Share your writing

[Ennui]

This is intended as a megathread to help stimulate this section a little bit and get some interesting discussion going. This thread's pretty simple. Post any piece of work that you've done. Doesn't matter what kind - fiction or non-fiction, anything from a bit of journal-type thoughts or story ideas to a formal essay on literary criticism or philosophy. Please stick to these guidelines when posting:

- Post in accessible format - either copy and paste (if it's particularly long put it in spoiler tags) or a direct link to it in a common file format: .txt, .rtf, .doc or .docx.
- No restrictions on content, but if it's overly mature (17+) indicate as such.
- Let us know a little about it - why you wrote it, what it's for, whether it's finished or WIP
- Constructive criticism only please!
- If you're specifically seeking criticism for a WIP paper you have to turn in for a grade or something, say so and also post the assignment itself.

Alright! I know we have a lot of hobbyist writers on here, and the vast majority of you are in school and have to write essays and the like for that, so I expect no lack of participation from you gents.

 

[Sheepo]

Meh, I haven't had time, will get around to it soon etc etc

 

[Ennui]

My initial contribution:

1) A literary analysis of the thematic implications of a short story called "Incarnations of Burned Children" by David Foster Wallace (an amazing writer who just recently killed himself). This was for an English fiction-reading course I took last semester, so I don't need feedback to change it but I'd like to know what you guys think of my writing, since this is exemplary of the way I write essays, and any ways I can improve it (my non-fiction writing in general, not the paper itself).

Here's the first paragraph, the rest of the paper is attached:

Semantic Mastery and "Incarnations of Burned Children"
In the short story "Incarnations of Burned Children", David Foster Wallace uses a feverishly-paced style of dense, stream-of-consciousness writing to illustrate the hellishly real experience of parents unwillingly failing to protect their infant child from harm. His impressive syntactic pyrotechnics not only give the story a personal, intensely human perspective, but also aid in the development of the story's theme, which resides entirely in the harsh realism of the characters' plight. The underlying meaning to Wallace's words pertains to the human experience in all of its capability and fallibility, and to the emotional mechanisms of guilt, hysteria, and the consequences of serious physical trauma. His description of the irreparable psychological and physical damage to the infant is starkly contrasted with the parents' frantic attempts to protect their baby from the accident and their resulting anguish and guilt. The product is a story that is engaging and appears to exist entirely on the textual level of simulated reality that Wallace creates with his moment-to-moment style, but when considered more thoroughly illustrates the theme eloquently and precisely. "Incarnations of Burned Children" is, at its core, a commentary on the oft-painful fact of being human: that accidents and mistakes happen, and they can have excruciatingly major consequences. What strikes home after reading it is not only the painful experience detailed, but the knowledge that what happens in the story could well happen to anyone, that one's entire life could turn inside out in the span of three minutes and in a random, unexpected, and exceedingly negative fashion - a realization underscored by the personal, easily related-to nature of Wallace's writing.

2) A fragment of a story I started to write. In comparison to my essays, which I think are pretty well-written despite having some flaws, I think pretty much all of my fiction writing is ****ing awful. I'm really looking for feedback on how I should change my writing style and especially ways to improve flow. Please ruthlessly critique into the ground, as that's where it belongs. I haven't even looked at this stuff since I first wrote it down a couple months ago.

Spoiler

The cold wind nipped at his face and stung his eyes moist with tears as he shuffled down the dirty sidewalk. It was a bad part of town, one that he was unfamiliar with, being of relatively respectable means and having no real reason to visit these sorts of places. He wasn't the type of person that would grab your attention; he was about average height, average build, with a decidedly average face and no particularly distinctive features. He wore a long, dark overcoat over a simple white cotton shirt and nondescript khaki pants, fastened at the top with a belt whose buckle was the only really distinguishing thing about him - an oversized, gleaming metallic symbol of an atom that hung suspended above his crotch like the proud logo of some monstrous research corporation. As he walked, the wind ruffled his overcoat and for a moment the hammer and grip of a compact black pistol came into view, tucked into his waistband.

He walked with no apparent purpose or direction; when the sidewalk took him to an intersection or dead end he turned at random, wandering in this manner for hours until finally he stopped halfway down some anonymous back alley littered in trash and excrement next to a dilapidated building. He paused, looking at the building, at the rotting plywood nailed over the musty door and faded letters announcing that this garage was Henry's and to use the front entrance, although the garage (if that was indeed what it was; all the man could see was the boarded-up door and a wall of crumbling bricks) had clearly been out of business for decades. The reason that he had stopped in front of this particular building, which was essentially indistinguishable from any of the other hundreds of decaying buildings he had passed in his hours of wandering, was because he had heard the faint murmur of voices coming from inside. Straining his ears, he surmised that it was most likely the muffled sound of a television, which would indicate the presence of someone who was watching it.

He took a deep breath, steadied himself, and then kicked the door as hard as he could. It exploded inwards in a cloud of dust and splinters, the loud, dull sound it made echoed immediately by the surprised yelp of the building's sole occupant, a ragged-looking homeless man who was now standing shakily next to an overturned folding chair that, it was safe to assume, he had been sitting in moments before. The television, undisturbed by the abrupt change in situation, was proclaiming excitedly the unparalleled adequacy of Aquafresh toothpaste for people desiring fresh breath and clean, white teeth.

"What the fuck?" the trembling man demanded querulously of the man with the atom on his belt, who was standing in the doorway, his face free of expression. "I'm sorry man, I didn?t think no-one would have a problem if I stayed here a night, I didn't mess with nothing, I swear," he stammered, obviously under the impression that he was being confronted with the angry owner of the property, perhaps even with Henry himself, although the smell of urine contradicted his nervous assertions about leaving the place undisturbed. "It's cold outside, man, gotta stay warm, you understand?" He trailed off weakly, unable to meet the man's emotionless gaze.

The man said nothing, and continued to stare unblinkingly at the destitute homeless man. His hand moved beneath his coat swiftly and withdrew the pistol, raising it and taking aim. The homeless man screeched in fear and threw his arms over his head as the gun fired twice. The television was silenced abruptly, smoke and the acrid stench of burning electronics issuing from its broken glass face. The homeless man, realizing he was not dead after all, slowly lowered his arms and opened his eyes, gazed fixed on the armed man for all but the moment it took for him to see what happened to the TV, an incredulous expression on his dirty, gnarled face. "W-wh-what you do that f-for?" he asked.

"Television is worthless," the man replied, raising the gun again, this time aimed at the homeless man, who merely stared at it, eyes wide with fear. The first shot entered through his left eye, the force of impact jerking his head backwards as the bullet lost momentum and buried itself in his cerebral cortex. The second and third bullets hit his chest, ripping through muscle and tissue. He collapsed on the ground, dead before he could even hear the first shot. Lowering the pistol, the man with the atom on his belt surveyed the body for a long moment before putting his gun away and turning to leave.

PS: As you guys can probably see, I'm pretty awesome at the mechanics side of writing - grammar / vocabulary / spelling, so if anybody wants their paper edited / commented on in that respect, I'd be happy to.

 

[Viperidae]

This is probably one of my most coherent essays of late. It was also one of the more enjoyable ones for me and represents something I actually had moderate interest in, as opposed to the usual drivel (die in a fire FPA111: Issues in Fine and Performing Arts) I have to come up with.

Forgive any oddnesses that late night proofing may have caused.

Ennui, I'll take a gander at your stuff later for sure. Tonight I should be reading Boccaccio, but Diablo2 is more attractive atm. :<

Some fictive stuff might come sometime too.

 

[BabyHeadCrab]

Great thread idea, Ennui. I'm a creative writing major, thus I end up writing a lot of short stories. Here's a couple items I did months ago. The zip has some better examples, but I put one in the spoiler too. I write my stories based on very little except the mood I'm in at the time, but the setting usually starts to solidify after the first few lines. Constructive crits and comments are more than welcomed.

Spoiler

Alby E. Frank

Sheila

They always seemed resentful, ungrateful for what we did for them. Shuffling around with walkers, spouting lines about the war, or perhaps The Andy Griffith Show. We fluffed their pillows, swapped their IVs and often times dressed them. Sheila and I worked the graveyard shift. Standing shoulder to shoulder we would march through the halls scanning for restless old men up past their bedtime. Sheila always wore her hair in a tight bun with two or three bangs hanging down framing her pointed features. I liked this. We would walk for hours at a time and in between sit down and steal coffee and pastries from the dingy cellar kitchen.

“Cedric” she exclaimed one day “This is only our third night working together, but I must say.. for the first time... I'm having fun”
I shifted nervously in my seat, hoping she couldn't notice my red face, or the beads of sweat running down my neck.
“Well, I'm glad you're enjoying yourself... it's definitely different working with a partner this late, it's strange.. after getting so used to being alone.”

I vigorously twirled the custom made 'Oakwood Gates' pen between my fingers, hiding my desperate need for affection. Often times our smalltalk would break all together, but it was never awkward. We would gaze at the paintings of flowers in the sterile white hallways. Sometimes, we would think about Ms. Carpenter who died of a stroke, or Bill Thranger whose diabetes left him with no arms, but mostly we thought of how lonely we were, and how we wanted one another. Sheila arrived at work before me the next night. I walked drearily into the door of the residence halls. Pat Higgins lay dead next to Sheila, he had been a sweet old man. Sheila was weeping, her hair was unusually frizzy and untamed. Pat Higgins, room 432, had two grandkids, always wore knee-high cowboy boots, long flowing white hair. I thought to myself. Everyone knew Pat, he was a kind soul and a better person than most of us could hope to be. I crouched next to Pat's lifeless body and placed an uneasy arm around Sheila.

“Pat was eighty-seven” I said under my breath. Don't be sad I mumbled incoherently “You'll get used to this sort of thing.” I felt terrible as soon as I said this, what kind of creep says something like that? Nobody wants to get used to death, nobody. But she would, just as I had. Sheila wiped her face with a thin yellow cloth she pulled from her blouse pocket, and spoke;
“Why not the ghoulish bitch from 231, she must be two-hundred years old, I drew her bath last night three times, she was never happy with the temperature... why couldn't that old whore die?”
My arm tensed up and I thought out loud “In all my fifteen years working here, I've never seen the bitchy ones die first.” Sheila slowly stood up and came about her wits, covering Pat's remains and pulling his file from the cabinet. We sat for the next couple of hours watching the sun rise from the porch, looking towards the gate. I thought of Pat and his children, and his children's children. The thin, white patterned curtains tremored in the morning breeze. I wondered if I would have given Pat a second thought about Pat's death if I was still working alone. Sheila looked gorgeous, her black hair now framing her entire head and neck and soft hazel eyes pondering death as she gazed desperately into the rising sun. I walked inside and the morning folks had already arrived, along with the private company who transported bodies for Oakwood Gates.

“Another one bites the dust, eh Ceddie?” said Jon, getting out of his familiar black van.
“Indeed” I said with a nearly closed mouth. I gazed first down at my feet and then out towards Sheila who was still paralyzed on the front porch. I was terrified that she would quit. Jon began bagging up Pat entirely and placed him on what resembled a stretcher.
“What's got you, Ced? You're acting awfully strange” Jon barked.
“Pat.. he was one of the good ones”
“After all this time, Ced, you're still bothered.. unbelievable”

Jon finished his work and looked disapprovingly at me before climbing into his black van and driving down the dirt road with poor old Pat. Sheila was still gazing. She was too pure for me, too pure for this job, she was turning me soft. That night I got no sleep, I turned over and over in my twin sized bed. The walls of my one bedroom apartment closed in on me. I thought about Pat, poor pat. Pat always put everyone before himself. I remembered covering the morning shift three Thursdays ago and how Pat brought me coffee while I was fixing the old shitty drywall. How often did one of those geezers actually help me out? Never, only Pat. When I did sleep I dreamt of Sheila, her soft sympathetic eyes, her innocence. I dreamt of having sex with her, and moving in with her, of having a big house and children. I woke the next night invigorated, ready for work for the first time in fifteen years, I'll go a couple hours early and get things ready, I thought. I shaved meticulously and applied my favorite aftershave.

I pressed and ironed my work uniform and combed my hair so that it parted just the way I did at the university. Sheila wouldn't be able to resist me, we would move in together, in the suburbs, with a big white house and a two-car garage. When I arrived at work I was alone. I did my rounds as usual, but took breaks to make sure you hair was parted just-so. I escorted Mr. Robertson to his room and dressed him in his pajamas and began mopping. Finally, I sighed and said out loud, “it's time to clean up before Sheila arrives.” I mopped quickly getting each and every bit of grime off the ground. I hesitated as I mopped over the spot where Sheila and I had mourned the loss of Pat. Poor Pat. If only he could see me now, if only he knew that I was a happier man than the one who took extra shifts just to avoid human contact, if only. Time passed by and it became clear that Sheila would be late for our usual shift. Had I dressed up for nothing? As I finished the night watch Mr. Robertson came waddling out of his room, with a perplexed and unusually aware look on his face.

“Things just aren't the same without Patty around are they”
“No sir.. they really.. really aren't”
“I couldn't sleep, y'know, not with the thought of him being gone and all, I've seen a lot of people go in my time.. but few as pure hearted as Pat”
“He was one of the good ones, that's for sure” I said, the phrase resounding and echoing in my mind, repetition is my only way of coping I thought to myself.
“We would play Poker every weekend, Pat and I” Mr. Robertson let out, as he paced towards me with his wooden cane clutched firmly in his spindly hawk fingers. It was too much for me. For the first time, I had looked at the residents of these sick old halls as people – not old people, but people.

“Mr. Robertson, I think you should go back to bed , I have your Melatonin pills right here”
“No thanks, son, I think I'm going to watch a little television.”
“Do try to get some sleep Mr. Robertson” I said over the noises of the Andy Griffith Show. I began my nightly paper work and had all but accepted that Sheila was not going to be coming in that night. I furiously scribbled the medical reports and photocopied the accommodation requests. The work began to get tedious and the whistling of the Andy Griffith Show resonated in my head and tortured me. I scuffled down the stairs to the kitchen cellar to grab coffee and saw her hanging there, no note. I called Jon. As the days wore on I began to loath the old gerries once again, they smelled of piss and gin, and sometimes Aspirin. But every once and a while, mopping over the spot where Pat passed away, I think of Sheila.

More in the zip, if interested.

 

[Jintor]

What I wrote for English Four (major work) for the year: The story of Emperor Norton.

In all honesty it's not actually a very good story, but it's all I have at the moment.

 

[AJ Rimmer]

Excellent thread. Stuff of mine to follow. First, however;

@Ennui: Your fictional piece, first of all, it is not "****ing awful", far from it, but you're right- you need to improve your pacing a bit. For instance:

a ragged-looking homeless man who was now standing shakily next to an overturned folding chair that, it was safe to assume, he had been sitting in moments before.

The bolded text indicates a piece of information that is completely unnecessary. Everyone who reads about the overturned chair is going to understand that he rose up from it, knocking it over the minute that atom-man walked in. It makes the text flow unnaturally and most importantly, it takes the pacing out of a dramatic scene. He's kicked the door down, it's sudden, it's violent- you want short, quick, surveying descriptions right then. If I may rape and pillage your work a bit, I'd put it something like this:

a ragged-looking homeless man who was now standing shakily next to a suddenly overturned folding chair.

Another example:

The television, undisturbed by the abrupt change in situation, was proclaiming excitedly the unparalleled adequacy of Aquafresh toothpaste for people desiring fresh breath and clean, white teeth.

It's a good idea, and I like it, but again- it's a dramatic scene, it needs to be tightened up a bit. My own bastardized and violently offensive version:

The television, undisturbed by the commotion, was excitedly going on about the unparalleled adequacy of Aquafresh toothpaste.

Anyway, those are my two cents about your piece Ennui, maybe someone more competent in these matters have more/something entirely different to say. But for now, behold: My stuff!

This is a short story I wrote a few days back, it's the only story I've written recently as I've been rather uninspired, but I got going on this. It was written in one go (that's usually how I write, with disastrous results. What I'd like to know: Is it any good? Is it exciting, interesting, original enough? What I don't give two shits about: Is it scientifically accurate. I know it's not.

Spoiler

"Hurry up, please Susan!" Professor Kellegratz's voice was nervous and anxious, but Susan was too frightened to notice. Her hands fumbled with the keys and finally she got the door open. They proceeded down the corridor past the dark offices and Susan thought for an instance how sad she'd be if she'd never find it peaceful to be alone in the lab at night again. Ever since university she'd been at her best and brightest at night, alone with only her thoughts and an empty lab. The experience of being lead through her sacred inner sanctum by an old colleague with a gun to her back might diminish those feelings. Finally they reached the door to the lab and she grabbed the keycard from around her neck without being prompted, then entered her code. Kellegratz pushed her through the door and closed it behind them. Once inside the room that housed the massive particle accelerator, Susan noticed how poor the professor looked; Sweat was trickling down his forhead and the hand that held the gun trembled ever so slightly as he dug through his pockets for something. She thought about trying to disarm him but as if he could read her thoughts he aimed the gun straight at her again and fished out a piece of scribbled paper from his breast pocket.
"Now then, Susan..." he paused to wipe his face with his sleeve, "If you'd please set the instruments to these numbers." Keeping her at arms distance he placed the note on the table besides him.

Professor Kellegratz's past was well-known in the lab. His brain, brilliant as it was, was riddled with tumours, and though the rumours circulated viciously about him performing experiments late at night with radiation, the real reason was nothing more sinister or less cruel than fate. He was Susan's senior by fifteen years, and though she was more well-known and certainly better published, he commanded a great deal of respect in their circles, and for Susan personally as well. So when she looked down at the scribbled up hospital stationary and made a quick survey of the numbers listed there, she could not help but have a twinge of guilt. It was a pharmaceutical slip signed by a name she recognized as head of the oncology department at the local hospital, and scribbled over it were furious sets of calculations, crossed out and re-drawn until a final set of figures appeared at the bottom, squeezed tightly to fit before the paper ran out. Maybe Kellegratz saw the look on her face or maybe he simply got impatient.

"Now, Dr Meller!" She grabbed the note and walked over to the controls for the 3rd largest particle accelerator in the world, the largest one in Europe. As she checked the figures more closely she turned to the armed professor, who was now starting to look very pale.
"These numbers are wrong." He had to catch his breath before he answered.
"They are not. Enter them."
"The process won't enter the final stage at these settings, all it will do is-"
"ENOUGH!" The professor barked and raised the gun at her again. "I have checked the calculations many times... please... enter them now, Dr Meller." He grabbed his chest and tried to catch his breath again, all the while keeping his unsteady hand trained at Susan. Grudgingly she entered the numbers. She'd recognized some of them, Kellegratz had come to her on several occasions over the last few months with similar equations that he said might cause the accelerated proton particles to ?break free? as he put it. When she had pushed him on what this meant he'd refused to give a detailed answer, and Susan had dismissed his idea as the early signs of dementia. It pained her to see a man she had looked up to for a considerable portion of her career reduced to such a mess as he was now, but it was not new. For well over a year he'd become secluded, working alone in his lab, barking at interns and junior assistants, refusing to talk about what he was working on. The scientific community has learned to accept, and even celebrate the recluse and the eccentric, but one they can never forgive is the senile. Three months ago, Kellegratz was found by security guards after having set off the alarm trying to get into a radiation chamber. He'd demanded to speak to a Professor Sch?nwaldt, insisting that he had the former's permission to enter. Professor Sch?nwaldt, it turned out, had been the supervisor for a radiological institute Kellegratz worked at twenty years ago, and he was long since dead. Susan had no choice but to remove him from the project.

"Hurry up please Doctor!" Kellegratz's voice awoke her from her thoughts and she continued with the controls until she was finished. She thought again about disarming him, she didn't think there was any inherent danger with allowing the accelerator run with the settings provided but what would he do after? He might get angry, confused. Still, her passivity prevailed and she stepped away from the controls ceremoniously.
"I'm finished, Martin." He looked at her for a moment, confused. She'd not used his first name often, it didn't come naturally to neither their profession or positions, and she couldn't swear what it was that made her do it now. Pity she thought maybe, but batted the thought away; This man would never want her pity, and for all he had done she still respected him.
"Thankyou, Doctor Meller. Now... turn it on." His eyes burned bright with fire at the words and he stood up straight before the large machine's end. Susan fed the computer the command to start it up and along the the forty kilometer long track the accelerator started to hum silently. It was not a dramatic sight, and only to Susan's trained ear did the slight differences in pitch mean anything Of course, she also had the advantage of the sensor readouts on her computer screen.

"Stage 1 initiated!" She called down from the platform where the controls were to Kellegratz, but when she didn't hear a reply she turned her head to where he was. He stood before the machine, his hands at his side and the gun hanging gingerly at his fingertips, staring at the ominously humming particle accelerator like Oppenheimer might have before the fireball of Trinity erupted and ushered in the nuclear age. Oblivious, Susan thought and again the idea of over-powering him came to her, but the computer bleeped and she turned to it.
"Stage 1 complete!" She yelled, and then her eyes turned to the sensor data. And then her eyes widened.
"That's not..." she never finished the sentence, but she looked down at Kellegratz who was now looking at her. Their eyes met for the first time this night and she screamed against the now screaming pitched roar of the machine.
"TACHYONS!" Susan swore she saw Kellegratz almost visibly gasp, but she had to continue; "BUT... THEY'RE BINDING!"
"OF COURSE THEY ARE!" Kellegratz shouted at the top of his lungs, his frailty and age seemingly thrown off him like a heavy bag. "OF COURSE THEY ARE!" He raised his arms up high, triumphantly and then pointed frantically. "WATCH THE TUNNEL, SUSAN! WATCH THE TUNNEL!"
She looked up quickly, all the fears and suspicions of the night gone and strained her eyes but saw nothing. The pitch of the machine increased yet again and by habit she was about to call out a report when she saw it. The edge of the darkened tunnel rippled and bent, and then she was falling. Endless falling, falling as the tunnel zoomed in around her and the world bent around her, her senses seemed to fail her and though she felt solid ground below her feet and saw the control panels and the room behind her the tunnel and the accelerator seemed endless and eternal, no depth, not breadth nor length, yet all those things at once and everywhere. She tried to steady herself but couldn't get away from the sense of falling, and the scientist in her was unwilling to turn away from the tunnel. Then there was a loud bang, the tunnel rippled and restored itself, she felt a pressure wave push her back and she fell down on the ground as a second bang came, then a third and a fourth and she felt heat against her face and she passed out.

When she came to cool water was dripping down her, yet her face burned. She gently touched it and felt the rough edges of clotted blood and hardened skin, but it wasn't hot anymore. The wailing from a siren she'd heard in drills alerted her to what it was; A radiation burn. A moment of terror, then confusion as she got up and checked herself for more burns, but found none. The lab was largely undamaged, the floor was covered in broken glass, some of which had melted. Far down in the tunnel there was a fire, and the massive pipe and erupted and collapsed on several points and the sprinklers were on. She quickly looked for Kellegratz and found him on the floor, not moving. She hurried down to him and a yelp escaped her lips before she kneeled before him. He'd been standing right infront of the accelerator. His face was red and his skin dry and dead, both his eyes were swollen shut and he bled from his mouth and nose. For a desperate moment she thought of the first aid kit stored at an emergency station nearby, but it was no use. She checked for a pulse and when she found one she lifted his head up and whispered;
"Professor, can you hear me?" His lips were as dry as his face and dead flaps of skin blew off when he coughed and choked on his own blood. "Professor Kellegratz... I'm here, it's all right. Everything will be all right." A strained noise came from his throat and Susan nearly gagged when she realized he was swallowing blood. He said something under his breath that she couldn't make out. She leant closer.
"What Professor?" This time she heard it.
"It worked." He sighed, formed his lips into a gentle smile, and stopped breathing.

 

[Jintor]

I really god damn hate how this forum screws up copy-pasta'd formatting and some symbols, particularly " and '.

 

[AJ Rimmer]

I really god damn hate how this forum screws up copy-pasta'd formatting and some symbols, particularly " and '.

Indeed.

 

[Dekstar]

Mine are perhaps a little long to post here in quote form, so instead I'll link you to my blog, if that's alright:

Thermodynamics
In The Beginning

Good thread idea. I'm a creative writing student, but my work isn't exactly awesome yet. I like it though. Comments and crits from you clever sods is welcome.

 

[Ennui]

Thanks Atomic, that's exactly what I was looking for in this thread what's this you messaged me about a "thinking game" by the way?

 

[AJ Rimmer]

Thanks Atomic, that's exactly what I was looking for in this thread what's this you messaged me about a "thinking game" by the way?

...I'm not Atomic.

 

[BabyHeadCrab]

...I'm not Atomic.

Oh mai, I lol'd.

 

[Ennui]

Whoops. You know what I mean. Although that makes the second half of my post completely nonsensical and irrelevant. Thanks Rimmer

 

[AJ Rimmer]

Whoops. You know what I mean. Although that makes the second half of my post completely nonsensical and irrelevant. Thanks Rimmer

Glad I could help.

 

[StardogChampion]

Fiction transcription of a video. I did not write this dialogue. It was from a video and I just used it as an exercise to turn it into writing.

"Initially, I thought you were a bit of a tit," the interviewer said. "I think a lot of people did."

"Oh, absolutely. So did I," Raef said. "I thought that about myself, you know. Week one, coming out with phrases like 'I get on with prince and pauper,' I was beginning to think, Jesus Christ, I've suddenly, in the space of a day, metamorphosised into a great big tit with a big nipple at the end. I was disappointed in myself, and that's why, week two, I pulled up my socks?"

"Covered the nipple."

"Covered the nipple," Raef continued, "well, I hope by then the nipple had, in fact, completely disappeared."

"Yes."

"And," Raef stifled a laugh, "just progressed through the show nipple-less, and, hopefully, less of a pillock."

"The last thing you wanted, was, on the first episode, Sir Alan to suckle at your metaphorical nipple, and fire you."

"I think if he had sucked on the metaphorical nipple he would've been bitterly disappointed, because, nothing would've, A, come out of that metaphorical nipple, and, B," Raef searched for the words, "as I say, I wasn't a nipple." He burst out laughing along with the interviewer.

"I'm lost in metaphor, but I'm finding the word 'nipple' funny."

Also, you should all use Google Docs for writing. Use the fixed-width view inside a Document. You can also publish it for free and link people to it.

 

[elkaebee]

From the surface of the Sun Jules Welles reports;

Y?know, stuff happens. A lot of stuff happens. Like when you bite your tongue, and it turns out it?s a brick, or when you raise a chinchilla, then realize you?ve raised a chinchilla army. Or, when, just yesterday, I managed to find, after waking, that I had squeezed a 747 through my retina.

But back on topic.

I sit here, wondering how long it will take before my internet bills pile up to the point where they decide to pull the plug on my connection (though them taking the trouble to make a wire between earth and here is a compliment of the highest order), or whether I actually believe in Harvey Dent, or I just pretend to so that I can walk around hospitals wearing a nurses? outfit, or if I hate Jack Thompson, or if I just hate his actions. It?s one or the other.

Anyway; Chinchilla armies. I wonder to this day if there is a single person that does not quake in their undergarments at the mere thought of such a monstrous gathering of these savage creatures.

In most countries, having a Chinchilla army is illegal, punishable by forty lashes, followed by two-hundred and nine years in solitary confinement, then followed immediately by death by toe, and failing that, death by props from the eighties, and failing that, death by black and white Paper Mache giant tarantula with R2-D2s head.

In the very few countries where Chinchilla armies are permissible, 46 years, nine days, and 2 seconds of experience in wrestling the Norwegian Rhino Bodybuilders League, all the while doing the rumba with a giraffe on a pole with a height of 17 metres and a diameter of 4 centimeters, whil holding the planet Mercury on ones index finger.

1772 people currently have license to raise a Chinchilla army.

Of those 1772 armies, 2 have been used. Immediately afterwards, 19 countries were wiped off the planet.

Aquiring a license to raise a single Chinchilla, sans reproductive orifi, requires the actual person to have been neutered both a minimum and maximum of 7 times, and have been shave thrice as a monkey-elephant-alien hybrid.

The only person in history to own a Chinchilla with reproductive orifi intact is John Malkovich.

Don?t support Chinchillas.

Look at it.

LOOK AT IT!



Jules Welles is a delusional sociopath who lives in a darkened basement in Africa, in a constant state of comatose, pumped full of morphine twice every hour on the hour, and is prone to violent outbursts toward copies of ?The Odessa File?.
He also quite likes Simply Tea.

 

[kineaesth]

King of kings.

 

[Sheepo]

From the surface of the Sun Jules Welles reports;

Y?know, stuff happens. A lot of stuff happens. Like when you bite your tongue, and it turns out it?s a brick, or when you raise a chinchilla, then realize you?ve raised a chinchilla army. Or, when, just yesterday, I managed to find, after waking, that I had squeezed a 747 through my retina.

But back on topic.

I sit here, wondering how long it will take before my internet bills pile up to the point where they decide to pull the plug on my connection (though them taking the trouble to make a wire between earth and here is a compliment of the highest order), or whether I actually believe in Harvey Dent, or I just pretend to so that I can walk around hospitals wearing a nurses? outfit, or if I hate Jack Thompson, or if I just hate his actions. It?s one or the other.

Anyway; Chinchilla armies. I wonder to this day if there is a single person that does not quake in their undergarments at the mere thought of such a monstrous gathering of these savage creatures.

In most countries, having a Chinchilla army is illegal, punishable by forty lashes, followed by two-hundred and nine years in solitary confinement, then followed immediately by death by toe, and failing that, death by props from the eighties, and failing that, death by black and white Paper Mache giant tarantula with R2-D2s head.

In the very few countries where Chinchilla armies are permissible, 46 years, nine days, and 2 seconds of experience in wrestling the Norwegian Rhino Bodybuilders League, all the while doing the rumba with a giraffe on a pole with a height of 17 metres and a diameter of 4 centimeters, whil holding the planet Mercury on ones index finger.

1772 people currently have license to raise a Chinchilla army.

Of those 1772 armies, 2 have been used. Immediately afterwards, 19 countries were wiped off the planet.

Aquiring a license to raise a single Chinchilla, sans reproductive orifi, requires the actual person to have been neutered both a minimum and maximum of 7 times, and have been shave thrice as a monkey-elephant-alien hybrid.

The only person in history to own a Chinchilla with reproductive orifi intact is John Malkovich.

Don?t support Chinchillas.

Look at it.

LOOK AT IT!



Jules Welles is a delusional sociopath who lives in a darkened basement in Africa, in a constant state of comatose, pumped full of morphine twice every hour on the hour, and is prone to violent outbursts toward copies of ?The Odessa File?.
He also quite likes Simply Tea.

I would like to make a cult in which you are the God.

 

[elkaebee]

Editorial by Jack D Ripper

After so long at working at the triple-t, I must admit that now, I?ve finally lost hope in this once fine and sacred and most holy of magazines; we?ve fallen to the sway of evil, and finally referenced the Church of Scientology in this most magnificent publication. Sure, we made a many a passing joke at Tom Cruise, but never, ever, ever, did we even mention the word ?Scientology?, let alone write an article about it. In fact, I was not aware until only a few hours ago, that both that Tom Cruise had a religion, and that ?Scientology? was actually a word.
We thought he was merely a helpless, talent less nut.

We were wrong.

Still, this third edition of September does have some redeeming features; the gripping ?`Who We Fight?, followed immediately by a blow by blow account of Christ?s life (knowing our cover artist, Robert Bob, he has probably got ?our savior? on a pink background with some cook who wears a titanium apron and uses a nuclear powered stove?, the ponderings of the only ?sane? philosopher in the South-South-North-West-semi-hemisphere (apparently, the entire universe resides inside a cavity located somewhere on the persons of the Sydney Harbour Bridge), a sixteen page report on the dangers if di-hydrogen oxide, an essay detailing the history of the robin, documents from the depths of Area 51, what makes black one eyed Scottish peple good at destroying stuff, the first public reveal of the Russians? greatest weapon, a history of the 20th century, a test drive of the Bugatti Veyron, our first flight of the A380, the (state) government research into genetic mutations, why The Stig is the greatest force in the universe, figures on how many people see only Jon Voight, tips on how to catch white whales, how to built a 10m by 10m table that can fit into a half metre by half metre space, the meaning of life, various shoes and why they deserve to be cast into the pits of hell, why sorry seems to be the hardest word, whether or not janitors exist, and whoever can it be knocking at my door (I managed to cover a quarter of our contents on half a paragraph, I think I deserve a round of applause).

Now, as a last note, we have come under fire recently about several of our articles apparently having a pro-Christian bias. However we believe that such claims are unfounded; every man has a right to their own religion leading to the lord Jesus Christ.

Thank you, and good night.

All Hail Hypnotoad!

 

[Captain M4d]

Reviving this thread...

I'm trying to get more into tech journalism, so I wrote a review of the Verizon MiFi card for my college newspaper:

The MiFi 2200 Intelligent Mobile Hotspot is the size of 10 stacked credit cards, and it works wonders. Simply turn it on wherever you are and BANG! You have a wi-fi network that you can connect to on your laptop or other device to surf the Web.

During one afternoon drive between Lewiston and Brunswick, my fiance was able to stream video from her Web cam and browse the Web at the same time – all at a relatively fast speed. As I write this review, I am using the MiFi card to connect to the Internet where I normally wouldn’t be able to — in Rumford, Maine at my grandparents’ house.

Now the speed isn’t as fast as a 5mb broadband Internet connection provided by Time Warner Cable, so don’t expect to stream high-definition video or play online computer games with much success. But the MiFi’s 1.6mb speed is more than sufficient to browse the Web and stream low-quality Youtube videos with ease.

The battery lasts anywhere between 4 to 6 hours, depending on usage, and charging only takes an hour or two. While you can connect multiple computers or smartphones to the device, I noticed that connection speed started to lag when I had any more than three devices connected to it at a time.

The only problem with it is the network manager that it installs on your computer if you plug it in. Most computers already have a working network manager installed, so there’s no need to install another one that doesn’t work as well.

If you are a savvy traveler who needs to be able to surf the Web from wherever, this device is a great investment, especially considering Verizon’s large coverage map of the U.S. Basic two-year contracts have a base price of $50 plus a $60 monthly fee.

Score: 9/10

Any feedback would be greatly appreciated.

 

[kupocake]

That seems like it's pretty spot-on for a review of that size. The way you've ordered the information, and the tone you use seem appropriate. Though you've got a bit of technical detail in there, you illustrate well with 'real-world' examples so that it's hard for the audience to get lost in jargon. As the reader, I feel assured that you've described why the product is a good one, but why it is slightly imperfect.

One peculiarity for me:
"Now the speed isn’t as fast as a 5mb broadband Internet connection provided by Time Warner Cable, so don’t expect [...]."
The bit in bold sounds oddly specific, almost as if you're on commission for click-throughs and this is a advertisement link in your review! Was there any particular reason for mentioning a specific provider or even the specific data-rate? (On the later point, you go on to mention the 1.6mb speed of the Mi-Fi card, and the paragraph kind of becomes a statement of the obvious. 5 is indeed greater than 1.6 ) You'd probably just say this more economically as 'a home broadband connection'.

Also:
- I think you've probably mentioned enough minor negatives for 'The only problem with it' to sound a little contradictory. I'd go for 'The only significant problem' or something similar.
-'savvy traveller' just doesn't sit right with me. It may be a British English difference, or my own ignorance, but 'savvy' only ever seems to wheeled out for 'tech savvy', so I'm used to only seeing with a pre-modifier.

---

Since I'm here, does anyone have anything (constructive ) to say about my recent reviews of SAW and Darkest of Days?

I'm finding it particularly hard to write decent opening paragraphs, but I'm willing to accept that anything and all of it needs improvement. I am however aware that the DaDa review clearly never got the proof-read I thought I gave it and I need to remove the "-" key from my keyboard (though if anyone has any general advice on either that I should already know, feel free to post).

 

[Tyguy]

I wrote this one day at work. I don't think it's good but I like the concept. I named the main character after a character in "The Metamorphosis of Prime Intellect".

Patient 38


Blinding white light pierced Lawrence’s eyelids as he emerged from nothingness. The environment around him was non-existent. As his pupils adjusted, a voice emanated from inside his head. “Lawrence, the simulation will begin momentarily. There was a slight hiccup in the processing but we foresee no major complications”. The feeling of floating in limbo was unsettling but his eagerness easily overpowered fear of the unknown. For the first time in thirty years the pain was gone, how could he possibly complain? He was five years old when the diagnosis was made. He has little memory of his childhood but the image of his mother crying beside his hospital bed was clear as day. Had Lawrence been born just a few years earlier he may not have lived long enough to see the medical breakthrough which would extend his life. Although his body was frail and weak his mind was untouched by the disease. His mental capacity was off the charts.

The white light was instantly replaced by a beautiful sunset. The orange glow falling beneath the horizon triggered a sense of calm in his mind yet his heart raced with anticipation. The sand beneath his feat felt warm and the steady breeze made the palm trees sway back and forth. “It works”, he muttered to himself.

“Lawrence, there was a slight hiccup but we will be go in a few moments. We have created a temporary environment in the meantime”. “Perfect” he thought. “One minute into the test and already a problem”.

There have been dozens of attempts to transfer consciousness into a virtual world, all resulting in failures. Lawrence had been the 38th attempt and also the most promising candidate for the program. Number 37 was nearly a success until the subject seized and died on the table. A successful test would be a turning point in mankind’s technological prowess. We stood on the brink of a revolution, a cyber paradise where disease and pain were non-existent. The world’s sick would have a semblance of life, the freedom from the confines of their physical constraints. The possibilities were endless for this type of technology. Mankind would no longer be constrained to lives of misery and suffering. The world was changing for the better, at least for Lawrence anyway.

“We are good on our end, Lawrence. Remember, this is only a test run so we need to limit the amount of exposure in order to correctly decipher the data”. The sunset suddenly morphed into a farm. He sat in a field staring at the house where he grew up, just as he remembered it. A figure emerged from the house and approached Lawrence with her arms open. As she got closer his eyes widened with astonishment as his mother hugged him for what seemed like an eternity. “Welcome home my son, I have missed you” she said. “Bullshit” Lawrence thought, a nice try by the company to implant false memories. “Nice try gentleman, I may be a crippled wreck but I still have a head on my shoulders”.

The program gave Lawrence some idea what life was like again, a feeling he had not experienced in over three decades. His nostalgic experience was interrupted as he overheard a round of applause. The experiment was a success, the first success in over 10 years of research. “Congratulations Lawrence, we did it. We will be finished compiling the data in a couple minutes. Until then, relax and enjoy the ride”. The farm vanished as quickly as it appeared. Lawrence was suddenly transported into a Zen-like paradise. Had Lawrence ever experienced an orgasm, this would rival it he thought. He was back at the beach, this time at night. The cool breeze flowed over him as he lay on his back staring at the endless amount of stars littering the night sky. “This beats the hell out of that ****ing chair”, he thought.

His body lay naked on a cold steel table, electrodes placed methodically over his body. The implant was attached near the base of his occipital lobe. A wire ran from the chip to a computer, the most intricate and powerful machine built by man. The test was almost over. Five minutes had never gone by so quickly and soon he would awaken to the pain he had briefly escaped. “That should do it Lawrence, great job. Give us a moment to calibrate your transfer back”. Had he any idea he was about to go into cardiac arrest he may not be so calm. After 10 minutes Lawrence became curious. “What’s the problem, why am I still here” he asked. No response, just the sound of ocean waves crashing on the shore. “Hello”? Lawrence grew concerned as time went by without word from Dr. Tillman.

The scenery disappeared and the empty blackness surrounding him sent chills up his spine. He began to wonder what was happening in that dark room back at the hospital. He had no communication with the doctor for over 15 minutes, something had obviously gone wrong.

“We’re losing him!” screamed Tillman. The monitors blared a deafening tone as he began flat lining. His breathing slowly diminished until his chest stopped moving. Doctors frantically tried to revive Lawrence but it was no use. Lawrence died at 7:15 that night in a room full of aggravated doctors and confused technicians. After hours of tests Lawrence’s body was brought to the morgue as the 38th failure in the program.

“What the hell is going on?” thought Lawrence as he stood on the beach, staring at the orange glow of the sun.

 

[Solaris]

For Philosophy Class at Uni, in retrospect, it wasn't very good, but I am still disappointed with the mark (33%)/fail

Is the Design Argument for Gods Existence Successful?

There are many arguments for the existence of 'God' and in this essay I will explore them, focusing mainly on what is known as the 'Argument from Design'. The design argument in it's simplest form asserts that aspects of the universe appear to have been created, therefore there must have been a creator.

One of the most famous analogies of this is as follows: You are walking along a beach and come across a watch. You examine all the mechanical parts and the beautiful way it keeps time precisely. You have no idea how the watch got there, but you know that somebody must have made it. It cannot have been assembled by chance due to the forces of nature.

When using this argument the watch is used as an analogy for the human body/solar system/laws of physics. It is proposed that the world we live in is so complicated and works together so well that it must have been created with us in mind.

However whilst our earth and solar system may appear 'perfect' for our needs this does not follow that it is adapted or designed for us. It's equally possible that we are adapted for it.

The evidence that we have adapted to the world in which we live is astounding. Darwin's theory of evolution through natural selection is deeply entrenched and accepted throughout the scientific community. It has been refined over the years (and many theists would try and argue that this is a sign of it's weakness) but it remains as close to fact as a scientific hypothesis can aspire and no serious respected biologist doubts it.

In the days before science was respected and the Church could still threaten to burn men such as Gallilao, the design argument would most certainly have appeared more convincing. It was believed that the earth was the centre of the (small) universe and that the sun and other planets orbited the earth. How human beings and other life appeared on the earth seemed as mystifying as the watch on the deserted beach. Clearly in those days, it was so obvious that everything must have been designed, there was simply no other sensible explanation for it. Something must have created the earth, the universe and life itself. These achievements were ascribed to the God of the Bible (or Allah if you lived in the middle east).

In a vague way, the design argument still works in our modern scientific age. Life was created by something and that something is the forces of natural selection due to genetic mutation – 'The Blind Watchmaker' as Richard Dawkins puts it.

However, the forces of nature are certainly not what deistic people pray to every night or mutter under their breath (with the exception of those who 'believe' in Spinoza's God like Einstein).

A lot of people are willing to accept that evolution created mankind, independent of any supernatural interference and that the earth emerged from a gas cloud that had it's origins in the big bang. However, it's popular to then assert that something must have started it all, there must be a first cause. This is where the argument from design changes into a priori arguments which are certainly no stronger.

What is perhaps most interesting and insightful to the weakness of the design argument (and many others) is the conviction with which they are conveyed and repeated by theists. Even if you accept that the human body is too beautiful to have evolved from anything and the laws of physics are just too fine tuned to be there by chance you have only reached a deistic position. If you wish to believe in the God of the Bible or the Thor of the Vikings and get to that belief through rational argument you still have all your work cut out for you.

To prove that there is a God gets you no-where near to proving the God of the Bible. There are thousands of mutually exclusive theistic beliefs that have existed and an infinite number of possible ones. How is the rational believer supposed to choose which religion is the right one? This dilemma gets even worse with the realisation that many God's of different religions punish non-believers with eternal torture and damnation.

Clearly then, for a theist who claims to know the mind of God, rational argument is useless to defend his/her belief structure.

Unless a defender of the argument from design can find the words of the bible naturally engraved on grains of rice on some undiscovered island it can only be ever used to defend a deistic position. The universe may appear designed, but that tells us nothing about who (or what) designed it.

A personal favourite refutation of the argument from design is to refute its' first premise: That the Universe looks like it was designed.

If I imagine I was to create a universe with a special race of people in mind I wonder what sort of universe I would create? Would it be like the universe that western thought believed in before the enlightenment? The Earth in the centre with a sun orbiting it? Surely if the people I was creating were the whole point of the enterprise I would place them in the centre? What need would I have for Giant gas clouds millions of years apart?

The fact is, we find ourselves on a rock that has been desolate for most of existence, it's suffered numerous hits from commits that have caused planetary genocide annihilating entire species. If our rock was slightly further from the sun we would freeze, slightly closer and we would burn. In some millions of years time our galaxy will collide with the nearest galaxy and everything will be destroyed. That's if our sun doesn't explode first wiping out our race.

When humanity first appeared on the earth we spent hundreds of thousands of years living in squalor and poverty. Plagued by illness in a world where you were very lucky to survive into your thirties. Clearly if there was a designer humanity has very little to be grateful for. All our great achievements, our hospitals, our planes, our medicines and our knowledge are our own achievements independent of any God or designer.

Yet theists would assert that we must worship and thank our creator daily, we should praise our unelected dictator who gave us nothing but original sin. We are 'commanded to be sick, ordered to be well'.

It is probably very hard for a theist to realise how absurd his whole belief set appears to somebody who has never subscribed to it and to me the argument from design appears childish when presented with all science can offer us as an alternative.

There is a movement that has emerged in fundamentalist Christian organisations that requires a mention in this essay and this is called Creationism or the 'theory' of intelligent design. This is an idea that tries to refute evolutionary biology, carbon dating and all other scientific discoveries that refute the literal truth of the bible.

Proponents of Intelligent Design try and discredit evolution through pseudo-science and propaganda, they try and find inconsistencies in Scientific theory and so called 'irreducibly complex' cells and organisms that they believe cannot have evolved due to their separate parts having no use except when as part of the whole entity.

As I am not an evolutionary biologist I am not qualified to discuss the Science underlying these issues. However, what I can say is that neither are those who try and use such arguments in the first place. As far as I am aware, there is not a respected peer reviewed scientific journal in the world that has ever published articles arguing for intelligent design. The reason for this is that the science behind this movement is so weak, if any scientists belong to this movement they are involved in fields unrelated to evolutionary biology.

It is therefore my conclusion that the design argument is useless for anyone seeking to prove the existence of God, even more so if they wish to understand his mind. That the universe appears to be designed is a very poor axiom to build a rational argument upon. It is much similar to an anecdote recalled by Dawkins in 'The God Delusion' when one of his school friends was working on some geometry: “Triangle A-B-C looks isosceles, therefore...”