

Post by Xandy on Wed May 02, 2012 7:37 pm

I've already decided on giving the elves nordic names.

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Wrote a thing

Post by GrinningManiac on Fri May 11, 2012 11:23 pm

Wrote a thing. Made it all up on the spot. Made up words instead when I had to stop and think for real ones. Gribbly!


A brabblous blip on the bungle of the great white space of the galaxy revilled about the sun with the gravity of galaciousness. It was a planet, no bigger no smaller than that which it was. A fearsome sun it revolved. Fierce, red, green with power. Burping with bolumes. The sun was what they called Ave though the sun didn’t call the sun Ave. The sun called the sun itself. Simplicity was a virtue of the mindless. Complexity a vice.

The planet was a bramptious little place. Not the sort of place one would fermongle when perusing the universe for cruising. Certainly not a place to wind up your kids. But it was a planet nonetheless and none would say otherwise.

Many would say otherwise, though, because it wasn’t a planet. Rather, it was the crumbly-bumbly fruggled dirt of the sort that clings to the roots of an uprooted root. Dusty dirt of the dusty, dirty sirt. Wirt it thirt, nirt could kirt. Children made it so. But that’s beside the point. The planet was a tree. A galomptious, guandly thing with big, brangly branches and cupulous, coothed leaves that strangled down from the tips of the tippy-toe branches. A tree of Africa, might a human say, were a human but thousands of lightyears away to judge. No – this was an Avean tree and bedamned to say the same elsewhere.

But let us envelope our gaze. *click* we see now the bulbous borble of the clumpy earth around the space-sunk roots of the wondrous tree. A planet with a tree ten times too big for its half. Was the tree planted in the planet or the planet planted to the tree? Hibbledee-dee. Who knows. Who cares. It works for them.

*click* we see the whalesious waters of the grand blue boatbath. The ocean of Acladity, orange in its blueness. Blunt in its coldness. Wiffly in its fishlyness. Tropic cools and auder damps. Who knows. *click* between the folds of the big blue waves there lies and island that isles its lies on the lying of the lay of the land. Green-tip-top trees spark its scriggled, scraggled earthly bounty. It’s the tip of an archipelago. An archipelago is a chain of islands or “pelagos”, of course, in the shape of a long, extensioning curve or “arch”. The tipple-tapple of the thin-fine archipelago. They call the island Last End, those who don’t live there. They’re the ones who put things on the map and they ought to know what it’s called, natives-be-damned, they’ve got the map and the pen and the ink. Where’s the ink? We’ve forgotten the ink. Better put it on with blood. Kill the cook.

Last End’s wrong name, the thing the things on it call it, is Yawangalay. Too silly by half. It’s got a Y in it. Y is a fundamentally scribblous word. Too jumptious by half. Jumptious letters are argolant and fistly and not enough way in the by of behaviour to have a place on official documentationatorians,. Greek, that is.

Ribbly did the natives of Last End wiggle through the strands of life on their little beach-huts of the island. Ribbly in pain, ribbly in happiness, ribbly in death and ribbly in harvest-time. Sometimes they had pudding for tea. Sometimes they did not. Dark times, were they, when the pudding was not in the having. But life was contentuous, which doesn’t mean what you think it means no-sir-ee.

The natives were of a small sort with big flap-flap ears and mongrel eyes that looks at you with puppy-favours. For seeing at night-time those eyes were built and they did their job when the night fell if it was dark and they had to because it was dark. Jowly frownly faces and skitter-thin necks. Little arms, little legs, little hearts. Patchwork pupples on their skin like a giraffe or a gunnera. Not enough fruit meant their fruit was lacking. They didn’t eat fruit. They much preferred the fruit that grew on the grumpy trees around the fringe of the necklace of sand the island wore around its forestrous neck. It was the tip-toe of the archipelago. Archipelagos need ends or they’re just badly-dressed continents. Any geologist can tell you this. Geographers might punch a goat. Don’t talk to strangers.

Gaily Dee was a little girl when she was born. No other way it could have been done, unfortunately, but she’d made progress since then. Now she was a full ten years of age and nearly twice as old as she was half the time ago when she wasn’t. Her father had hoped for a boy and her mother had pulled his ear when he’d looked a little disappointed. She’d gone on pulling his year for all those ten years that it had happened. Father loved her Gaily Dee but he’d wanted a boy, one or three. So he told his daughter she’d learn what was right. A sensible woman’s a man in the poorer of light. She learnt tree-chopping and fruit-chopping, too. She learnt how to read and right justly agrue. Many a pebble past her toes on the wanders her father wandered her through on the forest-tracks of the Last End summer aboreal bestrangedness. Big trees, bigger than Dee, were at least the size of twice the height of what Dee would be were she as tall as a tree. On a good day when the sky was vulumptious and quite quiletinous in its quilty clouds you could see past the sunset and catch a friendly jim-jam from the waving of the Big Tree’s leaves over the horizon. Apparantly the Big Tree, Al-Shimarigna was what they clouded, she could grow fruitly when she bore it. Big Tree Fruit was the size of a hut – a size equivocable to the size of a Big Tree Fruit when you stand the two together. The hut was made of wicker if that made any of the difference apiece.

But that’s enough of the framblings of an excited showcase of the wonders of this gribbulous grabblings. This a world especial - not to be rushed nor provoked. You’ll see its wonders if it shows them to you. Don’t go rushing off on a good thing now. Wait for the right time. Gaily Dee hasn’t even woken up yet.

Gaily Dee woke up and flim-flammed her padfoot feet across the batter-caked brunt of the dirt in her house. The sun, like a bullet, shone brightly in the forehead of the sky. Light poured like happy sryup over that there tropical conundrum. A topical tropical, too, for in the past many as weeks as so the people of Dee’s village had eye-peeped some wondrous floating trees bobbling down the coastline. The big man of the tribe, Gumly, had reckoned he could swish out to the tree and bring it back for tea. Burning that would bring a week’s worth of joy to the fire that hungered for illumination, they reckoned. He tried swimming out but the big tree roared and Gumly sank. Big Harold, who was bigger than Gumly but not the big man on account of his disposition to think too hard, swaggled out in a flurry to purry the curry of the dilemma. Gumly had dropped under the blue ‘cus he’d afeared the roar of the angry waterborne oak. Humilious was his happenstance. There was little beyond that but to eye-peep the floating oaking broating off the horizonside evening. Who knew who they were. Who cared. They were simple folk with fruit for smiles.

Dee considered the wondrousness of the morning sky and thought it rather unwonderful. It was blue. She did not care for blue. The ocean was blue – the sky was merely mimicking. The sky was unoriginal. She knew it was the sky who steep-slicked the blue sea’s look because the sky could be orange or grey or black as night whereas the blue sea was always blue. The sea couldn’t change its bountied looks – the sky was a scenester.

Dee thought all this as she took a frigging-pole down through the forest-tracks to the village gate. The trees either side were just as easy to pass through but you needed to tell old Pimble where you were off to lest he grow old and curmudgeonless.
“Grump” said he, in as many words.
“Shine the sun on your happy mood, Pimble old-man,” said Dee as they were flogged to do as children.
“Feh,” said he in as much a tone.
“I am off to groam the groazlers, think it not that I’ll return shortly. Afternoon at best,”
“Groazlers get groamed a damn sight too much,”
“groaming a groazler is what keeps the groazler groamed,” explained the bitty bat-eared booble patiently, “without it we might have a serious groazler groaming situation on our happy-otherwise-hands,”
“Feh, bleh and meh,” chungled the grippulous old man, “they’re balls of hair and there’s good eating on ‘em. Kill ‘em all and we’ll have a feast. Whoop-de-doo,”
“Then where will next meal cometh from?” arched the little girl.
“I’ll kill one of those floating logs what ate up Grimly,”
“Grimly hasn’t been eaten. Grimly’s been dead for three years, Pimble respected-elder,”
“There you young-uns go again with your demned language and yer damned correctuality and facts and stuff. Facts aren’t good for the brain. They put it in boxes. Give a man a fact and he’ll only know what he can’t do,”
“Yes, sir,” said the little bow-headed bibble.
“Find it frankly that I don’t consider you for banishment,”
“Yes, sir,” said the little girl, knowing full well of the improbuality of that possifaculty.
“Help a frumjum and he’ll take your wallet,”
“Yes, sir,”
“Go on through,” said the old man, flicking a handful of fingers in the direction of the woadly woods. Gaily Dee thanked the little old baskadule, pulled up her slacks by the rumjacks and stuffed a squidgy paw into the pulpet of her pocket. It was a good day by any sorts.

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मैं हिन्दी जानना चाहता हूँ…અને ગુજરાતી…ਅਤੇ ਪੰਜਾਬੀ…এবং হয়ত বাংলা.
Aprenderé a bailar salsa y nada detendrá me. 对不起我的中文不好,对不起我不知道你说什么。
Не слышны в саду даже шорохи. Все здесь замерло до утра, Если б знали вы, как мне дороги, Подмосковные вечера.
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Re: Writing General

Post by Furburt on Sat May 12, 2012 12:06 am

A jewel in the crown.

And now, the roundup.

"Was the tree planted in the planet or the planet planted to the tree? Hibbledee-dee. Who knows. Who cares. It works for them."

Ho ho ho

"Archipelagos need ends or they’re just badly-dressed continents. Any geologist can tell you this. Geographers might punch a goat. Don’t talk to strangers."

Ho ho ho

"Facts aren’t good for the brain. They put it in boxes. Give a man a fact and he’ll only know what he can’t do,”

Ho ho ho.

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Re: Writing General

Post by Komrade Kharloth on Sun May 13, 2012 4:54 am

Got around to writing up the token horror-translyvania area for my WW1 Fantasy, yay or gay?

"The Hollow Lands"

The Hollow Lands are located in a valley nestled between the temperate forest of Artnor and the mountains of Dorn. It is an empty, desolate place abandoned time and time again by all those who thought to settle it. It has long been a refuge for those who wish to live in absolute secrecy without fear of being found, Necromancers, Cults, infamous criminals and madmen have all called this place home.

The lands themselves have a foreboding and unnatural feel about them, the valley is almost permanently covered in a thick fog, the water is cloudy and tastes bitter, there's very little in the ways of animals and the only natural sound is that of the wind. The few settlements that were once there are now shells, devoid of any signs of life, there are several small villages, a couple towns and a castle that lie in the valley all empty, the castle still barred and locked.

However, the unnatural air about it hardly the most dangerous thing in the valley, the place is infamous for trapping it's visitors in, it's hard to enter the valley and nearly impossible to leave. The Hollow Lands seems to defy any and all laws regarding nature, one might head due north from a village and then hours later, find themselves approaching that same village from the south east, the lands themselves drove the famous explorer Hadim Kasrusic insane when he tried to map them.

However, why all this might be confusing and serve to annoy or inconvince people, the lands themselves are largely harmless and not too dangerous, during the day that is. Adventurers who stay past sunset are in for a night they shall never forget, for when the sun goes down, things happen. Strange fires burn in the mountains, hungry dead walk the earth, things of shadow and smoke lurk just out of eyesight, ancient temples and shrines to long-forgotten gods hum to life once more, winds howl and drown out all sounds, the castle glows with a sickly red light that can be seen for miles around.

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Re: Writing General

Post by Furburt on Sun May 13, 2012 8:52 am

Good filler descriptions, good tone overall. Maybe be a bit less obvious with certain things? Hint at horrors rather than describe them.


I liked the water being cloudy and bitter. Sets the scene well.

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Re: Writing General

Post by Furburt on Sun May 13, 2012 12:35 pm

You bastards, give Alasdair the rimming he deserves.

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Re: Writing General

Post by Mr. Wiggles on Sun May 13, 2012 1:00 pm

Very good indeed! Certainly Lewis Carroll vibe about it.

"The sun was what they called Ave though the sun didn’t call the sun Ave. The sun called the sun itself." -Best line.

We ought to start orating these things people write. Definitely not to save me reading time, although that would be a bonus. Oh no no no, you misunderstand me. Why a oratory piece would offer far more of a dramatic impact combined with the personal feel of the author's own interpretation, a significant improvement.

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Re: Writing General

Post by Furburt on Sun May 13, 2012 1:21 pm

I think Alasdair should read mine and I should read Alasdairs and Joe should read Xandus's.

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Re: Writing General

Post by Mr. Wiggles on Sun May 13, 2012 1:38 pm

And so, the Trifecta was formed.

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Re: Writing General

Post by GrinningManiac on Wed May 16, 2012 12:13 am

I am totally up for doing a dramatic reading of a chapter of Momo

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Re: Writing General

Post by Furburt on Wed May 16, 2012 12:47 am

I am totally up.

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Re: Writing General

Post by Wayward on Wed May 16, 2012 5:26 am

Another wordsmith. ::sigh::

That was really cool and you should feel good about it. Don't mind me sitting dejectedly in the corner with writer's block.

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Re: Writing General

Post by Furburt on Wed May 16, 2012 10:04 am

Writing absolute nonsense helps.

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Re: Writing General

Post by Wayward on Thu May 17, 2012 6:26 am

It's thinking outside the bounds of everyday language. Not everyone can do that.

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Re: Writing General

Post by Furburt on Thu May 17, 2012 11:02 am

I mean just stream of consciousness, doesn't have to be structured at all. Whatever you're thinking.

That's what my mother does when she plays the piano, the first thing she does is bang out a bunch of wrong sounding nonsense for a few minutes, then moves on to nice things.
Helps you warm up without making you doubt yourself, I find.

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Short Stories

Post by PayJ on Sat May 19, 2012 5:50 pm

The dim light from the fire only added to the confusion of the scene. The atmosphere in the camp could be sliced with a knife. A hiss came from the hill top, the first body dropped to the ground. The confused campers darted around like roaches escaping a poisonous cloud. One found safety, underneath a nearby truck, he searched around the dancing shadows trying understand the situation. He frisked his pockets and grabbed his mobile phone. Frantically he mashed at the glowing screen, he couldn't unlock it. Silently gasping and lightly perspiring he struggled with a motion he had performed a million times before.

A shriek was heard over by the furthest tent complex, it was clear to him that whatever was happening was approaching. He knew the light from his screen would reveal his location but he knew that he needed help. His eyes twitched as he unlocked his phone, they focused on his background. It was a photo of him and his girlfriend at this resort last year. Before he could even reach his contacts, another hiss came from the hilltop. The dirt not an inch from his face was kicked up, he jerked up resulting in a sudden blow to the back of his head. He felt a warm trickle down his neck but this was no time to be injured he had to live.

He scrambled out and darted for the mess hall, only to realise he has left his phone under the truck. He hesitated for only a second this was all the sniper needed. With another hiss a bullet tore through his stomach with a sickening squelch taking with it any hope of an escape from this nightmare. As he lay there on the ground bloodied, staring death in the face, he was mocked by his choice to put a screen lock on his phone.


Last edited by PayJ on Sun May 20, 2012 8:12 am; edited 7 times in total

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Re: Writing General

Post by PayJ on Sat May 19, 2012 5:53 pm

Criticism more than welcome.

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Re: Writing General

Post by Furburt on Sat May 19, 2012 8:04 pm

Good. There's some good images there, you build up well and it ends nicely. The only problem is the speed of it, really, the way it's grouped together so close and the punctuation makes it a bit difficult to get a flow going. I'd say if you focused on that a bit more, you could make something very tense.

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Re: Writing General

Post by PayJ on Sat May 19, 2012 10:20 pm

Thanks. Edited that shit.

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Re: Writing General

Post by Mr. Wiggles on Sun May 20, 2012 10:41 am

Aye very good indeed. Nice feel to it but could do with an extra paragraph or so just to prolong that effect.

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Re: Writing General

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