Pink Ink Storytelling Contest - Week 2: Dandelion Round OPEN
Sat Jan 21, 2006 6:09 am
Welcome to Pink Ink's Storytelling Contest, where you can prove your skills as a versatile writer! There is a prize of 10 000 NP every week, and all you need to do is write a story to fit the criteria we post!
Sign-ups are not needed. You may join at any point in the game simply by submitting an entry. The contest is open to all except current Pink Ink staff members.
Prizes Every Week
- Winner: 10 000 NP from the generous PuddingofEvil and an icon/button by the good Matt
- All participants: other valuable items, e.g. codestones, faeries, also from PuddingofEvil
So What Happens?
Each week we will post certain criteria. All you need to do is write a story that fits that criteria and post it on this thread before the deadline. Judges will then review submitted entries. The winning entry will appear in the next issue of [url=http//www.pinkpt.com/pink/]Pink Ink[/url].
Since Pink Ink is a biweekly issue, it means we have time for two contests (we call them 'threads')! You are free to participate in both threads if you wish; participation in one thread will not affect your performance in the other.
To clarify, one thread will have random criteria and will be looking for humorous articles. This is the Dandelion Thread.
When the Dandelion Thread is over, the Ivy Thread will begin. The Ivy Thread will be looking for more serious articles in general.
Depending on what kind of stories you like to write, we will be able to cater for your tastes. If you want to widen your experience as a writer, you can compete in both. No matter what you choose to do, rest assured -- we will challenge you.
Rules
All entries must:
- comply with forum rules,
- be your own original work (fanfiction is not allowed),
- be posted on this thread,
- be posted before the given deadline, and
- comply with the given criteria.
Only one entry per week is allowed.
The winning entry will appear in the next issue of Pink Ink. A trade link to the prize money will be set up and an icon will be sent.
Note that by entering this contest, you agree to let Pink Ink and PPT use your entries in the future as the staff may see fit. Credit will be given to the original writer.
Judges
PuddingofEvil, Matt and Lillie.
---
Week 2: Dandelion Thread Open
Any questions?
---
Past criteria:
Sign-ups are not needed. You may join at any point in the game simply by submitting an entry. The contest is open to all except current Pink Ink staff members.
Prizes Every Week
- Winner: 10 000 NP from the generous PuddingofEvil and an icon/button by the good Matt
- All participants: other valuable items, e.g. codestones, faeries, also from PuddingofEvil
So What Happens?
Each week we will post certain criteria. All you need to do is write a story that fits that criteria and post it on this thread before the deadline. Judges will then review submitted entries. The winning entry will appear in the next issue of [url=http//www.pinkpt.com/pink/]Pink Ink[/url].
Since Pink Ink is a biweekly issue, it means we have time for two contests (we call them 'threads')! You are free to participate in both threads if you wish; participation in one thread will not affect your performance in the other.
To clarify, one thread will have random criteria and will be looking for humorous articles. This is the Dandelion Thread.
When the Dandelion Thread is over, the Ivy Thread will begin. The Ivy Thread will be looking for more serious articles in general.
Depending on what kind of stories you like to write, we will be able to cater for your tastes. If you want to widen your experience as a writer, you can compete in both. No matter what you choose to do, rest assured -- we will challenge you.
Rules
All entries must:
- comply with forum rules,
- be your own original work (fanfiction is not allowed),
- be posted on this thread,
- be posted before the given deadline, and
- comply with the given criteria.
Only one entry per week is allowed.
The winning entry will appear in the next issue of Pink Ink. A trade link to the prize money will be set up and an icon will be sent.
Note that by entering this contest, you agree to let Pink Ink and PPT use your entries in the future as the staff may see fit. Credit will be given to the original writer.
Judges
PuddingofEvil, Matt and Lillie.
---
Week 2: Dandelion Thread Open
Any questions?
---
Past criteria:
Week 1: Ivy Thread Criteria, courtesy of Lillie wrote:This week's theme is Dear You. You may interpret this in whatever manner you wish.
Deadline is midnight on Friday 10 February.
Week 1: Dandelion Thread Criteria, courtesy of PuddingofEvil wrote:There must be a mention of each of the following at some point in the submission: ham radios, yachts, and clones.
The story must incorporate a character who dislikes every other character. Oh, and a mirror, just because.
Deadline is Friday 27 January, midnight (GMT).
Last edited by Lillie on Sat Feb 11, 2006 1:39 am, edited 6 times in total.
Sat Jan 21, 2006 6:42 am
How many words approx ??
Sat Jan 21, 2006 12:23 pm
the_dog_god wrote:How many words approx ??
To be honest, there isn't really a number of words which you have to do; it just depends whether you can communicate a good story in the number of words you choose to use.
If it's too long for an article, don't worry because we can just break it up and publish it in a couple of sections
Sat Jan 21, 2006 9:47 pm
*is totally going to enter* This post is just to make sure I remember.
Mon Jan 23, 2006 11:01 pm
There may be prizes just for participating... 
Tue Jan 24, 2006 4:32 am
This looks great! 
Just the kind of thing to get me motived to write again.
Just the kind of thing to get me motived to write again.
Wed Jan 25, 2006 3:08 am
Count me in, even though I don't play Neopets. 
Fri Jan 27, 2006 11:45 pm
Miranda is talking at me a mile a minute, but all I notice is her hair.
It's something to behold, really. A helmet-like coiff of violently blonde straw, hairsprayed into place with startling precision. The light breeze skimming over the murky green waves is causing her overdone Versace dress to ruffle and sway, but her hair stands firmly in place.
My son sure knows how to pick a trophy wife. What is this one? Number three? They're like clones of one another. They all just come together in a blur. I don't even know if her name is really Miranda, or if that was the last one. I just don't know.
Her bleached teeth flash against her red lipstick as she talks about weather, charity balls, pollution, or whatever topic flits across the barren wastelands of her mind.
My son, Allen, saunters over to us with one hand in his pocket and a glass of Pinot Noir in the other. I wonder how this balding, swaggering alcoholic masquerading as a wine connoisseur could possibly be my son. I recall the scant memories of the pudgy infant, the howling toddler, and all too soon the moody teenager that I once considered my child. He was an idea to me then. A picture on my desk and an answer to the questions about my family. I was away much too often to know him, to really know him, but I still think this man in front of me is nothing less than alien. An alien with a combover and biscotti crumbs on his suit jacket.
I know that when he's looking at me and making small talk that he's waiting for me to die. I wonder if he knows what I am thinking about him?
I'm old. Far older than rich men with impatient relatives are supposed to be. It is my 88th birthday today. I am surrounded by my three, middle-aged children, their awkward spouses, and their screaming, sulking children. It's been seven years since Margaret died, but I'm still expecting her to snap at me for something or other.
To be honest, I didn't like her much, either.
It is my birthday, and I am surrounded by people that I don't know. The radio is playing Sinatra. I don't even like Sinatra. I guess they just assume I like it because I'm old.
The deck on the yacht is decorated with little lights and fake, leafy plants that feel like canvas when you touch them just to make sure they're fake. On the lower deck, they've set up a banquet hall with elegant tables and mirrors on the ceiling. There's a brilliantly lavish table full of turkeys, hams, salads, shrimps, lobsters, crabs, soups, and a tantalizing selection of antipasto. In the middle of it all stands a majestic, three-tiered cake, all fluffy white icing and delicate flowers. It says, "HAPPY BIRTHDAY PAUL", but it has no candles.
I'm too old to be blowing out candles.
I'm startled when Vanessa starts wheeling me into the banquet hall. Is it time already? I see the crowd of aging adults and sticky-faced children, all watching me as I sag in my chair. All listening to the gentle, rhythmic exhalation of my breathing tube. They're waiting for me to die, even the young ones, all waiting for their share of 80 million dollars.
There's a terrible din when they all start singing "Happy Birthday". The annoyingly unfunny rake that my daughter is currently dating sings, "How old are you now?" and is received with a few polite titters.
I think I might hate him the most.
Cake is being cut and handed out and devoured with delicate greed, and for some reason, my throat clogs as I observe them all.
I'm old and tired, and for a long time now, I've realized that I have accomplished nothing. I set up my business. It will be torn down by incompetent sons and in-laws with expensive tastes. I married a beautiful woman. I won't kid myself into believing that I loved her, or that she loved me, or that there was anything holding the seams of our marriage together. I begot two sons and a daughter. They are no longer children, but are eternally watching and waiting, anxious to drop me in the ground and squeeze every penny from my shriveled corpse.
I loved a woman once, but I let her go.
For the longest time I've wanted to seek revenge upon these people. To watch from on high with wicked glee as the will was read, only to see the shock on their faces when they realize I've left it all to charity or entrusted it to my dog.
But now, at this moment, I realize that these people don't deserve revenge. Everything that they are, everything that they do, is because of me.
They are of my creation.
Someone spots the tears in my eyes and assumes I am moved by the celebration. I am showered with insincere affection for the longest time, until the party is over and it is time for me to be bundled home, like a tired infant after a long day.
The nursemaid puts me to bed. She lays me down in the cool, crisp sheets and rests my head comfortably on the pillow. My breathing tubes are hooked up at my bedside. She walks out and turns off the light, leaving me in the bluish hue of my bedroom at night.
I stare at the canopy for a long time.
Suddenly, everything seems to slow down. There's a quiet pause in the passage of time, only a moment. Somehow I know that this is it. I am dying. I close my eyes and I see her in the pink sundress with the sunlight on her brown hair, giving me that wide smile. I don't feel weak or old or tired, just calm. As the calmness seeps through me, I'm vaguely aware of how the room is gently fading away.
What a waste.
It's something to behold, really. A helmet-like coiff of violently blonde straw, hairsprayed into place with startling precision. The light breeze skimming over the murky green waves is causing her overdone Versace dress to ruffle and sway, but her hair stands firmly in place.
My son sure knows how to pick a trophy wife. What is this one? Number three? They're like clones of one another. They all just come together in a blur. I don't even know if her name is really Miranda, or if that was the last one. I just don't know.
Her bleached teeth flash against her red lipstick as she talks about weather, charity balls, pollution, or whatever topic flits across the barren wastelands of her mind.
My son, Allen, saunters over to us with one hand in his pocket and a glass of Pinot Noir in the other. I wonder how this balding, swaggering alcoholic masquerading as a wine connoisseur could possibly be my son. I recall the scant memories of the pudgy infant, the howling toddler, and all too soon the moody teenager that I once considered my child. He was an idea to me then. A picture on my desk and an answer to the questions about my family. I was away much too often to know him, to really know him, but I still think this man in front of me is nothing less than alien. An alien with a combover and biscotti crumbs on his suit jacket.
I know that when he's looking at me and making small talk that he's waiting for me to die. I wonder if he knows what I am thinking about him?
I'm old. Far older than rich men with impatient relatives are supposed to be. It is my 88th birthday today. I am surrounded by my three, middle-aged children, their awkward spouses, and their screaming, sulking children. It's been seven years since Margaret died, but I'm still expecting her to snap at me for something or other.
To be honest, I didn't like her much, either.
It is my birthday, and I am surrounded by people that I don't know. The radio is playing Sinatra. I don't even like Sinatra. I guess they just assume I like it because I'm old.
The deck on the yacht is decorated with little lights and fake, leafy plants that feel like canvas when you touch them just to make sure they're fake. On the lower deck, they've set up a banquet hall with elegant tables and mirrors on the ceiling. There's a brilliantly lavish table full of turkeys, hams, salads, shrimps, lobsters, crabs, soups, and a tantalizing selection of antipasto. In the middle of it all stands a majestic, three-tiered cake, all fluffy white icing and delicate flowers. It says, "HAPPY BIRTHDAY PAUL", but it has no candles.
I'm too old to be blowing out candles.
I'm startled when Vanessa starts wheeling me into the banquet hall. Is it time already? I see the crowd of aging adults and sticky-faced children, all watching me as I sag in my chair. All listening to the gentle, rhythmic exhalation of my breathing tube. They're waiting for me to die, even the young ones, all waiting for their share of 80 million dollars.
There's a terrible din when they all start singing "Happy Birthday". The annoyingly unfunny rake that my daughter is currently dating sings, "How old are you now?" and is received with a few polite titters.
I think I might hate him the most.
Cake is being cut and handed out and devoured with delicate greed, and for some reason, my throat clogs as I observe them all.
I'm old and tired, and for a long time now, I've realized that I have accomplished nothing. I set up my business. It will be torn down by incompetent sons and in-laws with expensive tastes. I married a beautiful woman. I won't kid myself into believing that I loved her, or that she loved me, or that there was anything holding the seams of our marriage together. I begot two sons and a daughter. They are no longer children, but are eternally watching and waiting, anxious to drop me in the ground and squeeze every penny from my shriveled corpse.
I loved a woman once, but I let her go.
For the longest time I've wanted to seek revenge upon these people. To watch from on high with wicked glee as the will was read, only to see the shock on their faces when they realize I've left it all to charity or entrusted it to my dog.
But now, at this moment, I realize that these people don't deserve revenge. Everything that they are, everything that they do, is because of me.
They are of my creation.
Someone spots the tears in my eyes and assumes I am moved by the celebration. I am showered with insincere affection for the longest time, until the party is over and it is time for me to be bundled home, like a tired infant after a long day.
The nursemaid puts me to bed. She lays me down in the cool, crisp sheets and rests my head comfortably on the pillow. My breathing tubes are hooked up at my bedside. She walks out and turns off the light, leaving me in the bluish hue of my bedroom at night.
I stare at the canopy for a long time.
Suddenly, everything seems to slow down. There's a quiet pause in the passage of time, only a moment. Somehow I know that this is it. I am dying. I close my eyes and I see her in the pink sundress with the sunlight on her brown hair, giving me that wide smile. I don't feel weak or old or tired, just calm. As the calmness seeps through me, I'm vaguely aware of how the room is gently fading away.
What a waste.
Sat Jan 28, 2006 1:38 am
Heaven in Talk: by tested
“So, Jeff? You been here a while?” asked the man. He had just walked up on me, and began speaking. I didn’t even tell the guy my name, though- how did he manage to guess it?
Maybe he’s my clone. I saw a movie about clones once. That was a great movie...
...so, the ninjas are about to infiltrate this base, you know, because they heard something big was going down. A big robot being sold, ya know? So they get in here, and they find a giant robot. It was massive, really. So, the robot is being shown to a huge group of people. I think it was an auction, maybe...
...I remember my first auction. Boy, that was great. They sold all kinds of things, because some rich guy (I know he was important, but I cannot for the life of me remember his name) had died, and he was giving away all of the money from the auction to a children’s hospital in Austria...
...I went to Austria once. Nice place. My uncle was doing research there, because he was working on some research project to find things that died way too long ago. He pretty much hated everyone there, because, well, he just hated everybody. He had discovered his first fossil when he was only 22, and ever since then, he hated anyone who might become the competition. Archaeology came easily to him, so it was his assumption that it was easy for everybody. Those he knew were too incompetent to find anything important, that is, people like me, he hated simply because they were fools. That search for fossils took his life, and I’m sure I heard him slowly whispering my name to place the blame on his favorite nephew as he died...
...ya know, people who like placing blame really annoy me. You know the kind, they’ll make a mistake, and then they’ll make sure that everybody knows it wasn’t their fault. They really annoy me, because you can’t trust them with anything. I knew someone like that in my first job. I was on a fast track to get promoted to management, and he was on a fast track to get the pink slip. He hated me, because I was just a better sales manager than him. I was in a meeting, being offered a job where not only would I earn more than him, not only would I have more ability to make a real difference in the company, but, most importantly, I would be able to fire him, which would be my first move. He was really the worst salesperson in the company. I mean, if you can’t sell advertisements, you really stink. Really. As we were discussing the new job which I was definitely planning on accepting, you know who burst in the door? He did. “Hey, boss! Guess who really caused the company to lose $23,000?” It had been his fault, of course, but when you lose more than your own yearly income, it’s best to put the blame on any target who might be able to get rid of you soon. I opted to quit rather than be fired...
...when I was 7 years old, my house set on fire. I was honestly afraid more than I have ever been. My imaginary friend was still in there! I knew he was in there, because I hadn’t grabbed a mirror. If you know me, you know I have no imagination whatsoever. So, my imaginary friend, named Jeff, lived in the mirror and coincidentally looked strikingly like me. My parents said it was okay, because he would probably still be okay, or something. I didn’t think anything else of it, because I really didn’t know of anything to be thinking. I told you I have no imagination...
...I remember my first creative writing assignment in school. It was called “Imagination”, and it was simple. Write a fifty word story about things that we made up. I have it memorized, just so I can tell people how poorly I did in school. It only got to 22 words. “It wasn’t a chicken. It didn’t cluck. It didn’t peck. It didn’t peck the ground. It didn’t make eggs. It wasn’t real.” I had to refer to book about chickens to write that, by the way...
...I really only remember one book that I ever enjoyed reading. It was about ham radios. My uncle had bought me that book, as well as a book about archaeology. I think he may have bought that just to make sure I didn’t understand his field, so he would know if I could ever become a threat to his wealth. I didn’t read it, luckily for his health. I did however, love the book about ham radios. He offered to buy me the supplies for a ham radio. I later found out that my dad had paid for it, because my uncle didn’t want to help me financially. I could become competition. I remember my first conversation on that ham radio. It was with a guy from Washington, and even though I accidentally broke about 15 regulations during the conversation, he was honestly glad for me, because I would carry on the ham radio tradition when he died. That was heaven...
...I remember the first time I felt like I was in hell. I was four years old, and even though I failed the competency tests when I was older, I was actually pretty smart when it didn’t mean marbles. We were on a yacht, my whole family, and something went wrong. We were just there for hours and hours, and I thought we would never get back to land...
...is it just me, or doesn’t it seem like sometimes you could just go on and on for days, never stopping, just telling a patient listener about your life? It seems like I did that a lot. I remember the first time that happened. Someone asked me how long I had been somewhere, and I could just talk to the person for as long as I wanted about anything. That was so great, I felt as if I never stopped talking. The odd thing is, I feel like I’m still talking to them. Maybe we’re only in heaven for a moment, and then we’re gone forever, but we still have memories of that short perfect time, and so it feels as if we never end. That’s how I feel, after just... talking...
“So, Jeff? You been here a while?” asked the man. He had just walked up on me, and began speaking. I didn’t even tell the guy my name, though- how did he manage to guess it?
Maybe he’s my clone. I saw a movie about clones once. That was a great movie...
...so, the ninjas are about to infiltrate this base, you know, because they heard something big was going down. A big robot being sold, ya know? So they get in here, and they find a giant robot. It was massive, really. So, the robot is being shown to a huge group of people. I think it was an auction, maybe...
...I remember my first auction. Boy, that was great. They sold all kinds of things, because some rich guy (I know he was important, but I cannot for the life of me remember his name) had died, and he was giving away all of the money from the auction to a children’s hospital in Austria...
...I went to Austria once. Nice place. My uncle was doing research there, because he was working on some research project to find things that died way too long ago. He pretty much hated everyone there, because, well, he just hated everybody. He had discovered his first fossil when he was only 22, and ever since then, he hated anyone who might become the competition. Archaeology came easily to him, so it was his assumption that it was easy for everybody. Those he knew were too incompetent to find anything important, that is, people like me, he hated simply because they were fools. That search for fossils took his life, and I’m sure I heard him slowly whispering my name to place the blame on his favorite nephew as he died...
...ya know, people who like placing blame really annoy me. You know the kind, they’ll make a mistake, and then they’ll make sure that everybody knows it wasn’t their fault. They really annoy me, because you can’t trust them with anything. I knew someone like that in my first job. I was on a fast track to get promoted to management, and he was on a fast track to get the pink slip. He hated me, because I was just a better sales manager than him. I was in a meeting, being offered a job where not only would I earn more than him, not only would I have more ability to make a real difference in the company, but, most importantly, I would be able to fire him, which would be my first move. He was really the worst salesperson in the company. I mean, if you can’t sell advertisements, you really stink. Really. As we were discussing the new job which I was definitely planning on accepting, you know who burst in the door? He did. “Hey, boss! Guess who really caused the company to lose $23,000?” It had been his fault, of course, but when you lose more than your own yearly income, it’s best to put the blame on any target who might be able to get rid of you soon. I opted to quit rather than be fired...
...when I was 7 years old, my house set on fire. I was honestly afraid more than I have ever been. My imaginary friend was still in there! I knew he was in there, because I hadn’t grabbed a mirror. If you know me, you know I have no imagination whatsoever. So, my imaginary friend, named Jeff, lived in the mirror and coincidentally looked strikingly like me. My parents said it was okay, because he would probably still be okay, or something. I didn’t think anything else of it, because I really didn’t know of anything to be thinking. I told you I have no imagination...
...I remember my first creative writing assignment in school. It was called “Imagination”, and it was simple. Write a fifty word story about things that we made up. I have it memorized, just so I can tell people how poorly I did in school. It only got to 22 words. “It wasn’t a chicken. It didn’t cluck. It didn’t peck. It didn’t peck the ground. It didn’t make eggs. It wasn’t real.” I had to refer to book about chickens to write that, by the way...
...I really only remember one book that I ever enjoyed reading. It was about ham radios. My uncle had bought me that book, as well as a book about archaeology. I think he may have bought that just to make sure I didn’t understand his field, so he would know if I could ever become a threat to his wealth. I didn’t read it, luckily for his health. I did however, love the book about ham radios. He offered to buy me the supplies for a ham radio. I later found out that my dad had paid for it, because my uncle didn’t want to help me financially. I could become competition. I remember my first conversation on that ham radio. It was with a guy from Washington, and even though I accidentally broke about 15 regulations during the conversation, he was honestly glad for me, because I would carry on the ham radio tradition when he died. That was heaven...
...I remember the first time I felt like I was in hell. I was four years old, and even though I failed the competency tests when I was older, I was actually pretty smart when it didn’t mean marbles. We were on a yacht, my whole family, and something went wrong. We were just there for hours and hours, and I thought we would never get back to land...
...is it just me, or doesn’t it seem like sometimes you could just go on and on for days, never stopping, just telling a patient listener about your life? It seems like I did that a lot. I remember the first time that happened. Someone asked me how long I had been somewhere, and I could just talk to the person for as long as I wanted about anything. That was so great, I felt as if I never stopped talking. The odd thing is, I feel like I’m still talking to them. Maybe we’re only in heaven for a moment, and then we’re gone forever, but we still have memories of that short perfect time, and so it feels as if we never end. That’s how I feel, after just... talking...
Sun Jan 29, 2006 12:18 am
Week 1: Dandelion Thread Closed.
Technically, the deadline should have been yesterday this time, but as it is my fault for not coming online then, let's overlook that, yes?
Judges, please post your reviews by midnight on Monday 30 January.
Week 1: Ivy Thread Open
Technically, the deadline should have been yesterday this time, but as it is my fault for not coming online then, let's overlook that, yes?
Judges, please post your reviews by midnight on Monday 30 January.
Week 1: Ivy Thread Open
Week 1: Ivy Thread Criteria wrote:This week's theme is Dear You. You may interpret this in whatever manner you wish.
Deadline is midnight on Saturday 11 February.
Last edited by Lillie on Sun Feb 05, 2006 1:37 am, edited 2 times in total.
Week 1: Dandelion Thread (Reviews)
Sun Jan 29, 2006 12:22 pm
Fiddelysquat: The speaker is very honest about his dislike for his family. His feelings are more a statement of fact rather than a brutal truth meant to shock or horrify an audience. You have shown, quite gently, that wealth does not necessarily equate happiness. I like how he describes his son as 'A picture on my desk and an answer to the questions about my family' as it gives some insight into what he thought of that family: he just never thought that much about them in the first place. I'm also pleased that you didn't give him the cliche ending of revenging himself on an uncaring family as, true to the characters, there is no point in him doing so. He is not simply a heartless, one-dimensional character as you show another facet through his love for a woman he lost.
I find it is a little melodramatic to say that everything his children are is because of him, though; surely his wife had some influence, whether for good or bad, on them as well? If it was for good, they would be a little more concerned, and if it was for bad, then it's not entirely his fault. His children don't strike me as uncaring as such, more like they are thoughtless and haven't thought of how false they really appear to be. Apart from that, the story flows well and I hardly notice the insertion of the key words, it was so nicely done. I'm curious as to the absence of a title. Is that on purpose or because of you had not thought of one at the time of posting?
A trivial piece of information: the number eight is a lucky number in Chinese culture, so eighty-eight is actually a very good age. It seems ironical to me that this old man, at the height of his wealth and at a happy age, should be so far from the meaning of 'good fortune' in truth.
Tested: I like the concept of this tale: to depict a train of thought, as scattered as our train of thought usually is and each thought linked only loosely to the previous one. I'm slightly confused as to whether this is a one-sided dialogue with the man who speaks to Jeff, or if it's an internal monologue. If it's the former, it might work better as a dialogue with speech marks, and a few patient 'mm-hmm's from the listener every now and then; if it's the latter, perhaps you could try not having any speech at all and simply having an internal observation of this man who offers a chance to talk.
I found some parts quite amusing, such as the part about the fire and the imaginary friend also called Jeff. There were some slight contradictions for me in the statements 'my imaginary friend' and 'I have no imagination', as the first statement suggests there must be a little imagination, even if there is not much creativity, and the latter would suggest that an imaginary friend, however similar to Jeff himself, would be impossible with no imagination. Still, I like getting glimpses into this person's life and would have been interested in more. I would have liked to see an event that was most important to him, for example, when did life feel most like hell rather than the first time it felt like hell, as there were mentions of 'my first [event]' quite a few times.
I find it is a little melodramatic to say that everything his children are is because of him, though; surely his wife had some influence, whether for good or bad, on them as well? If it was for good, they would be a little more concerned, and if it was for bad, then it's not entirely his fault. His children don't strike me as uncaring as such, more like they are thoughtless and haven't thought of how false they really appear to be. Apart from that, the story flows well and I hardly notice the insertion of the key words, it was so nicely done. I'm curious as to the absence of a title. Is that on purpose or because of you had not thought of one at the time of posting?
A trivial piece of information: the number eight is a lucky number in Chinese culture, so eighty-eight is actually a very good age. It seems ironical to me that this old man, at the height of his wealth and at a happy age, should be so far from the meaning of 'good fortune' in truth.
Tested: I like the concept of this tale: to depict a train of thought, as scattered as our train of thought usually is and each thought linked only loosely to the previous one. I'm slightly confused as to whether this is a one-sided dialogue with the man who speaks to Jeff, or if it's an internal monologue. If it's the former, it might work better as a dialogue with speech marks, and a few patient 'mm-hmm's from the listener every now and then; if it's the latter, perhaps you could try not having any speech at all and simply having an internal observation of this man who offers a chance to talk.
I found some parts quite amusing, such as the part about the fire and the imaginary friend also called Jeff. There were some slight contradictions for me in the statements 'my imaginary friend' and 'I have no imagination', as the first statement suggests there must be a little imagination, even if there is not much creativity, and the latter would suggest that an imaginary friend, however similar to Jeff himself, would be impossible with no imagination. Still, I like getting glimpses into this person's life and would have been interested in more. I would have liked to see an event that was most important to him, for example, when did life feel most like hell rather than the first time it felt like hell, as there were mentions of 'my first [event]' quite a few times.
Sun Jan 29, 2006 4:58 pm
Fiddleysquat
The first think I jhnoticed about your article is the amazing amount of detail, and this really creates lifelike detail and it makes it seem so muh more like I am immersed within the tsory. Even within the first three lines, I thought that I was already within the story. I also like they way that you've used colours to show the fac tht atsomething is wrong. It all just flows, even though you've got to fit in certain words, and I forgot that you even had to put the word 'clone' in until I read it.
Having read much fiction recently trying to relax, I feel that the best compliment that I can fgive your story is that it is much better than most of the stuff I have read recently. The fact of the matter is that it just flows so well, and the use of tempo is used perfectly, alternating sentence structure and vocabulary to play into the hands of humour, especially liking the section about the son with everything falling into place and the switching from long to short sentences in the last section in order to make a blunt observation, which actually made me laugh out loud. However, I feel that the sentences you are usign become a bit too short and simplistic in the next paragraph and that it becomes "X does this. I am Y. You are Z" and this makes it slightly jarring to read, as well as a little monotonous when it repeats this sort of structure into the next line, altough the use of paragraphing to isolate the next sentence is again a great way to accomplish humour.
I feel that you are using 'I' too much in the sentences and that especially in the paragraph regarding Sinatra, you are falling back into the habit of "I am X. I like Y. The radio does Y." which doesn't make for fluid reading.
In my opinion, the weakest section of the story is the paragraph in which you describe the boat. THe problem is that you're just using vvast lists, and I think that it is obvious that this apragraph is the one which you are using everything to fit in. The list is massive and doesn't need to be there, contributing absolutely nothing and just bulking out the action. The story would still work if you took it all out, and it slows down the pace, altough it sets the story into another great oppurnity for self-pity and humour.
Reading through the story for the first time, I realised that there were far too many characters. THere was Paul, Allen, Miranda, a passing mention to Margaret and then there was Vanessa, the daughter and her fiancee of which none of them really play any impact on the plot and do't really need to be there. Even the start of the story bears no relevance to the actionless passage which is to follow.
In a short story, there is a neccessity to keep detail to a minimum, purely because if you keep introducing negligible facts to the story all the way through, you are left with a story which is basicalyl description, with short paragraphs linknig them which describe a placid story, and I feel that perhaps this is a trap with which you have fallen into. If we had not been told that it was on a yacht, that he had a breathing tube and that his nurse was called Vannessa, there would be no real problem with the story and the fact of the matter is that it would make it move a lot faster and stop the story from becoming a little boring. It's an entertaining read, but the fact is that at the start of the story, we are presented with a man who hates everything and is celebrating his birthday, and all wea re told throughout the story is how he hates people and they hate him - not exactly a thhrilling read.
The tone of the story is rather light-hearted and comedic uyp until the point in which he starts crying, and I feel the section about revenge just seems so iout of place and anti-climatic that it just doesn't really sit correctly with the rest of the story. The "They are just my creation" is a really dramatic line, but it doesn't really mean anything, and I feel that it doesn't sit right.
The sudden skipping of a large passage pof the story and putting a massive change of pace and location into one short paragraph seems a little bit strange, especially considering that it is a major transition
I don't quite know what is exactly happening in the penultimate stanza, but if he's dying, I feel that this could be a little patronising and not something that is supposed to have been mad einto a comedy. However I feel that you have done it with taste, and the last line reflects the rest of the story well, and is a good way to end it and this just makes it seem peaceful.
Tested
One of the fiurs tproblems I encountered with your stories is the fact that it was very casual, and although this is accepted in dialect, I think your use of the word "guy" and your casual tone made it a little hard to read, and made it a little jarrigng, although I suppose it does suggest an image of the character we have seen. This gets much worse as we start moving into the latter paragraphs, as youre using dialect in "ya know" and overall it just feels as though you aren't putting in enough effort; considering that it is genral prose which should really be written in proper English to make it readable and to distinguish the prose from the speech.
After the second passage, I had absolutely no idea what was going on, I'm afraid. There was a movie about clones, which I could understand if you were trying to give an image, and then you were talking about ninjas, totally leaving behind the Jeff, the man and the clones. I like your use of rhetorical quesitons; althoguh to be honest, in a story I feel that the point of rhetorical questions in a story are to prompt thought and if you don't pursure the story then it seems a bit insulting to ask them, telling your readers to guess a reason for him kinowing your name, and then rendering that piece of information totally useless when you move onto something else which gives no clues and bears no relevance to the other information.
When you use an ellipsis, you should make sure that the sentence is not interrupted by this, and that it makes fluent sense either side of it. This is a bigger problem when you are talking about tohughts, because they do flow together and you don't have a thought pattern of thinking about robots for a few minutes, beffore waiting fvive seconds and then moving onto the next totally unrelated train of thought - it is all related. YOu';ve done this very well a couple of times, althoguh I feel that your lapse a couple of times really spoilt the story.
OF course, I love the idea of the story and I feel that this was executed well. THe way that you used imagery and causal tones does give the image of the mind, and whether or not I like it, I have to admit that it does all flow togetehr and that overall it does read well and make for interesting reading. YOu haven't fallen into the trap iof Fiddleyhsquat and my making this one story a series of short stories you have managed to make it very action based and not poring at all.
I feel that you have employed humour very well, and that this could actually be a sketch for a comedienne in front of a drunk audience at the London Paladium, as it's very light hearted, it seems very casual and that it would make an audience laugh a lot. It also fits the bill for comedians and this makes it seem very flowing and very light heartedl. It's got the same sense of random humour that just appeals to certain people.
My biggest complained that I have about this story is that it just doesn't flow that well, and that each paragraph is completely detached from the paragraph before it. It just doesn't flow as a story, and the story and the ending just don't really do anything and it could just be an extract from something so much bigger, it just doesn't seem closed and it needs soemthing more definite at the start and at the end to stand there.
--
Good luck, both of you; and I encourage everyone to enter the Ivy Thread
The first think I jhnoticed about your article is the amazing amount of detail, and this really creates lifelike detail and it makes it seem so muh more like I am immersed within the tsory. Even within the first three lines, I thought that I was already within the story. I also like they way that you've used colours to show the fac tht atsomething is wrong. It all just flows, even though you've got to fit in certain words, and I forgot that you even had to put the word 'clone' in until I read it.
Having read much fiction recently trying to relax, I feel that the best compliment that I can fgive your story is that it is much better than most of the stuff I have read recently. The fact of the matter is that it just flows so well, and the use of tempo is used perfectly, alternating sentence structure and vocabulary to play into the hands of humour, especially liking the section about the son with everything falling into place and the switching from long to short sentences in the last section in order to make a blunt observation, which actually made me laugh out loud. However, I feel that the sentences you are usign become a bit too short and simplistic in the next paragraph and that it becomes "X does this. I am Y. You are Z" and this makes it slightly jarring to read, as well as a little monotonous when it repeats this sort of structure into the next line, altough the use of paragraphing to isolate the next sentence is again a great way to accomplish humour.
I feel that you are using 'I' too much in the sentences and that especially in the paragraph regarding Sinatra, you are falling back into the habit of "I am X. I like Y. The radio does Y." which doesn't make for fluid reading.
In my opinion, the weakest section of the story is the paragraph in which you describe the boat. THe problem is that you're just using vvast lists, and I think that it is obvious that this apragraph is the one which you are using everything to fit in. The list is massive and doesn't need to be there, contributing absolutely nothing and just bulking out the action. The story would still work if you took it all out, and it slows down the pace, altough it sets the story into another great oppurnity for self-pity and humour.
Reading through the story for the first time, I realised that there were far too many characters. THere was Paul, Allen, Miranda, a passing mention to Margaret and then there was Vanessa, the daughter and her fiancee of which none of them really play any impact on the plot and do't really need to be there. Even the start of the story bears no relevance to the actionless passage which is to follow.
In a short story, there is a neccessity to keep detail to a minimum, purely because if you keep introducing negligible facts to the story all the way through, you are left with a story which is basicalyl description, with short paragraphs linknig them which describe a placid story, and I feel that perhaps this is a trap with which you have fallen into. If we had not been told that it was on a yacht, that he had a breathing tube and that his nurse was called Vannessa, there would be no real problem with the story and the fact of the matter is that it would make it move a lot faster and stop the story from becoming a little boring. It's an entertaining read, but the fact is that at the start of the story, we are presented with a man who hates everything and is celebrating his birthday, and all wea re told throughout the story is how he hates people and they hate him - not exactly a thhrilling read.
The tone of the story is rather light-hearted and comedic uyp until the point in which he starts crying, and I feel the section about revenge just seems so iout of place and anti-climatic that it just doesn't really sit correctly with the rest of the story. The "They are just my creation" is a really dramatic line, but it doesn't really mean anything, and I feel that it doesn't sit right.
The sudden skipping of a large passage pof the story and putting a massive change of pace and location into one short paragraph seems a little bit strange, especially considering that it is a major transition
I don't quite know what is exactly happening in the penultimate stanza, but if he's dying, I feel that this could be a little patronising and not something that is supposed to have been mad einto a comedy. However I feel that you have done it with taste, and the last line reflects the rest of the story well, and is a good way to end it and this just makes it seem peaceful.
Tested
One of the fiurs tproblems I encountered with your stories is the fact that it was very casual, and although this is accepted in dialect, I think your use of the word "guy" and your casual tone made it a little hard to read, and made it a little jarrigng, although I suppose it does suggest an image of the character we have seen. This gets much worse as we start moving into the latter paragraphs, as youre using dialect in "ya know" and overall it just feels as though you aren't putting in enough effort; considering that it is genral prose which should really be written in proper English to make it readable and to distinguish the prose from the speech.
After the second passage, I had absolutely no idea what was going on, I'm afraid. There was a movie about clones, which I could understand if you were trying to give an image, and then you were talking about ninjas, totally leaving behind the Jeff, the man and the clones. I like your use of rhetorical quesitons; althoguh to be honest, in a story I feel that the point of rhetorical questions in a story are to prompt thought and if you don't pursure the story then it seems a bit insulting to ask them, telling your readers to guess a reason for him kinowing your name, and then rendering that piece of information totally useless when you move onto something else which gives no clues and bears no relevance to the other information.
When you use an ellipsis, you should make sure that the sentence is not interrupted by this, and that it makes fluent sense either side of it. This is a bigger problem when you are talking about tohughts, because they do flow together and you don't have a thought pattern of thinking about robots for a few minutes, beffore waiting fvive seconds and then moving onto the next totally unrelated train of thought - it is all related. YOu';ve done this very well a couple of times, althoguh I feel that your lapse a couple of times really spoilt the story.
OF course, I love the idea of the story and I feel that this was executed well. THe way that you used imagery and causal tones does give the image of the mind, and whether or not I like it, I have to admit that it does all flow togetehr and that overall it does read well and make for interesting reading. YOu haven't fallen into the trap iof Fiddleyhsquat and my making this one story a series of short stories you have managed to make it very action based and not poring at all.
I feel that you have employed humour very well, and that this could actually be a sketch for a comedienne in front of a drunk audience at the London Paladium, as it's very light hearted, it seems very casual and that it would make an audience laugh a lot. It also fits the bill for comedians and this makes it seem very flowing and very light heartedl. It's got the same sense of random humour that just appeals to certain people.
My biggest complained that I have about this story is that it just doesn't flow that well, and that each paragraph is completely detached from the paragraph before it. It just doesn't flow as a story, and the story and the ending just don't really do anything and it could just be an extract from something so much bigger, it just doesn't seem closed and it needs soemthing more definite at the start and at the end to stand there.
--
Good luck, both of you; and I encourage everyone to enter the Ivy Thread
Sun Jan 29, 2006 7:57 pm
Just random info that would probably be put somewhere on the page if I ever published this....
The main character is thinking to himself, losing his train of thought, and the thought, "Maybe he's my clone" sparks almost random thoughts, just barely connected to himself. He is actually not talking to anyone, and it's up to the question of the reader to decide if the story's beginning dialogue is really talking, or if, as the end of the story suggests, he is simply figuring out what could happen to lead to what he considers heaven, and believing that it, specifically, someone talking to him, actually happens. The reason it uses more casual dialect is because he believes he really is talking to someone. He is utterly convinced that he is simply talking to someone, when in fact, he is just thinking to himself, musing about his life with no one in particular. The whole story is just one big psychological look at some person, who we don't know the identity of. In fact, we don't even know if the man even exists, or if he literally thinks himself into existence, without ever actually existing.
Just wanting to clarify.
The main character is thinking to himself, losing his train of thought, and the thought, "Maybe he's my clone" sparks almost random thoughts, just barely connected to himself. He is actually not talking to anyone, and it's up to the question of the reader to decide if the story's beginning dialogue is really talking, or if, as the end of the story suggests, he is simply figuring out what could happen to lead to what he considers heaven, and believing that it, specifically, someone talking to him, actually happens. The reason it uses more casual dialect is because he believes he really is talking to someone. He is utterly convinced that he is simply talking to someone, when in fact, he is just thinking to himself, musing about his life with no one in particular. The whole story is just one big psychological look at some person, who we don't know the identity of. In fact, we don't even know if the man even exists, or if he literally thinks himself into existence, without ever actually existing.
Just wanting to clarify.
Sun Jan 29, 2006 10:11 pm
The title of my piece is Retrospect. I also want to add that you must remember who the narrator is: a sentimental old man. Some of the things he thinks to himself seem dramatic and strange, but that can be attributed to the nature of his age. I volunteered at a nursing home, and I was surprised to see how sentimental many of the people there were. It would often only take a simple object, like a handercheif or a pear, to start them reminiscing and getting emotional.
I greatly value the stylistic criticism. I'll try to structure my sentences differently so as to avoid rhythmic monotony in the future.
I greatly value the stylistic criticism. I'll try to structure my sentences differently so as to avoid rhythmic monotony in the future.
Mon Jan 30, 2006 8:16 am
I’m a bit late, but...hey, look over there!
Prize Administration:
1) Why, I do believe that there are shiny participant prizes for the next few weeks! Oooh, codestones!
2) Current contestants: please PM me or post your Neopets username in this thread for your prizes.
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Fiddelysquat:
I get a definite sense of who this man is while reading this story. Perhaps he blames himself for too much or too little, but I come away with some sort of understanding for him. He’s got a cutting wit, but in the end he can’t really make jokes, can he?
The imagery is excellent; I love the descriptions of the trophy wife especially. The way you incorporated the criteria into your descriptions was really seamless.
I like the rhythm of the story. There’s definite style there. Though, in the future you may want to consider finishing the thought more often before you change paragraphs. I see what you’re doing, but a one-line paragraph is a more effective way to surprise with a separated thought when it’s used sparingly.
Overall, great entry. I really love reading your stories.
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Tested:
This piece reminds me a little bit of “The Secret Life of Walter Mitty”, which is a pretty high compliment if you ask me.
I see what you’re trying to do with all the ellipsis, but the story would actually flow better if there were fewer. It disrupts the train of thought and makes the connection between paragraphs less clear.
One of your strengths as a writer is that you’ve got a good sense of voice. The narration sounds the way people talk. A lot of writers (even successful ones) don’t have a handle on how normal people sound, but you’ve got a talent for it. That’s one of the reasons that I agree with Matt that this would make a good monologue--if you’re interested in acting or anything, you might want to consider it.
This was a fun read.
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Yay, now it's getting to be time for the Ivy Thread!
Prize Administration:
1) Why, I do believe that there are shiny participant prizes for the next few weeks! Oooh, codestones!
2) Current contestants: please PM me or post your Neopets username in this thread for your prizes.
---
Fiddelysquat:
I get a definite sense of who this man is while reading this story. Perhaps he blames himself for too much or too little, but I come away with some sort of understanding for him. He’s got a cutting wit, but in the end he can’t really make jokes, can he?
The imagery is excellent; I love the descriptions of the trophy wife especially. The way you incorporated the criteria into your descriptions was really seamless.
I like the rhythm of the story. There’s definite style there. Though, in the future you may want to consider finishing the thought more often before you change paragraphs. I see what you’re doing, but a one-line paragraph is a more effective way to surprise with a separated thought when it’s used sparingly.
Overall, great entry. I really love reading your stories.
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Tested:
This piece reminds me a little bit of “The Secret Life of Walter Mitty”, which is a pretty high compliment if you ask me.
I see what you’re trying to do with all the ellipsis, but the story would actually flow better if there were fewer. It disrupts the train of thought and makes the connection between paragraphs less clear.
One of your strengths as a writer is that you’ve got a good sense of voice. The narration sounds the way people talk. A lot of writers (even successful ones) don’t have a handle on how normal people sound, but you’ve got a talent for it. That’s one of the reasons that I agree with Matt that this would make a good monologue--if you’re interested in acting or anything, you might want to consider it.
This was a fun read.
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Yay, now it's getting to be time for the Ivy Thread!