{ ＩＮＫＬＩＮＧＳ } LOCK! NEW THREAD

[I'm Not The Only One]

Okay, I think I'm officially crazy xD I write best when listening to my favourite songs, so- The Fox (Ylvis), Roar (Katy Perry) and even Talk Dirty (Jason Derulo) . Movie soundtracks and music with no words really doesn't give me ideas xD But then I have a more twisted mind than most, no surprise I'm....different!

[Lilysplash]

I'd love to have some critique on my story 'Wolves Of Moon Pack', link in my signature.

Sure, I will if I can find the time in between my twenty pounds of homework, two exams, and four essays. c; One second.

Thanks!

I didn't finish, but here are a few tips:
a) Capitalization. There are a few misplaced capitals here and there, especially in the middle of sentences. Ex. "This is a story of Blahblah and Soandso." Those two words should not be capitalized unless they are proper nouns or the beginning of sentence.
b) Comma misuse. This is a huge one and is overlooked by many aspiring authors. I found quite a few commas placed wrongly or places lacking commas. Ex. "Sister of, So and so"
There should be no comma in the example above. Also, watch out for run-ons, comma splices, and the like.
c) Nitpicky details. Just one little thing: don't put Thunder and Lightning together in the character guide. It seems informal.
As I have not finished it yet, this is only the tip of the glacier. X3 I like it thus far, but there is some room for improvement, especially in spelling, grammar, and mechanics. Mostly keep an eye out for grammar: it can unknowingly make or break your story. Even if a story has a wonderful plot, bad grammar will chase away potential readers.
Sorry, I'm pretty tough in the aspect of critiquing. XD Sorry if it came across as offensive; it is purely constructive and not meant to be mean in any way.

[time stands still.]

I did it! My short story Dust is being published! my high school has a multimedia magazine and they accepted my work. I'll post dust here. Love a bit of input!!

Dust

I stare up at the blank, dirty walls of my bedroom, counting the nails sticking out from the grey boards, dreading what this day may bring. Barely any light seeps through my boarded up window, not enough to wake anyone in their right mind, but my body seems to have developed this internal clock, waking me before dawn. Turning my head, I can see a tiny fly skimming the dusty surface of the floor, leaving a relatively clean trail in its wings’ wake. If only it follow the rest it, flying up and down the floorboards thirty zillion times or so, until, for the first time in many years, the ground will be grime free. Well, I can dream at least.

Every muscle in my body is screaming for me to stay in bed, to curl under the covers and sleep these poor, dusty days away, but I force my aching bones to right themselves and begin walking. My first chore of the day is to fetch what little water we can collect from the well two miles away, and without that water, my father and baby brother would never survive. I feel so terrible for Pa sometimes. My mother died giving birth to tiny Jacob a few months ago, and I, being the first born, was left to help with what was left of our miniscule farm. I know he wishes I was a boy, so that I could help with the plow and harvest, since what machinery we had was destroyed by the storms. Half was buried, half has so much dirt in the gears it won’t budge an inch, and we couldn’t care for our horse and oxen. Both had to be shot, to spare them the suffering of a slow, starving death, but we kept our milk cow. Pa has to labor all day, plowing the soil, sowing the seed, all alone, and watches all year as the crops burn up or get destroyed in the ruthless winds. He has this mindset that women shouldn’t work in the fields. You let Momma work, I would argue. He still doesn’t let me, maybe because I’m his daughter, or he doesn’t want to lose me too. All I can do is stand by as we become poorer and poorer, doing the house chores and trying to keep Jacob cheerful and giggly, just like a baby should be. But how can one make others cheerful when deep down that person is aching worse than if they were kicked by a mule?

I quickly throw on my simple denim dress and dirty cotton stockings, shove my light hair up into my bonnet, throw on my soil caked shoes, and thrust a red bandana in my pocket, in case another dust storm turns up. You never know when they can come. Sometimes weeks will go by without the slightest stir of wind, leaving us to the mercy of the blazing sun, other times they come every other afternoon. When that happens, we may squeeze in a few meals, one a day perhaps, and one or two trips to the well, but sometimes the dust is so terrible it cakes up our water, and we have to fill our mouths with mud to keep from dehydrating. I try not to think about what the dust carries, decayed corpses, ash from the wildfires, dried manure, and tell myself that if I ever want to get out of Texas alive, I’d have to keep my teeth wet. On some days though, I just feel like collapsing on the ground and letting the soil bury me, covering me as my already beaten body begins to decay.

I grab the water pail before stepping outside, and attempt to close the door as quietly as I can regardless of the squeaky hinges. I’m greeted by the familiar sight of flat earth and wilting crops. As I start my painful walk towards the rising sun just peeking over the sand, I try to abandon my monotonous, mundane life and think about what it may be like in New York or St. Louis. What do those supposedly shiny streetcars sound like? How tall are those buildings? Do they really touch the sky like I read someplace? Are the electric lights really so bright you can go walking around at night without fear of stumbling?

That’s what I normally do on my daily, four mile walks. I lose myself in my fantasies, dreaming about escaping the Texas panhandle, seeing myself as a famous murder mystery author, or acting on stage, performing in front of adoring crowds as they scream for an encore. I told Pa about the ideas of me being an actress once. He scoffed at me and said, “Charlotte, you’ll get to the stage when Texas turns into the Garden of Eden.” I never talked about leaving home again with him. I just keep it to myself; locked away inside my head, the only place I know my dreams are safe.

Seemingly no time had passed when the well pump came into view, outlined by the bright orange of the rising sun. Keeping my eyes fixed on that point, I walk on, quickening my pace so I can get back before it’s time for Jacob’s first feeding. The long list of my daily chores shot through my head, pushing my ambitions away for the time being. Dreaming would have to wait until night.

At last I reach the pump, and I place the bucket underneath the spout. I firmly grip the red handle with both hands, and begin to pump, using my entire body to raise the metal up and down. Red paint flakes off the steel as my hands rub against it, scratching my already rough hands. I listen for the familiar sound of water splashing, filling the pail with life-giving liquid.

I hear none.

Frantically, I start to pump harder, and feel beads of sweat forming on my forehead from the combined force of the sweltering heat and my desperate work. My back and legs ached, begging me for a respite, but still no water came.

I couldn’t panic. This had happened before. I just had to wait for enough pressure to build up, and then I would have water again. The well isn’t dry, the well isn’t dry, I kept telling myself. It can’t be dry…

That's when I feel the vibration.

A starting storm is like a dog about to attack; it growls, deep and low and threatening, and then bares its fangs. And when it finally attacks, it’s ruthless and chaotic, ready to destroy anything in its path, a complete frenzy of demolition. And in its wake comes utter devastation.

When a storm brews, the sheer power and energy of the squall rumbles the Earth, down to its very core I always thought. Pebbles shiver and begin to bounce around, what little foliage is left starts to tremble, and your shoes vibrate beneath your toes. The sensation sends instant shivers down my spine, for I know what is to come.

The familiar roar starts to drone in my ears, and the water in the bucket is rippling. I turn to the east, away from home, and my heart plummets to my toes.

There’s nothing.

I hesitantly turn to the west, and my heartbeat increases. Far in the distance, I see a brown cloud, swirling and moving fast. I have to flee, to find shelter before the sand strips the flesh off my bones and clog my lungs, but home is the same direction as the storm, and I can’t run out and meet it.

I have to head away from home.

Instinctively I run, grabbing the bucket of water and trying to keep the liquid from spilling out. I have no idea how far I’ll have to go for shelter; miles even, or if there are any homes in this direction at all. But I don’t really consider this in depth. I just have to escape the grappling fingers of wind, ready to grasp and tear at anything it reaches.

I’m not fast enough.

Within a half mile of sprinting, my chest burns and my legs feel like cotton. I can’t help but stop and catch my breath. Even if I didn’t stop, it would have still caught me. The instant I slow my world turns dark, clouded by dust. The sand collects in my eyelashes, and my mouth fills with soil. I need air, badly, but the instant I breathe in my nose clogs with sediment. Then I remember my bandanna, and, spitting out what dirt I can manage, and shove the red cloth against my face. At last I can collect enough oxygen to sustain me, but that’s the least of my worries.

The dirt tears at my clothes and skin, and if I don’t find a covering, it could easily burry me alive. I stumble on, half blind. For all I know I could be walking in circles.

Relief comes at last.

As I’m groping along, left hand flailing to touch anything in my path that could aid me, my foot clings against metal. I stop, and tentatively reach my hand down. My fingers touch rusty metal, and I delicately plunge my hand into the soil surrounding it. I scoot forward, keeping my hand glued to the surface. On and on, crawling now, until the metal turns to canvas. Through the haze of never ending darkness, I can see what I have stumbled upon, like a hidden oasis.

It’s a covered wagon.

It’s half buried in the ground so that only the canvas top is showing, but it’s enough. I practically throw my body against it. I stand and find the curve of the frame, and hide inside its protective shield.

The canvas works like a fly net on a horse's face. I still need the cloth over my lips and nostrils, but the dirt spares my skin which I know without seeing is now raw from the abrasions.

I sit and attempt to calm my pounding heart and breathe slowly, thinking about my family. Are they protected? Did they wake up in time, or get enough warning to take cover?

I lose myself in my mind palace, my one true protection, dreaming yet again of the stage, trying to distract myself from the surrounding storm.

I became too distracted.

At first I thought the cover had been destroyed, and I plunged back into reality from my dream-like state. My ankles feel gritty….

What dust could get through the two major gaps in the canvas was burring me.

I nearly panic. Scrambling to free myself from the dusty claws, I uproot myself from the ground. Over a period of time, how long I do not know, I constantly remove myself from the shifting soil, determined to get out of this storm alive.

Time seems to have no meaning. There’s just an eternity of swirling wind and dust all around me, seemingly without an escape.

Then it stops.

At first I think that maybe I just fell asleep by accident and can no longer hear the roar, but, that can’t be right. My eyes are still open, and I can actually see the canvas in front of me.

I can see the canvas in front of me.

I couldn’t do that before.

The storm had ended.

It was as if I was Noah, and was finally seeing the sun after forty days and nights. The dust took a little time to settle, but I could breathe at last and see past my hand. Oh, the relief I felt.

I suddenly remember the water bucket. I turn and find it filled with mud, as I expected. I didn’t mind too terribly though. I could just refill it on my way back, if I could find the well again.

I start walking toward the west, which is now clear from dust, comparatively. It doesn’t take me long to find the well again, and I gladly drain the mud and refill the pail with fresh water. It will still be dirty, but anything is better than dehydration.

I began the terribly long walk home, heart fluttery over the reaction I would get from Jacob when I arrive home. Pa would be furious, but not for long.

On and on I walk, until I wonder if I was going the wrong way, but that couldn’t be true. The sun was still to the east, which means the storm lasted less than an hour. Impossible to me, but the sky doesn’t lie.

I keep walking, anxious now, and pick up my pace. “Where is it?” I mumble out loud, now frustrated. Too much time has gone by, or am I just paranoid? It has to be here somewhere….

Then, in the distance, I see a tiny speck, so small it couldn’t possibly be a house, but it must be. I go along even faster now, ready to be home and lie down for a time….

I suddenly wished I didn’t find it.

I could finally see why it looked so small. Only the roof was visible, and the only thing truly recognizable was the red brick chimney. I move over to the tiny window above our kitchen, something that has let in comforting light since I was a little girl, and peer inside.

All I can see is dust. It covered everything, up to the ceiling. The earth itself took over my home.

I collapse to the ground, sobbing. The barn, the crops, everything is gone. There was no way Pa could escape with Jacob.

I weep into my hands, knowing that they were dead. And I wasn’t here.

I survived the hellish squall.

And now I was left alone.

[Jailor]

I just wrote the biggest plot twist in the history of science fiction.

My reader on Figment is going to personally rip out my eyes, and torture me until I rewrite it.

[abandoned.]

omg it's been a while since i popped in here ono'

[Connor.Deviant]

Username: Zenor No. XIII
What we will call you: Zenor or XIII (a maximum of four.)
Will you critique other's work?: possibly (yes, no, or possibly.)
Links to your story if you have any: not yet
Anything you want us to know?: I love to write and read so I will critique when I can

[gap]

So I decided to put my little story here.
It's a short story about a District One Tribute for the Hunger Games.
There will not be much violence and everything PG - 13.
Everyone is welcome to read and critique is treasured.
Now onto my story -



The Story of a District One Tribute - Excerpt

The sun streamed through my windows and I shoved my head under my pillow. Today was the day to show my stuff and I needed to get picked. You see, my name is Sapphire and I'm a not - so - bright teenager looking to get picked in the reeping today. Of course I could always volunteer, but the rules here in District One is to beat everyone else to the podium. I walk over to my vanity and blush out my hair and glance at the perfect face and beauty I was cursed with. Most see it as a blessing, but ehh. I wander over to my closet and pull out a perfect lace blue dress with a white color and white accents. I hurry to scrub myself down, although here in District One, everything is at your fingertips. I press the buttons to my favorite smells of roses and coconut and stand there as all the work was done. I stepped out and pressed the blow - dry button and walk back to my room. Today was awfully hot and I didn't want to sweat a lot in the little blue dress, so I simply slipped on a robe for breakfast. I go done stairs with the silk clinging to my skin and sit at my usual spot. I smile at my parents who carry worried looks on their faces. "It's okay Mother, I'll make it home alive." I say pressing my hand on hers. My mother and my Father's expressions stayed the same and I looked at them curiously. They looked at each other any had a little stare down until my father blinks. "Um sweety, I'm afraid we don't want you in the Hunger Games." What? Did he just say that to me. I grunted and stormed put leaving the chair behind in my wrath. I cursed a few unpleasant words under my breath and slammed the door to my room. I throw the robe out the window, put on the dress and brushed my silky black hair. I put on some blue eyeshadow with navy mascara and looked like the true definition of Sapphire Stone. I jumped out my window gracefully and sprinted to the reaping with a smirk across my face.



Thanks for reading! The link to the full thing will be found here.

[↫mars↬]

Hello,
Umm... I know I haven't been very active on this page, but I was curious if anyone wanted to read some of my writing exercises. Its not a story, really, just meaningless ramble from inspiration spewing out.

I seek just constructive critique.

Here

Thank you!

[Kaerie]

I just wrote the biggest plot twist in the history of science fiction.

My reader on Figment is going to personally rip out my eyes, and torture me until I rewrite it.

Oh my, now I'm certainly curious.

[Lilysplash]

I just wrote the biggest plot twist in the history of science fiction.

My reader on Figment is going to personally rip out my eyes, and torture me until I rewrite it.

Oh my, now I'm certainly curious.

TELL ME BEFORE I MAKE YOU! I'm a sucker for plot twists!