OchrisO - Written works

[OchrisO]

A Personal Essay (http://www.thedarktower.org/palaver/showthread.php?254-Personal-Essay&p=4354&viewfull=1#post4354)

unnamed novel idea (http://www.thedarktower.org/palaver/showthread.php?254-Personal-Essay&p=4359&viewfull=1#post4359)

Appalachian Wolves (http://www.thedarktower.org/palaver/showthread.php?254-OchrisO-Written-works&p=19002&viewfull=1#post19002)





A Personal Essay


I wrote this for an Advanced Composition class this semester, but i was very happy with how it tured out. It is a personal essay. E. B. White(the author of Charlotte's Web) is famous for them. They are typically found in magazines like The New Yorker. They tend to be the product of a wandering mind, driven by the voice of the author rather than what he or she is saying. They are generally loosely organized and are meant to be conversational. They skirt around an idea, and sort of hit the idea at the end. E. B. White's personal essays remind me of listening to my great-uncle Joe tell stories. I'm definately not a good essayist, but I was very happy with how this turned out, and was especially happy with the last paragraph. The way first paragraphs sets things up actually happened, and wasn't made up for the essay. Comments and constructive criticism are welcome. :)

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Reminiscence of a Formerly Immortal Man


As I sat down today to try to piece together the ragged threads of an essay that I was developing, I received a message from a dear friend. An old friend of ours from high school passed away today. I hadn’t seen him in person in years. Through time and distance, we had grown apart, but occasionally I talked to him through an online service called Myspace. Growing up, we had called him Opie, like Ron Howard’s character in The Andy Griffith Show. There was some other story, that I can’t even remember, that resulted in the nickname, but he was a short, redheaded guy, so the moniker stuck. After hearing the news, I tried to go back to the essay I had bouncing around in my head, but memories of Opie weighed heavily upon me, as if he were standing behind me saying, “C’mon man, write about me. I know we didn’t hang out anymore, but I deserve something, right?”

A few weeks ago, I was talking to another friend about writing, and I said, “Sometimes, I think that misery is my Muse. I only seem inspired to write when my heart aches over something.” She immediately replied with, “Of course she is. Misery is everyone’s Muse.” Our conversation then moved on to slam poetry, and the joking idea of a slam duo called Misery and the Muse, but the idea has stuck with me. I understand that writers are rarely ever truly hit with inspiration, and that good writing comes from continually trying to write, but when something has me horribly sad, I truly feel as if some higher power calls me to write. Perhaps it is just a coping mechanism, but the fact still remains that most of my nonacademic writing is produced amidst heartache.

While I hadn’t been close friends with Opie in a very long time, at one time we were very close. Some of the fondest memories of my teen years happened on the glorious backdrop of Opie’s house. Through the confusion, horrors, and changes of high school, there were ten of us who were all very close, and together, we made what can be a frightening experience for some into a bearable and often wonderful time together. Opie’s house was often the colorful background for our exploits. His father was an artist and a genuinely interesting man to talk to, and his mother was a fun, eccentric woman that we all enjoyed. It made a great place for all of us to gather. We could all hang out and not worry about typical parental nuisances.

We spent many nights whiling away the hours, covering such broad teenage topics as Star Wars, music, and girls. Time seemed to move much more slowly back then. We never had anywhere to be, or any obligations keeping us from enjoying whatever we had in mind to entertain us that night. One night, when one of us fell asleep early, the rest of us spent most of the night in the dark, lobbing pillows, like hand grenades, across the room where our friend was lounging on the couch, seeing how many times we could hit him with our pillow-grenades and not wake him up. When we ran out of pillows, we took turns performing the dangerous, but highly important, supply line duty of retrieving all of the pillows without waking our friend. Eventually, he rose from the darkness, like an enraged bear, grabbed the first one of us that he could find, and unceremoniously beat him with one of Opie’s mom’s slippers before returning to the couch to sleep. The allied forces retreated from the battle, defeated, but knowing that we lived to fight again. On that night, nothing was more important that that little war.

Our times together weren’t all sunshine and roses. We were teenagers, and teenage tempers often flare over trivial things. I remember nearly getting into a fight with Opie over a game of Dungeons and Dragons. It was really about mounting tensions regarding a number of things that have now faded from memory, but the game was the ignition switch. I remember sitting in a comfortable green recliner in Opie’s living room. I have always had a very sarcastic manner, and I said something within the game that made Opie angry. He was up and walking into his kitchen at the time. The next thing I know, he was barreling across the living room, fury burning in his eyes like hot coals, tackling me out of the chair. We rolled around on the floor for a moment, and I managed to get him into a headlock. I said to him, “Please don’t do this. I don’t want to have to hit you in your own home.” He struggled for a moment to get free, fully intent on pounding my face in, but then he gave up, and I pushed him off of me. I stood up among the awkward stares of all of our friends and decide that it was time for me to go home. I called my mom to come pick me up and went outside to wait for her. After a few minutes, Opie came outside and apologized. At the end of his apology, as my mom was pulling up, he said, “Man, you should have hit me. That was stupid of me.” I laughed, patted him on the back good naturedly and said with a smile, “Yeah, maybe I should have.” In that small moment, all was forgotten, because that was just how we were. We all fought fairly often, but we all valued friendship over everything else.

In those days, we all thought we were invincible. There was never any thought to any of us dying. I have been a diabetic since I was fourteen years old, but growing up, I never even considered that it could get the best of me. Even when Death swooped in like a flock of dark ravens and carried my diabetic mother away in the night at the young age of 38, I still felt like it could never take me. It was drugs that got Opie in the end, as they do far too many people in Appalachia these days. It has always made me horribly sad to see my home, and my culture, being ripped apart by drugs, but now they have taken one of my own, and I am filled with deep sorrow and white hot, insurmountable rage. None of us were meant for that. We were all supposed to get away. Death wasn’t supposed to be able to catch us, and our culture was never meant to bring us down.

As I sit here, thinking back on the good times and the bad times, trying to pay tribute to a dead friend, I feel very selfish, because I can feel the icy hands of my own mortality wrap around my weak heart and squeeze, just to let me know that it is there. As I listen closely, somewhere, behind the knowing laughter of Time, I can hear the soft, melodic voice of the Muse, singing to me, enticing me to write.

[OchrisO]

So, i started writing this book quite a while back, and I sort of hit a wall. I know where it needs to go, I just can't seem to get there. I haven't tried to work on it in a while, but I play to give it another whirl sometime soon, even if I have to skip ahead in the story, then come back and write the part that is giving me trouble.

Issues that I have with it:

I need to work on the scene transition and make it flow better.

I need more vibrant scene and character description. I have been doing some writing exercises that help develop these things.

A lot of people who have read it that aren't used to high fantasy take issue with some of the difficult elven names, but they are sort of meant to be difficult.

Please, let me know what you think of it. I'd definately like some opinions on wether you like it, if it makes you want to keep reading, and criticisms as well. I may have missed a typo or two because I haven't done my usual proofread of printing it out and reading it out loud to myself yet.

[OchrisO]

The elven city of Tathalas was of a beauty unrivaled throughout the world of Dankris. The capitol city of the Elven Empire was one with nature, and at the same time, beyond anything of the natural world. The city did not merely sit upon the earth as a blight upon nature, as many cities did. It was one with the land. Many centuries ago a powerful magic had convinced the land to bring forth the city. Nothing in Tathalas was constructed, it was grown. The great trees had given themselves to be dwellings. Marble had sprung forth from the ground, shaped into grand halls. The city was such a marvel to see, that it almost drew attention away from the blanket of hatred and evil that covered the land. After centuries of secluded harmony with the other races of Dankris, the elves had come from behind their magical walls to bring death and sorrow down upon the humans. With no explanation, and no warning, they swept out from their fabled city, and caught the humans unaware. After a bloody war, the humans were horribly defeated. The elven people then began to take humans as slaves, an unheard of practice among elves.

Andronicous Greythorn sat in his study, gazing into the fire, thinking of the recent history of his people. He could not imagine what had brought them to this. It had come without warning, even to him, as a member of the fair city’s council. He had opposed the war altogether, and had gained a number of enemies in doing so. It was like a dark cloud had come over the city, affecting most all of the citizens. The people who were normally content to live a life in their beautiful city, away from the rest of the world, had suddenly become thirsty for war. They felt the humans beneath them, and would not give in until they had all out war. In the council meetings leading up to the declaration of war, Andronicous had been called a traitor, a coward, and a fool. However, he firmly held his stance, taking all the insults in stride. He was a man of values, and a man of strong will. He fought with words, with all of his heart, to try to convince his people to not spill the blood of the humans. In the end he had failed. At times like this, sitting alone with his thoughts, he felt the blood of every slain human on his hands, because he could not convince his people to stay their hands.
Andronicous was startled from his deep musings by a noise across the room. It was his beloved wife Talasa entering the room. In the storm of insanity that the world had become, she was his harbor. She was the one thing that kept him from giving up hope. She walked across the room to lay a hand on his shoulder. “You are given to too much brooding these days my sweet, it is not healthy for you. I know you blame yourself, but you did all you could do. No one can fault you for that,” she said as she leaned over to plant an affectionate kiss on his cheek. She turned his head towards her and said with a grin, “Besides, I love you, and how could I ever love someone who is as bad as you think you are?”
“Of course, you are right my dear,” he said, pulling her down into an embrace in his chair. They had had this conversations many times. She was a voice of reason that often kept him from slipping down the slippery slope of self-loathing. He wasn’t sure what he would do without her, or if he would even be alive to do anything without her. He was once again gazing into the fire as his thoughts turned down that path.


* * *


Elsewhere in the city, a sinister meeting was taking place. Three men sat in the private chamber of Protholimus, the head of the city council. Two were generals in the Great Elven Army, the other was Garus, the High King’s most trusted advisor. “The Princess grows bolder, more dangerous to our cause with each passing day,” said Protholimus.
“Indeed she does,” remarked Garus with a look of disgust, “With each day, it seems another noble begins to see reason in her idea of compassion for the filthy human slaves. If this mindset is allowed to continue, we will have an uprising of elves within our own city wanting freedom for the worthless creatures.”

One of the generals leaned forward. “Clearly, something must be done, but what do you suggest?”

“One way or another,” Protholimus said, his visage growing dark, “she must be removed from the city!”

The second general abruptly stood. “You aren’t suggesting that we…but she is the King’ daughter!” he stammered.

“Sit down you fool! I am not suggesting that we kill the girl,” the councilman said, “but you are sadly mistaken if you think the King runs anything in this city anymore. He is a mere figurehead to make the people happy.” He sat back in his chair with a self assured grin, and said, “Tell them what we have discussed, Garus.”

Garus leaned forward in his chair and began to speak, “It has been rumored for some time, due to the actions of our fair princess, that she is a Resistance sympathizer. Under current elven law, anyone found collaborating with The Resistance is to be arrested, branded, and banished from the kingdom. If we can play this properly, the people would have no problem believing what is already heavily rumored.”

“But how could we? Such a heavy accusation could just be thrown out. We would need a solid plan,” the first general interrupted.

Protholimus raised his hand to stop the general, and finished the plan for Garus, “Princess Xalthanlasa has a female human servant who she keeps very close to her. This relationship has been one of much suspicion to those who do not agree with her compassionate philosophy regarding the humans. We plan to name her as a Resistance spy. We will remove her from the custody of the Princess, and question her. She will, of course, name Xalthanlasa as her conspirator, and give a detailed account of how the Princess brought her into the castle so she could be close to the workings of our government. You two will be there to witness the confession. I will make the accusation myself at the upcoming Feast of Jubilation. No one will believe he words of a human slave, and an accused Resistance collaborator over the word of a councilman and two generals, even if she is a princess. It will be Garus’ job to sooth the mind of the King, and assure him that we have the best interest of our fair kingdom in mind. He has a gift for convincing the King of many things.” Protholimus sat back in his chair, waiting for a response.
The only response was from the first general, who said, “When do we set this plan in motion?” After all, what are generals with no war to fight?

Protholimus merely grinned and said, “We take the girl tomorrow night.”


* * *


Garthunal stood in the foyer of his dwelling, staring, lost in thought, at something far away that only he could see. His thoughts were on his younger years, a time when he was still capable of love. When he was very young, he had met a young elf maiden who had captured his heart. They were both of noble blood, and attended the same academy growing up. He had known from the first moment he had laid eyes on her that he could never love another. He was sitting outside, studying his lesson in Basic Arcane Fundamentals, which all elves were made to study, when she has stepped into his life. She as walked out and sat down under a beautiful maple tree near where Garthunal sat. Her beauty made the tree ugly by comparison. Her sleek raven hair cascaded down both sides of her angular elven face framing her full lips and almond eyes like an expensive portrait. Normally a shy and reserved man, Garthunal was given courage by her beauty. He left his scrolls where they lay, and walked over to where she was seated. “Hello. I do not think we have met,” he said, “because had we, I would surely remember it.”

She looked up at him with a smile that nearly made him melt. Their eyes met, and he nearly drowned in them. He was brought back by her voice, which said, “I don’t think we have. My name is Talasa, what is yours?”

Talasa. Though that day had made him the happiest he had ever been, he now wished he had never heard the name. In the next few years, Garthunal and Talasa had grown to be very close. They spent much time in each other’s company outside of school. Garthunal fell further and further in love, as did Talasa.

Eventually, Garthunal became very interested in politics, and began to work under a mentor by the name of Jaharus. Jaharus was a very cold and calculating elf, and in time, he began to rub off on Garthunal. While he never noticed the change, Talasa most certainly did. He was no longer like the wonderful young elf she had fallen for. He was now easily angered, and often pulled her into political debate, even though she had no desire to debate such things with him. He would always get angry with her, and storm off, not talking to her for a few days afterwards.

After months of this treatment, Talasa began to distance herself from Garthunal. She often came up with reasons to not join him after classes, and made her self hard to find. After a while, another elf came into her life. He was everything that she had once loved in Garthunal, and she fell for him swiftly. In the coming years, Garthunal had tried many times to win back the heart of Talasa. He always failed. Soon, Talasa and the other el were married. Heartbroken, Garthunal dedicated himself to his work, busying himself to dull the pain. He soon won a place on the Council of Tathalas. He had still been oblivious to all the reasons she had been driven away. All he saw was that that some other elf had come along, and stolen his one true love away from him, and plunged him into despair. That elf’s name was Andronicous Greythorn. A loud crack of thunder snapped his thoughts back to the present as a large storm rolled over the horizon. “Andronicous Greythorn,” Garthunal said to himself, “Tonight, I end it. Tonight, I make you feel the pain and anguish you have put me through all these years. Tonight you will know sorrow.”


* * *




Xalthanlasa sat on her bed working diligently on a small necklace made from woven silk strands. The necklace was to be a very special gift. It would be special because it would be the first gift that her servant had ever been given since she was taken into captivity five years earlier. Xalthanlasa had taken a liking to the girl when she met her serving food at a feast. She knew how cruel the elves running the dining halls could be, she requested that the girl be given to her as a personal servant. Being a princess, no one wanted to refuse her. The Princess’s compassion had lead to a strong friendship between the two. She knew that this friendship was the cause for much gossip and speculation among the noble houses with nothing better to do with their time, but that really didn’t matter to her. In a world that had changed so much, grown so dark, her time spent with Hannah were some of the few happy times that she saw. She often took the girl out with her when she had cause to go away from the city, saying that she needed her to wait on her, but really letting her enjoy a small bit of freedom. Since Xalthanlasa’s mother had died, and things began to change in the city, she had had no one to talk to. After meeting Hannah, she had once again found someone to confide in, someone to talk to late at night, when her thoughts became too much to bear. The necklace was also special in that she had placed a small magic on it. Xalthanlasa was not any kind of great sorceress. She spent more of her time outside, and took more interest in physical aspects of life. Like all elves though, she could cast a few spells. The necklace would let the wearer know when danger was near by glowing faintly. She felt that it would be a wonderful gift given some of the things she let Hannah do, things that a normal slave girl would be beaten severely for.

When she was satisfied with the bracelet, she called Hannah into the room. The girl was inside the room in the blink of an eye. “Yes m’lady,” she said with a curtsey, “may I help you?”

“Come sit on the bed, Hannah. I have something for you,” Xalthanlasa said as she patted the bed beside her.

“Yes m’lady.” replied Hannah as she walked over to the bed and took a seat. This in itself would be considered an honor to most of the human slaves. Most slept on floors, while some were allowed meager beds, and would be severely punished for doing anything other than changing the sheets on the beds of their master. . Hannah actually had her own fine bed in the room connecting to Xalthanlasa’s, though it was not as grand as the one she was now seated on. The princess took the girl’s hand, and placed the necklace in it. She smiled at her, waiting for a response. Hannah looked down at her hand, and quickly back up. “Oh, I…I couldn’t take this. The kindness you have showed me over these past five years has been more than enough. This looks expensive. I don’t deserve it. It would only serve to flame more rumors if I took it. I…”

The princess raised a hand to stop her from speaking. “Hannah, you are my friend,” she said with a smile, “and I like to give gifts to my friends.” She stood up from the bed to walk around the room. “You say that you don’t deserve that necklace, but you deserve so much more. You deserve your freedom. If it were within my power to give you that, I would. Since I can not, that necklace is a small token of my gratitude. I made it myself.” She walked back over to the bed, sat down, and took the necklace from Hannah’s hand. Opening the clasp, she placed it around the girl’s neck and fastened it. “The necklace will warn you when danger is near,” she said, “It will glow with a faint blue light anytime it senses that you are in danger.”


Hannah was at a loss for words. She merely sat there for a moment, a tear rolling down her cheek. Thinking she had done something to disappoint her, Xalthanlasa placed her hand on the girl’s and said, “My dear, why are you crying? Have I done something to..?”
Hannah shook her head before the sentence could be finished. “No, no lady. It’s just that, it’s so beautiful, and no one has ever been this kind to me. Even in the days before I was captured and brought here, I never had anything such as this necklace.”

Xalthanlasa looked down at the human girl before her, thinking that she never would have imagined finding so much to admire in a human. “I could say the same thing of you dear. No one has ever been as kind to me as you have. I am surrounded by people every day who try to please me,” she said, “but that is all for personal gain. They seek favors, or special treatment. You have never wanted that. From what I can tell, you seek nothing of me. You know that, no matter how much I want to, I can not free you, yet you are my friend. I could ask for no greater gift.”

Both of the ladies fell into a comfortable silence, the peasant girl, and the elf princess, grateful for each others presence. The morning sunlight filtered through the grand curtains of the chamber, catching on the slight dust in the air. The only thing that broke the tranquil moment was the occasional sniffle from Hannah as she tried to compose herself.

Suddenly the door burst open, and four soldiers stormed in, lead by Councilor Prothlimus. “Just as I thought,” he said, “the girl is here!”
Xanthanlasa spun around on her heel, facing the Councilor. “Protholimus!” she exclaimed, “How dare you barge into my chambers unannounced! My father would have your head for such a bold move!” She walked swiftly across the room to stand before Protholimus. “What is the meaning of this?”

Protholimus smirked at the princess, and said, “I won’t be the one losing my head this day Majesty. Your friend here has been named as a Resistance spy!” He motioned to the guards and said with great contempt, “Seize the girl, we will take her for questioning. The council will hear the matter tonight. This matter must be handled quickly.” The first two guards stepped forward to take the girl. They found the way blocked by an irate princess.
“You will stand down soldier!” she screamed, “This girl did nothing of the sort. I will not stand for these blind accusations against my servants!” The guards hesitated, looking to Protholimus. “Stand down girl. If you feel that you are wronged, take it up with your father. After all,” the councilor smiled, “he gave the order.”

Xanthanlasa looked at Protholimus, eyes ablaze, and said, “I’ll do just that!” She turned to her friend and said, “Don’t worry Hannah, everything will be alright.” She then stormed out of the room, not even dignifying the councilor with a glance.

Once outside, she briefly sagged against the wall, trying to gather her thoughts. She knew what the city was worked into a frenzy with the recent war, and a supposed spy would not be taken lightly, true or not. Unless she could do something, and quickly, her dear friend wouldn’t likely make it through the night. She stood up, anxious to be away before Protholimus saw her. She made her way to her father’s throne room, not even bothering to look toward the many people who bowed or waved as she passed.

[Matt]

Re: A Personal Essay

That was great Chris. I think one of the best things we can do for people who have passed is remember them. What a life we have lead if people remember us fondly when we are gone.

Since I too lost a friend--Keith, hit by a train a few months after my first kid was born. We hadn't see each other in years. Its been 18 now and I still think about him all the time.

Great writing

[OchrisO]

Thanks. It is wierd how the mind works in regards to that. It also makes you think a great deal about the other people you have lost.

[OchrisO]

Re: unnamed novel idea

That bad, huh? hahaha

[Matt]

:lol:

I haven't had time Chris but I love your other thing so I can't wait to read this.

[ZoNeSeeK]

Chris: Ok, here we go :) You write well, and there's no shortage of creativity and ingenuity going on in the story, but I think i know what could be causing you some grief:

- you need to establish a protagonist, or perhaps a couple of main characters and they need to be described so that the reader is envisioning the same person as the author. Striking features need to be referred to repeatedly. This needs to be done very quickly. Readers need someone to picture and someone to connect with. Create a character, don't just mention them.

- essentially, one of your primary characters has to be world-dumb, or in an environment that is just as strange to the character as it is to the reader. This gives you an easy way to describe the world and educate the reader through this character's viewpoint, without using extended narrative, as extended narrative can disconnect the reader from the story (like a fable).

- The story needs to be told from a local viewpoint, i.e. following smaller plotlines with characters the reader becomes intimate that develop into larger, broader plotlines as the story, information and number of characters expands. Who do you follow around first? Perhaps the princess? Perhaps someone tells her something that she finds unusual? Where would she go now? What other characters can you introduce whose lives intersect with hers?


You mentioned scene and character description - I have to agree with you here, you definitely need to be more descriptive. You have a great skeleton in place but its in greyscale. In order for people to be able to see the story that you are telling, you need description.

Look at the scene with the princess and the necklace. What colour is the princess' skin? Eyes? Hair? How is her hair cut? How tall is she? is she slim? overweight? any scars? birthmarks? what style clothing is she wearing? Is it formal or informal?

The necklace is made of fine silk. What colour is it? Are there any gemstones in it? What colour are the drapes? whats outside the windows?

The servant - what colour is her skin? hair? how tall is she?

What about unusual or striking features? Lips? eyes? hands?

e.g.


Garthunal stood in the foyer of his dwelling, staring, lost in thought, at something far away that only he could see. His thoughts were on his younger years, a time when he was still capable of love. When he was very young, he had met a young elf maiden who had captured his heart. They were both of noble blood, and attended the same academy growing up. He had known from the first moment he had laid eyes on her that he could never love another..

Could perhaps be something a little more visual:


Garthunal stood in the foyer of his dwelling, his blue grey eyes slightly unfocused and staring, his mind drifting elsehwere. The mottled white marble floor stretching across the foyer and into the castle proper offered little in the way of warmth, and a momentary icy draft caused him to unconciously rub his worn and weathered hands together. He was thinking of his younger years, when his back was not as hunched and his hair was a rich aubern instead of silver, and when he was capable of love, and more. His right index finger absently traced a scar on the left side of his chin, a strangely smooth pathway in a sea of grey stubble, a reminder of a bygone battle or another. His mind turned to the memory of a young elven maiden who had caught his eye and done more with his heart. They were both full of noble ambition...



There is plenty of archetypical prefabricated imagery you can use as general description aswell, instead of going to the nth degree every time. A radiant princess. Grizzled soldier. Haughty nobleman/woman, etc.

Firmly picture your characters in your mind, every last detail, and write it down in a reference book. Even draw it. Breathe life into them, if you know what I mean.

I hope this kinda helps :P

[OchrisO]

Thanks for the input. Most of what I have there was actually written several years ago, before I went back to colege, and before I took some classes on writing. I definately know that I need more vibrant adverbs and adjectives in general, and that i need to describe the main characters in depth. I plan to fix that stuff if I can ever stop writing crappy poetry and get back to it. haha.

There are some hints of my attempts at it years before, like in the part "Her sleek raven hair cascaded down both sides of her angular elven face framing her full lips and almond eyes like an expensive portrait." I am pretty sure that I can do a better job now, though. I just need to motivate myself to do it. Again, thanks for the feedback and the tips. They do help.
Spoiler tags, just in case, by some crazy chance, someone wants to read it as I write it. haha


Andronicous and the princess are the main focus of the story. They both end up being exiled from the city. Andronicous is framed for murder when he kills Garthunal while defending his wife from his jealousy driven attack, and the princess is framed as a Resistance collaborator, drugged, then her head is shaved, and an R is tattooed on her face, forever marking her for her "crime." She is left in the forest, and manages to eventually make her way to Freeport, the last vestige of humanity on the continent. She takes on a false name(Celene Brightmoon) and begins working with the resistance. She continues to shave her head and hide her identity. Andronicous wanders the wilderness and finds a fringe group of humand ruids who take him in and teach him much, and eventually finds his way to Freeport as well. He starts to work with the Resistance, and meets and falls in love with Celene, not knowing who she is, ebcause she has changed a great deal by this point. He is then constantly dealing with guilt, because his wife is presumably still alive, though unreachable.
There's a lot more with the story, involving a plot where Andronicous finds out what is causing the elves to be so much more violent and different, and his attempt to stop it, and the emergence of another character who is sort of an Anti-Hero named Elliot Maltross, a man who is a mercenary and has control of a large group of humans taht help the resistance, but more for Elliot's own motives. Andronicous and Elliot are loosely based on D&D characters that my best friend and I created.


P.S. When are you going to post some writing? You seem to be well versed in technique, and I'd like to read some stuff.

[Jean]

Spoiler tags, just in case, by some crazy chance, someone wants to read it as I write it. haha

someone does

[ZoNeSeeK]

Its good that what you wrote is from a while ago, as you can look at it now and revise. From everything I have read about writing, revising, editing, cutting whole segments out and redoing them or whatever is all part and parcel. All books are done, and redone, and revised and redone again in bits and pieces as your perspective changes and you become more self-critical.

I havent written anything for ages, I think im kinda nervous about it. Im afraid that I will invest into it and then after a couple of months lose sigh and give up and feel shitty about failing :(

But i think i will have a crack though, maybe some short stories or something, i dunno, ive got an idea in my head for a story but its not formed enough yet to go about doing anything with it.

[OchrisO]

Spoiler tags, just in case, by some crazy chance, someone wants to read it as I write it. haha

someone does

Thanks. :)

[OchrisO]

Its good that what you wrote is from a while ago, as you can look at it now and revise. From everything I have read about writing, revising, editing, cutting whole segments out and redoing them or whatever is all part and parcel. All books are done, and redone, and revised and redone again in bits and pieces as your perspective changes and you become more self-critical.

I havent written anything for ages, I think im kinda nervous about it. Im afraid that I will invest into it and then after a couple of months lose sigh and give up and feel shitty about failing :(

But i think i will have a crack though, maybe some short stories or something, i dunno, ive got an idea in my head for a story but its not formed enough yet to go about doing anything with it.


Stories are never finished anyway. If you stop writing, you can always start writing it again sometime down the road, and 3 pages written is better than none. :)

[ZoNeSeeK]

Yeah you are right. Ill have sit down and try writing a few short stories first i think

[OchrisO]

I started working on a story today as I was talking to my friend Meagan on msn. She told me to tell her a story, and I have had this idea floating around in my head for a while, so I started writing. I figured that I'd post it here as I write it. I have no idea what length stuff will be when I start writing it, but I am aiming for novella length.

The basic jist of the story is that it is about werewolves in Southeast Kentucky who prey on highschool and college kids who have parties on abandoned strip mines in the mountains.

[OchrisO]

Two young men stand on a ridge, looking out across a valley below. All around them are trees, but the valley below is flat and mostly barren. Some fresh new grass is growing in on the slopes. In the distance, there are remnants of human activity. There is an old tire, entirely too large for a personal vehicle, a pile of mangled, rusted metal, and near the end of the valley, a metal gate barring the road.

"It was beautiful here once, you know, before the coal barons became so greedy and decided to destroy it for profit," says the first man. He is tall and thick, but fit. He has long brown hair and a scruffy, unkempt beard. His name is Cecil. He is dressed very casually, in a Thundercats shirt, torn jeans and a pair of DC skate shoes. His skin is pale, almost pasty, like it doesn't see much sunlight

He occasionally squints and he surveys the valley below. Cecil shifts his eyes around, looking left and right anxiously for a moment, then takes a deep breath through his nose and looks calm again. He looks over to his companion.

"Maybe so," says the other, "but I think that this will serve our purpose, nonetheless." He stares off into the valley and smiles. The second man is Remmy. He is also tall, slightly taller than Cecil, and thinner. Remmy has short brown hair with red showing through when the sun hits it right. His skin is darker than Cecil's, but not what most would call tanned. He also has a beard, but it is trimmed closely and well groomed. The red hair is much more evident in the beard. Remmy likes to say taht it is the Irish blood showing through. Cecil always tells him that he thinks there must have been one horny Irishman who went around fucking every woman in Kentucky at some point in history, because everyone is always talking about their Irish blood. Remmy looks much less anxious and has a look of satisfaction on his face.

Cecil points deep down in the valley, among a copse of trees. "There. I think that would be the best place for the bonfire," he says with a small grin, "There's not much junk over there, and the trees will help screen us from any prying eyes. We don't need that old fucker Rick ruining our fun again."

"Now your mind is on the right track," says Remmy, returning the grin, "I have some money that my father gave me. We can use that to buy a few kegs, and then take donantions in exchange for cups. You know, the usual drill. Can you talk to your dad and maybe get us some of the more questionable forms of fun?"

"Goddamnit, Remmy," Cecil says, picking up a rock and throwing it down the valley, "You know he will have me cutting grass for a month if I do!"

"C'mon,Cecil! Who else do we know whose dad not only knows that they smoke pot, but will sell it to them at the best price in town?" He steps closer and gives Cecil a friendly punch on the arm. "Besides, won't a few grass cuttings be worth the fun we are going to have?"
Cecil lets out a long sigh and stares out across the valley again. "You've never had to mow that big assed lawn Remmy. I fucking hate it. It always takes the whole day because he always finds something that he thinks isn't done well enough. I'd rather have normal parents and not have to do that shit," Remmy says, as he kicks a clump of grass.

Remmy barks out a short burst of laughter and pats cecil on the back. "I'll tell you what, buddy," he says, "If he makes you do it, I promise I will help you do the work. Hell, I never see this version of your dad that you talk about anyway, so maybe he won't be as picky if I am there. I think he likes me better anyway."

"Fuck. You always talk me into this shit," Cecil huffs, "And I think he does like you better. I'll trade you houses."

Remmy turns to walk down the hill towards the gated road, but pauses and turns back towards his friend. "Do I still get to fuck your sister?" he inquires as he takes off running amid a shower of gravel.

[Steve]

Well . . . it is readable. Is this the start of a serial or is this it? I hope to see this story develop.

[OchrisO]

It will be serial as I write it. That's all I have for now.

[Letti]

Hey! I know you are busy but I hope to see more of it soon.

Anyway I am always amazed if someone can write in present... for me it's impossible I think.

[OchrisO]

It is hard for me to write like that as well. I kept having to backspace and change tense while I was writing it. It ended up being in that tense because I was actually just telling a story to a friend online because we were bored. I keep wanting to go back to it, but when I manage to sit down to write, nothing strikes me for this story.

[Jean]

The choice of tense is the only thing I don't like about this story: it's always very hard for me to read in the present tense. I loved the rest, though, and can't wait for it to be continued.

[Storyslinger]

Waiting for the continue.....

It good! :thumbsup:

[cozener]

I'm not a fan of present tense writing but I'm not saying that its bad. I'll reserve judgement until I see more. There isn't enough of it for me to formulate an opinion. I will say though that I like the dialogue so far.

[Letti]

The choice of tense is the only thing I don't like about this story: it's always very hard for me to read in the present tense. I loved the rest, though, and can't wait for it to be continued.

I love stories in present tense. They are so... unique. Touching.

[jayson]

Chris - from what you've posted, I'd be interested in reading more. Good luck writing! Thanks for sharing it.

[cozener]

Hey wait a minute...is this a Red River Gorge story?

[OchrisO]

Haha. It is set a bit southeast of there, but that is close enough. :)

I need to start writing on this again, but I barely have time to breath with school right now. :\