The Conservative Cave
Current Events => The DUmpster => Topic started by: franksolich on July 20, 2009, 05:22:13 PM
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http://www.democraticunderground.com/discuss/duboard.php?az=view_all&address=216x5718
Oh my.
This, from the writer's forum on Skins's island:
Brigid (1000+ posts) Sat Jun-27-09 09:25 PM
Original message
Opening for a Story
Hi! I'm Brigid and I'm new to the Writing Group (though not to DU). I've been working on the opening scene to a story, which I hope to perhaps turn into a novel or at least a short story.
Tell me what you think.
The worst of the storm had moved on east into Michigan and Indiana, but snow was still coming down heavily enough that the foot traffic on Michigan Avenue was a little lighter than usual. Those who had ventured out as dusk fell were all on a mission of some sort or other, with only a few shopping days left until Christmas. Most were too preoccupied even to notice the walking cliche stumbling down the sidewalk: A frail old man in a shabby trench coat with two missing buttons, oversized boots with the uppers almost separated from the soles, watery blue eyes, and stubbly jaw. A half-empty bottle of cheap wine in a paper sack completed the picture.
Those who did take notice would have been shocked if they had seen the faded black and white photograph in his pocket. It was of himself in his youth, all decked out in Marine Corps dress blues. Even more surprising would have been the shoe box full of medals and campaign ribbons he had stashed under the broken down cot in the dingy hallway in the abandoned building off Sheridan that he called home. Social Security did not exactly pay for a penthouse on Lake Shore Drive.
Well, it beats the NanceGreggs idiot, but that doesn't mean it's great.
Tangerine LaBamba (1000+ posts) Sat Jun-27-09 10:42 PM
Response to Original message
1. I like it - a lot.
I had trouble with the second sentence, something about the placement of the time of day, but that could just be me. I'd move the "dusk fell" reference into the first line, setting the whole stage from the start.
Having lived some wonderful years in Chicago, I, of course, got the whole picture of the Miracle Mile, but I think anyone would immediately get the picture.
Well done!
Brigid (1000+ posts) Sun Jun-28-09 05:12 PM
Response to Reply #1
2. Yes!
Excellent suggestion. Thank you.
CTyankee (1000+ posts) Sun Jul-19-09 07:25 PM
Response to Original message
3. Nice scene setting. You "get it" immediately. It really gives you a contemporary picture of something we can quickly relate to. And it gets to the pathos right away and introduces you to a person with a soul-crushing life situation. I wanted to read more right away...
I dunno; how's this:
It was a dark and stormy night in mid-winter in the lonely, desolate Sandhills of Nebraska, the never-ending wind swirling loose snow around in knee-high cyclones. Suddenly there appeared an apparition; a man dressed in black, but pasted with snow, stumbling through the thigh-high snow.
The batteries in his hand-held flashlight having been burned out, he was piercing the darkness with the lighted end of his cigarette and a flickering candle in a holder.....
It's a joke, folks. franksolich doesn't really write like that.
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http://www.democraticunderground.com/discuss/duboard.php?az=view_all&address=216x5718
Oh my.
This, from the writer's forum on Skins's island:
Well, it beats the NanceGreggs idiot, but that doesn't mean it's great.
I dunno; how's this:
It was a dark and stormy night in mid-winter in the lonely, desolate Sandhills of Nebraska, the never-ending wind swirling loose snow around in knee-high cyclones. Suddenly there appeared an apparition; a man dressed in black, but pasted with snow, stumbling through the thigh-high snow.
The batteries in his hand-held flashlight having been burned out, he was piercing the darkness with the lighted end of his cigarette and a flickering candle in a holder.....
It's a joke, folks. franksolich doesn't really write like that.
Plagiarist !!!!! :rotf:
(http://blogs.thetimes.co.za/bookcase/files/2008/09/snoopy.jpg)
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Brigid
The worst of the storm had moved on east into Michigan and Indiana, but snow was still coming down heavily enough that the foot traffic on Michigan Avenue was a little lighter than usual. Those who had ventured out as dusk fell were all on a mission of some sort or other, with only a few shopping days left until Christmas. Most were too preoccupied even to notice the walking cliche stumbling down the sidewalk: A frail old man in a shabby trench coat with two missing buttons, oversized boots with the uppers almost separated from the soles, watery blue eyes, and stubbly jaw. A half-empty bottle of cheap wine in a paper sack completed the picture.
Those who did take notice would have been shocked if they had seen the faded black and white photograph in his pocket. It was of himself in his youth, all decked out in Marine Corps dress blues. Even more surprising would have been the shoe box full of medals and campaign ribbons he had stashed under the broken down cot in the dingy hallway in the abandoned building off Sheridan that he called home. Social Security did not exactly pay for a penthouse on Lake Shore Drive.
She's writing a story about the future of Murtha.
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Its about the future under the Oconomy
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The clerk watched as the man limped up to the counter as if there was a wound or a boil on his heel. The soul of one of the shoes was peeling off, it flapped around as he walked. His jeans were torn and ripped but it wasn't a fashion statement. The shirt had many stains and did not look clean.
With a grimy hand he put four small candies on the counter, I noticed his hand shook slightly and wavered before dropping the merchandise. He was reticent about whether he could afford to pay for these four tiny hard candies, I saw his eyes glance back to the isle. His hair was graying far too early in his life and his face had several days worth of beard growth.
Once upon a time I would have pegged him as homeless, years ago I would have said he made a low wage somewhere and was constantly trying to save money. Today... *sigh*
I regretted having to say it aloud to him, I wish I could have just given them to him.
"Thats $397 please" I said "after taxes. Merry Christmas".
His grimace told me everything...
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Plagiarist !!!!! :rotf:
(http://blogs.thetimes.co.za/bookcase/files/2008/09/snoopy.jpg)
That's the first thing that popped into my head....... :lmao:
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That's the first thing that popped into my head....... :lmao:
Me too!
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It was late afternoon on Skin's Island. The shadows from the coconut trees grew long as the tide changed. In the distance there was a tapping - first a couple of clicks, distantly spaced apart- which grew closer and closer. Hunched over a rock was a primitive, pressing letters on an old, mechanical typewriter. The primitive remembers hearing stories about monkeys and these noisy mechanical things from his childhood, and figures since he is a man, and not a monkey, that he could do better.
The primitive succeeded in making enough noise that he caught the attention of several others. Soon they came - peering around rocks, or from behind the coconut trees, hiding in the long shadows. Some were curious - others afraid. The clack-clacking of the keys is not something one hears on Skin's island. Too metallic to be a coconut getting broken open. Too hollow to be a drum like the ones used at the bonfires. A couple of the primitives try to dance to the rhythm of the keys, but quickly learn that the rhythm is imperfect, and the sounds of their chant 'ooga-chaka ! ooga-chaka !.. ' quickly drown out what little rhythm there is.
But all this doesn't bother the typing primitive, as he slaps keys more and more rapidly as the thoughts flow from his mind to his fingers. And one day, when the primitives find some paper that doesn't end up used in one of their intricate bonfires, a recording of those very thoughts will become the fabled 'words, that stay' that may be shared with other primitives at any time -- A record that says loudly 'I was here !'.
As the sun sets, and the bonfires begin, one can hear the clack-clacking continue. Fruitless, save for the joy this primitive has found, and the understanding that one day, the primitive will best the monkeys of childhood fables and dreams.
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It was late afternoon of Skin's Island. The shadows from the coconut trees grew long as the tide chaged. In the distance there was a tapping - first a couple of clicks, distantly spaced apart- which grew closer and closer. Hunched over a rock was a primitive, pressing letters on an old, mechanical typewriter. The primitive remembers hearing stories about monkeys and these noisy mechanical things from his childhood, and figures since he is a man, and not a monkey, that he could do better.
The primitive succeeded in making enough noise that he caught the attention of several others. Soon they came - peering around rocks, or from behind the coconut trees, hiding in the long shadows. Some were curious - others afraid. The clack-clacking of the keys is not something one hears on Skin's island. Too metallic to be a coconut getting broken open. Too hollow to be a drum like the ones used at the bonfires. A couple of the primitives try to dance to the rhythm of the keys, but quickly learn that the rhythm is imperfect, and the sounds of their chant 'ooga-chaka ! ooga-chaka !.. ' quickly drown out what little rhythm there is.
But all this doesn't bother the typing primitive, as he slaps keys more and more rapidly as the thoughts flow from his mind to his fingers. And one day, when the primitives find some paper that doesn't end up used in one of their intricate bonfires, a recording of those very thoughts will become the fabled 'words, that stay' that may be shared with other primitives at any time -- A record that says loudly 'I was here !'.
As the sun sets, and the bonfires begin, one can hear the clack-clacking continue. Fruitless, save for the joy this primitive has found, and the understanding that one day, the primitive will best the monkeys of childhood fables and dreams.
Not bad for a mailman.
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Inspired by primitives who use far too many words in their descriptions -- though I did go back and edit it slightly - replaced 'of' with 'on'
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Its kinda funny that DUmmy Brigid is so bad, she is getting pointers from DUmmy CTYankee, the writer who has characters but cannot think of anything to do with them.
Okay, another snip from a master writer, a DUmmy Mythsaje tome:
Young Cory Flynn is presented with a fateful choice; abandon his humanity or watch everyone he loves die at the hands of a mad and ambitious vampire queen.
Note that there is no mention whatever of a dark and stormy night.
Come on folks, the guy has cases of these things he's already put on his Visa card, stacked in a tiny apartment. Maybe a little early Christmas shopping?
He's fouled his nest so bad at the DUmp, he made a post today with the word "sexual" in the title, and still got a <0 rating. That is something I would not have believed until he did it.
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He watched as the man dressed in white and put the safari hat atop his head, he actually meant to follow through with his plan.
"But sir, you really need to reconsider this idea" he said, a bit louder and slower than he would for anyone else.
"I am sorry my good man, but I am committed to this course of action"
The aide looked at the porthole and shivered. The island was dangerous. The aide de camp knew it and he really didn't want to be out there even with his boss, an adventurer extraordinaire. "But the pilgrims sir, they're dangerous"
His boss gave a deep-throated laughed. "Friday, I assure you that I am not afraid of these primitives. I study them, it is what I do"
Yes, Friday agreed, I can see its no good to argue with Frank Solich, especially on his Grand Expedition.
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Damn, it's too bad the literary primitives are afraid to lurk here, because if they did, they'd find some examples of first-class writing which to emulate.
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When did cliques learn to walk and why do they stumble?
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Rebounds from a great love can get messy.
The booze and drugs really messed me up, I met this man a friend of a friend and he had the money to take me on a whirlwind romance.
In less then 2 freaking weeks we stood before the court and were married.
This man had to ask me what my middle name was and had to change some things as he put my eye color as blue on some forms.
It was great fun at first, some thing akin to being in an arranged marriage, great sex, like getting strange stuff every night.
We began to walk on egg shells around us, neither of us knowing what to expect from each other, we had to learn every day the likes and dislikes of each other, the taste in food, the common interests and what the other had no interest in.----But, the sex was great.
I found early on that he no interest in my past, where I had come from. he lived for the moment.
He also had no interest in relating to me his past in any way, it was as if the day we met we were both reborn with no baggage just the present and the future.
After a year or so, the sex began to slow down a bit, Lust was turning into love for me, this new life was fantastic, I was falling in love with my husband.
OK KIDS HERE IT COMES.
One dark and stormy night he came home and abruptly told me to pack my bags with enough clothing and personal effects for 3 months,-----We were going to meet his MOTHER.
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Rebounds from a great love can get messy.
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The booze and drugs really messed me up, I met this man a friend of a friend and he had the money to take me on a whirlwind romance.
...
Indeed.
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My favorites on this thread were FGL's. The Man Friday piece made me :lmao:
Brigid's however, I would have stopped reading there. It screams "AGENDA!!!" and the opening scenery was ineffective hackery. It reminded me of that old Bob Ross show, that queen who painted landscapes. Was that his name?
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Her sentences are too long. Most of them could be broken into two separate sentences, without sacrificing any content but improving their ability to engage reader interest. Somewhat florid, but I've seen worse.
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Looks like another DUmmy hired that infinite number of monkeys residing in an infinite number of rooms each with an infinite number of typewriters.
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Well, at least we know she's familiar with cliches. But I sure don't see anything unique in these two paragraphs.
Cindie
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My favorites on this thread were FGL's. The Man Friday piece made me :lmao:
Brigid's however, I would have stopped reading there. It screams "AGENDA!!!" and the opening scenery was ineffective hackery. It reminded me of that old Bob Ross show, that queen who painted landscapes. Was that his name?
It was hot and dark, I couldn't see far from the fire. The drums were pounding, my eardrums ached from the noise. I couldn't move, bound by vine tied tightly, the fire was roaring now and the water I sat in was heating up quickly. The primitives were dancing around me holding their spears and whooping and hollering all sorts of strange things. "free holistic medicine for everyone" and "stop global climate change".....
Where was the boss? I was certain he wouldn't forsake me, Friday, his aide-de-camp.
Then I heard a deep laugh, I knew that laugh!
"Boss?" I asked into the darkness....