Story a Day

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What Came Before

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« Reply #180 on: June 02, 2013, 02:05:42 pm »
Quote from: Callan S.
Didn't say it was magical? When a book describes "And then all the world turn red with his rage" for example, it's not magic being described. Or atleast I never read it that way.

I say keep it - and if it feels odd, then explore that oddness somewhere further along. No need to just cut it! :)

Quote
By the way, either of you guys trying to do NaNoWriMo?
Did that just start today?

edit: Well, I signed up.
I guess we can buddy and feel guilt together! Or I will, anyway!

edit 2: Aww, is hard! Even as I bullshit a kinda fairytale on acid! I'm stuck in write a bit, word count, write a bit mode. I'm rather thinking I'm not going to make it to say the 1.6k per day needed right now, and I'm prolly not going to come back this evening either.

Maybe I'll just have mooks shoot at the dude with not green eyes some more...chew up the scenery...oh god, my soul...

edit 3: Okay, justttttt made it! Few, I'm sure glad I don't have to do that 29 more times! Aye? Aye...???

It's funny that it's not making up crap that's so much the issue, but forcing latter crap adhere to prior made crap that dries up the creativity. But if there is no following, it gets to be a pretty freaky unrelated bunch of strange things.

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« Reply #181 on: June 02, 2013, 02:05:50 pm »
Quote from: Francis Buck
Quote from: Callan S.
Didn't say it was magical?

Sorry, was responding to you and Sci both kind of, I should have been more clear. Thanks for the input either way!

I had been planning to do NaNo since summer, but I was also hoping to be done my Perennial edit, which has taken far longer than I wanted it to. I really wanted to start my fantasy for it, but I'm forcing myself to finish another Perennials draft so that it doesn't nag at my brain the whole time I'm doing the fantasy, especially since the latter will almost certainly take several years.

Callan, is the story you're doing for NaNo something you've been thinking about before, or did you start 100% fresh?

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« Reply #182 on: June 02, 2013, 02:06:00 pm »
Quote from: Callan S.
Starting fresh. With all the dangers of structural collapse that has! As in lacking any structure. I think I'll have to plug in an overarching mystery to act as a kind of spine - need to stick that in the first chapter at some point, in traditional no causal fashion.

Kind of a psionics and etherial supernatural meets espionage dealio. There's also a cat called Petal refered to!

Edit: Day 2, struggling at 2994 words. Need 400 more and I'm already giving up on sequential story, writing framents to then sew together in some kind of causality latter.

Edit: Just made it for today...I guess all these story fragments will plug together. At some point. Well, it'll end up with more words trying to glue them together, anyway. I could write "Fish" 50 thousand times. Atleast glue and fragments is a step up!

And jeez I have this thing about murdering. As in not. So cuts out easy content to slice up 'bad guys'. Sure you can have your non lethal/less lethal, but you're kind of stuck justifying it, whilst the murderoso can fill word counts just with blood splatter patterns alone. Actually come to think of it, I think I can have blood splatter patterns too...just not head from neck severance paragraphs.

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« Reply #183 on: June 02, 2013, 02:20:11 pm »
Quote from: Francis Buck
The psionics/supernatural meets espionage sounds pretty damn cool. Does it take place in a completely different world/universe from our own? Alternative? Secret?

Honestly, the best thing about doing NaNoWriMo is that, at the end of the day (or month, in this case) you have something concrete to really work with if you want to. Even if most of it's not so good, it's still a milliont times better than having nothing. A crappy, fragmented story is at least a framework to go on, and there's almost certainly going to be parts of it that will be surprisingly good when you go back to read through. Have you actually re-read any of what you've done, or are you just steamrolling forward and not looking back? That's pretty much what I did, aside from occasionally going to fact check something. I also found it helpful to keep a list of things I've thought of that I want to add in and/or change later on, as it at least gave me some jumping off points during the first edit.

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« Reply #184 on: June 02, 2013, 02:20:29 pm »
Quote from: Callan S.
Quote
The psionics/supernatural meets espionage sounds pretty damn cool. Does it take place in a completely different world/universe from our own? Alternative? Secret?
I don't know! I think if it's our own, it's 10 to 15 years ahead. Certainly a psionic underground...or atleast currently an underground. Who knows for how long?

I appreciate the angle, but I think the frame of the competition (are there prizes? I've basically assumed just the idea of winning by passing the 50k mark is the idea) sort of forces material from me. It's like an excuse to do things which don't seem quite right to me, but are a necessity. Probably things that don't seem quite right because I've been spoiled by media (see my other thread) and gnash my teeth at various practices. Yet I may need to swing toward them to win this damn thing! Argh!

After the comp, come hell or high water, I can look at the wreckage of my attempt for salvage, your definately right! But I can't think of that now - that does not benefit me in winning this thang! :)

Now - how can I take this post and work it in, to pad out my word count...oh god, I was joking, but I gots the tingle of a sense it might be doable...lol!

edit: OMG, I've just realised the word count power of inter character dialog!

And I've made schedule for my third day! Glad I don't have to do this 27 more times...

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« Reply #185 on: June 02, 2013, 02:20:35 pm »
Quote from: Callan S.
Okay, still making it. The bar graph on my stats page is like perfectly matching the par line.

Sadly a bit of my video game history is sinking in, perhaps for some uniformity. I'll use batman: Arkham city as an example, given your progress means dismantling warehouses of goons.

Now I've already written a few sequences of a warehouse or two and...really, fantastic plot twist revelations (if I could think of one) are really short in word count, while the main character ponders philosophical and political musing about the mundane environment around her (relatively mundane - most of us don't prowl warehouses with armed guards, or even just guards with nightsticks), taking down goons by stealth (oh yes, influenced by dues ex (the first), bat man, splinter cell...) and gadgets.

And...maybe it's just ego. Maybe I'm actually looking at myself, the sequence of interesting nuance but overall straightforward conflict and doing that again and again and again (even given different locations - like swamp, slums, penthouse appartment, blimp...) and thinking it should be more. As if I am more. Maybe when you write, you just see more of yourself. Probably snobby of me.

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« Reply #186 on: June 02, 2013, 02:20:41 pm »
Quote from: Callan S.
Still chuggin' along!

I'm up to where I'm trying out the idea of 'wolf mist'. Harkening to the old terrorfying idea of a mist that turns you inside out if it touches you...this mist makes you...behaviourally diverse. Rather than having free will. I use the idea of mist because it makes it something that might come and get you - which is an external threat, and threats we all grasp quite readily.

I like the dialog. Might smooth it out latter if better and/or more organic lines come to me. Not a complete conversation yet, just giving a sample. Excuse bad grammar and spelling mistakes, I've just got wordpad to work with.

~~~

The basement was black. Supporting columns would flash into line of sight from their swung torches, cold grey, uniform, arranged and supporting. Like graves that hold up the world. And dust. Much dust.

"We can't head back? This place is contaminated - badly", Kingsdale intoned, half distracted by what he was looking at.

The device he held was like a cross between a radiation detector and a mobile phone.

"What are the levels?", Cooper asked, her voice thin in the darkness. It sounded like the voice of someone contemplating surgical advice.

"Not good, really...this isn't what you should be exposed to. Not in a year, even", he replied.

"Then lets not take that long.", she said more with the sense of swollowing a bitter pill than clever repartee.

"What levels?", Jane asked, finally completing a torch swept visual of the room to her satisfaction.

"We need to get moving", Kingsdale declared, sweeping his meter back and forth.

They moving through the swollowing darkness of the basement.

"You're aware of the Wolfgang cognitive studies?", Cooper spoke to Jane, clipped tone. Something that needed to be in a neat and tidy package. Not here.

Jane nodded, but only a vague outline garnered reading while waiting in an airport, came to mind.

"It's an intricate process, but at the gross level, if cloud of Wolf mist envelops you - during exposure and for varying amounts of time afterward, you cease having free will.", Cooper spoke, like saying something from a dream. A nightmare.

"What do you mean?"

"You're just...behaviourally diverse. You cease to have free will. They can even do things like hook you up to an MRI machine and predict some of your choices. Before you even become aware you'd make that choice!"

"So they can choose. They don't just stand there, frozen?", Jane replied.

"As an act of free will, no, they cannot choose. But no, they don't just stay frozen, either!"

"But my heads not going to explode or anything?", Jane half asked, half mocked.

Cooper turned to her sharply, eye's narrowing, years of diplomacy making her shoulder past so many expletives.

"No, generally when you become a souless zombie, your head does not explode. The zombies in the movies have their heads intact, right?", she replied stiffly.

"Sooo, what does it do?", Jane queried.

"I told you - they can scan someone suffering from wolf mist and know their choices before they do. It all becomes mechanical! You're sense of you - it all becomes something conjured by a machine!"

"If you were just a machine, you'd know it though. You'd just act like a robot.", Jane countered, confused at what was supposed to be a problem.

"You don't - they've scanned the victims thoroughly. The machine they become ship wrecked as cannot keep up with itself! It takes more machine to track itself, and that's just one bit more of machine to track that it can't. Eventually it runs out! They are there, like a massively complex pocket watch, ticking away, talking to you, making the sounds, but unable to see they are not like you!"

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« Reply #187 on: June 02, 2013, 02:20:52 pm »
Quote from: Callan S.
So, I'm wondering if the following is controversial. Too controversial and no one can read for all the red. Not controversial and there is no red!

Anyway, it puts a crimp in the idea of strong, powerful women...and perhaps even suggest against it! But why, indeed...

Again, please forgive grammar, spelling, even structure.

~~~

It wasn't that he blocked the punch, but the way he turned it and almost grappled her arm. She hadn't seen that for awhile, the escape move coming in a little clockworkish, not to crisply. Like most of us, she had the thought she should get to the gym. She regained stance, and they scrutinised each other for a moment, but it was all part of the ski masked operatives next attack. Thick, lightly armoured upper torso, one arm feinting and guarding, the other arm sending out a series of strikes quite adequite to fell an amatuer, also quite adequate at probing the capacities of her leather jacketed opponent. Creeping in past Janes own defences and truely testing what little secondary defence you can put up when you only have two arms. This was already exhausting after an exhausting day. Sometimes you hit a brick wall. And he could see it, preparing to move in and take her down. What is this moment? The backing - who to back? Those who overcome all in their path - or otherwise what are they to us? Nothing, in some Darwinistic pursuit? Jane took several steps back - the guard seemed untrained to the potential of unconventional weapons. To him, Jane was just unarmed. And what, was there a moment there - the wrong horse backed? What he took for falling into stance was her wrist extended - across his armoured torso and shoulders a spray of silvery, explosive darts, pin cushioning him then surrounding him in an explosion.

He staggered back. One step. Two steps. Stopped. Held his ground, unshielded his face to scan for her far more quickly than most would dare. Jane escaped, back the way she'd came, taking one last look before slamming the door shut and bringing a filing cabinet down against it. The body armour had taken most of the blast, but the mask had been blown away, revealing moon face, short cropped hair and strong jaw, but still  a woman, side arm drawn. She thundered down the corridor after Jane, almost there before Jane could block the door with the cabinet. The pro smashed into the door from the other side and it was like a palpable shock wave, again and again. Her look had been one of utter determination, one which would pluck a suffragette from the gutter by the scruff of the neck, political papers scattering, and fling her into a jail cell, contract complete. It chilled Jane - was patriarchy really about men, or were men and their violence simply the shorter path for something else, something vile and dark that lurked and seeped from soul to soul, or even welled anew, original. A cousin to the myriad. But is it the role of women to somehow be the demure ones and thus the physically weak that becomes victim to cave man violence? Hardly! Yet here, all they both were were chess pieces to someone elses game. This isn't strength, Jane thought afterward  - escaping to the larger picture when the smaller one, the one one that had been all just a moment ago, was lost. The building was alerted and she had not made it through to her prize.  Still, Jane thought, in the grim faced way women appraise the physical capacity of other women, she was a hell of a pro. Is she mercenary enough that she's for hire, Jane thought? Or would she stick to contract? She thought over the play in her mind.

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« Reply #188 on: June 02, 2013, 02:20:57 pm »
Quote from: Francis Buck
Quote from: Callan S.
So, I'm wondering if the following is controversial. Too controversial and no one can read for all the red. Not controversial and there is no red!

Anyway, it puts a crimp in the idea of strong, powerful women...and perhaps even suggest against it! But why, indeed...

Again, please forgive grammar, spelling, even structure.

~~~

It wasn't that he blocked the punch, but the way he turned it and almost grappled her arm. She hadn't seen that for awhile, the escape move coming in a little clockworkish, not to crisply. Like most of us, she had the thought she should get to the gym. She regained stance, and they scrutinised each other for a moment, but it was all part of the ski masked operatives next attack. Thick, lightly armoured upper torso, one arm feinting and guarding, the other arm sending out a series of strikes quite adequite to fell an amatuer, also quite adequate at probing the capacities of her leather jacketed opponent. Creeping in past Janes own defences and truely testing what little secondary defence you can put up when you only have two arms. This was already exhausting after an exhausting day. Sometimes you hit a brick wall. And he could see it, preparing to move in and take her down. What is this moment? The backing - who to back? Those who overcome all in their path - or otherwise what are they to us? Nothing, in some Darwinistic pursuit? Jane took several steps back - the guard seemed untrained to the potential of unconventional weapons. To him, Jane was just unarmed. And what, was there a moment there - the wrong horse backed? What he took for falling into stance was her wrist extended - across his armoured torso and shoulders a spray of silvery, explosive darts, pin cushioning him then surrounding him in an explosion.

He staggered back. One step. Two steps. Stopped. Held his ground, unshielded his face to scan for her far more quickly than most would dare. Jane escaped, back the way she'd came, taking one last look before slamming the door shut and bringing a filing cabinet down against it. The body armour had taken most of the blast, but the mask had been blown away, revealing moon face, short cropped hair and strong jaw, but still  a woman, side arm drawn. She thundered down the corridor after Jane, almost there before Jane could block the door with the cabinet. The pro smashed into the door from the other side and it was like a palpable shock wave, again and again. Her look had been one of utter determination, one which would pluck a suffragette from the gutter by the scruff of the neck, political papers scattering, and fling her into a jail cell, contract complete. It chilled Jane - was patriarchy really about men, or were men and their violence simply the shorter path for something else, something vile and dark that lurked and seeped from soul to soul, or even welled anew, original. A cousin to the myriad. But is it the role of women to somehow be the demure ones and thus the physically weak that becomes victim to cave man violence? Hardly! Yet here, all they both were were chess pieces to someone elses game. This isn't strength, Jane thought afterward  - escaping to the larger picture when the smaller one, the one one that had been all just a moment ago, was lost. The building was alerted and she had not made it through to her prize.  Still, Jane thought, in the grim faced way women appraise the physical capacity of other women, she was a hell of a pro. Is she mercenary enough that she's for hire, Jane thought? Or would she stick to contract? She thought over the play in her mind.

Well, I personally don't think it's too controversial at all, but I'm pretty resistant to that kind of stuff in general. Certainly it's a topic that some people get worked up over (and not without reason), but from what you posted I don't think that's especially harsh or anything. Either way, it's an interesting thought process for the character, which (in my opinion) is the most important thing to think about, especially for a NaNoWriMo piece. It definitely doesn't come off as like, intentionally offensive or anything.

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« Reply #189 on: June 02, 2013, 02:21:04 pm »
Quote from: Callan S.
Thanks for the feedback, Frank!

Now I can just worry about whether I'm being wussy, instead! heh!

In other news, I just wrote 1695 words in one sitting and...I feel kind of dizzy and even slightly nauseous? I should probably have a lie down instead of surfing the net. I don't think I'm picking up a cold...it's really a different spinny feel. I haven't written this amount of words for anything in just one go.

Okay, I'm a bit spun out, so if it doesn't sound that noteworthy, that's my excuse for raising it...

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« Reply #190 on: June 02, 2013, 02:21:12 pm »
Quote from: sciborg2
wow....did I fall behind....crap...glad to see Callan kept the fires burning. Will have to read back and see what I missed!

eta: Wow, okay, so I missed more days than I thought. This'll be interesting.

Story 132 Oct 28

I wake to the sound of the phone's vibration. Wrong number asking "Are you cheating on me?"

"Yes." I reply to the stranger. Payback for waking me up at 3am with your drama bitch.
The phone vibrates fast and furious, an incoming flurry of texts.

I delete the deluge, turn it off and go to sleep.

3 months later, I hear about a suicide three months ago from a girl at another school.

I wonder, but in a few hours time I've already forgotten about the whole thing.

/Story

Story 133 Oct 29

Been sporting a semi for ten minutes of my lunch break, half hard dick in my hands and its almost time to go back to work.

Playboy video isn't working, but if I don't come I won't be able to think straight.

Using my nose on the touchscreen I managed to get to a porn clip. Girl taking it up the ass.

The usual questions pour in - How old is that girl? What if it were your sister/mother/daughter? Is she abused? Does she like her job? - but it all gets dulled in the lust.

2 minutes later, semen pumping into the toilet water, the questions come back. This time it's the work day the chokes the life out of 'em.

/Story

Story 134 Oct 30

(Inspired by the intro to the old Mage: Ascension book)

They dance in the desert until their muscles burn, until gummy spit lays a cotton fabric over their teeth and their tongues. They dance in a circle, and slowly their bare feet strike not dry sand but grass and water. One more victory against the once indomitable Sahara.

There are two miracles here. One is the ritual. The other is that Youtube still works.

This, I tell myself, is why I brought Magic back to the world.

/Story

Story 135 Oct 31

We chase them, but only so far. Lord Sun, our patron and father, gives way to Lady Moon - the mother who hates us.

We have to get back to the village before twilight falls to night or we'll wander into the forests and our tribe will be scattered.

We have to lock ourselves in before we turn into wolves.

/Story

Story Last  Last Thursday 136 Nov 1

I come hard, shooting a heavy load into the plastic vagina. The shift in perception is almost uncanny. Real pussy's a distant memory, had only a few times on account of my inherited deformities, but even that ghost dissolves into the discomfort of truth.

It's doll hair I was wildly running my hand through, doll ass that feels more like a sponge than a butt. The body on top of me isn't cold, but it's only warmth is my own.

The eyes looking into mine are lifeless. (I don't have mirrors, so maybe that's something we might have in common.)

The rubbing alcohol and towel are right next to my bed. I like to keep her - keep it clean. Saves money on maintenance.

Even as I disinfect it I resist the urge to give her a name.

/Story

Story Last Last  Friday 137 Nov 2

We make landfall in the morning, having lost good boys on the way. Both were young, but Edgar was too young.

Boy's mother was right.

Never should have brought him. Fought off a wolf he did, with nothing more than wits and a hunting knife. Still he died green, untested, and now he serves Hel alongside cowards and weaklings.

As we creep toward the village, my blood lust tells me I'll be killing to avenge him though I know the fault is my own.

/Story

Story Last Last Saturday 138 Nov 3

It's been a long week, and I have needs that must be sated.

I log on with a flicker of telepathy, stare down at the virtual world that I bought on wholesale.

I need spike of emotion - of fear and resolve. I touch the pixelated world whose resolution is measured in quanta.

Swirling my finger, I begin a hurricane my e-children will name Sandy.

/Story

Story Last Last Sunday 139 Nov 4

She comes before I do, and my still hard cock is firmly ringed by the muscles of her sphincter.

It dawns on me that I should wait to get a little more flaccid before I pull out.

My mind, no longer clouded by lust, recalls that this girl is part of the college Republicans.

I make a mental note that hate fucking will henceforth be devoid of anal.

/Story

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« Reply #191 on: June 02, 2013, 02:21:21 pm »
Quote from: Callan S.
Saajan's back!

With 133, you do alot of stories about wank, aye? But I do like the twist that it's work that chokes out the thoughts afterward, rather than, as we are wont to do for millenia, focus on the sexual side. There are various sources conflicting with engaging the issue and sex guilt wont cover all of that.

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« Reply #192 on: June 02, 2013, 02:21:28 pm »
Quote from: sciborg2
Well, what I wanted to do with the guy in the stall was look at how porn affects people, how we shield ourselves from the reality of the California based industry.

One thing I also need to do is get a better understanding of the gay porn scene - what little I've heard makes me think similar issues exist in regards to workers' rights, but I actually met a gay porn actor who seemed pretty happy. Of course, IIRC he made gonzo porn and uploaded it - that's more like camera girls who sell their panties in my mind, self-employed people who have 100% control.

However, there's an other side of this that I am curious about - that some people are legitimately happy doing porn under studios. I've also heard of some female run organizations in SF, for example, that make what they consider to pro-female porn.

Then there are male porn actors who are getting some of star power that I've usually seen accorded to females. So there's more material out there beyond a guy jerking off in a stall, it's just that makes for easy flash fiction.

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« Reply #193 on: June 02, 2013, 02:21:36 pm »
Quote from: sciborg2
Story 140 Nov 5
When it appears in the center of the pentacle, the incubus is too youthful, too strong, too gorgeous.

He doesn't look anything like you.

When I take him to bed he is thin, fragile, mere wisps of hair rise from the top of his age spotted crown.

This is madness, this magic, but I can't imagine God will damn me for loving you so much that I can't let you go.
/Story

Story 141 Nov 6

We look at the corpse of Our Maker, and wonder at the enormity of Our sin.

Patricide of not of a, but *the* Father.

The First Giant, the First living thing born from fire and poison. How long did Ymir sit in His loneliness, how long before His need for love summoned Us into being?

Odin's sigh breaks Our reverie. And when He commands We, echoes that We are, begin to carve.

First murderers, now butchers.

With Our crimes We make the World.

/Story

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« Reply #194 on: June 02, 2013, 02:21:45 pm »
Quote from: sciborg2
Story 141 Nov 7

You come on sometimes, these isolated little villages bordered by crosses and barbed wire, people calling on God to keep the Magic of the world at bay.

We don't stay long in these places, paying our way with some dried meat, honey and salt. Our deals are always with some elder, imam or reverend, someone holy enough not to be corrupted by our touch.

It'd be so easy to bed the pretty young men and sex starved widows, but some chances aren't worth taking.

Not 'cause we fear them, but in a world full of rabid centaurs and dragons it'd just be a shame to kill some of our own.

/Story

Story 142 Nov 8

I grab the back of his neck and pull him kissing close. I bite his neck, ignoring the fists that hammer my face, my head, the force with which he pushes away from me.

Where bruises should appear there is nothing but the slightest darkening of my alabaster skin, and even that vanishes as I feed.

When I let go he falls to the floor, sobbing, forcing breath slowly through what must feel like clay in his lungs.

Until their turn comes, the cattle never understand - we take so much more from you than blood. Only the kissed can know what it means to endure Us.

When he looks up I see a remnant of the man I knew but an hour before.

Unfortunate, but necessary. Sometimes the injuries we sustain can only be cured by the bloodlines that spawned us.

Thankfully this retarded thing wheezing at lost comprehension is no longer the boy I sired before turning, thankfully this cattle bears no resemblance to the man I called son.

/Story