Troper Critique Club:

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Meh, might as well read the Star Wars fanfic chapter.

This comes from a non star-wars fan, so I'm mostly going to review the mechanics of the story instead of the characterization. That, and I haven't read the first two chapters of your fic.

"We must go down here, monsieurs,"

Space French?

A long time ago, the Gauls had lived on the surface of Naboo

This implies that Naboo is a planet...

the Nabu, for whom the island was named.

... yet you then say that Naboo is an island. I thought you might mean that more metaphorically than literally, but it isn't clear or obvious.

Descriptions are good, and I like your use of those line-y thingies.

His head hung in shame and fear, Jean shuffled off, followed by the two Jedi and trembling "Pourquoi moi?"

Should be "Jean shuffled off, His head hung low in shame and fear", and the part after the third comma doesn't make much sense.

Chief Nass, the townspeople called him.

Dat Nass

"They're about to attack the Naboo," Qui-Gon replied, attempting to call on whatever sympathy this man might have. "We've been sent to warn them."

Maybe it's just that I haven't read the whole story, but why is he telling the Space French this instead of the Naboo?

It is a trap


"Oui, oui! Into the Water Labyrinth! Into the...Water...Labyrinth...nous allons mourir."

Gratuitous French! Feels a bit unnatural.

And so concludes my pathetic excuse for a review.

edited 27th Jan '12 6:57:52 PM by Schilcote

Okay then:

@ Schilcote: One question:

Why should I care?

The way things are, it just seems it's like a bunch of well, robots. To me, they're statistics, nothing more.

Outer Limits Twist, on the rare occasion it doesn't seem like something under Ass Pull, works because you care about the characters. Here, it's just a random anecdote about a starship crash. More like something The Cynic would relate when explaining how dangerous space actually is. Something his friends would ignore, if not creeped out by.

So, for the third time, here's my Hunger Games/Exalted crossover.

Again-some terminology might need to be looked up for a person who isn't a fan of the games, and it's basically an Apocalyptic Log on how civilization died and Panem came to be by a group of people who were alive during it, and still kicking.

edited 28th Jan '12 9:26:42 AM by Leliel

Troper Addict
Um could someone PM me if theyd like to read my script it doesnt format correctly on the thread... Thnx in advance

edited 28th Jan '12 1:35:44 PM by iDreams

Wannabe Comedian
Well, here is a few short chapters from a work-in-progress that I lost the plot for the second I decided to change it to a comedy. All I can figure out so far is that it's about modern day wizard hunters.
if I had enough money, I would donate a bunch of coloring books to the blind.
I've been (very slowly) working on a sci-fi/slice of life type novel targetted at teenagers and looking for what ever critiques I can get

So far only 5 chapters in, so anything helps.
1581 Zelenal20th Feb 2012 06:47:06 PM from Purrgatory , Relationship Status: Maxing my social links
The Cat Knows Where It's At
Okay, I'm a fantasy writer who usually does High/Heroic Fantasy but lately I've been testing how well I can write characters by doing two Slice of Life fics. Seeing as how I haven't really gotten any real critique, I need someone to help me figure out where I need to improve. I also really need help with one part of the next chapter of one of the fics because something about a scene doesn't sit right with me and I can't move on until I fix it.

The first is a How to Train Your Dragon fic that follows the continuity set by To Soar Into The Sunset (with the original author's permission). It's still pretty much exactly like the movie but a few relatively minor things will be different.

On On Deviant Art.

The second is a My Little Pony: Friendship Is Magic fic that takes place almost four years after the start of the show (exactly four in Chapter 7). This is, in my opinion, my best work so far. Unlike quite a few of the other popular fics out there, I strive to capture what we love about the show in the first place. This is also the one I need help with.

On On Deviant Art (Recommended due to a special font for text written in-universe).

If you're interested in helping me with that one scene from my Pony fic, please PM me.

Also, just for kick and giggles, here is a fic I wrote a couple of years ago at 4 AM after getting very little sleep for the past three days. It is easily my favorite work.
Let the joy of love give you an answer!

Check out my book!
I apologize for whoring this thing out so much, but I'm new to this field and strive for any help I can get. This is the first fic I've ever posted, a Homestuck AU fic called Parthenogenesis. It's mostly an alien biology/culture experiment, as well as a study on some of the stronger characters. Though it does concern the Mr. Seahorse trope, I'm trying my best to avoid fanfiction cliches of the subject and make clear that this is not supposed to be a fluff, slash or kink thing. Any input helps, and I'm happy to offer my own opinions if anyone asks.

It's here on AO3.
1583 StillbirthMachine31st Mar 2012 05:42:33 PM from The Womb ov Impurities
Heresiarch Command
'Ello there, joined the site roughly sometime way too early this morning after taking a look around its forums. Writer in the making but unfortunately some academic issues (presumably the last year of university) has been hogging up my time a fair bit. The following is the beginning of a novel I'm working on but I've essentially sort of left it on the backburner for some time due to the previously mentioned issues and as such, I have the feeling if I actually started writing again it'd be noticeably different. Regardless, it'd be cool if you could all have a look. Rather short, constructive criticism, especially in terms of writing style, would be really welcome.

If anyone wants to have an idea of the universe it takes place in, the backstory and background, I can fill them in quickly.

It was a wonder how he could stay relatively good natured and even sane within these bizarre corridors. They were not the clean chrome of usual military passageways. In fact, they did not even seem to be corridors in the first place but rather the massive veins of some ancient beast, buried underneath immense layers of corroded metal and detritus. All throughout the hollowed form, the hive ship breathed the breath of centuries and of whole peoples; innumerable forms lived and died beneath the rough-hewn surface. Even the organic mesh that coated the surfaces shifted under his weight as he crept, crawled, and walked, contorting to best disperse his weight. Emerging from beneath its forest-floor green, swollen lumps with their goggle-eyed surveillance mounts watched every move he made, smelled every scent trail he left, and triangulated his position constantly.

These winding veins were not deserted; its security systems had been watching others long before he'd entered. Every hole and crevice was occupied, their inhabitants obscured beneath creeping mossy growth. Fist-sized black blurs of skittering legs and unblinking eye clusters darted through what some would assume were un-repaired cracks, relaying information and running the technicalities of maintenance on the planet-sized ship. Looming over them were far more advanced creatures - his own people. Some of them were over his six foot height, a few bending forth slightly or hanging from walls and ceiling to better accommodate their great size. He heard snippets of "conversation" as he passed them by. To most ears it was little more than a chittering and inharmonious cacophony. To a funebraran, this was a sort of code-speech, incomprehensible to all but their own, unlocking its precise meaning like engrams within his mind and bereft of the need for conventional syntax, grammar, and vocabulary.

Whatever they passed amongst themselves or the organic communication networks of their home was not of importance to him. It was hard to tell if they were aiming some of it at him due to their dome-like eyes often lacking recognizable pupils. Regardless, he knew many of them were trying to ignore or otherwise look away from him. He was not reviled or despised but the way he was regarded had with it an air of dreadfully moribund certainty. It was less hostility in their eyes and more of a tense, subdued body language, implying barely suppressed pity and empathy as he passed them by. Many of them wanted to warn him with the words he'd expect of the older drones, the dangers of a doomed youth or a stagnant middle age but they already knew that all ears had heard them a thousand times by now.

Ten days ago, his kind had been asked by theirs for another black task. It was a one way question, the sort whose optional status remained so only on paperwork rather than actual practice. This was not the first time their coalition had come to them nor the last time his war swarm would be attached to their joint task forces. As the door to the meeting room peeled its hardened membrane back into the ship, he let the few minutes he had before their arrival be used for silently cursing their names as he slumped over on the octagonal table. This was the last of the meetings for some time, merely a form of courtesy as well as an opportunity for them to review and finalize the rewards and restate what had been agreed to.

It was hard for him to care about these things, contradictory as apathy was to his job. He had only been commanding an entire detachment for five or so years and "history repeats itself" suddenly became the most unpleasant summation of his career thus far. Having looked at the rest of the room a thousandfold previously, his eyes merely settled on the fleshy door. Merely waiting for it to pull itself apart had a funereal atmosphere to it. He likened it to what he imagined time on a death-row was like, only one where the whole funebraran race-collective was condemned.


Marcin Kroylitzvek always liked to imagine that somehow, all the technicians and crewmen in the distant hangar were secretly coordinating a massive, purely rhythmic song together as they pounded and welded massive armour plating into place. Of course those war machines weren't completely metallic; he could hear wet tearing sounds and something squelching audibly as dead bio-mass was burnt before being torn away. He wasn't quite sure what part of the instrumentation that could represent but something along the lines of jarring avant-garde dissonance was his best guess.

The others weren't laughing along to his commentary and he didn't think it was just because he was relatively new to their native "language". Maybe they couldn't quite hear him through the sound of their own exotic technology fusing into their combat-modified carapaces, partially synthetic and powered by sources organic in nature. All throughout the troop bay, where the powerful creatures, his own people, lounged in relative silence, inspecting their bizarre weapons and equipment. A thick segmented arm, almost like that of some industrial tool, stretched outwards in strained motions in spite of its owner's harsh mask of a face. It remained neutral towards its arm's contortions, splitting cracks causing Marcin to almost jolt as the border between his natural bodily definition and the weaponized, multi-tubed limbs began to swing towards the latter.

He repeated his little quip again, his simple humanoid mouth splitting apart like some organic facade, teeth and numerable pinching mouthparts all mounted on innumerable smaller jaw-mounts. Again he uttered the sepulchral speech of the funebrarans. Amusedly, the other three around him watched as his individual mouthparts attempted to mimic their language, the maxillae and paraglossa stuttering about as palps standing over humanoid teeth waved around. It was as if they were all simultaneously conducting an orchestra.

"English please, tarnish my culture on different day." responded an angularly vibrant voice, albeit one that wasn't used to speaking the common language of English. Marcin's head was the only one that turned to meet the newcomer's, lacking the wider field of vision the dome eyes or ocular clusters of the others. Before he could greet him in return, the hybrid stumbled back as a blurred shape flew right at him. His hands raised instinctively, the now familiar shape impacting his palm hard and causing him to stagger back.

The claymore, a long shape with hard ridges, ended in a mouth out of which the tip of a barrel peeked out. A lengthy battle rifle, it looked weightless in the arms of the soldier now sliding fingers across its firing mechanisms and attachment rails. Its general appearance was modelled in the grotesque image of assorted arthropod anatomy and fused into the stern metal and crusty carapace-like biomass. In a way it was a fitting choice for these seemingly half synthetic, half organic war machines. Both of a comparable six-foot height and each had a discomforting carapace that seemed as equally undergrowth earthly and industrial metallic. Where they differed were the particulars of their anatomical structure.

Upon an initial glance, Marcin looked eerily human, enough to make one imagine perhaps he was the end result of an experiment to combine the mammalian with the insectoid. He stood as a man might stand, straight with broad thick shoulders. Long ridge-formations of bone emerged trailed along his body; thick, twisting, extra-jointed, and intertwining with shifting plates of more arthropod anatomical segments. The end result made it seem as if there were small parasitic crustaceans covering his body. This natural fortress caged tough looking flesh beneath, its slightly dark-red colour like strained muscle mass, robbed of epidermal covering and covered in a sort of splotchy grime. It was difficult to tell if it was external filth or natural textural colouration. Even the shape of his head reflected this evolutionary philosophy; barren and minimalist like that of the segmented creatures surrounding him yet sharpened and made into something like a war-mask with harsh slants contrasted by smooth contours. The only soft features were two pupil-less eyes, glaring out of their sockets like vengeful predators.

The other stood on two powerful legs but they had an inward bend at the knees, ready to spring into the air at the first sign of danger. Its body widened as one travelled upwards from gut to torso yet it remained sleek and streamlined, a form meant for sudden bursts of movement. The edges of his exo-shell covering were highlighted white, ending in flattened plates with wave-like motifs. It formed a singular unified shape, one which looked like it could slice someone open by merely brushing against them. His head was similarly well protected. Its helmet, rigid and sullen, combined a variety of strange ridge-like lines, arranged symmetrically to form a strange almost key-hole like formation out of which a meatgrinder mouth peeked through the bottom. On the front there were three eyes in the form of slits that rested in a tri-cluster. Beneath, compound eyes with black shadowy pupils beneath watched the world around him in a way that betrayed no emotion. On the outer edges of the front, more of the slit-formations rested, giving him an incredibly wide field of vision.

"Caution is key. Hitting enemy over their head not," While it was clear that the buzz-speak of the arthropods was better suited to him, the drone had an uncanny charisma and confidence to his E.S.L. wording. Apparently the others found it rather amusing, their mandibles clicking and twitching amusedly "Claymore tough, but poor battlefield tactics is stronger. Bayonet make claymore okay spear, not so okay club."

While Orodran Zyakoya was only a few inches taller than him and not as physically imposing as most of the older funebrarans, his movements were distinctly ergonomic and cautious while his instructive voice simply made the hybrid feel younger than he wish he did. At age 60, the cricket's performance on the battlefield had been vital both in saving his own cuticle as well as giving them a decisive edge over their enemies. Given the fact he could leap over 15 feet in the air when he needed to (and that wasn't counting what happened when his wings emerged) and covered supposedly un-traversable terrain as if he was merely skipping roadbumps, Marcin rarely saw him. That put him in the same boat as his victims.

Fighting back the temptation to roll his eyes and justify the close-combat nature of his situation, he merely nodded. He owed that man and was fortunate enough to be on the good side of his often occupied mind. It wasn't uncommon for him to speak to sometimes three people at once. Marcin interrupted him a few times unknowingly when he asked why he was making what resembled asping sounds during the middle of one of their cumbersome conversations.

The other soldier, the one he'd been joking with earlier, gargled something his way, eloquently "spoken" in spite of its unpleasant enunciation, and Orodran began to make a scritch-scratch sound, noisy and utterly discordant. To Marcin's general displeasure, the others soon began joining in and not just with their weirdly developed mouths - he assumed they were arguing and occasionally bringing up something undignified he'd said. Paranoid but he was the newcomer, the "larval one" ("post-pupal juvenile" did not ring as well to his ears), and he wasn't really one of them.

But did they really care about the fact that he was only partially one of their race or rather collective of races? They'd prodded him about that verbally and in passing he'd heard vague whispers of his worth as one of them, yet they treated him with the seemingly detached and blunt, precise manner they treated most of life, one another included. It seemed they alternated between a situational hospitality and a sort of cold, solitary grimness of character. Voivod Zivan, Straul, a few more, more overt and obvious traits of personality were subdued amongst them, at least that's how he saw it. He wasn't born into this funereal world of theirs, where the humour was that of the dying and the condemned. Marcin sometimes wondered that forbidden thought of regret of his decision, to have followed his father here.

edited 3rd Apr '12 10:30:11 PM by StillbirthMachine

Only Death Is Real
1584 Saturn31st Mar 2012 09:01:41 PM from On The Rings , Relationship Status: I-It's not like I like you, or anything!
Eh. Nevermind. Now I feel dumb.

edited 31st Mar '12 9:02:41 PM by Saturn

1585 arreimil16th Apr 2012 10:15:33 AM , Relationship Status: Stuck in the middle with you
The Silly Gloom
I really need some help with this one. I'm writing a fantasy-ish story set in a Crapsack World which... well, I don't think much can be said about it. Here is the first piece. Criticism is welcome, because otherwise I wouldn't dare to post here in the first place lol, and advices, suggestions, any input, actualy, would be really appreciated. Thanks in advance.

As you can see, this thing doesn't even have a proper name yet. Please have a look.

edited 16th Apr '12 10:17:36 AM by arreimil

On the foundation of glass a dream is built.
And, like glass, it shatters.
1586 Night16th Apr 2012 10:21:33 AM from Jaburo , Relationship Status: Drift compatible
The future of warfare in UC.
Reading the OP: it does the body good.
Nous restons ici.

My attempt to be weekly may or may not work, but this is an ongoing series, and I am looking for critiques to make it better.

edited 28th May '12 7:04:58 PM by Nightmare24

1588 Gamabunta25th Jun 2012 01:30:03 AM from The very end o the world
Lurker that doesn´t lurk
Dear tropers:

I'm a chilean amateur writer, and I'm now translating my first novel to english. It's a fantasy setting, quite low in regards to magic but epic in scale... Or so I'd like to think.

If you could please give me your comments on characters, plot and quality in general, I'd be most grateful.

edited 25th Jun '12 1:30:49 AM by Gamabunta

Suffer not the witch to live.
1589 BigBadBob27th Jun 2012 12:52:21 PM from Nowher(e)ville, NA
President of Nowherville
Well, I managed to get started on the beginning of a first draft for my story about the collapse and recovery of the young hope of a Pennsylvania town, and I'd like to get some critique because I'm still unsure of it.

It was a surprise to very few residents of Franklin, PA, that Jim Dale proved successful in his bid for the mayorship. Especially on Columbia Street, it had practically been a given that the boy who grew up in No. 26 would go on to run the town, having applied himself to doing so. The young, good-looking Penn graduate had always been the pride and joy of not just Terrence and Peggy Dale, but the entire six-street area around No. 26 that constituted Emerson Hill.

The Dales moved to No. 26 when Jim was two, and Peggy and Terrence set upon integrating themselves with gusto. The first day, Peggy appeared on all the 30 doorsteps of Columbia Street with a tray of cupcakes, and engaged in pleasantries. She only stopped her round to bake more cupcakes, since the trays she insisted on bringing them on were wont to run out of cupcakes every sixth doorbell she rang.

The cupcakes and the knowledge that their three-year old son now had a neighbor boy to play games with in the future pretty much sealed the deal for George and Caitlyn Sanders, but if anybody else on Columbia Street had reservations about the newcomers, the Dales’ barbecue clinched it. Coming to the house only a week after the Dales had moved in, guests were greeted by Peggy, absurdly, even sunnier than on her cupcake round, holding Jim, whom she had somehow managed to magic into looking more serene than perplexed. They were then directed to the back, where Terrence had set up an area for kids, and a table for the adults, and was busy at a grill that had to be sending the smell of meat into the noses of every living thing in the neighborhood. And so the Dales endeared themselves to Columbia Street for good.

Their son at first was known as just a surprisingly well-rounded kid; always polite, never seemed to get in trouble, always the mediating presence when he and Chris Sanders were in danger of doing so. He was “the perfect role model” for the other kids on Columbia Street and, by the time he finished elementary, Emerson Hill as a whole. Caitlyn Sanders, in her family’s long Saturday evening visits to the Dales, would jokingly confide in Peggy that she hoped Calvin, their youngest son, would look up to Jim more than Chris.

The Sanders were perhaps more in the Dales’ gravitational pull than the rest of Columbia Street, living exactly opposite to them and having nearly daily contact with Peggy or Jim. Yet they were only marginally more adoring of little Jim than the rest of the parents of Emerson Hill, who seemed to Caitlyn to be almost jealous of how close her family was to the Dales. George assured her that she was being ridiculous, and the Dales, though an incredibly nice family, were not gods.

But that seemed unlikely. After all, there never seemed to be anything wrong with the Dales; not a single tense moment between Terrence and Peggy, or a single scolding of Jim. It was almost a matter of pride for Caitlyn that she was so close to them, and of course it was a matter of pride that it was she who taught Jim how to make the chocolate chip cookies, which he peddled for 10 cents apiece at school, when he was staying over for the weekend his parents were in New York for their anniversary.

In grade seven, Jim proved himself a reliable member of the local baseball team, giving his parents another source of pride by scoring the most home runs ever by a Franklin player at the local level. He also proved adept at being a part of the student council, which he was elected as chairman for almost unanimously at the beginning of the eighth grade. By happily taking on hosting duties at school events, Jim made his reputation precede him in expanding outward from Emerson Hill. Caitlyn Sanders remarked to Peggy at eighth grade graduation that “Jim’s speech was almost better than the principal’s”; something that Peggy neither denied nor confirmed with her ever-present admiring smile.

Outside of school, Jim continued to display the same amiability that had made Terrence and Peggy immediate friends on Columbia Street. He seemed to confirm to everyone on Emerson Hill that yes; they were a great little community, to include families like the Dales. When new residents arrived, the first people they met were usually Jim and Peggy, bringing Peggy’s cupcakes and a welcome from Terrence, who was already setting up the grill.

In high school, Jim became student body president freshman year, and managed to spark jealousy in every male his age by beginning a relationship with Melanie Taylor, generally accepted at Benjamin Franklin High to be “the hottest chick in a ten-mile radius”. Whether this was an objective assessment or not, it only added to Jim’s already considerable popularity. His one flaw seemed to be that he didn’t play football, despite him “not being half bad at it” according to Chris Sanders. Not that it mattered; his baseball capabilities more than made up for any deficiencies on the football field.

The fact that he began to go through a long list of voluntary side-activities in addition to baseball in his sophomore year made his consistently excellent grades seem all the more effortless. Effortless seemed actually to be the word that best described Jim. He was effortlessly charming, smart and successful.

Having quit baseball senior year, ostensibly due to an injury, although few believed this excuse, Jim went to the University of Pennsylvania to study law. He came back with a degree and, after a short period at a local law firm, announced he was running for mayor. With a sterling reputation, clean record, and that effortless charm, he gained 67% of the votes on Election Day.

No, not a surprise at all.

What was surprising was, three years later, a clearly hung-over Jim Dale announcing his resignation on the sidewalk next to the Franklin Police Station, where he had spent the night. Whether it was just the one night that he had drank himself into a stupor bad enough to wind up on the station steps, or the culmination of a long period of escalating drinking, was anyone’s guess. Regardless, the attempt to understand why it happened began immediately.

Of course, at first Jim Dale was held up as an example of the soul-crushing effect that politics had on people. This view was almost religiously expounded by The Franklin Observer, fitting in as perfectly as it did with the libertarian views of its owner, Frank Paulson. It was also easier for people like Caitlyn Sanders, who had placed so much faith in Jim Dale, to believe that he was beaten by the demands of politics, than to contemplate the possibility that there might have been flaws in Jim himself; that the boy who had charmed every last one of them with his smile and decorum might not have been the perfect role model for their kids that he seemed to be.

Inevitably though, somebody’s train of thought began to extend beyond this explanation during their perusal of the morning papers. As far as Caitlyn was concerned, that person was George’s drinking buddy, Oscar “Ozzie” Berg, whose mouth had always been a little looser than it should have. It was a Sunday, and Ozzie and George were out back with Chris. Somehow, they had already turned the conversation to Jim, despite Chris’ obvious dislike for talking about his best friend’s, by Franklin standards spectacular, meltdown.

“Well, really it’s not that hard to see why it happened. The kid never had anything go wrong for him. Now things are going wrong for the whole country, including him, and he can’t do anything. Poor guy just couldn’t handle losing for the first time.”

Ozzie took another sip of his beer.

George however, was ready with an answer.

“Nobody likes losing, but Jim doesn’t seem like the kind of kid to take it so roughly. He never complained on the ball field when Williamsburg wiped the floor with us.”

“A baseball game’s a bit different from your actual job.”

Chris had obviously had enough, trying next to spark talk about the Super Bowl. From the women’s table, Caitlyn could hear everything, and just like that the thought was planted in her mind that Jim Dale had actual flaws. He was a bad loser, but that seemed so unlike the kid who, as George noted, had simply smiled with slightly less conviction whenever the Franklin Blue Jays had received a beating.

No, if Jim’s meltdown was caused by anything other than politics, it had to be something deeper than just being a sore loser. So the next time Caitlyn saw Peggy, she asked her as directly as she felt was correct, which, given how close they were, was very directly.

“Why do you think Jim did it?”

Completely out of the blue, or at least that’s the way it seemed to come to Peggy. In Caitlyn’s opinion, she had been leading the conversation this way rather expertly. Peggy though, seemed to shiver violently at the question, her eyes widening to saucers for the shortest of moments as the shiver passed up her spine. She dodged the question momentarily by getting up and asking Caitlyn if she wanted more coffee.

In normal circumstances, she would have continued her line of questioning when Peggy returned, but something about the way her closest friend of the last twenty years shuffled back to the table convinced Caitlyn to answer Peggy’s “where were we again?” with a simple “I can’t remember.”

She didn’t ask Peggy anymore, but the thought of Jim’s drinking having a deeper reason taunted Caitlyn. It begged to be exercised, to have her devote hours to thinking about her son’s best friend. It seemed almost perverted, but Caitlyn reminded herself that Jim was like a third son to her; wouldn’t Peggy be just as worried if Chris was the one who had had the meltdown?

edited 3rd Jul '12 8:40:50 AM by BigBadBob

The impossible is a matter of imagination.
1590 goldenerasuburb2nd Jul 2012 11:04:05 AM from Harpers Ferry, WV
THE INHERITORS by goldenerasuburb

Leon Price - 1

I was desperate when I first came into Dr. Pollack’s employ, having just gotten out of jail to find that I had no job and evicted out of my apartment while Gloria, the woman I loved, had moved on. I was willing to do anything for money. This is where the Doc steps into the picture. I was at a bus shelter, trying to sleep as the rain poured down, blanketing the city streets with a layer of water. As if this wasn’t enough, two thugs were picking on someone nearby. Try as I could to ignore it, the noise just wouldn’t go away. So I decided to step in.

“Will you two just keep quiet!? I’m trying to sleep.”

“Shaddup, you mutha fuckin’ bum.” said one of the thugs. He pointed his switchblade at me, as if to scare me off. I was too irritated to be scared. “So you want to play tough? Alright. I’m good enough at that game. I’ll wipe your ass all over the playing field before you can make your first move.”

“Nuff talk. Just do it.” Luckily I had a switchblade of my own. He chuckled when he saw me pull it out.

“I think I’m gonna’ like this.” We charged at each other, blades drawn. He managed to cut my ear right before I grabbed his arm and broke it, leaving him howling in pain. Before I could finish him, the other thug pointed a gun at me.

“Say your prayers, bum.” I ducked behind a nearby car just as he fired the shot. He fired a few more in the direction of the car hoping to hit me. It became a game of cat and mouse, him with the gun, me running, ducking, using anything I could to stay alive a little longer. But eventually he had me pinned, gun pointed in my face, me with no way to dodge. It seemed the end for me. But luckily the Doc pitched in. Into the spinal cord went that thug’s partner’s switchblade, and down on me he fell. When I got up, there he was, the man who had just saved my life just as I had his.

“I am grateful for your help. As an added bonus for aiding me, I have something for you that you would be foolish to refuse.”

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Employment.” I took another look at the guy. He was bald, and I mean shiny clean bald, as in you could almost see yourself on that head of his. His skin had a very dark tan, and his voice had all the tenderness of a rock. From the moment I met the guy, I could tell that something had died in him. But that didn’t mean shit to me, as long as I got food, shelter, and money. And this guy was offering me all three.

“So what is it you want me to do for you in return?” I asked him

“I wish to conduct my experiments in peace. You will make sure no one disturbs them. In return you shall share my quarters, eat from my table, and receive as much pay as I see fit to give you. It is more than you are getting presently I can assure you.”

“So you want me to be your Igor, Dr. Frankenstein. Fair enough.”

“It’s Pollack. Dr. Pollack.” From that moment it was pretty straight forward. If someone got too nosy into what my boss was doing, in I came to scare them away. If they weren’t smart enough to be scared, I would have to resort to force. None of this required me to know what exactly the Doc was doing, and I didn’t exactly care. Then things got complicated.

I woke up in the middle of the night to find some sort of alarms blaring and a strange blue-skinned, white haired chick staring at me in my own room. “What are you doing here, and what is that noise?” She just smiled. Then I heard my boss shout,

“Don’t let her escape!” He didn’t have to tell me twice. I lunged at the creepy twerp, only for the kid to leap out of the way and me to crash into the wall. I picked myself up and turned to grab that kid, but she wasn’t there. I’d left the window open last night, and only now did I regret it. When the Doc saw this, he was angry as all hell.

“You must apprehend No. 211!!!. But make sure no one knows that is what you are doing - if you can manage it you incompetent boob.”

“#211’s the babe, right?”

“She’s more than that, but yes, I suppose you could call her that.”

“You’re experimenting on people!?

“Does it matter?” he said as he eyed me more angrily than ever. I just shook my head no, and proceeded out the door to nab me a smurf lady.

Edgar Book - 1

When I first met the woman I would call ———-, I had no idea what I’d be getting myself into by choosing to take care of her. All I saw was someone in need, and I was not going to turn my back. I’d done that once before – to someone I loved no less – and regretted it ever since. Damned if I made the same mistake twice. After asking a few questions like, “What are you doing out here – don’t you know it’s dangerous?” “Where are you from?” I got the following response:

“You don’t need to worry about me, nope nope nope – I can take care of myself. As for where I’m from, I was created in a laboratory, and I’d rather not go back right now.”

I spat out the soda that I’d been drinking upon hearing the bit about the laboratory. “Excuse me?” I asked, utterly bewildered upon hearing that.

“You heard me. Anyway, I’d best be moving on. Don’t want to…” It was at that moment someone else entered the picture.

“Of all the places the bitch had to run to, it had to be these backwards boondocks.

“Hide me.” She said in a whisper.” I guided her towards my apartment door, and then went to deal with whoever it was she was so afraid of. Upon looking at him, my first impression was that he was a thug, though one cloaked in the garb of authority. I did not yet know how right I was. “Hey! You seen a woman pass by here – white hair, pale blue skin, and spouting some crazy-ass shit about a laboratory?”

“No. And you are?”

“A concerned human being who wants to make sure she gets… help.

“I haven’t seen her, but if I do, I’ll give you a call. What’s your number?”

He gave me his number, and then promptly left. When I reentered my apartment, my guest had one question: “Did you tell him about me?”

“Relax.” I said. “He doesn’t know where you are. Now do you mind telling me what the heck is going on here?”

She took a deep breath and then spoke. “My name is Evelyn. My people and I were designed to be your replacements.”

“I’m being replaced!?”

“Not you as a person. You as a species – homo sapiens. We are your successors. I just wanted to find out as much as possible about the ones whom we must overcome to claim our place as keepers of this world. Call it curiosity.”

“Wow. That guy was right. You do need help.

“ “You don’t believe me?”

“I believe you are sincerely convinced that everything you said is true. I do not however believe it is true in fact. I’ll require a tad bit more convincing.”

“Fine.” She said. “You want proof. It is perfectly understandable. I’ll need to demonstrate that I’m not one of you. For this I’ll need to do something no human can do.” I decided to humor her.

‘And what would that be?” She smiled one big beaming before grabbing my neck. I had half a mind to swat the kid away and call the thug, but then what looked like barbed tendrils emerged from her wrists and burrowed their way into my spinal cord. I felt an odd numbness come over my entire body for at least thirty seconds. When feeling finally returned to my body, I was on the ground and what I had until then thought was an innocent little girl stood over me giggling. “So tell me, can you do that?”

I struggled to get up off the ground, gasping the whole while. “What the hell did you do to me?” I demanded.

“I injected a drug into your system of which my kind are the only available source and on which you now depend. If you go without it for too long, the withdrawal symptoms will kill you. Granted there was the chance that such a large dose all at once could easily have killed a less hardy specimen. I really am impressed. But aaaaaanyway, know this: you wanted proof I was something other than human. Now you have it.”

I had two more questions. The first: “So what do you want?”

“I already told you. I want to learn more about your kind, who mine will one day replace as the dominant species. I also want to avoid getting caught by that scary man you quite kindly protected me from.

The second: “And who was this man?”

“A lackey of my father, the man who made both me and the rest of my people. He doesn’t know it yet, but he’ll one day be in the same position you’re in. That or he’ll be dead. He was sent after me because my father does not approve of me leaving the laboratory just yet.” I sat there, processing everything she said. I’d heard of do-it-yourself biotech experiments on the news, but this was on another level entirely. To all of this there was but one response:

“Let’s get started, then.”

1591 ManicOppressive21st Jul 2012 09:41:48 PM , Relationship Status: Non-Canon
Hi! I just started another project, because never having anything finished is fun, and I'm curious what people think of it. I'm calling it "Deities Anonymous," and while I'm generally very confident in my writing abilities this one is very dialogue driven, and I'm not sure how good I am at that. —- Edit: How do I get linebreaks to take?

edited 21st Jul '12 9:46:01 PM by ManicOppressive

Ceci n'est pas une signature.

Can I get an honest critique please? It's the first part of an ongoing series that has quite a few parts already, but I have yet to receive a critique.
1593 Zelenal24th Jul 2012 05:22:20 AM from Purrgatory , Relationship Status: Maxing my social links
The Cat Knows Where It's At
You know, I'm wondering why this thread even exists anymore. It's obvious that no one is reading these anymore.
Let the joy of love give you an answer!

Check out my book!
1594 Masterofchaos26th Jul 2012 03:20:17 PM from the void , Relationship Status: In Lesbians with you
sophie! from mwdh

I was wondering the same thing.
Nothing wrong with having it up, though I do think the person/people who are posting up their whole work on the thread are doing it wrong. The way I did mine was getting a Fictionpress account (They're free and easy to use) and posting my work up there, with a link posted here. That way you even get some critiquing from the readers on the other site as well.

edited 7th Aug '12 11:16:20 AM by Journeyman

1596 Zelenal7th Aug 2012 12:21:01 PM from Purrgatory , Relationship Status: Maxing my social links
The Cat Knows Where It's At
That's what I did since that is the smart thing to do and I don't even get reviews from other people on
Let the joy of love give you an answer!

Check out my book!
1597 Wheezy9th Aug 2012 02:23:20 AM from South Philly
(That Guy You Met Once)
Overall, it's not bad. I like the Urban Fantasy (or rural with limited modern technology) element, the way gods and mutants are subtly worked into the storyline.


  1. This is just my opinion, but I think it's too long for one unbroken document - especially since we don't have pages to naturally separate it. Break it in half, maybe, that way you get two "updates" out of one script, anyway.
  2. I'm guessing you don't read your final drafts out loud. Not just in your head, but out loud. There are a ton of awkward phrasings that would be corrected if you'd do that.
  3. If it's really a sleeping bag, just cut out the middle man and have the protagonist say that instead of "bed."
  4. What kind of drink bottle?
  5. You only need one set of parentheses around "I washed each Saturday."
  6. You use the words "I had" twice in a row.
  7. This sentence...
There Wasn't really that much to say—I didn't have that much of note. One of them was a history book— focusing on the last hundred or so years of the New World. Then, there was a schoolbook, focusing on stuff like English, Math, and so on, so forth.
...Is awkward as hell. Try...
There wasn't much of note. There was a history book focusing on the last hundred years or so of the New World, then a schoolbook about English, math, and so on...
  1. "In the picture," not "on the picture."
  2. Why would a wooden bathroom look unstable? Is it on stilts?
  3. You start calling his uncle "Mike" before you establish that's his name.
  4. You use two ellipsis in a row at one point. Don't do that.
  5. How can a statue be "across" a wall?
  6. "A rather feminine figure?" I really hope you're not using that as a euphemism for Buxom Is Better, because that's cliched as shit.
  7. Your characters talk like TV Teens from the '90s.
  8. "Homely" does not mean the same thing as "homey."

I got about 2/3rds of the way down, but I'm out of time now. I'll see if I can finish it later.

edited 16th Aug '12 3:38:43 PM by Wheezy

1598 Wheezy9th Aug 2012 02:24:29 AM from South Philly
(That Guy You Met Once)
The second draft of the first page of Burning Bridges, my entry for a comic script contest.


Panel 1

STEVE STEINMAN, a graying man with glasses, an expensive-suit, and a carefully-practiced friendly manner, stands before a press conference, delivering a prepared speech.

1. Mistakes were made.
2. I’ll be the first to admit that.
3. But contrary to what some people believe, our company’s practices are not at fault.

Panel 2

PULL BACK to reveal the speech is part of a newscast playing on a wall-mounted TV. It’s sunset, and the wall around it is lit a brilliant orange.

1. We believe the responsibility for the incident lies with the engineers who maintained the prototype, and I’ll see that any possible negligence on their part is investigated.

Panel 3

We’re looking from directly above at an Intensive Care Unit module.

In the bed lies ARI, a brown woman in her late 20s with short, black hair and empty eyes, wide open and staring right up at us. She’s hooked up to several IV tubes, and an oxygen mask is taped over her mouth.

Note: For the vast majority of the story, her name is just Ari. Her full name won’t be revealed until much later.

1. I’m not supposed to be here.
2. I always thought I’d go on to a 100-K a year job and a big house in the suburbs, like my parents wanted.

(fainter, off panel)
1. We still hope to release the VX-3 by the scheduled date, although major changes in the design will be required...

Panel 4

PULL IN on Ari’s face, which subtly begins to twitch as her eyes contract into a glare.

Panel 5

CLOSE ON her left arm. Two IVs are fixed to it with tape, one going into her hand and one further up in the forearm. She grips the two of them together hard in her right hand and begins to pull.

1. No.

1. But while I was in the hospital, I realized things would never be the same.

Panel 6

CLOSE ON her bare feet as she lowers them to the floor and shakily puts one in front of the other. Blood splatters on the floor around her.

1. No... No... No...

Panel 7

This can either be the last panel of page 1, or a page of its own, if this ever gets written in an expanded format. This would probably also be the best place to put the title and credits, whatever those end up looking like.

Delirious from her medication, she stumbles wildly down the hallway of the ICU, blood spurting from both her arms and murder in her eyes. Her breath comes out in rasps.

We get our first good look at her in this panel. She's about 5'7, with a surprisingly girlish face, but the lean, muscular body of a servicewoman.

1. LIAR.

1. ...And I knew what I had to do.

Note: Pull the I.V. will be deconstructed later in the comic, when it's revealed that she actually passed out after about ten minutes, was re-attached to all her tubes, and ended up not being able to do "what she had to do" for a few more months.

Also, yeah, I made her Ambiguously Brown on purpose. We'll find out what she is later.

edited 9th Aug '12 8:02:48 AM by Wheezy

So I've got Chapter 2 of "The Awakening" up on now. Pen name is Stone Ape1. If you need a link, either PM me or tell me here and I'll post one up after work. It's been a good 7 months since I last updated it, so the original link is a few pages back somewhere.

edited 16th Aug '12 5:35:08 AM by Journeyman

1600 Wheezy16th Aug 2012 03:20:42 PM from South Philly
(That Guy You Met Once)
I might be wrong, but I don't think the Critique Club works that way.


Edit: Big Bad Bob, your prose is awesome. If the full story isn't too long (e.g.: novel-length), I'd like to see how it ends.

edited 16th Aug '12 3:37:37 PM by Wheezy

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