Writers' discussion thread

[Shinigami357]

Those are actually cool [not to be confused with "cool story, bro"]. Short and sweet. The second one kind of gave it away too early, though [or am I just such a big Zelda nerd?]. Wonder why Link didn't have Navi with him, though, LOL. I also love the "reverse perspective" if you will.

 

[KingdomBlade]

For love stories, I find Nicholas Sparks books to be quite inspiring. His style is pretty simple and gets to the point, but it's gripping in a way.

I like the writers guild idea a lot.

"The best writers can make you see in a statement what they see in their mind."

Just a quick aphorism I wrote.

 

[x17th]

I'm not a super full on writer, I've never attempted it, but I always thought it was interesting.

For one I don't have the backbone to even attempt anything. I'm naturally afraid of the criticism I would get, but besides that point I don't even know if the ideas I can come up with are good. Anyways the things I tend to like writing is along the lines of poetry.

I haven't written a story, but I've done something called role playing if anyone knows what that is.

 

[Recorderdude]

Those are actually cool [not to be confused with "cool story, bro"]. Short and sweet. The second one kind of gave it away too early, though [or am I just such a big Zelda nerd?]. Wonder why Link didn't have Navi with him, though, LOL. I also love the "reverse perspective" if you will.

I sort of felt that way too. I wanted to have Harold warning them in a way that wouldn't give it away, but I couldn't think of one at the time.

As for navi, If you noticed the beginning, the fellows in the bar were "palace knights" that were supposed to protect the castle. This is actually a throwback to "Link to The Past", as corrupted/controlled palace knights are some of the first enemies you fight in the game. In LTTP, there was no navi/tatl/whatever.

Glad you liked them, though. Maybe I will write some more in the future. These kinds of stories can't be animated easily, though, as it would be very, VERY hard to keep the viewers not knowing about who some of the characters are when they're looking right at them.

 

[ShinyJellicent12]

I happen to be in progress of writing a book with fellow classmates.
It's called the Death Note, and is about a virus that can murder people. The four main characters try to stop it, but end up making ultimate sacrifices for it. It's like a murder/mystery/action/romance-packed series all in one!

 

[Recorderdude]

It's called the Death Note

You might want to pick a different name. Maybe something like "Black Death" or some kind of Virus name. "Death Note" is just too recognized as the anime/manga to use as a title for anything else and have people know that your story is something different. It's like calling a first person shooter "Final Fantasy"...not a bad name, but most will think of the RPG instead of it.

 

[Shinigami357]

I am supposed to be writing right now, but since we had a power outage hours ago [electricity came back on an hour ago; I had to wait to make sure it won't go out again] I'm kind of "out of it'". So instead of wasting my time typing something, editing it and then deleting it in frustration, I'll settle for something else. I'll just dissect my current writing style here, and hopefully by the time I finish my head's settled.

...

I started liking to write when my mother signed me up for journalism club back in 4th grade, so some of that stuck - when I write, I stick to my spelling, grammar, etc. It's as linear and uncluttered as possible, and all the details are almost always accounted for [which kind of irks me whenever I am forced to review an 11k-word chapter to change minor details for clarity].

When it's appropriate, I like to do very long and detailed descriptions, mostly to make my setting clear before I move on, kind of implant it into the reader's mind. I think this is because before I write certain parts of a story, I visualize it on my head first, almost like a scene in a movie. It takes a lot of time, though, and I'm mostly a "feel thing" kind of writer, anyway, but it's useful. Here's an excerpt from the prologue from one of my stories that is on deep-freeze [it's gory, though.]

Spoiler

Silence. The sky was cloudless, the sun unobstructed save for a light haze of smoke drifting with the passing wind. Beneath it, miles of earth lay in ruins, everywhere littered with piles of long gone structures, equipment and machinery. Here and there, thousands of corpses, all either burned, mutilated or fragmented; in the relentless heat, all of them rapidly rotting. Around them, pools of blood are drying as it is being absorbed into the land. All around, not one living creature made a noise, not one a witness to this desolate scene.

Most of my writing is dark, too. Even when I used to write poetry [I really should get back to that; I miss it a lot]. Also, hospitals seem to sneak into a number of my work [spent a lot of time in a lot of different ones]; in fact, my best school paper piece was a personal recollection of one of my hospital trips [it's also there in the sample I put up in my writer's guild application, LOL].

Since I've started focusing on writing stories, I've figured that my best genres are horror, action and sci-fi [maybe some fantasy]. On the flipside, like I mentioned before, I am hopeless at love stories and those domestic scenes [y'know, when characters are just talking and stuff, esp in a home setting].

Lastly, I research, and I research again [a holdover from my school days when I was a science-geek]. Granted, I can't get out of the house [don't wanna talk about it; suffice to say all those hospital visits had something to do about the whole thing] but I have the internet, right? I'll usually have 7 tabs of research open for one little detail.

...

I'm kind of trying to expand my writing style, though...

So, anyway, how would you describe your writing style? I think it's useful to look at your writing style. Hopefully I can hear from you guys.

PS
And hopefully I can get back to writing now...

 

[Sterling]

My writing style is Action Centric. Meaning, action scenes and descriptions paint a vivid motion picture. However, the descriptive qualities of my work also spread to other Genres that I don't usually write. I've been trying to write a few romantic stories and such, but many of those stories also come from experience and such. Which is why I'm not very great at writing such things.

 

[ShinyJellicent12]

It's called the Death Note

You might want to pick a different name. Maybe something like "Black Death" or some kind of Virus name. "Death Note" is just too recognized as the anime/manga to use as a title for anything else and have people know that your story is something different. It's like calling a first person shooter "Final Fantasy"...not a bad name, but most will think of the RPG instead of it.

Ok, but we'll take that into consideration later.
We're 11 years old and not the best writers in the world that know about every manga/anime

 

[Edgedancer]

I have been writing for years, but its only recently that I have started taking it seriously. I love the stories I am able to write and my minor in University is in creative writing. My writing it a bit odd, considering that I enjoy reading action and fantasy novels, yet I find that I almost exclusively write about emotional love/loss stories, but I like doing it.
Here are a couple of my stories.

Agatha
(this is an old story that I have been meaning to get around to actually editing one of the these days)

Spoiler

Agatha always loved nature. Her earliest childhood memories were of sun streaming through a window with lush plants and trees lying mere centimetres away from her, on the other side of the glass.
As a young child, she loved to walk barefoot around the yard. She could feel the earth caking on her bare feet and smell the rich scents of the seasons. Her days were spent with long picnics under the sun with her mother and bush walking with her father on the mountain that their property back on to.
A distinct memory was of when her father first took her to the summit of the mountain. It was the most beautiful vista she had ever seen and she remembered asking her father, “Why aren’t there flowers on that bush daddy?” while pointing at a bush that looked just about ready to flower, and in a voice filled with love and a gentle smile on his face, he replied, “They will flower soon. Just give them a little while.”
But they never bloomed. Not once in the 10 years since her first visit to the summit of Buckle Mountain, across hundreds of trips, did Agatha see what flowers would bloom. It was one of the mysteries that all fascinated her.
She could name a million things that she loved about nature and never wished to be parted from it.
But fate is a cruel trickster and a parting from nature is indeed what happened to pure, sweet Agatha. On the eve of her fifteenth birthday, she was assaulted by a vile disease. She had a fever that raged for weeks. One instant, she would be too hot, throwing the sheets off her and sweat beading on her forehead, while the next instant would result in chills that caused her to pull the sheets close around her in an attempt to gain their meagre heat.
Agatha slept through most of those terrible weeks, waking occasionally, sometimes with her mother sitting by her, stroking her hand or moistening her forehead. In those instances through, any effort beyond parting her eyes slightly were out of her reach and usually slept through such ministrations. She knew it was her mother though as she recognised the lavender soap that she washed herself with. Usually though, she woke with the room empty, save for the lonely, ravaged girl in the bed.
Many weeks passed and she eventually recovered. Her fever subsided and she regained her lucidity. She began to eat and drink, talk and listen, move and watch. While she regained her strength, she was confined to her room and would spend countless hours gazing out of the window at the world. She yearned to return but knew that her health came first and satisfied her desire by gazing out the window for countless more hours.
Thus a schedule was established for weeks, with tests still being done in an effort to keep her healthy. It was a rainy Wednesday when her life came crashing down again. Agatha had always been adept at discerning facial expressions and knew something was wrong when her mother came in to check up on her. After much persuading, Agatha’s mother finally succumbed and told her everything.
“Your latest blood work came in and I have some bad news for you. Did you wonder why you were still having regular blood tests? Did you wonder why we didn’t allow you to leave your room? I don’t know how to tell you this but the fever you had destroyed your immune system. Even the slightest infection could be life threatening. I am sorry but there is nothing that can be done. You will have to stay in this room for now. We are looking at ways to fix it but it doesn’t look good. I am so sorry.”
There was no response Agatha could give. She could see the sincerity in her mother’s eyes and she knew that she wasn’t lying but the idea of never being allowed outside mortified her. She had never understood the idea of being heartbroken but she felt it. A deep throbbing hurt that refused to go away. A stake had been driven through her heart and she had no idea what she could do.
Agatha simply got up, sat on the window sill and cried. The hurt was unimaginable and although she knew it would not help, she shed tears in the vain hope that they would cleanse her mind, body and soul; just wash away such a deep pain.
In her pain, she felt a spark of anger burst into existence. It nourished upon her hurt and pain like a fire is nourished by oxygen. And in this red rage, she bore her head back and screamed to the god she had always relied upon.
“I am only fifteen! How dare you take away the one thing I love most of all! I have no idea where else my heart could be but out there! I placed my trust in you and in nature but it has been stolen from me and my heart will never be still! No more! I will not stand by while you claim to love me but have thrown me away! I denounce you, oh humble lord and swear that not even divine intervention will trap me in the destiny you have deigned upon me!”
And with that tirade finished, Agatha collapsed, falling unconscious. Her parents were on the other side of the door during the whole session and managed to get into the room in time to see pure, sweet, innocent Agatha collapse. She was breathing evenly and her face was pale. They put her into bed and locked the door not taking any risks that she would attempt to make a fateful trip outside. They knew that something was different about Agatha as they left the room, letting the lock softly click into place as they closed the door. And although they loved their daughter dearly, they were dreading what would wake up.
The parents had expected possibly an aggressive daughter or a depressed daughter but what they got was far worse.
Agatha was unconscious for 2 days and during that time; her parents were busy retrofitting the house so no diseases could afflict their daughter. They purchased sterilisation equipment and disinfected the whole house. But what they feared the most was that Agatha would attempt to escape and they both knew that it would have disastrous consequences if it was allowed to happen. They locked her door from the outside and replaced the glass in the window with plexiglass that blocked out the images from outside, fearing that seeing nature would re-ignite her rage and prompt an escape attempt.
No one heard Agatha say a single word after that. Not the slightest sound passed her lips. When she awoke, it was as if the fragile substance of her soul had been shattered. She responded to sounds but not words, she could eat but couldn’t prepare it, she could drink but couldn’t pour a glass. It was as if Agatha had just given up.
She had no worries at all, but nothing also to look forward to. She simply existed. It was as if someone had snuffed out the flame of Agatha, leaving only a husk. Her body and mind seemed to be detached with her essence retreating into the depths of her psyche in an attempt to lessen the shock and pain she had received. Inside her head, it was a cold, frozen wasteland that refused to thaw.
Countless physicians and physiatrists visited, after being sterilised of course, but nothing they did could register more than a blank stare in their vague direction. Her parents were in despair. They had lost the daughter they loved so dearly and wished for nothing more than a smile or a single word but she was lost in a world that no one but Agatha could visit.
This proceeded for a many months. Agatha made no attempt at an escape and it seemed that nothing could extract Agatha from the shelter of her body. Toys, friends, games and videos did nothing. Only one action of Agatha remained throughout this whole ordeal. She would always sit on the window sill and although she couldn’t see outside, she would sit and stare blankly, registering nothing, not the lack of vision or the touch of a hand on her shoulder. This was the only act that the parents had that would remind them of the daughter they had lost.
One night, many months after Agatha had retreated inside of herself; her parents forgot to lock the door. With some sixth sense, Agatha was roused and moved to the door. She turned the handle and she was free but there was still no reaction. She walked down the stairs in her nightdress, oblivious to the many objects that she once walked past daily.
But despite her oblivious nature, she knew exactly where she was going. She stumbled through the living room and into the kitchen and opened the door to the outside world. It was a mere 3 o’clock when she left the house for the first time in nearly a year.
As she walked barefoot through the backyard and up the mountain that backed onto their property, something stirred in Agatha. It was as if the frozen fingers that that had taken hold of her mind were slowly loosening their vice-like grip, returning her mind to her body and making her whole again. Every step she took and every smell she registered pushed back a little more of the cold.
“Tree” she whispered as she touched the rough bark with her fingertips, voice croaky and low with lack of use. “Rocks” she uttered as her fingers slipped over the boulders. “Water” she muttered as she waded through the shallow creek. Agatha was slowly waking up but it would take more to return Agatha to who she was.
Unregistered by Agatha though, was that she was countless scratches and cuts she was receiving on her palms and feet, allowing numerous infections into her system. Though relatively innocent by themselves, in her weakened state, they could ultimately be deadly.
Agatha made no conscious decision but she was walking a path that was well used in past years. Of course in that time, the walk would take no more than an hour but do to the fever that had ravaged her body and her subsequent detachment from herself, her energy reserves were low and she could not maintain the pace needed to finish it in such a time.
By the time Agatha reached the mountain top, the kookaburra’s we laughing and the bush had started to wake up also. During the trek, she had slowly remembered everything but I important fact. She did not know who she was.
She had memories that she did know if she owned. She saw faces that she did not recognise and heard voices she did not know who they were addressing.
Her palms had started sweating and Agatha had chills that she could no dispel. Her stomach churned and head throbbed. The various virus and infections that she had encountered upon in her trek were starting to take effect.
Her legs buckled, losing their strength and she pulled herself into a sitting position underneath a tree on a cliff that overlooked the valley below, the sun rose from its hiding place tucked beneath the hills. She saw it rise and burst to flames, the warmth it provided dispelling the last frost that clouded her memories and she uttered a single word.
“Agatha”
Like a dam breaking, all her memories came back. She remembered her family, friends and all of her possessions and keep sakes. But with the good memories came the bad, like the day her dog, Sandy, died and the memory of the last thing she could remember, the news her mother had told her, “...the fever you had destroyed your immune system. Even the slightest infection could be life threatening. I am sorry but there is nothing that can be done. You will have to stay in this room for now...”
Despite this memory though, she felt a sense of calmness descend over her. She wouldn’t know it at the time, but she had just lost consciousness.
Back at the house, the clock had just ticked over to five o’clock and the parents were just stirring as the cold draught from the kitchen door had finally pervaded their sub-conscious. “Close the door, Honey” said the mother and as he got out of bed to close the door, he saw something that should never have happened.
Agatha’s door was open.
This shock woke him up instantly, removing any traces of drowsiness he’d had moments ago. He walked over to her room and looked inside to see an empty bed and no trace of his daughter. “Martha! Wake up!” he shouted as he pounded into their room, pulling on trousers over his pyjamas and buttoning up a shirt.
“What’s going on?” she replied with her head still rested on the pillow.
“She’s gone!”
“Who’s gone?”
“Agatha’s gone!”
“What!” That got a response out of her, causing her to bolt upright and jump out of bed to check Agatha’s room for herself. She could scarcely believe her eyes, and as she stood resting up against the door frame, she felt the cool, crisp breeze feather the back of her legs. She walked downstairs and into the kitchen to find the door was left wide open.
She darted back up-stairs and proceeded to put on clothes as well, saying through tears, “She has left the house. We have to find her now before it is too late.”
Martha called the police while Agatha’s father, John, proceeded to follow her tracks up the side of the mountain, torch and first aid kit in hand. It was lucky that she seemed to be shuffling for most of the way as it made her easier to follow but as he saw her tracks proceed further and further up the mountain, a sense of dread began to envelop him. If she went too much further, it would be nigh impossible for the police or paramedics to get to her in time if anything were to happen, so he kept telling himself, “Just around the next corner. The next corner definitely.”
He eventually arrived at the summit as the sun was still rising, and to his despair; he found his daughter slumped underneath a tree overlooking the valley. He approached here with a cry of “Agatha” and as he embraced her, he noticed that her forehead was hot and moist with beads of sweat running off, and she had multiple abrasions all over her feet and hands. It looked like she was trying to fight an infection but her vastly weakened immune system was not going to manage. She was still breathing, but barely.
He called the paramedics on his mobile. “My daughter is on top of Buckle Mountain. We need a helicopter here as fast as possible. She is unconscious and barely breathing” he said in a hurry, hoping that the phone operator would understand his panicked tone.
“We will be there as fast as possible” the operator replied curtly and hung up, mobilising the helicopter as fast as possible.
John then dropped the phone, surrendered himself to grief and cried, “Oh Agatha!” His tears pattered down upon Agatha’s soft, pale, almost translucent skin and she stirred. Maybe it was the call, maybe it was the warmth of his body, or maybe it was the tears falling down upon her.
“Dad,” she said, her voice barely a whisper, “I am so sorry.”
“Don’t be. Just don’t go Agatha, my sweet. Please. Just don’t go!” he pleaded with her as he was the sparkle in her eyes slowly faded.
“Sorry” she uttered, “I am so sorry.” After that final phrase, her body gave a great shuddering sigh as it gave up the fight and she passed away.
Minutes later, the trees and plants on the summit, not to mention Agatha and her father, were assaulted by the savage wind of the helicopters rotating at enormous speeds. Dust was swept up and got in John eyes but nothing could tear his gaze from his daughter.
It was as if the whole world had slowed down and lost all brilliance. He heard the dull “thud, thud, thud” as the helicopters blades spun but nothing of the words that the paramedics said to him. What did it matter if the sun kept shinning when his daughter was gone.
He succumbed to grief and through a curtain of tears; he saw a vibrant pink on a background of green. He wiped his eyes, and saw that the flowers that had refused to bloom in the last 10 years had finally done so. They were a soft pink rose bush, totally out of place in the bush but seemed to fit at the same time.
How he wished that Agatha could have seen it, and with that thought, it was as if the bubble that was blocking out all sounds popped and he finally heard the paramedics.
“We are so sorry for your loss. If you would let us, allow us take your daughter’s body to the hospital.”
John looked down at the frail form in his arms before and felt the temperature leaving her pale skin.

Neural Network
(This was a highly experimental piece of work that I wrote for a portfolio. It will be interesting to see how you guys like it, if you read it that is)

Spoiler

C:\Operator\James>access root memory
Root Memory:\
D:\Memories
E:\Instincts
F:\Emotions
Access D:\Memories
Places
People
Anonymous
D:\Memories\People
Family
Friends
Enemies
Acquaintances
Lovers
D:\Memories\People\Lovers
Elizabeth
Shannon
D:\Memories\People\Lovers\Elizabeth
Betrayal.txt
Confession.txt
First date.txt
First meeting.txt
Love.txt
Pain.txt
Second date.txt
Third date.txt
sort (D:\Memories\People\Lovers\Elizabeth\) most recent
D:\Memories\People\Lovers\Elizabeth
First Meeting.txt
Confession.txt
First Date.txt
Second Date.txt
Love.txt
Third Date.txt
Betrayal.txt
Pain.txt
D:\Memories\People\Lovers\Elizabeth\First Meeting.txt
Why do I even bother? I will never find anyone that will accept me. It hasn’t happened in the last 24 years and I doubt it is going to happen now. I guess I will just wait and hope something falls into my lap because I am not going to find anything unless there is divine intervention.
Wait. Who’s that? I need to meet her now. She is so beautiful... but why would she ever look at me, I mean, what do I have?
She’s coming over. Oh no! I forgot to use deodorant this morning. I am going to ree...
Her voice is beautiful. Damn it Mark; focus on what she is saying! Ah, ah something about writing and books... Did she just say Matthew Reilly? She is amazing.
End .txt file. Returning to previous directory.
D:\Memories\People\Lovers\Elizabeth
First Meeting.txt
Confession.txt
First Date.txt
Second Date.txt
Love.txt
Third Date.txt
Betrayal.txt
Pain.txt
D:\Memories\People\Lovers\Elizabeth\Love.txt
Oh my god, I think I love Elizabeth. She is the most amazing person I have ever met. She is beautiful, smart, funny and perfect in every way. It has only been 2 dates but I know I want to spend the rest of my life with her. I am probably rushing into this but I can’t help how I am feeling.
End .txt file. Returning to previous directory.
D:\Memories\People\Lovers\Elizabeth
First Meeting.txt
Confession.txt
First Date.txt
Second Date.txt
Love.txt
Third Date.txt
Betrayal.txt
Pain.txt
D:\Memories\People\Lovers\Elizabeth\Pain.txt
I just can’t believe it. I never understood why people said they were heartbroken but now I do. My chest hurts so much and I can’t control how I feel. I go through anger, love, envy and hatred. I can’t stop crying and I wish I could just turn off and stop my feelings. To feel nothing right now would be a blessing.
End .txt file. Returning to previous directory.
D:\Memories\People\Lovers\Elizabeth
First Meeting.txt
Confession.txt
First Date.txt
Second Date.txt
Love.txt
Third Date.txt
Betrayal.txt
Pain.txt
D:\Memories\People\Lovers
Elizabeth
Shannon
D:\>rmdir Elizabeth
D:\Memories\People\Lovers
Shannon
D:\Memories\People\Lovers>access root memory
Root Memory:\
D:\Memories
E:\Instincts
F:\Emotions
Access F:\Emotions
Anger
Envy
Happiness
Jealousy
Love
Sadness
F:\>rmdir Love
Access F:\Emotions
Anger
Envy
Happiness
Jealousy
Sadness

I hope no one minds me putting up a couple of my stories. I have many more short stories, for anyone that would be interested in reading them.

 

[Shinigami357]

<!--quoteo(post=3702290:date=Jun 9 2011, 05:20 PM:name=Edgedancer)--><div class='quotetop'>QUOTE(Edgedancer @ Jun 9 2011, 05:20 PM) <a href="index.php?act=findpost&pid=3702290"><{POST_SNAPBACK}></a></div><div class='quotemain'><!--quotec-->I have been writing for years, but its only recently that I have started taking it seriously. I love the stories I am able to write and my minor in University is in creative writing. My writing it a bit odd, considering that I enjoy reading action and fantasy novels, yet I find that I almost exclusively write about emotional love/loss stories, but I like doing it.
Here are a couple of my stories.

Agatha
(this is an old story that I have been meaning to get around to actually editing one of the these days)

Spoiler

Agatha always loved nature. Her earliest childhood memories were of sun streaming through a window with lush plants and trees lying mere centimetres away from her, on the other side of the glass.
As a young child, she loved to walk barefoot around the yard. She could feel the earth caking on her bare feet and smell the rich scents of the seasons. Her days were spent with long picnics under the sun with her mother and bush walking with her father on the mountain that their property back on to.
A distinct memory was of when her father first took her to the summit of the mountain. It was the most beautiful vista she had ever seen and she remembered asking her father, “Why aren’t there flowers on that bush daddy?” while pointing at a bush that looked just about ready to flower, and in a voice filled with love and a gentle smile on his face, he replied, “They will flower soon. Just give them a little while.”
But they never bloomed. Not once in the 10 years since her first visit to the summit of Buckle Mountain, across hundreds of trips, did Agatha see what flowers would bloom. It was one of the mysteries that all fascinated her.
She could name a million things that she loved about nature and never wished to be parted from it.
But fate is a cruel trickster and a parting from nature is indeed what happened to pure, sweet Agatha. On the eve of her fifteenth birthday, she was assaulted by a vile disease. She had a fever that raged for weeks. One instant, she would be too hot, throwing the sheets off her and sweat beading on her forehead, while the next instant would result in chills that caused her to pull the sheets close around her in an attempt to gain their meagre heat.
Agatha slept through most of those terrible weeks, waking occasionally, sometimes with her mother sitting by her, stroking her hand or moistening her forehead. In those instances through, any effort beyond parting her eyes slightly were out of her reach and usually slept through such ministrations. She knew it was her mother though as she recognised the lavender soap that she washed herself with. Usually though, she woke with the room empty, save for the lonely, ravaged girl in the bed.
Many weeks passed and she eventually recovered. Her fever subsided and she regained her lucidity. She began to eat and drink, talk and listen, move and watch. While she regained her strength, she was confined to her room and would spend countless hours gazing out of the window at the world. She yearned to return but knew that her health came first and satisfied her desire by gazing out the window for countless more hours.
Thus a schedule was established for weeks, with tests still being done in an effort to keep her healthy. It was a rainy Wednesday when her life came crashing down again. Agatha had always been adept at discerning facial expressions and knew something was wrong when her mother came in to check up on her. After much persuading, Agatha’s mother finally succumbed and told her everything.
“Your latest blood work came in and I have some bad news for you. Did you wonder why you were still having regular blood tests? Did you wonder why we didn’t allow you to leave your room? I don’t know how to tell you this but the fever you had destroyed your immune system. Even the slightest infection could be life threatening. I am sorry but there is nothing that can be done. You will have to stay in this room for now. We are looking at ways to fix it but it doesn’t look good. I am so sorry.”
There was no response Agatha could give. She could see the sincerity in her mother’s eyes and she knew that she wasn’t lying but the idea of never being allowed outside mortified her. She had never understood the idea of being heartbroken but she felt it. A deep throbbing hurt that refused to go away. A stake had been driven through her heart and she had no idea what she could do.
Agatha simply got up, sat on the window sill and cried. The hurt was unimaginable and although she knew it would not help, she shed tears in the vain hope that they would cleanse her mind, body and soul; just wash away such a deep pain.
In her pain, she felt a spark of anger burst into existence. It nourished upon her hurt and pain like a fire is nourished by oxygen. And in this red rage, she bore her head back and screamed to the god she had always relied upon.
“I am only fifteen! How dare you take away the one thing I love most of all! I have no idea where else my heart could be but out there! I placed my trust in you and in nature but it has been stolen from me and my heart will never be still! No more! I will not stand by while you claim to love me but have thrown me away! I denounce you, oh humble lord and swear that not even divine intervention will trap me in the destiny you have deigned upon me!”
And with that tirade finished, Agatha collapsed, falling unconscious. Her parents were on the other side of the door during the whole session and managed to get into the room in time to see pure, sweet, innocent Agatha collapse. She was breathing evenly and her face was pale. They put her into bed and locked the door not taking any risks that she would attempt to make a fateful trip outside. They knew that something was different about Agatha as they left the room, letting the lock softly click into place as they closed the door. And although they loved their daughter dearly, they were dreading what would wake up.
The parents had expected possibly an aggressive daughter or a depressed daughter but what they got was far worse.
Agatha was unconscious for 2 days and during that time; her parents were busy retrofitting the house so no diseases could afflict their daughter. They purchased sterilisation equipment and disinfected the whole house. But what they feared the most was that Agatha would attempt to escape and they both knew that it would have disastrous consequences if it was allowed to happen. They locked her door from the outside and replaced the glass in the window with plexiglass that blocked out the images from outside, fearing that seeing nature would re-ignite her rage and prompt an escape attempt.
No one heard Agatha say a single word after that. Not the slightest sound passed her lips. When she awoke, it was as if the fragile substance of her soul had been shattered. She responded to sounds but not words, she could eat but couldn’t prepare it, she could drink but couldn’t pour a glass. It was as if Agatha had just given up.
She had no worries at all, but nothing also to look forward to. She simply existed. It was as if someone had snuffed out the flame of Agatha, leaving only a husk. Her body and mind seemed to be detached with her essence retreating into the depths of her psyche in an attempt to lessen the shock and pain she had received. Inside her head, it was a cold, frozen wasteland that refused to thaw.
Countless physicians and physiatrists visited, after being sterilised of course, but nothing they did could register more than a blank stare in their vague direction. Her parents were in despair. They had lost the daughter they loved so dearly and wished for nothing more than a smile or a single word but she was lost in a world that no one but Agatha could visit.
This proceeded for a many months. Agatha made no attempt at an escape and it seemed that nothing could extract Agatha from the shelter of her body. Toys, friends, games and videos did nothing. Only one action of Agatha remained throughout this whole ordeal. She would always sit on the window sill and although she couldn’t see outside, she would sit and stare blankly, registering nothing, not the lack of vision or the touch of a hand on her shoulder. This was the only act that the parents had that would remind them of the daughter they had lost.
One night, many months after Agatha had retreated inside of herself; her parents forgot to lock the door. With some sixth sense, Agatha was roused and moved to the door. She turned the handle and she was free but there was still no reaction. She walked down the stairs in her nightdress, oblivious to the many objects that she once walked past daily.
But despite her oblivious nature, she knew exactly where she was going. She stumbled through the living room and into the kitchen and opened the door to the outside world. It was a mere 3 o’clock when she left the house for the first time in nearly a year.
As she walked barefoot through the backyard and up the mountain that backed onto their property, something stirred in Agatha. It was as if the frozen fingers that that had taken hold of her mind were slowly loosening their vice-like grip, returning her mind to her body and making her whole again. Every step she took and every smell she registered pushed back a little more of the cold.
“Tree” she whispered as she touched the rough bark with her fingertips, voice croaky and low with lack of use. “Rocks” she uttered as her fingers slipped over the boulders. “Water” she muttered as she waded through the shallow creek. Agatha was slowly waking up but it would take more to return Agatha to who she was.
Unregistered by Agatha though, was that she was countless scratches and cuts she was receiving on her palms and feet, allowing numerous infections into her system. Though relatively innocent by themselves, in her weakened state, they could ultimately be deadly.
Agatha made no conscious decision but she was walking a path that was well used in past years. Of course in that time, the walk would take no more than an hour but do to the fever that had ravaged her body and her subsequent detachment from herself, her energy reserves were low and she could not maintain the pace needed to finish it in such a time.
By the time Agatha reached the mountain top, the kookaburra’s we laughing and the bush had started to wake up also. During the trek, she had slowly remembered everything but I important fact. She did not know who she was.
She had memories that she did know if she owned. She saw faces that she did not recognise and heard voices she did not know who they were addressing.
Her palms had started sweating and Agatha had chills that she could no dispel. Her stomach churned and head throbbed. The various virus and infections that she had encountered upon in her trek were starting to take effect.
Her legs buckled, losing their strength and she pulled herself into a sitting position underneath a tree on a cliff that overlooked the valley below, the sun rose from its hiding place tucked beneath the hills. She saw it rise and burst to flames, the warmth it provided dispelling the last frost that clouded her memories and she uttered a single word.
“Agatha”
Like a dam breaking, all her memories came back. She remembered her family, friends and all of her possessions and keep sakes. But with the good memories came the bad, like the day her dog, Sandy, died and the memory of the last thing she could remember, the news her mother had told her, “...the fever you had destroyed your immune system. Even the slightest infection could be life threatening. I am sorry but there is nothing that can be done. You will have to stay in this room for now...”
Despite this memory though, she felt a sense of calmness descend over her. She wouldn’t know it at the time, but she had just lost consciousness.
Back at the house, the clock had just ticked over to five o’clock and the parents were just stirring as the cold draught from the kitchen door had finally pervaded their sub-conscious. “Close the door, Honey” said the mother and as he got out of bed to close the door, he saw something that should never have happened.
Agatha’s door was open.
This shock woke him up instantly, removing any traces of drowsiness he’d had moments ago. He walked over to her room and looked inside to see an empty bed and no trace of his daughter. “Martha! Wake up!” he shouted as he pounded into their room, pulling on trousers over his pyjamas and buttoning up a shirt.
“What’s going on?” she replied with her head still rested on the pillow.
“She’s gone!”
“Who’s gone?”
“Agatha’s gone!”
“What!” That got a response out of her, causing her to bolt upright and jump out of bed to check Agatha’s room for herself. She could scarcely believe her eyes, and as she stood resting up against the door frame, she felt the cool, crisp breeze feather the back of her legs. She walked downstairs and into the kitchen to find the door was left wide open.
She darted back up-stairs and proceeded to put on clothes as well, saying through tears, “She has left the house. We have to find her now before it is too late.”
Martha called the police while Agatha’s father, John, proceeded to follow her tracks up the side of the mountain, torch and first aid kit in hand. It was lucky that she seemed to be shuffling for most of the way as it made her easier to follow but as he saw her tracks proceed further and further up the mountain, a sense of dread began to envelop him. If she went too much further, it would be nigh impossible for the police or paramedics to get to her in time if anything were to happen, so he kept telling himself, “Just around the next corner. The next corner definitely.”
He eventually arrived at the summit as the sun was still rising, and to his despair; he found his daughter slumped underneath a tree overlooking the valley. He approached here with a cry of “Agatha” and as he embraced her, he noticed that her forehead was hot and moist with beads of sweat running off, and she had multiple abrasions all over her feet and hands. It looked like she was trying to fight an infection but her vastly weakened immune system was not going to manage. She was still breathing, but barely.
He called the paramedics on his mobile. “My daughter is on top of Buckle Mountain. We need a helicopter here as fast as possible. She is unconscious and barely breathing” he said in a hurry, hoping that the phone operator would understand his panicked tone.
“We will be there as fast as possible” the operator replied curtly and hung up, mobilising the helicopter as fast as possible.
John then dropped the phone, surrendered himself to grief and cried, “Oh Agatha!” His tears pattered down upon Agatha’s soft, pale, almost translucent skin and she stirred. Maybe it was the call, maybe it was the warmth of his body, or maybe it was the tears falling down upon her.
“Dad,” she said, her voice barely a whisper, “I am so sorry.”
“Don’t be. Just don’t go Agatha, my sweet. Please. Just don’t go!” he pleaded with her as he was the sparkle in her eyes slowly faded.
“Sorry” she uttered, “I am so sorry.” After that final phrase, her body gave a great shuddering sigh as it gave up the fight and she passed away.
Minutes later, the trees and plants on the summit, not to mention Agatha and her father, were assaulted by the savage wind of the helicopters rotating at enormous speeds. Dust was swept up and got in John eyes but nothing could tear his gaze from his daughter.
It was as if the whole world had slowed down and lost all brilliance. He heard the dull “thud, thud, thud” as the helicopters blades spun but nothing of the words that the paramedics said to him. What did it matter if the sun kept shinning when his daughter was gone.
He succumbed to grief and through a curtain of tears; he saw a vibrant pink on a background of green. He wiped his eyes, and saw that the flowers that had refused to bloom in the last 10 years had finally done so. They were a soft pink rose bush, totally out of place in the bush but seemed to fit at the same time.
How he wished that Agatha could have seen it, and with that thought, it was as if the bubble that was blocking out all sounds popped and he finally heard the paramedics.
“We are so sorry for your loss. If you would let us, allow us take your daughter’s body to the hospital.”
John looked down at the frail form in his arms before and felt the temperature leaving her pale skin.

Neural Network
(This was a highly experimental piece of work that I wrote for a portfolio. It will be interesting to see how you guys like it, if you read it that is)

Spoiler

C:\Operator\James>access root memory
Root Memory:\
<img src="style_emoticons/<#EMO_DIR#>/ohnoes.png" style="vertical-align:middle" emoid="D:" border="0" alt="ohnoes.png" />\Memories
E:\Instincts
F:\Emotions
Access <img src="style_emoticons/<#EMO_DIR#>/ohnoes.png" style="vertical-align:middle" emoid="D:" border="0" alt="ohnoes.png" />\Memories
Places
People
Anonymous
<img src="style_emoticons/<#EMO_DIR#>/ohnoes.png" style="vertical-align:middle" emoid="D:" border="0" alt="ohnoes.png" />\Memories\People
Family
Friends
Enemies
Acquaintances
Lovers
<img src="style_emoticons/<#EMO_DIR#>/ohnoes.png" style="vertical-align:middle" emoid="D:" border="0" alt="ohnoes.png" />\Memories\People\Lovers
Elizabeth
Shannon
<img src="style_emoticons/<#EMO_DIR#>/ohnoes.png" style="vertical-align:middle" emoid="D:" border="0" alt="ohnoes.png" />\Memories\People\Lovers\Elizabeth
Betrayal.txt
Confession.txt
First date.txt
First meeting.txt
Love.txt
Pain.txt
Second date.txt
Third date.txt
sort (<img src="style_emoticons/<#EMO_DIR#>/ohnoes.png" style="vertical-align:middle" emoid="D:" border="0" alt="ohnoes.png" />\Memories\People\Lovers\Elizabeth\) most recent
<img src="style_emoticons/<#EMO_DIR#>/ohnoes.png" style="vertical-align:middle" emoid="D:" border="0" alt="ohnoes.png" />\Memories\People\Lovers\Elizabeth
First Meeting.txt
Confession.txt
First Date.txt
Second Date.txt
Love.txt
Third Date.txt
Betrayal.txt
Pain.txt
<img src="style_emoticons/<#EMO_DIR#>/ohnoes.png" style="vertical-align:middle" emoid="D:" border="0" alt="ohnoes.png" />\Memories\People\Lovers\Elizabeth\First Meeting.txt
Why do I even bother? I will never find anyone that will accept me. It hasn’t happened in the last 24 years and I doubt it is going to happen now. I guess I will just wait and hope something falls into my lap because I am not going to find anything unless there is divine intervention.
Wait. Who’s that? I need to meet her now. She is so beautiful... but why would she ever look at me, I mean, what do I have?
She’s coming over. Oh no! I forgot to use deodorant this morning. I am going to ree...
Her voice is beautiful. Damn it Mark; focus on what she is saying! Ah, ah something about writing and books... Did she just say Matthew Reilly? She is amazing.
End .txt file. Returning to previous directory.
<img src="style_emoticons/<#EMO_DIR#>/ohnoes.png" style="vertical-align:middle" emoid="D:" border="0" alt="ohnoes.png" />\Memories\People\Lovers\Elizabeth
First Meeting.txt
Confession.txt
First Date.txt
Second Date.txt
Love.txt
Third Date.txt
Betrayal.txt
Pain.txt
<img src="style_emoticons/<#EMO_DIR#>/ohnoes.png" style="vertical-align:middle" emoid="D:" border="0" alt="ohnoes.png" />\Memories\People\Lovers\Elizabeth\Love.txt
Oh my god, I think I love Elizabeth. She is the most amazing person I have ever met. She is beautiful, smart, funny and perfect in every way. It has only been 2 dates but I know I want to spend the rest of my life with her. I am probably rushing into this but I can’t help how I am feeling.
End .txt file. Returning to previous directory.
<img src="style_emoticons/<#EMO_DIR#>/ohnoes.png" style="vertical-align:middle" emoid="D:" border="0" alt="ohnoes.png" />\Memories\People\Lovers\Elizabeth
First Meeting.txt
Confession.txt
First Date.txt
Second Date.txt
Love.txt
Third Date.txt
Betrayal.txt
Pain.txt
<img src="style_emoticons/<#EMO_DIR#>/ohnoes.png" style="vertical-align:middle" emoid="D:" border="0" alt="ohnoes.png" />\Memories\People\Lovers\Elizabeth\Pain.txt
I just can’t believe it. I never understood why people said they were heartbroken but now I do. My chest hurts so much and I can’t control how I feel. I go through anger, love, envy and hatred. I can’t stop crying and I wish I could just turn off and stop my feelings. To feel nothing right now would be a blessing.
End .txt file. Returning to previous directory.
<img src="style_emoticons/<#EMO_DIR#>/ohnoes.png" style="vertical-align:middle" emoid="D:" border="0" alt="ohnoes.png" />\Memories\People\Lovers\Elizabeth
First Meeting.txt
Confession.txt
First Date.txt
Second Date.txt
Love.txt
Third Date.txt
Betrayal.txt
Pain.txt
<img src="style_emoticons/<#EMO_DIR#>/ohnoes.png" style="vertical-align:middle" emoid="D:" border="0" alt="ohnoes.png" />\Memories\People\Lovers
Elizabeth
Shannon
<img src="style_emoticons/<#EMO_DIR#>/ohnoes.png" style="vertical-align:middle" emoid="D:" border="0" alt="ohnoes.png" />\>rmdir Elizabeth
<img src="style_emoticons/<#EMO_DIR#>/ohnoes.png" style="vertical-align:middle" emoid="D:" border="0" alt="ohnoes.png" />\Memories\People\Lovers
Shannon
<img src="style_emoticons/<#EMO_DIR#>/ohnoes.png" style="vertical-align:middle" emoid="D:" border="0" alt="ohnoes.png" />\Memories\People\Lovers>access root memory
Root Memory:\
<img src="style_emoticons/<#EMO_DIR#>/ohnoes.png" style="vertical-align:middle" emoid="D:" border="0" alt="ohnoes.png" />\Memories
E:\Instincts
F:\Emotions
Access F:\Emotions
Anger
Envy
Happiness
Jealousy
Love
Sadness
F:\>rmdir Love
Access F:\Emotions
Anger
Envy
Happiness
Jealousy
Sadness

I hope no one minds me putting up a couple of my stories. I have many more short stories, for anyone that would be interested in reading them.<!--QuoteEnd--></div><!--QuoteEEnd-->


Wow... Um, give me a moment to compose my thoughts here... You're clearly good at this, and as you say, you love the stories you write, so that's important.

The first story was more descriptive, direct to the point; everything is story, and that's good. What grips you though is the emotion. Most stories mix their emotions with something else [idealism, mostly], but you take the story's emotion by itself and put it in the reader. I was happy when the story was happy, sad when the story was sad and brokenhearted when the story was brokenhearted; beautiful. I think you can edit it a bit, polish it as you wish [dammit rhymes, gerrof me!!!] and you'd have a heck of a short-story.

The second... Well, I'm a bit split. On one hand, I think it's not finished yet, but that's only because, on the other hand, you've got my interest piqued. The premise is complex, and yet it's presented in a way that's vague enough to hold you attention; it's enigmatic to a point. As a big sci-fi fan, I identify with the idea of the mind as a computer. Like the first story, you've isolated this one thing and gone with it. There's too many questions, though: whose memories are these [who is James?]; is James human; if not, are these memories real [obviously if he was human, then the memories are real]; who is accessing them; and I think most important: do the emotions go with the memories or are the memories just memories [like a roll of film or a .txt file as illustrated]?

Yeah, I think too much, eh? Great work, man.

PS
Sterling will prob recruit you [I certainly think he should], but I'll try to get you to sign up for our newly-formed writer's guild [we're undermanned as of posting time] anyway. Consider it. And keep writing, man.


EDIT:
Just re-read it... Holy shit... He removed Love from the Emotions directory... Damn...

 

[Sterling]

@EdgeDancer: I knew you were good, but damn. That first story had me reduced to tears. So stirring, and moving.

@Shinigami357: Actually, when I first made the guild, as I was posting, I said to myself, "How long until EdgeDancer shows up?"

 

[Shinigami357]

Snap him up, right now, LOL.

PS
Love your outfit...


Ok, ok, I poached that from Hannibal Lecter... Anyway, what I was originally gonna say was we should all prob get a tag like the one in your sig. Anyway, can't stay too long, off to write [I'm behind schedule, I think].


PPS
Ok, I've added one to mine.

Btw... Wots a wiki page??? [it's the writer's guild challenge I think]

 

[Sterling]

Snap him up, right now, LOL.

PS
Love your outfit...


Ok, ok, I poached that from Hannibal Lecter... Anyway, what I was originally gonna say was we should all prob get a tag like the one in your sig. Anyway, can't stay too long, off to write [I'm behind schedule, I think].


PPS
Ok, I've added one to mine.

Btw... Wots a wiki page??? [it's the writer's guild challenge I think]

Below your posts have a link to a user wiki page. You have to register to make it, but a good example is a link to KB's wiki. He did a great job on his.

 

[Edgedancer]

Wow... Um, give me a moment to compose my thoughts here... You're clearly good at this, and as you say, you love the stories you write, so that's important.

The first story was more descriptive, direct to the point; everything is story, and that's good. What grips you though is the emotion. Most stories mix their emotions with something else [idealism, mostly], but you take the story's emotion by itself and put it in the reader. I was happy when the story was happy, sad when the story was sad and brokenhearted when the story was brokenhearted; beautiful. I think you can edit it a bit, polish it as you wish [dammit rhymes, gerrof me!!!] and you'd have a heck of a short-story.

The second... Well, I'm a bit split. On one hand, I think it's not finished yet, but that's only because, on the other hand, you've got my interest piqued. The premise is complex, and yet it's presented in a way that's vague enough to hold you attention; it's enigmatic to a point. As a big sci-fi fan, I identify with the idea of the mind as a computer. Like the first story, you've isolated this one thing and gone with it. There's too many questions, though: whose memories are these [who is James?]; is James human; if not, are these memories real [obviously if he was human, then the memories are real]; who is accessing them; and I think most important: do the emotions go with the memories or are the memories just memories [like a roll of film or a .txt file as illustrated]?

Yeah, I think too much, eh? Great work, man.

PS
Sterling will prob recruit you [I certainly think he should], but I'll try to get you to sign up for our newly-formed writer's guild [we're undermanned as of posting time] anyway. Consider it. And keep writing, man.


EDIT:
Just re-read it... Holy shit... He removed Love from the Emotions directory... Damn...

Thanks for the feedback.
For the second story, I just had a thought one day about what if our minds were processed similar to a computer. I should say that this was a micro-fiction sized story, so it had to be around 500 words, hence, I was unable to go into so much detail. Also, James is my first name and most of my stories at least have a grain of truth to them. Most of my best work comes from my girlfriend and the confusion of the months spent stressing over her. In this one, it was me looking back at my own experiences with my girlfriend and looking over both the good times and the regrets I had. At that stage, it had not reached anywhere close to as far as it goes in the story, but the idea of re-living memories. So I extended that idea and brought forward the emotions and the desire to live without them as it would stop the pain... Also, because of my class, it has to be quite symbolic in what I write, hence its not always designed for mass reading.
And yes, I would be happy to join the guild, since sometimes I need a bit of a push to write. I am in a bit of a slump at the moment.

@EdgeDancer: I knew you were good, but damn. That first story had me reduced to tears. So stirring, and moving.
Thanks mate. That was an old story from about 15 months ago and I have improved since then and dabbled in other forms of writing, such as poetry and screenwriting. I am very average at the former and quite good at the latter.

QUOTE(Sterling @ Jun 10 2011, 03:17 AM)

@Shinigami357: Actually, when I first made the guild, as I was posting, I said to myself, "How long until EdgeDancer shows up?"

Seriously? O.o I had no idea anyone on this site really knew me well enough to (accurately) make that prediction. Not complaining though.

 

[Shinigami357]

I've finally caved in and continued on with my horror story. What I did was write the love story bit-by-bit, and put in frequent breaks to instill the horror element in between. Think of it kind of like a ladder, there are spaces where you can only grip the frame itself, and then there are narrow hand-/footholds where you can get a solid grip. It's working so far, so I've no cause for concern. Whatcha guys think?

PS
@Edgedancer - Hm... I should consider trying to find a girl then... Oh, right, I already spent 4 poems on that idea...

Well, anyway, keep writing, you're doing great [EPIC, even].

 

[Edgedancer]

I've finally caved in and continued on with my horror story. What I did was write the love story bit-by-bit, and put in frequent breaks to instill the horror element in between. Think of it kind of like a ladder, there are spaces where you can only grip the frame itself, and then there are narrow hand-/footholds where you can get a solid grip. It's working so far, so I've no cause for concern. Whatcha guys think?

PS
@Edgedancer - Hm... I should consider trying to find a girl then... Oh, right, I already spent 4 poems on that idea...

Well, anyway, keep writing, you're doing great [EPIC, even].

Its good to know that you have continued with your horror story. I am interested in reading it when its done. s for finding a girl, its not entirely necessary. I didnt have the girl at that point and was stressing over how to make her mine, which lead me to doing some pretty awesome/corny stuff. Hit me up with a PM if you want to see what I did.

Its all about finding something you are passionate about and then drawing on the feelings and turning it into a piece of writing. Most of my writing starts with a single image or phrase, and then working from there. Examples are "Life is like a game of Russian Roulette" and "The sun rose from its cradle behind the hills and burst to flames." Simple phrases like that give me a setting/mood and then I start to fill in the context. Thats at least how I work with my writing.

 

[Shinigami357]

I've been thinking for like the whole day, and written a total of 2 sentences after last night. I think I've got the chapter down, now, though. Might still take a while to write it down, though [that's what happened to chapter 6]. At least I know I can write it down now.


EDIT: Now the naming is getting weirder, though... Sigh...

 

[Sterling]

@Shinigami357: Good to know some progress has been made. What did you think of my short story I posted in the Guild topic?

 

[Shinigami357]

@Shinigami357: Good to know some progress has been made. What did you think of my short story I posted in the Guild topic?

I'm still digesting it, actually... [I think too much, as you can see]


EDIT: Wow, comma fail there...