SleepingSilence

Make a wish, corrupt a wish.

Granted but it's a 100% vegan hotdog. And it tastes like vomit and sin. And you're out of condiments.

I wish for a nice and not at all unpleasant vacation.

Expedition:Extraterrestrial:Encounter (amorphical X SleepingSilence)

Big List Of References

Characters

Alien Creature

Name: Raargorgathan (Rawr - gore - ga - thin) (A mix between rawr because dinosaurs and bad pun. And gargantuan.)

Nickname: Rhaegar for short.

Appearance:

Personality:
Positive

• Intelligent
• Individualistic
• Idealistic
• Cooperative

Neutral

• Aggressive
• Outspoken
• Proud

Negative

• Vain
• Opinionated
• Reactionary

Tidbits:

• Loud and deep voice.
• Flattery will get you everywhere.
• Seems to be grinning no matter what the situation is.
• Rarely sleeps

Species: Oraborom? (Or-a-bore-um)

Home Planet: Maldayedon? (Mal - day - done)

Friend Or Foe: ????

When you met and what you know: ????

Planets

More incoming...

Known Enemies

More incoming...

Known Allies

More incoming...

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Prompt:
Light years away from our home planet. We didn’t expect another indeterminable alien craft to collide into our ship and set our course into a wormhole that teleported us somewhere even to avid explorers proved unfamiliar. Soon immersed in a galaxy the highest advancements in technology hadn’t charted yet. Despite the many different planets with their own systems and environments, we were still quite hopelessly lost in the emptiness of space. Receiving transmission from the alien ship that experienced the same fate had the ability to communicate and express their interest to mutually benefit each other to get back to our own system...which would prove to be a nigh impossible feat. One certainly harder than simply turning back into where we came from...

The dangers and obstacles we can choose to overcome is infinite...

(Currently a work in progress.)

Status: Currently On Hiatus

Expedition:Extraterrestrial:Encounter (amorphical X SleepingSilence)

Initiation:Prologue

We could recall a time in the not-so-distant future when we convinced ourselves that Armageddon had arrived. We weren’t warned and it came from nowhere; no satellites, governments, or religious organizations had predicted the four straight days of meteors striking our planet. Assuming our inevitable misfortune after the missile defense systems had no effect on them. Though even as they pounded us relentlessly, each caused minimal damage upon impact and we received no casualties. It felt like a cruel, sick joke where the only appropriate thought was,“What’s taking so long?” But the few brave enough to examine the meteors closely, would discover an incredible material that would soon be used as our primary energy source. At midnight the last one fell, and strange but highly comprehensive communications would begin to explain how it could be utilized efficiently. Finally learning that we weren’t alone in the universe, but we didn't know the half of it...

It felt miraculous in how far technology had progressed ever since that meteor shower. Minds once so narrow you’d never expect them to be traveling throughout the galaxy. But now those with skills to be recruited, or the money to invest, had the capabilities to vacation on another planet we hadn’t realized existed. But because galactic politics were still in its earliest stages where they hadn’t ruined anyone's fun yet, space expeditions and searching for extraterrestrials became a part of regular life. It was deemed necessary to allow everyone to observe and cooperate to deter fear of alien conflict. It helped that distinguishing different languages was made possible with ‘Nebutum’; the same fuel given to us to improve all aspects of society. But we had just scratched the surface for curious eyes bleeding for more. And us true ‘Pathfinders’ wouldn’t be content in letting our lives go to waste by leaving the unknown unexplored. I guess that’s why you ended up finding yourself where the less spirited wouldn’t be caught dead.

As a Pathfinder, a term of endearment to only those who got frequently called it, in your own starship drifting across the beautiful blue view below reminding you a starship is but a pebble skipping across the ocean compared to the vastness of space. How could one be so calm when you were light years away from your home planet? Well your captain’s chair was pretty darn comfy, but it was really an optimistic nature and determination that got your butt into it. Old you would probably be surprised how many months of provisions could be so easily compartmentalized inside such a seemingly compact craft. Food, water and all other supplies you packed were inside a dimensional storage container that was shaped like a mini-fridge and as long as the objects in question could normally fit, it was fair game. And while you were going through a remote area, if you had a general idea of where your coordinates were on your radar, it would be relatively smooth travels ahead. So it wasn’t a time for you to fret over what to do next, but kick back and relax. Maybe have an early lunch…but what were you in the mood for? Yes, that was the greatest challenge you faced...at least for now.

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RPGC #23: InGlorious - Discussion

@MsMorningstar I'm a masochist. And I have too much free time. ;D Well I'm trying to show each individual how one may see or interpret their story, or at least why I thought the way I did.

It's long because I want to explain it in a way that isn't a hollow praise that fails to point out mistakes because they obviously didn't read it. Or a vague and unspecified critique for the same reasons. What's the point of reviewing something and not doing it at least somewhat in-depth? Especially if you read something with effort, where I feel obligated to show the same courtesy. Or such lack thereof, I want to pick it apart because it's the only way to expose it to the writer. (Best disinfectant is sunlight, so they say.)

So that anyone who cares will be able to write better in the future. It also helps me learn to be a better editor and reader with practice.

And appreciate the sentiment, I do try my best...

RPGC #23: InGlorious - Discussion

@NorthernKraken Obviously it's just my perspective. Not trying to influence anyone's mind per say. I guess like I said, even from an outsiders perspective it felt like it focused on odd elements to me. But it's fair to say you don't have to be so overblown with it. Hopefully others are bound to share their feelings on it. Though in fiction, villains you can love to hate are the most popular recognizable figures in stories. Like consider Disney, or maybe horror stories, and many of their failed attempts to remake them by making a more sympathetic/grey villain. I'll admit the prompt almost seems to beg for going a little more over the top, where yours is quite subtle in comparison to everyone else's. If you think that's fair to say. Not even calling it a good or bad thing. (Personally thought it worked for the story it tried to tell. And just to note that whether stories followed the rules or how strongly it connected to the prompt didn't effect my personal ratings enough to be significant.) Guess it's just a difference of opinion how well it falls into the category.

And no story is perfect. But I hope you'll join another contest/write another story sometime. :3

SleepingSilence's Tavern (Want 1x1 RP's? Please come in...)

Bumped because I want a couple more RP's to fill my time.

RPGC #23: InGlorious - Discussion

<Snipped quote by SleepingSilence>

So, I appreciate the in depth critique in like, a really big way, and the time you took to look over everyone's work, but I do think you've misunderstood my, err, entire concept a little, so I figured I'd do a little explaining in order to clarify the relation to the prompt.

So yeah, her father is the fallen hero in this case. Throughout a lot of her childhood, he was the 'good parent' (where the mother complex comes in), and now that she's older he helped her a lot with more practical stuff, like rent and food money. But, he also had issues with alcohol, and was generally irresponsible - something that Jenny didn't really notice due to being a kid. This is hinted at in the section at the pub, and where she's reflecting on the differences between her father and her mother.

She didn't see these flaws because, y'know he was her dad and she thought he was great, until he killed someone in a drunk driving incident (the guy who's funeral she rather voyeuristically tags along to). Which idk seems pretty 'villainous' to me? It's about mourning a personal loss, yes, but it's also about that realisation that even the most important and influential figures in our lives are, ultimately, human beings, and capable of doing really awful things and causing profound tragedy. And not just on the large scale - but in the small scale - that feeling at the end that he let her down, too, just by not being there, when she'd always thought he would be.

Edit: Also thought it would be worth mentioning, but I did actually run the idea of a child realising their parent isn't the hero they once thought past Frizan, and whilst it did morph slightly since then, I was essentially given the go ahead.

@NorthernKraken

So the father slowly became an alcoholic and caused an accident? Is that villainous? Sounds more like an unfortunate tragedy. A flawed character isn't really a villain who thinks he's a hero. He didn't do it on purpose and it doesn't seem like anything evil was done for a sense of self righteousness.

So, I might have missed that implication. I guess the element felt really downplayed if he was supposed to become a bad character through his alcoholism. Probably because he wasn't the focal character. It also seems like he hit someone no one cared about? (If that was just the main character's perspective, that exchange seemed like the least "good" action in the story.)

Yeah even with that explanation, that still really doesn't sound like it fits the prompt. Especially because I was under the impression that you were supposed to follow that character. And really if you wanted to show the father become the bad guy, he should have been the focal point character, so you would have been able to see the daughter's rose-tinted glasses and why the mother thought he was a manchild. And seeing that character struggle and thoughts and being from a perspective of someone going to the afterlife, it probably would've made a better focal character an angsty teen/adult. My two cents anyway.

Like I said I thought the story was fine. And to be fair you weren't the only one whose story I thought was a little loose on the prompt. So it probably won't matter too much in the end. I'm thankful that you give me feedback. Good luck. :3

RPGC #23: InGlorious - Voting and Critique

Ranked from personal favorite to least. Or more so the most worthy to win a contest that met the prompt and put effort into writing the lines. Not including myself in the ranking.

Some raw emotion may appear. I swear I did my best to edit that cynicism out and be constructive. Not as single harsh word spoken doesn't come with a some sort of solution.

I'm grateful to have the experience, even if frustrating, thank you to everyone that made a story. Don't take anything too personally. Just assuming me doing all these in the middle of night wasn't a good idea. ^-^'

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1. Blood On The Rock (Far above the rest. Best in writing and wordplay. Enough length to feel like a story.)

Review of Blood On The Rock by @Kalleth

Here's how I color coded things; The red is what I'd remove. The orange is what I would change. The green is what I liked.

Spoiler: I liked it a lot, so I hope my bits of advice to improvement the story comes across as such.

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Water poured down the flagstones of the castle’s courtyard, which in the reddish gloaming kindled a likeness to blood. The wind rushed through the gates, torn asunder by some mighty blow, and produced a keening howl to put the fear of God in men. Such was always the way with these things, and though it made my stomach twist to face the horrors beyond, I girded myself. Steel to cut, flesh to split, and a wicked thirst… Ah to hell with it, I forget the rest. So I stepped up to those great yawning gates, and readied myself. Sword at hip, armour tightly fit, and my teeth grit against the sheets of rain.

I’m not the one who should be telling you this, as I’m not the person who minds and likely does the same thing, but some may find the vocabulary and word choice unnecessarily complex. And it doesn’t seem to fit from the perspective of the forgetful main character we’re introduced to. There’s simpler words that could’ve been interchanged without wordplay or the sentences really suffering. (Girded with ‘braced’, ‘prepared’ or as you did in the very next sentence with ‘readied myself’. So I’d remove the second instance of this.

I’d use an ‘a’, instead of some, because it oddly connects to my mind to (‘some blow’) like weed. Otherwise, I’d just say it simplifies it and sounds better. Also this isn’t that big of a deal, but this paragraph has two instances of where a creative line was already explained by something simple first.

I really like the “my teeth grit against the sheets of rain.” line. It's a creative way to describe the thickness of the rain and it *would* set the scene. If the first line didn’t already say “Water poured down” which is also more vaguely describing the rain. The other instance is “torn asunder by some mighty blow” but it was just described as “the wind”. So if you’ll allow me, let to show you how I might personally rewrite this. But I don’t think it's necessary at all, it’s a good start.

The gates torn asunder by a mighty wind, it produced a harrowing howl to put the fear of God in men. Such things made my stomach twist to face the horrors beyond. So I readied myself; steel to cut, flesh to split, and a wicked thirst…to hell with it, I forget the rest. I stepped up to those great yawning gates. Sword at hip, armour fit, and my teeth grit against the sheets of rain. Watering the flagstones of the castle’s courtyard, which the reddish gloaming kindled a likeness to blood

---

I stepped through the threshold, and cast my gaze around, feeling my breath hiss between my teeth. A terrified scream, pitched high and dainty despite itself, met my ears. I caught a flash of light-coloured fabric from the parapet of the massive stone keep’s balcony. Something had pulled it back, though the accompanying flash of lightning revealed an opening far above, and a sensation of being watched rushed down my spine. Whatever hateful thing there lurked, I told myself, would be first to meet my blade.

The main doors to the keep were no obstacle, and I tried to listen for more cries as I stalked through the dimly lit hall. The table had been set, but the food remained untouched, and it still gave off the gentle vapours of freshly cooked food. Of the cook I saw no sign, and thus continued on, my appetite waning. The main staircase wound up in the center of the keep, a great stony pillar climbing through the air. Tapestries hung from these steps variously, depicting scenes I averted my eyes to, though I knew that in all likelihood a man with a morbid curiosity would linger. I am no such man.

I don’t know if this is purposeful rhythm or structure, but it feels like there’s several unnecessarily elongated sentences or oddly placed words. I’ll show my versions to show you what I mean.

I really like leaving the exact tapestries to the reader’s imagination here. What you can guess about it helps build the setting. It also sheds some light on the character and what he thinks about others.

I stepped through the threshold, and cast my gaze around, feeling my breath hiss between my teeth. A terrified scream met my ears, high-pitched and dainty despite itself. I caught a flash of light-coloured fabric from the parapet of the massive stone keep’s balcony. Something had pulled it back, though the accompanying flash of lightning revealed an opening far above, and a sensation of being watched rushed down my spine. I told myself whatever hateful thing lurked there, it would meet my blade.

The main doors to the keep were no obstacle, and I tried to listen for more cries as I stalked through the dimly lit hall. The table had been set, but the food remained untouched, giving off gentle vapours from being freshly cooked. I saw no sign of the cook and continued on, my appetite waning. The main staircase wound up in the center of the keep, a great stony pillar climbing through the air. Tapestries hung from various steps, depicting scenes I averted my eyes to, though I knew that in all likelihood a man with a morbid curiosity would linger. I am no such man.

---

The bedroom door, when I came to it, was open slightly. A flicker of candlelight shone through the opening to illuminate a silhouette standing just behind the door, peering in. From within came the sound of gentle sobs, and the sadness embodied in those pitious moans gave my hands a righteous tension to draw my weapon. The blade hissed loose of the scabbard, and the silhouette turned, a gasp of surprise breaking the quiet. I rushed, low and taut, arm as sword and sword as arm. Blood spattered the carpeted floor, and a thrill of excitement caught my breath. Run through, the villain sagged on my arm and a last whisper passed his lips.
“Why…”
Weapon forgotten, I strode into the the room. It was opulent, and there was some blood splattered off the door. It pooled inward from outside. Thunder rumbled distantly, when I saw her, all soaked and drenched from the downpour. She lay against a four-poster bed, frightened eyes staring out at me. She was much unkempt from what seemed a recently ended bout of crying, and her bleary gaze spoke of an innocence lost. Ignoring the manifest jewels and riches splayed about the room casually, as though to ward off the poverty of mortal existence, I crept to her side and knelt down in front of her.

There’s maybe some filler words sprinkled in here and there, that don’t really need to be there. As well as a few sentences I’d make more straightforward and more concise.

I enjoy the grim cheese of that line, even if it too could be made stronger. Here’s some more mere suggestions to improve. I’m not doing so to be overly critical mind. The writer’s been strong thus far.

When I came to the bedroom door, it was open slightly. A flicker of candlelight shone through the opening to illuminate a silhouette peering just behind the door. From within came the sound of gentle sobs, and the sadness embodied in those pitious moans gave my hands a righteous tension to draw my weapon. The blade hissed loose of the scabbard, and the silhouette turned, a gasp of surprise breaking the quiet. I rushed, low and taut, arm as sword and sword as arm. Blood spattered the carpeted floor, and a thrill of excitement caught my breath. Run through, the villain sagged on my arm and a last whisper passed his lips.
“Why…”
Weapon forgotten, I strode into the the room. It was opulent, and there was blood splattered off the door. It pooled inward from outside. Thunder rumbled distantly, when I saw her, all soaked and drenched from the downpour. She lay against a four-poster bed, frightened eyes staring out at me. She was unkempt from what seemed a recently ended bout of crying, and her bleary gaze spoke of an innocence lost. Ignoring the jewels and riches splayed about the room, as a manifestation to ward off the poverty of mortal existence, I crept to her side and knelt down in front of her.

---

“Come, sweet thing, all that must come shall pass, in time.” I extended a hand to her, and she stared for a moment before taking it.
“Cold.” She murmured, and I hushed her. I led her over to the massive hearth where coals flickered fitfully. A cursory examination of the mantle provided me with a flint and steel, which I handed over to the woman. She took them, though her eyes were far away, and her fingers had gotten stained from where she gripped the bloodied piece of steel I had given her. I added a couple large pieces of lumber into the fireplace, but a full minute passed between me and the woman.
“On nights like these, a fire can provide warmth where only cold would otherwise linger.” I prompted her softly. She blinked and set to work lighting the wood. It took longer than it might have, if we had had kindling, but there was none. When the flames finally caught, it was with much smoke and an unpleasant metallic stench that pervaded the room. The woman sat back finally and muttered something.
“What was it you said?” I asked, stepping back toward the flames and out of the shadows of the room.
“When I said cold, I didn’t mean me.”
“I’ve only just come in from the storm outside, which was quite chilling, as I’m sure you’re aware.” I nodded to her still damp dress, which clung to her form in a very revealing manner. She seemed to notice this fact and shifted her gaze, most likely looking for a cover.

This exchange all goes smoothly and is kept brief and engaging. Also as a bit of humbling trivia, I’ve honestly never seen/heard the word “fitfully” being used before. (Maybe I have and I’m having a massive brain fart at the moment.) But it actually has less characters/is less complicated than its alternatives. (intermittently/irregular) ‘TIL' I guess.

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I reached over to the bed and pulled away the downy quilt, extending it to her. She took it and wrapped herself in it, turning back toward the fire. My eyes roamed over to the growing pool of blood, and lingered there for a time, as I lost myself in idle thoughts.
“Why did you come here?” The woman’s voice jarred me from reverie, and I saw she was standing taller than before. She seemed to be regaining her strength.
“I came because I heard a monster had stolen into this castle, ravished the lord’s daughter, and begun all manner of devilish machinations.” I said this all as matter-of-factly as I could, for it was the truth, after a fashion. Her face twisted, and she glanced down at her hand, sticky and red.
“You look quite monstrous as you stand there, sir.” I couldn’t help but grin, and she took a step back, eyes wide.
“I suppose I do, all blood-spattered and pale. Though you must forgive me the first, the second is a result of my birth, and hardly a matter of devilish interference. No, I was born far from here, in a land of pale men and women. It is not so unusual for us though, to get a storm like this, all dark and fierce. And the sun shines not quite so strongly when the clouds blow away.” The woman seemed mollified by this, though she kept eyeing my mouth with the same frequency of young lovers yearning to kiss, though none of the tenderness.
“He beat me, you know. Ceaselessly. Always said it had to do with my face, though I never looked uglier than after he was through with me.”
“Who?” She frowned at my question, sniffling.
“My father, the man who you…”
“Oh him? He’s dead, he’ll bother you no longer.” That same keening cry, so very much like the castle gates where they hung askew, grated my ears. “Whatever is the matter? You said it yourself, he beat you. I’ve made him stop. Aren’t you relieved?”

As someone who gets satisfied when my evil character gets to say his evil things. I can imagine evilly laughing when writing that line reveal.

I have but two suggestions. One may just be my own fault. But “Though you must forgive me the first” made no sense to me at first, and I originally went back to reread the previous conversation. But I realized it first and second referred to 'blood-splattered and pale'. I’d suggest changing that to former and latter to make it more obvious. “I suppose I do, all blood-spattered and pale. Though you must forgive the former, the latter is a result of my birth, and hardly a matter of devilish interference.” Or actually adding words. “Though you must forgive me for the first and the second is a result of my birth, hardly a matter of devilish interference.”

Another is again personal preference which adding a word might improve the sentence. Though it’s still a good line. “She kept eyeing my mouth with the same frequency of young lovers yearning to kiss, though with none of the tenderness.”

And I’ve noticed you like to use reincorporation and I love it too, as a writer and reader. But when you do it with particular words, like I can’t help but feel that it comes across, someone found these in a dictionary and loved the words so much that he had to use them over and over again.

If it’s the same cry, do you really need to describing it using “keening” again. When you already have your character explain that its grating to his ears?

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I watched her turn about several times, a wild look in her eyes. Tears poured down her cheeks anew, and where she grabbed at her face she left a pinkish-red smear that reminded me of the rain on the flagstones below. When she tripped over the blanket in her frenzied movements, she fell perilously close to the crackling fire. I stepped forward to help her, but she screeched at me.
“Back with you, devil! I want no part of you!” Her flailing hands splayed with her fingers curled away from her, in some poor imitation of claws.
“The devil? Well that is plainly untrue, and I find the very thought offensive.” I reached into my cuirass and withdrew something shiny on a chain. I took a step forward even as the woman shied away, and held the object up against my flat palm in the firelight to better show her what I possessed.
“You see, I, am a man of God.” I proclaimed solemnly, taking my turn to admire the small silver crucifix that dangled from a long chain of the same. Where the metal brushed against my skin, a faint sizzling could be heard and small trails of smoke rose from my palm.
“Fire burns things like you,” she whispered, though her words echoed like thunder to my ears. “Silver poisons, and I’ve heard it said that all that is good and true in this world is your kind’s bane.” She was babbling now, and I watched her stumble, scrabble, and crawl toward the balcony. I followed her, silent as the dead, and listened without quite hearing her desperate murmurings.

I’m honestly greatly enjoying your main character’s point of view in the writing. Maybe it’s my bias toward alliterations, but you could’ve the last sentence even stronger by using stronger word choices to highlight his superiority and warped perspective. Let me show you the edits I’d make.

“I watched her turn several times with a wild look in her eyes. She grabbed at her face and left a pinkish-red smear, tears poured down her cheeks and reminded me of the rain on the flagstones below."

Because it’s the tears that reminded him of the rain, not the smear, right? So it’s better to be ordered that way.

She was babbling now, and I watched her stumble, scrabble, and slither toward the balcony. I stalked her, silent as the dead, and listened without quite hearing her desperate murmurings.

(All the ‘S’s, plus it helps almost push a predator vs prey aspect. Since he obviously has low opinions of her, seeing her as “desperate”.)

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“I’ve slain the monster, and now I’m to rescue the lord’s daughter and whisk her off to a lovely new life. Would you like that, sweet thing?” I bent at the waist and reached to twirl some of her raven-black curls. “Or have I truly come too late, and has that villainous fiend already turned you away from all that is good and true in this world?” She offered me no reply beyond her chittering madness. Poor girl. A shame I was too late.
We reached that same parapet from which I’d first spotted her, and as she clung to it, a raving fear upon her lips and in her eyes, I could not suppress a chuckle. The rain was beginning to subside, or the storm had chosen to quieten for a time, at any rate, the clouds parted. Sultry rays of moonlight washed the balcony in a passionate crimson, and the reds of blood grew redder.
“I’ve just remembered a little rhyme somebody told me a long time ago, back before I left my old life behind. Would you like to hear it? I haven’t been able to call to mind the ending in a mortal age.” The woman, balanced precariously on the parapet, was silent at last. Her vacant eyes stared back into mine, and it would be difficult to say whose gaze held less humanity.
“Steel to cut, flesh to split, wicked thirst and appetite. Keep your silver, sermons, fire, and hope the night will never bite.” She fell back into the void somewhere between the first and the second verse, but even with all of my magnanimity, I had in fact committed a small injustice. A pittance really. I lied about having remembered the rhyme, and I’m not even certain how many verses there are.
Afterward, in the courtyard I drank from the flagstones as a parched man inches from death. The water, such as it was, reflected cold reddish hues where it pooled in places. The blood, such as it was, burned like fire when it ran down my throat.

Get rid of “at any rate”, it’s just filler. I see things like that used all the time and it just doesn’t add anything. Again, I can’t help but assume you loved using parapet. Wouldn’t “We reached the same place from where I first saw her” suffice and be shorter? Same with the other use. “The woman balanced precariously on the edge, silent at last.” Consider it a suggestion just to avoid repetition.

Hopefully you found this helpful in some way. I probably missed some good lines or little nagging details that I may edit or words I'd change. But I didn't want to seem like I was being petty. As I really enjoyed my reading experience. You made a solid piece of work. Maybe it's a little loose on the "fallen hero" part, being a creature of the night with no seemingly intention to ever do any good. But I guess everyone's the hero of their own story?

2. Searching For Paradise (Good. Felt left wanting more.)

Review of Searching For Paradise By @PigeonOfAstora

Ah. Maniacal character monologuing. My favorite. No, really though.

Here's how I color coded things; The red is what I'd remove. The orange is what I would change. The green is what I liked.

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What is "paradise"? Some may imagine a beautiful garden of rolling hills, golden meadows and gentle breeze. Others see a home of family, content in the safety of their warm shelter. Still more may think of our great empire, halls of achingly opulent wealth that would incite envy from even the highest of gods.
This is what I had fought for, once. I was a younger man. I thought I knew what paradise was. I thought I was the savior the crowds with the olive branches were cheering me on to be. I thought I was destroying the enemies of humanity, the deviants, those who dare threaten the reclamation and salvation.
And in the end, we won. The enemy was destroyed. The last, fleeting regiments surrendered and embraced back into our fold. Our empire reached far beyond the horizons and over every crevice, every shadow. And I? The crowning champion, the face of the unstoppable march towards our greatest future.

But what then?

They told me to give up my arms and rest. That all evil had finally been purged, and there was nothing more for me to conquer. That we have finally reached our promised destination. Paradise.
But where others saw happiness and beauty, I saw darkness.
A silent, insidious holocaust. Not a death of common material sorts, no, such a threat had been swept aside long ago. It's the death of change. A death of definition. A death of our souls.
Why? It is easy to be blinded by happiness. Let me show you.
Humanity has been defined by their want to change. From our earliest days, we desired shelter. So we built huts and houses. We desired water, so we built wells and dams. And then we built fences to keep out beasts, watermills to use our water, and through our constant strive for greater things we have achieved greatness. Over time, we evolved to define ourselves in this pursuit; never catching perfection, but finding meaning in this pursuit. This is what we are built upon - to struggle against the unknown, and thrive when we conquer it.
But what happens if we do catch this perfection? What happens if we achieve the pinnacle, and find that there is no more mountain to climb, no more 'greatness' to conquer?
Nothing. We become nothing. Set pieces of diorama, always changing but never evolving. A dust that blows to and fro, mindlessly following the rules of nature in an equally mindless perfection. In achieving perfection, we have been overrun by our hidden enemy; stagnation.
So now I set to reclaim what defines us. I will lead an army of those who see the truth and set fire upon this paradise, and in doing so wake the world from its giddy, static lethargy. Sow terror and chaos, and let the age old adage, "survival of the fittest", reign again. Humanity will be reset to our most basic, most valorous days so that we may build shelters and wells, and rediscover our definitions once more. Better a hopeful world of chaos and ruin than a hopeless world of blind happiness.
I do this out of love and mercy. I do this to see despair again, and in that despair, hope. I do this to save the world from itself. Whether nor not the world understands this, it is of no consequence. A savior does not save because others sees them as such.

If I must go to hell, let it be so. But in my damnation, the world will find salvation.

- Journal of Trevis Mae, Hero of the Ametrine Empire

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You deserve a nice clap. It’s nice. And short enough that I should be able to provide some advice all at once.

There’s some actual typos and errors in here. Like “Whether nor not the world understands” when you likely meant “*or”. Also the first sentence “Some may imagine a beautiful garden of rolling hills, golden meadows and gentle breeze.” I think needs a “and a gentle breeze” or “gentle breezes” So everything in the sentence is plural.

Most of the other edits are to cut out more filler. Such as “That all evil had finally been purged, and there was nothing more for me to conquer.” you don’t really need 'all' if it explains there’s 'nothing left'. You don’t even need the 'more' in the sentence. Also, I'm not sure you need 'journal of' for ending sign off, because that seems like something the reader could've easily inferred on their own. Least I did. But not everything to lengthen sentences needs to be cut.

Parts of the monologue from your character got a little dragged out and meandering. “I do this to see despair again, and in that despair, hope.” (I see your character plays Danganronpa. :P) Like if I wanted to make that shorter and mean the same thing, like many sentences, I probably could do so without weakening the sentences effect like, “I created despair, to see hope.”

But it’s certainly the best part and genuinely entertaining to watch someone mad explain the method of his madness. Good for its brevity. The biggest way I'd build upon this story and arguably would've made it stronger. Is if the man not only, talked the talk. But walked the walk. If you get me. And it's a shame that you don't get to the point where he leads that army and commits these acts that he speaks of.

Here’s the edits that I would make.

---

My edit

What is "paradise"? Some may imagine a beautiful garden of rolling hills, golden meadows and gentle breezes. Others see a family home, content in the safety of their warm shelter. Still more may think of our great empire, halls of opulent wealth that would incite envy from even the highest of gods.
This is what I had fought for, once. I was a younger man. I thought I knew what paradise was. I thought I was the savior the crowds with the olive branches were cheering me on to be. I thought I was destroying the enemies of humanity, the deviants, those who dare threaten reclamation and salvation.
And in the end, we won. The enemy was destroyed. The last regiments surrendered and were embraced into our fold. Our empire reached far beyond the horizons and over every crevice and shadow. And I? The crowning champion, the face of the unstoppable march towards our greatest future.

But what then?

They told me to give up my arms and rest. That evil had finally been purged, and there was nothing more for me to conquer. That we have finally reached our promised destination; Paradise.
But where others saw happiness and beauty, I saw darkness.
A silent, insidious holocaust. Not a death of common material, no, such a threat had been swept aside. It's the death of change. A death of definition. A death of our souls.
It is easy to be blinded by happiness.
Humanity has been defined by their want to change. From our earliest days, we desired shelter. So we built huts and houses. We desired water, so we built wells and dams. And then we built fences to keep out beasts, watermills to use our water, and through our constant strive for greater things we have achieved greatness. Over time, we evolved to define ourselves in this pursuit; never catching perfection, but finding meaning in this pursuit. This is what we are built upon - to struggle against the unknown, and thrive when we conquer it.
But what happens if we do catch this perfection? What happens if we achieve the pinnacle, and find that there is no more mountain to climb, no more 'greatness' to conquer?
Nothing. We become nothing. Set pieces of diorama, always changing but never evolving. A dust that blows to and fro, mindlessly following the rules of nature in an equally mindless perfection. In achieving perfection, we have been overrun by our hidden enemy; stagnation.
So now I set to reclaim what defines us. I will lead an army of those who see the truth and set fire upon this paradise, and in doing so wake the world from its giddy, static lethargy. Sow terror and chaos, and let the age old adage, "survival of the fittest", reign again. Humanity will be reset to our most basic days, so that we may build shelters and wells, and rediscover our definitions once more. Better a hopeful world of chaos and ruin than a hopeless world of blind happiness.
I do this out of love and mercy. I do this to see despair again, and in that despair, hope. I do this to save the world from itself. Whether or not the world understands this, it’s of no consequence. A savior does not save because others sees them as such.

If I must go to hell, let it be so. But in my damnation, the world will find salvation.

- Journal of Trevis Mae, Hero of the Ametrine Empire

3. The tale of the Saviour of Ostagon (Shows potential. Needed better focus on MC.)

Review of The tale of the Saviour of Ostagon @Calle

Hello again.

Here's how I color coded things; The red is what I'd remove. The orange is what I would change. The green is what I liked.

---

The thriving city of Ostagon was ideally situated at a junction of major roads. The roads leading to the city were broad enough for two wagons to pass each other, and leave room for people to walk at the sides of the road. They crossed within the city, and between the gates they were neatly paved with granite slabs, so evenly laid the travellers felt as if they were riding on water.

From the East Gate to the West Gate, from the North Gate to the South Gate, the main streets were filled with shops. Anyone travelling through the city had ample choice for buying the finest of goods. Traders sold wares from all over the world. Tailors, goldsmiths, glassblower, artists, pastry bakers, they all sold their finest crafts and foods to the traders and travellers passing through. At the junction itself was the oldest inn of the city, it was the first building that had been built at the crossroad, followed by shops and houses until Ostagon reached its full glory.

Smaller inns were scattered around the four districts, amongst the houses of the citizens, and the bakers, butchers and smaller shops that supplied them. When there was no school, children were allowed to play on the streets, as long as they kept off the main street. The citizens all wore fine clothes. Judging by what the poorest wore proved there was no poverty in the city.

With the basic necessities more than met, the people of Ostagon focused on the performing arts: theatre and music. They read and debated science and philosophy. That, in turn, attracted nobles wanting to see a performance and scholars who wanted to talk with the bright minds of the city.

But the wealth of the city attracted swindlers and thieves too. A City Guard was brought to life to deal with those seeking advantage of honest customers and hardworking citizens.

The strong sir Morgon was the best of the best. No hand was sleight enough for his trained eyes and he had brought many pickpockets, purse-cutters, and thieves to the dungeon under the city hall. When riots broke out, he was there to arrest the culprits. When shopkeepers were threatened with a sword, he stood up to defend them.

With his mighty sword he brought justice when evil showed its face.

One day a group of barbarians came, hidden as refugees they came to the city only to reveal the weapons under their cloaks. Keeping their swords high in the air they were ready to pillage Ostagon, but sir Morgon and the other guards stood their ground and the earth got soaked in the blood of the enemies. It sent a clear message to anyone who had a similar idea: they would not allow the city to be raided and anyone who would try would perish.

Sir Morgon was celebrated as a hero and their peaceful, prosperous lives went on.

But the times changed. War broke out and trading came to a halt. Fewer people travelled the roads now the country was in turmoil and food supplies dwindled.

The good people of Ostagon had relied so much on trading goods and buying what they needed, that most of them didn’t even know how to grow their own food or make their own clothes. And the price of food went up every day.

Children who once played in the streets now scavenged the city to look for food. But good sir Morgon was still there, keeping the city safe.

A child stealing a loaf of bread was quickly plucked from the street and thrown in the dungeon, a mother stealing a necklace to sell for food so she could feed her family was put on the scaffold as an example. And the rioting citizens who wanted to defend such lowly criminals were struck down with sir Morgon’s mighty sword.

It puzzled him when someone called him a heartless beast after he kicked away a woman clinging to his legs, pleading to let some stealing boy go. The apples weren’t his and if he’d allow this child to steal now, it would continue to steal. Others might see it as approval of stealing and before everyone knew it people would murder each other.

There would be no lawlessness in his city.

---

The story was brief, so I can provide my suggestions for edits after I give you my general feelings. I was enjoying Morgon’s thoughts, it’s too bad almost none of the story about a fallen hero was centered around how he was thinking. Certainly would’ve been a stronger story if it was told from his view alone. I'm feeling a strong case of "is this the most eventful part of your character's life?" "If no, why aren't you showing that." Because I really wanted it to start at the point it ended.

I would mend certain sentences to cut down on filler. Like, “The thriving city of Ostagon was ideally situated at a junction of major roads. The roads leading to the city were broad enough for two wagons to pass each other, and leave room for people to walk at the sides of the road. “

To, “The thriving city of Ostagon was situated at a junction of major roads to the city, roads broad enough for two wagons to pass each other and leave room for people to walk on both sides.”

And there’s a couple of sentences that feel like they need commas like, “Keeping their swords high in the air they were ready to pillage Ostagon,” (I’d put a comma between “air, they” like so.)

There’s lists of words that all mean the same thing, “Pickpockets, Purse snatchers,Thieves” The last one would do on its own. Or to go broader, Criminals would work too.

Or filler pauses, like this, that even if it was spoken through character ticks, (like if it was how someone talks) I’d advise using those because they turning into bad habits. “In fact,” Doesn’t add anything.

My favorite sentence, and I don’t know how intentional this is because it’s sort of contradicted in the sentence. “The apples weren’t his and if he’d allow this child to steal now, it would continue to steal.” Referring to the boy as an “it”, is dehumanizing the child, which would be interesting psychosis into the mad with power character to not even acknowledge them as human beings.

I enjoy and prefer all attempts at writing similes, because effort and wordplay is always more interesting to read than playing it safe. This is personal, but "even roads" and "riding on water"? Does that go together? A car driving on water would sink. Driving through water is dangerous and rough for most cars. An ocean might be called smooth? But even? I didn't fix this in my edit, because I can't think of anything objectively stronger per say and this is admittedly my own perspective. But I wanted to acknowledge the effort regardless.

Here’s how I’d edit the story and hopefully my aim to make it stronger through its conciseness is clear.

---

My Edit

“The thriving city of Ostagon was situated at a junction of major roads to the city, roads broad enough for two wagons to pass each other and leave room for people to walk on both sides.” They crossed within the city and between the gates, they were neatly paved with granite slabs, so evenly laid the travellers felt as if they were riding on water.

From the East Gate to the West, from the North Gate to the South, the main streets were filled with tailors, goldsmiths, glassblower, artists, pastry bakers and everyone had ample choice to select their finest food and crafts from all over world. The junction was the oldest inn of the city, the first building that had been built at the crossroad, followed by shops and houses until Ostagon reached its full glory.

Smaller inns were scattered around the four districts, amongst the houses of the citizens and the smaller shops that supplied them. When there was no school, children were allowed to play on the streets, as long as they kept off the main street. Judging by what fine clothing the poorest citizen wore, it proved that there’s no poverty here.

With the basic necessities more than met, the people of Ostagon focused on the performing arts: theatre and music. They read and debated science and philosophy. That attracted nobles wanting to see a performance and scholars who wanted to talk with the bright minds of the city.

But the wealth of the city attracted swindlers and thieves too. A City Guard was brought to life to deal with those seeking advantage of honest customers and hardworking citizens.

The strong sir Morgon was the best of the best. No hand was sleight enough for his trained eyes and he’d brought many thieves to the dungeon under the city hall. When riots broke out, he was there to arrest the culprits. When shopkeepers were threatened with a sword, he stood up to defend them.

With his mighty sword he brought justice when evil showed its face.

One day a group of barbarians came, hidden as refugees they came to the city only to reveal the weapons under their cloaks. Keeping their swords high in the air, they were ready to pillage Ostagon, but sir Morgon and the other guards stood their ground and the earth got soaked in the blood of his enemies. It sent a clear message to anyone who had a similar idea; they would not allow the city to be raided and anyone who would try would perish.

Sir Morgon was celebrated as a hero and their peaceful, prosperous lives went on.

But the times changed. War broke out and trading came to a halt. The good people of Ostagon had fewer travelling there and trading or buying goods and most didn’t know how to grow their own food or make their own clothes. And the price of food went up every day and food supplies dwindled.

Children who once played in the streets now scavenged the city to look for food. But good sir Morgon was still there, keeping the city safe.

A child stealing a loaf of bread was quickly plucked from the street and thrown in the dungeon, a mother stealing a necklace to sell for food so she could feed her family was put on the scaffold as an example. And the rioting citizens who wanted to defend such lowly criminals were struck down with sir Morgon’s mighty sword.

It puzzled him when someone called him a heartless beast after he kicked away a woman clinging to his legs, pleading to let some crooked boy go. If he’d allow this child to steal an apple now, it would continue to steal. Others might see it as approval of stealing and before everyone knew it people would murder each other.

There would be no lawlessness in his city.

4. PSA (Nice story. Has nothing to do with the prompt.)

Review of PSA by @NorthernKraken

Hmm...

Here's how I color coded things; The red is what I'd remove. The orange is what I would change. The green is what I liked.

---

There is no procession of matching black umbrellas at Malcolm Brady’s funeral.

I love a strong opening line. And most people won’t bother to read a story if the opening line or paragraph isn’t solid. And even if I don’t compare them to being stronger your contemporaries. (I’m biased toward my own.) But yours is better in providing direct information. It’s simple, but eye-catching.

---

No single tears roll down porcelaine white cheeks, and no crisply folded handkerchiefs rise from anywhere to dab them away.The eulogy is not deep and meaningful, and it is not exactly what each person in the room needs to hear at that exact moment in time. It is, to put it rather bluntly, not at all how Jenny imagined it would be.

So I’m conflicted in this line. It’s enjoyably odd. But porcelaine is already known to be white. So you could just remove the white part. But is it suppose to represent anything but the color? If not, shouldn’t it just be pale? It feels like it’s the character describing everyone’s general vanity/artificially. Because that's what porcelain is often used for symbolically. And its seem like its honest disdain for the dead guy. Including the MC. So it’s odd word choice, if the case.

Contractions. And eliminate the filler. Maybe edit it into the sentence in a concise manner.

No single tears roll down porcelaine cheeks, and no crisply folded handkerchiefs rise from anywhere to dab them away. The eulogy is not deep and meaningful, and it’s not exactly what each person in the room needs to hear at that exact moment in time. Put bluntly, it’s not at all how Jenny imagined it would be.

---

Instead, the undertaker makes them all line up like school children outside the pokey little crematorium before they’re allowed in, and once everyone is seated, it is made abundantly clear that they are on a tight schedule, and that there is no time whatsoever for any ‘funny business’. The eulogy is a reading of that one poem from four weddings and a funeral, pulled up on a phone. A lilting, off-key and off-tempo rendition of ‘abide with me’, and then it’s over, and Jenny is left wondering what the point had even been.

Contractions. It’s adding filler and length that doesn’t need to exist. And the only I generally see it explained is “that’s how the character talks” but it feels unnatural with how most people speak or talk. And usually contractions and shorthand will eventually show up. Less importantly, a song should have capitalized letters.

Instead, the undertaker makes them all line up like school children outside the pokey little crematorium before they’re allowed in, and once everyone is seated, it’s made abundantly clear that they’re on a tight schedule, and that there’s no time whatsoever for any ‘funny business’. The eulogy is a reading of that one poem from four weddings and a funeral, pulled up on a phone. A lilting, off-key and off-tempo rendition of ‘Abide With Me’, and then it’s over, and Jenny is left wondering what the point had even been.

---

After,they all leave in single file, and everyone is very sorry for the loss. It might’ve been nice, had their faces not been dappled gold in the light streaming through the wooden gazebo, and if the scent of flowers hadn’t been thick and sickly in the air. It’s false, and Jenny sees right through it. These people’s world hasn’t stopped, crashed, been left, stammering like a scratched record. What do they know?

For a moment, rage flares, hot and white as the bright summer sun, but then she watches an old school teacher get into a battered old ford mondeo, and suddenly it’s fifteen years ago, and her dad is driving her back to her mum’s house in a similar car, humming along to Johnny Cash on the radio. Jenny always used to wonder if, when he was alone, he sang along out loud.

She’d never know, now. Not that it really matters.

I’d get rid of additions that can be inferred by the reader. A summer sun is normally bright. Scents are usually airborne. ‘Very’ is a bad addictive word to add to sentences. It never adds anything.

I enjoy the character’s perspective thus far. Calling her mom, ‘mum’ and listening to Johnny Cash and the little unimportant details adds some personality. Editing sentences to be more concise.

They all leave in single file, and everyone is sorry for the loss. It might’ve been nice if their faces hadn’t been dappled gold in light streaming through the wooden gazebo, and if the scent of flowers hadn’t been thick and sickly. It’s false, and Jenny sees right through it. These people’s world hasn’t stopped, crashed, been left, stammering like a scratched record. What do they know?

Momentary rage flairs hot and white as the summer sun, but then she watches an old school teacher get into a battered old Ford Mondeo, and suddenly it’s fifteen years ago, and her dad is driving her back to her mum’s house in a similar car, humming along to Johnny Cash on the radio. Jenny always used to wonder if he sang along out loud when he was alone.

She’d never know. Not that it really matters.

---

After the church, they go to the pub. There’s a function room booked and an open bar, but the line between the mourners and the regulars blurred long before today, so a man with a ratty T-shirt and blue jeans is eating a slice of quiche whilst talking to a woman in a neat black pantsuit as she sips delicately at a pint. Jenny quietly slips into the background, away from the noise and the booze, just like she used to when she was a kid. This wasn’t her space, it was his.

After all, who was going to proudly ruffle her hair as she sat, perched on the sticky lacquered bar, straw poking out of the cold can of sprite in her chubby, childlike hand, if not him? Who was going to loudly declare that he had the next round, because ‘Our Jen got into bloody uni!’ if he didn’t? Not her mum, that’s for sure.

She remembers what it had been like at the hospital. Her mum, sat, a perfect scowl is etched across her face. Red lipstick that seeped into the cracks around her mouth, makeup smeared on in the dead of night. She wasn’t old, but she looked it.

Jenny admires the stubbornness now. The quiet strength and apparent invulnerability.

I don’t think anything needs to be changed here thus far per say. There’s little random details that I enjoy. Feels more real that way. But nothing exactly stands out for me, personally. How much of it is needed for the plot? Or even really to build the character in any meaningful way? It feels a bit like padding.

---

It wasn’t always been like that though. When she fell and skinned her knee, the first time she fell out with her best friend (and the second, and the third), when she broke up with her boyfriend. She’d wanted compassion, understanding, but her mother had wanted her to be strong. She remembers being told, a long time ago, after a misfortune long forgotten, that crying would make people think she was weak. Just another hysterical woman, too emotional for the serious business of success. Don’t let anyone know what’s inside. They won’t like it, won’t like you.

The first sentence is a mistake. Least sound like one to me. Read that bit. Should be “It wasn’t always like that” “It hadn’t always been like that.” Again my favorite parts are things that are random tangents that don’t have much to do with the plot. But it’s quirky and maybe shows that the character is relatively observant. There’s a lot of telling and not showing. And in very blunt way that isn’t very interesting. Editing filler. Like she remembered something “a long time ago.” and then “long forgot it” Only the latter is needed.

It wasn’t always like that though. When she fell and skinned her knee, the first time she fell out with her best friend (and the second, and the third), when she broke up with her boyfriend. She’d wanted understanding but her mother had wanted her to be strong. She remembers being told a misfortune long forgotten, that crying would make people think she’s weak. Just another hysterical woman, too emotional for the serious business of success. Don’t let anyone know what’s inside. They won’t like it or you.

---

Her father held her when she cried. Told her it was okay to be sad, that he’d rather she told him and didn’t keep it bottled up. He never bottled anything up. Her mother said he was a manchild, Jenny thought of it as passion. What would it be like if it were her mother in that coffin, in that hospital bed, in that car? Something sickly and cold prickles beneath the surface of her skin. She shouldn’t think like that. It’s wrong. She goes to get a drink, something else to focus on.

Let me just show you how this can be edited down and smoothed out to express the same sentiment.

Her father held her when she cried. Told her it was okay to be sad and not keep it bottled up. He never did. Her mother called him a manchild, Jenny thought it was passionate. What if her mother was in that coffin, hospital bed, that car? Feeling cold and sickly prickles beneath her skin. She’s wrong to think like that. She goes to get a drink to focus on something else.

---

After the refreshments, Jenny goes home alone. Her little flat is dark, so she turns the yellow lights on, and they flicker to life with an electric buzzing sound. She turns on the cooker, gets out a frozen pizza whilst it heats up. Pretends to be reading the instructions instead of thinking about how she probably won’t be able to pay her rent anymore, not without her dad’s help. She’ll need to pick up more hours at the store. Isn’t sure how she’ll juggle that alongside her internship, but supposes she’ll have to figure it out.

Water and enzymes and salt spill over her cheeks unannounced, and when she rubs at them, her flesh turns pink and raw. No one holds her. No one tells her everything’s fine. No one tells her to just let him know if she’s struggling , for food, for rent, for anything.She’s on her own. She’s on her own and she’s mad.

I enjoy the character’s emotional turmoil. Take a look at the edits I’d suggest. The reasons might be self-apparent. Filler along with another thing that feels like a sentence mistake. The “Isn’t sure how” bit. Actually it sort of feels like there’s a few sentences that have odd word choices. So allow me to offer improvements.

After refreshments, Jenny goes home alone. Her little flat is dark, so she turns the lights on, and they flicker to life with a buzzing sound. She turns on the cooker, gets out a frozen pizza whilst it heats up. Pretends to be reading the instructions instead of thinking how she pay her rent without her dad’s help. She’ll need to pick up more hours at the store. Not sure how she’ll juggle that with her internship, but she’ll have to figure it out.

Enzymes and salty water spills over her cheeks unannounced, and then she rubs her flesh raw. No one holds her. No one tells her everything’s fine. No one tells her to let him know if she’s struggling for food or rent. She’s on her own for everything. Alone forever and she’s pissed.

Why did he have to be in that coffin? Why did he have to be in that hospital bed? Why did he have to be in that god forsaken car?

Why did it have to be all his own fault?

She thinks back to Malcolm Brady’s funeral. His sister reading the eulogy off her phone. His daughter, crying as she shook the hands of mourners as they left the building. Told her they were sorry for her loss.

That should’ve been Jenny. Could’ve been, had there been more than her, her mother, and her brother at his funeral. She wonders if her dad had sung along to Johnny Cash that night. The scent of alcohol on his breath, pride at Jenny getting her internship in his heart.

She’ll never know.

Fuck. Him.

I enjoy the sentiment but...

So like...what the helk did any of that have to do with a fallen hero? Or somebody doing wrong because they think it’s right? This feels like a story that doesn’t even remotely match the prompt in question…

It wasn’t a bad personal reflection story...but she isn’t a hero, nor the villain who thinks she's a hero. The father was her fallen hero, but he’s not a secret bad guy. She’s whiny and angst-filled, but her father died. She didn’t do anything wrong. The mother complex isn’t relevant to the story. Most of it really isn’t tied to the story which is seems to be a story about mourning a personal loss. So...I’m afraid I don’t see the connection.

5. The Women In Red (Feels lackluster. Didn't like it. Sorry.)

Review of The Woman In Red by @MsMorningstar

It's always welcoming to see a new face. I do hope others might appreciate your story more than I did.

Here's how I color coded things; The red is what I'd remove. The orange is what I would change. The green is what I liked.

---

Draped in red, lacy fabric hugging a frame that howled femininity. A glossy coating on pouty lips. A slight tug on the waves she had effortlessly worked into her hair. An adjustment of the strap of her designer bag. The subtle shift of her weight, stiletto heels digging into the tender flesh of pedicured feet as she twisted her wedding ring until it slid off of her finger. Heavily shadowed eyes, a sly wink into the mirror. A grin, wicked and etched with excitement.

It was time.

She strode-sauntered, rather, onto the dancefloor. The crowd did not part for her, but she slunk through with grace. Lights flared and pulsed around her in time to the heavy music, a myriad of colors illuminating bodies.The acrid scent of booze dulling her senses in a way she found exhilarating. Her heart danced, thudding to the thunderous beat. She approached the middle, gathering herself as the song shifted. Packed with bass, a song fit for a show. She danced.

Spinning, heels clicking against the laminated tiles that were spotted with liquor and sweat. Like no one was watching, though she felt his gaze on her. It didn’t take long, it never did. A pause, turning towards the pair of glossy eyes that had been burning holes into her body. Handsome, strong features that she delighted in. She would have him tonight.

A wink when the light struck her frame, lips spreading, temptatious. Pivoting, she swayed to the beat of a new song.

It took mere moments. Eyes closed, she smirked as a pair of hands snaked around her waist. Cologne wafted off of him, though it did nothing to cover up the reek of aged spirits. A seemingly endless moment, where it was only them.

Then he spoke. “Come up to my room,” A mask of confidence, given to him by the liquor he had consumed. Facing him, her gaze was drawn to the tension in his shoulders. Honey brown eyes spoke, telling her what he couldn’t. She gifted him an unsuspecting smile, unmistakably coy.

“Thought you’d never ask.” He guided her, past the noise and confusion and to his room. It was nothing special, she supposed he had already splurged on the location. The scent of his cologne lingered in the air. His suitcase, untouched, as if he had just checked in that evening and gone straight to the club.

It hardly mattered, because they had found each other. She settled her purse delicately on the bedside table, excitement trickling down her spine. A quick shimmy released her from skin-tight clothing.

Their night began.

~

Sure hands removed the ‘please make my room’ placard, inserting the keycard in its place. A click, and the maid swung open the door. The smell hit her first. Strong, a metallic tang she didn’t recognize filling the space. A crinkle of her nose and she turned the corner. Her mouth went slack at the sight.

Draped in sheets stained a rusty red, loosely covering a seemingly naked, masculine frame. A thick coating of blood on parted lips. Mussed hair, he had been rudely awakened from a night of enjoyment. Honey brown eyes faded and glossy. A scream etched on his face that failed to escape his lips.

She screamed. Turning tail and abandoning the man before even noticing the photographs littering the floor. Women, tied to headboards with throats slashed. His personal collection, that he carried to bolster confidence, and to keep him sane during moments of withdrawal.

She ran so fast that the door to the room remained open, and passersby wondered about the stench leaking from the room. No one suspected a thing, until the head detective of the Chicago PD came to each and every room to question them on if they’d heard or seen anything the night before.

Word spread quickly, hitting the news despite the police department’s best efforts.

~

“Another murder in Chicago, babe? I’m shocked.” Dahlia yawned as she settled her hands on her husband’s shoulders. She wore long sleeves, disguising the marks around her wrists. Her head cocked as the reporter on the news told them that the man had been stabbed fatally in the heart. A small smirk tugged on her lips as the question ‘Is This The Work of The Infamous Chicago Man Eater?’ slowly drifted across the bottom of the screen.

“Chicago Man Eater...so that’s what they’re calling her.” Her husband muttered, seemingly unimpressed. Dahlia sighed, retracting her hands after he reached up and stroked one with great affection. She resigned to making the kids a hearty breakfast.

It seemed her husband would never appreciate her profession.

---

So this was short enough for me to give you the general opinion first. A lot of it was wasted on descriptions of the characters and didn’t really get me to feel anything. Only a spare few lines weren’t written simply. I’d argue the beginning paragraph is enough to make the story much less effective. Just kind of ruins it for me, if I was supposed to get into the story more so than the writing itself. Let me try to explain and give you advice.

Okay, so most fanfiction starts off by just giving a block of visual description for a character that you’re following and rarely does it need to be there for the story to work. But it’s not just that, but lets go over what’s in the beginning.

She’s in red. The title covers that already. She’s prettied up for the club. This is pretty typically assumed that people in clubs are dressed fancy. But it would’ve have been less bland and uninteresting if it was described within her own actions at the club. “Her dress swaying to the beat of the music.” You even do mention the heels again later. Her bag is literally never mentioned again. It spoils that she has a husband. But much worse, it spoils her intentions by calling her ‘wicked’. You might as well have put “she evilly laughed in the mirror”, if you didn’t want us to think she wasn’t the villain from the start.

So I had actual corrections I would’ve suggested for the first paragraph. Like I’m pretty sure you meant she worked *weaves* into her hair. Not waves. Or how that spoiler sentence could have been made more concise with “A wicked grin etched with excitement”. But even then you make more references to her excitement later and in a more interesting way. (Her heart dancing.) Nothing in the first paragraph is needed and I’d suggest removing the whole thing would actually make it a better story.

The rest of my corrections are to make contractions, simply sentences and get rid of words or sentences that are unnecessary and/or repeated. Here’s an explanation of ones that might need it most.

I’d remove "heavy" music and swap it with “packed with bass” that was applied a few sentences later. Since their doesn’t seem to be a reason for this distinction, all music in a club is typically packed with bass/heavy.

My two favorite sentences of your story also have words I’d argue aren’t needed. I think “The acrid scent of booze dulling her senses in a way she found exhilarating.” Actually tells me more about the character than the whole first paragraph just telling me about the character. It’s a good line. But “Acrid”, aside from the general rule of if you can use a more obvious word without hurting the sentence, do it. Acrid just means strong. But you don’t need either, since its inferred by it dulling her senses through its potency. The reader can to put two and two together, most booze is strong smelling.

“A scream etched on his face that failed to escape his lips.” Is delightfully morbid, but you re-use words/phrases that you don’t need. “Honey Brown eyes. Faces etched.” etc. You wouldn’t need to change it however, if you got rid the opening paragraph where you used it.

Here’s the edit version. Sorry if I sounded rough. Hopefully you’ll understand the edits.

---

My Edit

It was time.

She sauntered onto the dancefloor in her lacy red dress. The crowd didn’t part for her, but she slunk through with grace. Lights flared and pulsed around her in time to the music packed with bass, a myriad of colors illuminating bodies. The scent of booze dulling her senses in a way she found exhilarating. Her heart danced, thudding to the thunderous beat. She approached the middle, gathering herself as the song shifted.

Spinning and clicking heels against the laminated tiles that were spotted with liquor and sweat. Like no one was watching, though she felt his gaze on her. It didn’t take long, it never did. A pause, turning towards the pair of glossy eyes that had been burning holes into her body. Handsome, strong features that she delighted in. She would have him tonight.

A wink when the light struck her frame, lips spreading temptation. Pivoting as she swayed to the beat of a new song.

It took mere moments. She smirked with eyes closed as a pair of hands snaked around her waist. Cologne wafted off of him, doing nothing to cover up the reek of aged spirits. A seemingly endless moment, where it was only them.

Then he spoke. “Come up to my room,” A mask of confidence, given to him by the liquor he’d consumed. Facing him, her gaze was drawn to the tension in his shoulders. Honey brown eyes telling her what he couldn’t. She gifted him an unsuspecting coy smile.

“Thought you’d never ask.” He guided her, past the noise and confusion to his room. It was nothing special, she supposed he had already splurged on the location. The scent of his cologne lingered in the air. His suitcase, untouched, as if he’d just checked in that evening and gone straight to the club.

It hardly mattered, because they had found each other. She settled her purse delicately on the bedside table, excitement trickling down her spine. A quick shimmy released her from skin-tight clothing.

Their night began.

~

Sure hands removed the ‘please make my room’ placard, inserting the keycard in its place. A click, and the maid swung open the door. The smell hit her first. A strong metallic tang she didn’t recognize filling the space. A crinkle of her nose and she turned the corner. Her mouth went slack at the sight.

Draped in sheets stained a rusty red, loosely covering a seemingly naked, masculine frame. A thick coating of blood on parted lips. Mussed hair, he had been rudely awakened from a night of enjoyment.A scream on his face that failed to escape his lips.

She shrieked. Turning tail and abandoning the man before even noticing the photographs littering the floor. Women, tied to headboards with throats slashed. His personal collection, that he carried to bolster confidence, and to keep him sane during moments of withdrawal.

She ran so fast that the door to the room remained open, and passersby wondered about the stench leaking from the room. No one suspected a thing, until the head detective of the Chicago PD came to each and every room to question them on if they’d heard or seen anything the night before.

Word spread quickly, hitting the news despite the police department’s best efforts.

~

“Another murder in Chicago, babe? I’m shocked.” Dahlia yawned as she settled her hands on her husband’s shoulders. Her long sleeves disguising the marks around her wrists. Her head cocked as the reporter on the news told them that the man had been stabbed fatally in the heart. A small smirk tugged on her lips as the question ‘Is This The Work of The Infamous Chicago Man Eater?’ slowly drifted across the bottom of the screen.

“Chicago Man Eater...so that’s what they’re calling her.” Her husband muttered, seemingly unimpressed. Dahlia sighed, retracting her hands after he reached up and stroked one with great affection. She resigned to making the kids a hearty breakfast.

It seemed her husband would never appreciate her profession.

6. Ash and Tyrants (Not the worst written. But it doesn't follow the rules for length. And it feels longer than it already is.)

Review of Ash and Tyrants by @Crimson Raven

I can’t help but review this as a reader and fellow contestant. You’re telling me that you couldn’t find anyway to limit this to below 2,000 words?

I’ll try to critique you as fairly as I can, and show you how I would've edited this down easily within your first two paragraphs.

The red is what I'd remove. The orange is what I would change. The green is what I liked.

---

Ash and Tyrants

It rained ash.

But first, the title is pretty simple. But I mean that in a good way. You get the ash right away, in a very brief, but mood setting sentence. And I suppose whether you're happy or not that the figure's identity and what he deal may be, is basically spoiled for you before you read (likely being that tyrant) depends on the reader's taste.

And I will continue to be positive about things I like somewhere in this.

---

No sun could be seen, yet there was light. An angry red twilight blanketed the land. A figure wrapped in a ragged, dark cloak approached the ruins of a large destroyed building. The building had burned to the ground not long ago, its ruins still smoldered. The outer walls stood still, and much of the roof remained. However, the inside was hollow. Empty windows stared out like a grinning skull.

Ash and debris crunched under the heavy foot of the figure as it picked its way deeper within the burned out shell. The light receded as he drew deeper within the complex. The only illumination inside was the occasional beam of red light that beamed through a hole in the roof or through a shattered window.

You don’t need destroyed. 'The ruins of a large building' already informs the reader of the state of decay. You don’t need 'had', sentence works fine without it.

I'd advise not using the word ruins again. Also smoldered is past tense, but you’re trying to imply it's still going right? So shouldn’t it be, “The building burned down not long ago, its debris still smoldering.” (Shorter too. And works just as well.)

You don’t need 'walls stood still', kind of their job. 'The walls stood' is fine.

You don’t need 'heavy', unless you’re eluding the figure being a fatass/giant. While I understand your very first sentence about the 'figure' is him literally stepping his foot down and crushing something which is nice symbolism about him being a tyrant. But 'heavy' feels like an unnecessary inclusion. (But feel free to add it back, if the other edits were made)

Remove “as it picked its way” to “going”. That also seemingly makes more sense. The next sentence seems to be repetitiously stating that the figure is going inside and could probably be eliminated. Or merged like so, “The light receded as he drew deeper, the only illumination inside was the occasional red light that beamed through the roof or shattered window."

Don't need to point out where he is again, the reader knows he's inside the building. Don’t need "beam of", when you then describe it as ‘beaming’. And while you could include "broken". The reader should be able to imply from the ruined building, if light goes through the roof/shattered windows, that the roof has holes/damaged as well.

I'm enjoying the general start and the several sentences with wordplay that created interesting visuals in my head.

If all edits are made: The word count would be 1,990.

No sun could be seen, yet there was light. An angry red twilight blanketed the land. A figure wrapped in a ragged, dark cloak approached the ruins of a large building. The building burned down not long ago, its debris still smoldering. The outer walls stood, and much of the roof remained. However, the inside was hollow. Empty windows stared out like a grinning skull.

Ash and debris crunched under the foot of the figure going deeper within the burned out shell. The light receded as he drew deeper, the only illumination inside was the occasional red light that beamed through the roof or shattered window.

---

In no hurry, the figure reached a larger room. This one was lit by the sullen light that streamed through the torn open roof. What may have once been a glass dome was now a broken eggshell, open to sky. Ash drifted down lazily, it lay on the floornearly a meter deep. The figure stifled a coughing fit as he methodically began to dig through the ash. Parts of the uncovered floor were uneven, cracked or even missing, making footing treacherous. unnatural formations rose above the ash.

The search took time. The ashfall had picked up, hampering it’s progress. But eventually, a cleared section of floor yielded a perfectly square outline in ash, two handspans wide. With the first signs of excitement, the figure scooped and brushed ash aside until the whole square was revealed. Unlike the stone around it, the square was clean, smooth, and undamaged. The ash had not stuck to it and the devastation has not touched it.

The figure bent down, feeling with its dirty ash-stained fingers until it found a ash-filled divot in the cool metal. With its nails, it dug more ash out of the hole.

Hands shaking, it drew a geometric, multisided stone from a pocket, and pushed it into the slot. Runes carved into the stone lit with a silver light. The light spread into the metal, revealing more runes. With an audible click, the square shifted slightly. The figure hesitated, then, holding its breath, carefully tapped the runes in a specific order.

“In no hurry” Could be shortened to “The figure nonchalantly reached a larger room” There’s other options but nonchalantly works the best and would still make the sentence flow better. (One word, removed the comma.)

But I’d also just merge these sentences, “The figure nonchalantly reached a larger room lit by the sullen light that streamed through the torn roof.”

Don’t need torn ‘open’. Unless it was an action, like it was *just* torn open. 'Open to sky' feels incomplete, but I’d remove it instead of changing it. I doubt the ash has sentience to be lazy. But seriously, removing the descriptor doesn’t change how I’d picture it.

Could change to “lying on the floor nearly a meter deep.” Capitalizing ‘Unnatural’ formations. Personally that sentence “Unnatural formations rose above the ash.” feels unfinished. 'hampering *its progress' (it's is, it is.)

There’s other ways to edit the sentence down, but I’ll start easy with using contractions. “The ash hadn’t stuck to it and the devastation hasn’t touched it.”

Remove dirty (or ash-stained, that is more words but also more specific visually.) One implies the other. *An ash-filled divot. *multi-sided

If all edits are made: The word count would be 1,974

The figure nonchalantly reached a larger room lit by the sullen light that streamed through the torn roof. What may have once been a glass dome was now a broken eggshell. Ash drifted down, laying on the floor nearly a meter deep. The figure stifled a coughing fit as he methodically began to dig through the ash. Parts of the uncovered floor were uneven, cracked or even missing, making footing treacherous. Unnatural formations rose above the ash.

The search took time. The ashfall had picked up, hampering its progress. But eventually, a cleared section of floor yielded a perfectly square outline in ash, two handspans wide. With signs of excitement, the figure scooped and brushed ash aside until the whole square was revealed. Unlike the stone around it, the square was clean, smooth, and undamaged. The ash hadn’t stuck to it and the devastation hasn’t touched it.

The figure bent down, feeling with its ash-stained fingers until it found an ash-filled divot in the cool metal. With its nails, it dug more ash out of the hole.

Hands shaking, it drew a geometric, multi-sided stone from a pocket, and pushed it into the slot. Runes carved into the stone lit with a silver light. The light spread into the metal, revealing more runes. With an audible click, the square shifted slightly. The figure hesitated, then, holding its breath, carefully tapped the runes in a specific order.

---

A tense moment passed. Then a secondary, more muffled click sounded. A relieved breath turned into another coughing fit. The door revealed a compartment. Inside the compartment was an ash-stained book, a safe, and other boxes. The figure withdrew the book. It backed out of the ashfall, movements jerky and tense. In the least ash-covered corner of the room, under an intact shard of the glass dome, the figure opened the book and began to read.

I don’t have much time. Holder of this record: what follows is a true account. True insofar as my actions and thoughts. I make no claim of of transient truth.

Reader, I make but one request. If what you hold is the original: Do not destroy it! Mock it as you wish, declare it false, disbelieve it, hold it as an enduring example of a mad tyrant for all time, but do not destroy it! Let it exist so that future generations, if they exist, should know this:

I, Kaiser Wahr D’mmerung, Hero, Savior, Villain, Tyrant, destroyed the world.

But I will also save it.

The circumstances must be explained to understand the above statement.

The world was at war. There were two sides to this war. Two sides, but five factions. The sides were clear cut. Those that wanted to use the developing magic and technology as tools and those who worshiped them as gifts from the gods.

The factions are more complex. There were the Orthodoxy. Those who served the gods. Most of the western countries made up the bulk of this faction. They opposed use of magic as a tool, but they also rejected technology. But, some held the view that both were given by the gods to be used freely.

There were the Templars. These embraced both but worshiped them as well. Templars were scatted far and wide, but their hub was to the south.

Those that attempted to make peace and accept all views were given the name Trustees. They were even more scattered, but they were trusted by all. Right up until they betrayed the world.

The Kingdoms are next. The Kingdoms were a collection of states caught in the fighting, between the powers. Their motivation was simply to protect themselves: to weather the war or end it quickly by throwing their lot in with the winning side. It was here the main threat lurked, unknown to all but me and those I confided in.

"The door revealed a compartment containing an ash-stained book, a safe, and other boxes." Shorter, better flowing sentence.

The motherf'er writing this takes his time doesn't he?

Okay. There's about a million ways to shorten this. Contractions. Pointless/repetitious filler words that don't add much. But it's character writing so you have more leeway. I have a feeling the other mistakes aren't intentional, because if they were, it doesn't really help or add anything.

"of of" One 'of', would suffice. 'scatted' *Scattered is spelled wrong and then spelled correctly within the following sentence. So take this advice with a grain of salt but assuming this guy actually wanted to get to the point. Here's some edits...

All edits made from 'wasting less time' man would get you a word count of: 1,952

A tense moment passed. Then a secondary, more muffled click sounded. A relieved breath turned into another coughing fit. The door revealed a compartment containing an ash-stained book, a safe, and other boxes. The figure withdrew the book. It backed out of the ashfall, movements jerky and tense. In the least ash-covered corner of the room, under an intact shard of the glass dome, the figure opened the book and began to read.

I don’t have much time. Holder of this record: what follows is a true account. True as my actions and thoughts. I make no claim of transient truth.

Reader, I make but one request. If what you hold is the original: Don’t destroy it! Mock it as you wish, declare it false, disbelieve it, hold it as an enduring example of a mad tyrant for all time, but don’t destroy it! Let it exist so that future generations, if they exist, should know this:

I, Kaiser Wahr D’mmerung, Hero, Savior, Villain, Tyrant, destroyed the world.

But I’ll also save it.

The circumstances must be explained to understand the above.

The world was at war. There were two clear sides, but five factions. Those that wanted to use the developing magic and technology as tools and those who worshiped them as gifts from the gods.

The factions are more complex. There were the Orthodoxy. Those who served the gods. Most of the western countries made up the bulk of this faction. They opposed use of magic as a tool, but they also rejected technology. But, some held the view that both were given by the gods to be used freely.

There were the Templars. These embraced both but worshiped them as well. Templars were scattered far and wide, but their hub was to the south.

Those that attempted to make peace and accept all views were given the name Trustees. They were even more scattered, but they were trusted by all. Right until they betrayed the world.

The Kingdoms are next. The Kingdoms were a collection of states caught between the powers. Their motivation was simply to protect themselves: to weather the war or end it quickly by throwing their lot in with the winning side. It was here the main threat lurked, unknown to all but me and those I confided in.

---

The fourth faction was mine. I am Kaiser of an Empire and, moreover, Hero of the World. Our belief is that magic and technology is by man and for man. Out stated goal was to use unite the world using magic and technology as mankind’s tools. Our true goal was to end the gods and usher in a new era. One where man had the ability to make their destiny.

The fifth faction was not one of man, but of would-be gods. The Undying. Beings of great power, true, but as fallible, if not more so than any man. No one but I and their chosen knew of their existence. From the time when the true gods vanished, through age after age, these beings have guided and shaped mankind through gifts of knowledge and power.

In the not distant past, one of their chosen built a great alliance of the people of the world, ushering in an era of peace and prosperity. An era built upon a mountain of corpses. Their ultimate goals I do not know. Their motives are a mystery to me. But their cruelty and apathy are boundless. Humans are their playthings.Their toys.

This war, however, is different from those in the past. This war, mankind has power. Power like they have never had before. Power to level mountains and dry seas. Power evento destroy the world. Power to threaten those who would be gods. It is, for this reason The Undying instigated this war. A war with no winners. To raze the world and most of mankind with it, sending it back into an age of darkness. A reset.

But how would I, a man, however respected, stop this? A word to those who follow the will of the divine and Hero or not, my country would be at war for heresy. Part of the problem is my realization came too late: War was already inevitable.

Hero. I have referred to myself here as such, haven’t I? I don’t think of myself as one. But I feel compelled to explain why I was called ‘Hero’, for two reasons. First, this is when I first met the Undying’s hand. Second, in the event that history’s cruel hand distorts the truth. Because that is why I am writing this. The Truth. However, I don’t wish to cloud this account with my unimportant deeds, so I shall exercise brevity.

Yeah. I sincerely hope the brevity bit was tongue and cheek self-awareness. Because this is dragging on for an eternity. It's a lot of tell, don't show. And I'll give this a million 'whose line is it anyway' points if by the end of this the character reading it goes "Well that was boring." and leaves.

Another thing, I have literally no idea how intentional it was or not. But I found it funny that the tyrant used "use" "unite" the world, almost as if showing his true intentions vs what was written. I'd believe it was more purposeful (least more clearly your intent) if the strike out was united used.

I'll spare you the rest of editing/wordcount length because you probably get the idea by now. Just assume most edits I did were contractions. Merge suggestions and filler words I'd remove.

---

I was Prince and my kingdom was small when a great lich lord rose to power. He was a magus gone mad with desire for power. Classic fairytale really. It began conquering, setting its dark armies across the land. Mine was next. And its last. I lead my armies against it, and though it was a terrible battle, we prevailed. Our success was due to two things: a genius inventor whose magitech was far advanced, and a perilous mission I and an elite squad undertook to find and destroy the lich’s phylactery.

When the dust settled we were heroes. We saved the world from the lich.

I think we were only heroes because the other side were villains. We did horrible things. We had to.

I hear commotion. I have little time.

During the height of the war, I had a dream. In that dream, a glowing being offered me a Stone that glowed with the light of ten thousand stars. It promised me power to protect my kingdom and it promised to make my kingdom prosper until it covered the world.

I turned it down. Shocking, really. I still wonder why I didn’t accept. I might have saved countless lives. Back then, we thought we were fighting a hopeless battle. There was no hope of winning. Only to delay.

But I didn’t and we won. Human ingenuity and courage won the day. Yet the corpses piled high.

I forgot about the dream. After the war, my energy was focused on helping my father rebuild. We found ourselves suddenly enlarged, in charge of the countries the lich had already overrun. Less important things could wait.

Time passed.

Wounds healed, fear was forgotten and politics set in. Once again, war loomed, for the reasons I explained above. I find it ridiculous that so soon after mankind faced subjugation, it so readily turned on itself.

But I have no room to talk.

As the world hurtled to another brutal war, small details, small inconsistencies bothered me. No. They consumed me. I agonized over the details, doing research that would have gotten me killed had I been anything less then a very cautious crown prince and general of one of the greatest military forces in the world. Assassins came out of the woodworks for me. Again, none more than I am surprised that I yet live.

To make a long story short, I discovered the presence of The Undying. Not one night later, I dreamed of them. This time, I knew who they were. I asked them of their purpose. They told me. And again, they offered me power. A place, promises of protection. They had tried this before.

But I could not be part of their plan. They wanted to return humans to Stone Ages, eliminate all history that ever was and start over. In return, they offered to make me one of their number. With sickened realization, I knew this wasn’t the first time. That I was talking to once-men that had sold their race for power and immortality.

I turned them down again. I swore that I would stop them. I would tear them down from their empyrean seats and let the collective of man decide his own path.

They laughed. They told me that man would decide himself to extinction.

They could be right. But at least it would be his own choice.

My plan was a desperate one. I had to become something I wished never to be. A tyrant.

A week later, I killed my father. Took his throne. Declared war. I struck first. If I could gather the world’s greatest powers: miracles of magic and technology, and the might of man, I could unseat The Undying.

I have failed. Their champion, tempted with power, rose from Kingdoms, drawing out the war. In time, the Undying were able to engineer my doom.

I am a tyrant. I have painted the earth red with the blood of innocents. For my atrocities, I deserve my fate.

But, the future does not.

In my last moments, I have hope. Dear reader: I have sown seeds. Seeds that, if cultured, will grow into the roots of a new civilization. One greater then ever. One that may yet realize my goal:

To put the reigns of History in the hands of Man.

This vault contains the first seed, and clues to more, which lead to more.

The Undying are not infallible. They can be beaten. Do not give up hope.

My eyes have sort of glazed over the rest of this. It can be salvaged but the whole thing could be made so much shorter. But it makes several more filler statements about how short he wants his monologue to be. There's several points that seem like it's suppose to inject a little humor in there? But it seems like I'm reading about a character whose reading a copypasta/getting trolled right now. Maybe I'd care more if it was actually the reader I was learning this from, the fact that none of this story even pays off in the end is a pretty crucial flaw.

If you want genuine advice/example of how to better this and make it briefer and more interesting, feel free to let me know. Though this review is getting long as it is.

---

The figure closed the book with a thump. There was more but it did not care. It considered the slim volume for a moment. Then, with a gesture, the book burst into flames. Protective runes burst to life, but flickered and failed as the octane fire consumed them. A flick of its wrist and ash joined ash.

With an air of satisfaction, the being walked out, more fire spreading in its wake.

I kind of like the ending bit? If only it was attached to something better. I feel insane seeing even more references to how short this was. And yeah, so the saying goes, if the main character didn't care. Why should I? The twist is...The Lich/Undying was the figure? Doesn't that kind of go against the rules as well, because the evil they were fighting shouldn't be the focus...but the hero that had fallen from grace?

That felt like a big mess. And if you spent just a little more time editing it, you could've made the story much stronger...

7. The Inevitability Of The Throne (This story just frustrates me.)

Review of The Inevitability Of The Throne by @gowia

Sorry...

The red is what I'd remove. The orange is what I would change.

---

“He has to die.” Her voice was quiet, but unafraid, even though each moment brought a fresh tremor of anxious anticipation for the events that were about to unfold.

Whispered conspiracy had dogged the dark halls of the palace for months, following the princess like a pestilence and trying her immensely. Turning from the broad cityscape that her grand balcony afforded, Lyra sucked in a sharp breath. Even here, in the sanctity of her room, she felt the long shadows of furniture reach out and welcome her like an old friend. She mentally recoiled.

She was doing her duty. A duty to her city, her nation, and all the people that inhabited it. They would thank her, if they ever discovered the truth, and those that would know would think far greater of her. But, she might never forgive herself. Thin fingers plied one another like clay as she held them in front of herself, chewing her bottom lip in a way her mother had always despised.

A sharp rap on the door shattered the tapestry of introspection she had been weaving.

Enjoy the artful phrasing presented. Fresh feels like an oddly positive sounding word as well as an unnecessary inclusion. Allow me to show how this can be better and more concise.

Also a possible mistake through the solution is unsure. A sharp *Rap? Like wrap? Or is it a rip? Or tap? I’m just guessing it’s not suppose to be her sharp rhymes to a beat that shattered the tapestry.

“He has to die.” Her voice was quiet, but unafraid, even though each moment brought a tremor of anxious anticipation for the events about to unfold.

Whispered conspiracy had dogged the dark halls of the palace for months, following the princess like a pestilence and trying her immensely. Whispered conspiracy dogged the dark halls of the palace for months, trying the princess immensely by following her like a pestilence. Turning from the broad cityscape that her grand balcony afforded, Lyra sharply breathed. She mentally recoiled as she felt the shadows of her room’s furniture reach out and welcome her like an old friend.

She was doing her duty to her city and nation, and all the people that inhabited it. They would thank her if they ever knew the truth, and think far greater of her. But, she might never forgive herself. Thin fingers plied one another like clay as she held them in front of herself, chewing her bottom lip in a way her mother had always despised.

A sharp rip on the door shattered the tapestry of introspection she had been weaving.

---

“Come.” Her voice was brisk, cold, entirely the cool character she intended to rule as. Despite such an icy reception, the royal valet - still in the luxurious purple uniform of the house - entered with a gentle smile and spoke with a congenial timbre.

“Guard-Captain Holte is here to see you, your highness. I would send him in, if it pleases you?” The young boy’s head was lowered in supplication as he posed the question and, aware of protocol, Lyra pretended to give the query a moment of consideration. Aware to give the impression that this late call was unexpected. The gown covering her silk nighty, and somewhat dishevelled hair, was the final piece of the puzzle intended to befuddle any attempt to put together the events of the night.

Using her voice as the beginning of two paragraphs in a row isn’t recommended. And the whole sentence describing it is entirely unnecessary. Brisk means fast. It’s a one word sentence, without adding context that it was slowed, it will naturally be fast already. You don’t need cold. Because you go onto to say its ‘icy’ and really the cool character bit feels like you should’ve written the line or body language to show that instead of telling it.

I feel like someone used a thesaurus. Why is “congenial timbre” used, doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue. It’s not wordplay, if it’s just randomly uncommon words. It’s also just to describe their pleasantness. And gentle part already does that for you…

Another instance is “The gown covering her nighty” But a nighty IS a gown. So, “The gown covering her gown” What? If she’s wearing multiple layers and gowns, it feels like there was a less clunky way to explain that.

Here’s some suggested edits. (You can probably improve upon the first bit. It’s now just a wordplay pun. It last sentence feels strange to me, its difficult to edit well but least now it's an alliteration?.)

“Come.” She said trying to act cool. Despite the icy reception, the royal valet - the luxurious purple uniform of the house - entered with a gentle smile and pleasant tone’

“Guard-Captain Holte is here to see you, your highness. I would send him in, if it pleases you?” The young boy’s head lowered as he posed the question, aware of protocol. Lyra pretended to give the query consideration, aware to give the impression that this late call was unexpected. Her gown layered over a nightgown with dishevelled hair, the final puzzle piece to perplex any pursuit to put the night’s events together.

---

“Hold a moment.” She commanded, taking the time to deliberately pad over to her dresser and adjust the loose strands of auburn hair into a more respectable style. A true actor. “There.” She finally exclaimed, placing a single pin through the locks to hold them all in place. “You may send him in now.”

The valet silently slid from the room and could be heard whispering to an unseen figure beyond the stained oak door. Forthwith it opened and closed a final time, allowing entry of a scarred veteran in the livery of the royal guard.

“Your highness.” He greeted her in a tone almost as dark as her own had been to the valet, clearly he was struggling as she was. “I have come as your father has requested your presence.” The facade of their discourse was grating on them both and the princess raised a hand to silence any further part of the message she was supposed to receive.

You need a comma or something between “I have come , as your father”. To read that as intended. Just going to show you the edits and you can decide what is lost by my reductions.

“Hold a moment.” She commanded like a true actor, taking time to pad over to her dresser and style the loose strands of her auburn hair. “There.” She finally exclaimed, placing a pin through that holds them in place. “You may send him in now.”

The valet silently slid from the room and could be heard whispering to an unseen figure beyond the stained oak door. It opened and closed a final time, allowing entry of a scarred veteran in the livery of the royal guard.

“Your highness.” He greeted almost as darkly as she did to the valet. He was clearly struggling like her. “I have come - as your father has requested your presence.” The facade of their discourse was grating on them both and the princess raised a hand to silence the rest.

---

“Your highness, I wish to inform you of your father’s wishes…” He returned to the rehearsed speech and Lyra relinquished this to him, adopting a stony portrait though listening to none of the words. Boris had served her father for decades, though he was not betraying a biological father, in his heart he likely felt he might as well be.

“Your highness, will you see him?” The question was posed with a greater severity than expected, and Lyra realised quickly she had missed the first time it had been asked. Straightening the pleats in her dress, though it had been in no way out of place, she nodded her assent.

“I will, inform the king I will see him now.” And, with that, the soldier departed to make ready the final preparations. Leaving the door open as he stepped through, Lyra realised the old man had meant for her to act now. The time for thinking should be done. Approaching the threshold she stared down at the invisible line in the floor, the point of no return, and faltered. If she went now she would not return to this room. She could not. Yet, if she stayed, countless would suffer.

Contractions. Shortening elongated sentences to similar effect. Like aside from using “assent”, do you really need to explain why she nodded. When she was asked a yes or no question? And you clarify in the sentence “Yes I will.”

Not every piece of dialogue needs direct elaboration. And Lyra, realizes things a lot doesn't she? You don’t really need to squeeze her name in there if she’s the only female in the room/scene. And she’s a bit of a repetitively written character. There’s a lot of dialogue and random explanation of the seemingly random colors of people’s clothing, certainly hope its plot relevant, but I can’t get into it. Because I’ve yet to grasp any plot and the flavorful writing in the first paragraph has yet to reappear.

“Your highness, I wish to inform you of your father’s wishes…” He returned to the rehearsed speech and Lyra relinquished this to him, adopting a stony portrait though listening to none of the words. Boris had served her father for decades, though he wasn’t betraying a biological father, in his heart he might as well be.

“Your highness, will you see him?” Posed with a greater severity than expected, Lyra realised quickly she’d missed the first time it had been asked. Straightening the pleats in her dress, despite not being out of place. She nodded.

“I will. Inform the king I’ll see him now.” With that, the soldier departed to ready the final preparations. Leaving the door open as he stepped through, Lyra knew the old man had meant for her to act. The time for thinking was done. She approached the threshold and stared down at the invisible line in the floor, the point of no return, and faltered. If she went now she wouldn’t return. She couldn’t. Yet, if she stayed, countless would suffer.

---

Which is how she found herself marching down the long hallway that lead towards the royal quarters. Her valet followed two steps behind, lighting the way with a candelabra held aloft to guide them. Nobody ever lit the halls of the palace anymore. There were too many faces, cut deep into the stonework that put shame to the living, perfect as they were in nostalgic reverence. Approaching the gilded white doors of the king’s room, Lyra almost stumbled, though no fold of the crimson carpet had been there to trip her. Before she could cry out, or fall, an arm shot out and steadied her. It was the valet.

Just allow me to show some of my edits. It’s hard to concentrate on the plot? When random details are added like various colors and so many sentences feel longer than they need to be. There’s less wordplay than complex words.

She found herself marching down the long hallway towards the royal quarters. Her valet followed two steps behind, lighting with a candelabra held aloft. Nobody ever lit the halls of the palace. There were too many faces, cut deep in the stonework that put the living to shame, perfect in its nostalgic reverence. Approaching the gilded white doors of the king’s room, Lyra stumbled, though there was no fold in the crimson carpet to trip her. Before she could cry or fall, an arm steadied her. It was the valet.

---

“Careful, your highness.” He said, reassuring in his grasp and voice. Lyra should have admonished the valet for an offence like touching the royal body without permission. Glancing back into his eyes, however , she read a desperate hope in them she had not expected. His boyish features put him only at fourteen years old, but there was a wise acceptance in how he spoke to her. “You have your duty to do.”

“What?” She hissed, fear mixing with vocal outrage, as the glacial face splintered into a plethora of emotions. But, a gentle squeeze of her hand seemed to pulsate kindness into her veins, which had been lacking such for a long time.

“I am sure the king needs to see you.” He explained, simply, unafraid, desperately wishing. And she knew he knew. Though he had never been in those alcoves and niches with the other conspirators, he knew. And she didn’t even know his name. Lyra nimbly drew her hand away, preparing.

Various obvious things edited out. Don’t need ‘years old.’ Fourteen explains enough. You don’t need “vocal outrage” when you describe “her hissing”. Just smoothing out certain sentences.

“Careful, your highness.” He said, reassuring in his grasp and voice. Lyra should have admonished the valet for touching the royal body without permission. Glancing back into his eyes, she read a desperate hope in them she hadn’t expected. His boyish features put him only at fourteen, but there was a wise acceptance in how he spoke to her. “You have your duty to do.”

“What?” She hissed, fear mixing with vocal outrage, as the glacial face splintered into a plethora of emotions. But, a gentle squeeze of her hand seemed to pulsate kindness into her veins, which had been lacking such for a long time.

“I’m sure the king needs to see you.” He explained, simply, unafraid, desperately wishing. And she knew that though he’d never been in those alcoves and niches with the other conspirators, he knew. And she didn’t even know his name. Lyra nimbly drew her hand away, preparing.

---

“Return to your quarters, now.” She instructed, and he obeyed without hesitation. Standing before those doors alone, Lyra did not feel the same force pulling her to stop as she had at her own door. She had left her trepidation behind her, and she fearlessly pushed her way into the vast room of the king’s quarters.

The royal guard were absent, as Boris had seen to, and she maintained the vigour she had entered with as she stalked into the middle of the room. A grand throne, resplendent with great cushions and enameled precious gems, sat atop the regal plinth from where the king was expected to greet petitioners and subjects. Grand suits of armour wore by the general-kings before stood silent witness to the power of the kingdom the king ruled.

Though not to the king himself. Instead of the throne, a large bed sat - it’s pale and pallid colouration a stark contrast to the rest of the room - with a ghostly and frail figure sprawled under its sheets.

“Father, I have come.” Lyra said, her voice a whisper but still audible. The old man did notstir. “Father?” She asked, with hope this time. Perhaps time had done already what she intended. A stirring and rustle of cloth came crashing down on that wish.

So many of these sentences additions and extra words feel like artificial padding put in on purpose. The kingdom, “where the king ruled.”...You don’t say?

And you use another word and the exact same word for an attempt to use two descriptions. Pale means the exact same thing is pallid. You just said a bed is pale and pale.

“Return to your quarters, now.” She instructed, and he obeyed without hesitation. Standing before those doors alone, Lyra didn’t feel the same force pulling her as she had at her own door. She’d left her trepidation behind her, and she fearlessly pushed her way into the vast room of the king’s quarters.

The royal guard were absent, as Boris had seen to, and she maintained the vigour she’d entered with as she stalked into the middle of the room. A grand throne, resplendent with cushions and precious gems, sat atop the regal plinth from where the king was expected to greet petitioners and subjects. Grand suits of armour wore by the general-kings before stood silent witness to the power of the kingdom.

Though not to the king himself. Instead of the throne, a large bed sat - pale and a stark contrast to the rest of the room - with a ghostly frail figure sprawled under its sheets.

“Father, I have come.” Lyra whispered audibly. The old man didn’t stir. “Father?” She asked hopefully. Perhaps time had done already what she intended. A stirring and rustle of cloth came crashing down on that wish.

---

“Lyra? My child…” He gasped from parched lips, extending an arthriticclaw of a hand to try and grasp for his offspring. Lyra took the offering and pressed the wafer thin skin of his fingers against the youthfulness of her cheek. The king let out a contented grumble. “I was dreaming again.” He explained, and Lyra nodded softly.

“What of, father?”

“The sky.” He marvelled, the signs of energy and resoluteness that kept him alive breaching into his expression momentarily, before fading. Lyra already knew what this meant and, with a disgusted manner, she peered up to the round ceiling. Three great scenes, painted with the finest attention to detail so that none of their horror could be missed, dominated her view. “I… I saved them.” The king wheezed, each breath like the opening of a tomb for the first time.

He had saved no-one, by the end, Lyra knew. The elves, tall and lithe creatures with sharp features, had been enigmatic but peaceful folk. Living out their days in villages built into the branches and boughs of the Dark Forest. Yet, when progress had demanded fresh wood her father had ordered the trees felled, when the elves retaliated he had simply seen them burn. Heralded as rebel dissidents, the burning of their home tree dominated the first segment of the ceiling above. Screaming faces from those trapped inside haunted Lyra, and lived as a source of revelry for the soldiers depicted.

“The p-people need me, Lyra. As soon they w-will need you.” His hand clasped her wrist, the wrinkled and frail man clutching onto her as his last hope.

I’ll admit I’m having a hard time even getting through this. Because it felt over halfway through and it felt like nothing happened. Endless conversation and explanation of exactly how that conversation is meant to be conveyed. Walking to one room to another. What was the point of all of that previous discussion? Why couldn’t we have the valet and then immediately go to the king?

There’s lots of complex words. But little in terms of actual wordplay. And some of the later wordplay, I skipped the end to see where this was going, is just kind of strange. (Would a puppy try to push a storm?) There’s colors to everything, when you don’t need them. You use Lyra’s name in every sentence and a few ‘her’s’ would suffice. I swear every sentence is her knowing something. The dialogue just isn't engaging me. So many things feel repeated. It’s probably not all that helpful to say I’m sure. But at this point I’d suggest cutting entire scenes over words alone, if I wanted to make the thrust of the story more focused.

“Lyra? My child…” He gasped from parched lips, extending a frail claw to grasp his offspring. Lyra took the offering and pressed the thin skin of his fingers against her youthful cheek. The king let out a contented grumble. “I was dreaming again.” Lyra nodded softly.

“What of, father?”

“The sky.” He marvelled, expressing signs of the energy and resoluteness that kept him alive, before fading. Lyra knew what this meant, she disgustedly peered at the ceiling. Three scenes dominated, painted with the finest detail so no horror could be missed. “I… I saved them.” The king wheezed, each breath like opening a tomb.

Lyra knew he’d saved no one. The elves, tall and lithe with sharp features, enigmatic but peaceful folk. Living out their days in villages built into branches and boughs of the Dark Forest. Yet, to progress her father had ordered the trees to fall when the elves retaliated just to watch them burn. Heralded as rebels, their home tree was engulfed, Screaming faces from those trapped haunted Lyra, living as revelry for the soldiers depicted.

“The p-people need me, Lyra. As soon they w-will need you.” His hand clasped her wrist, clutching onto her as his last hope.

---

“The people need me now, father.” She stated, a monotone fact which stopped her father as he tried to slowly comprehend her meaning.

Tip. Don’t explain to the reader that the sentences are boring...like yes that fact is mundane and is a repeated statement from the near beginning of the story. Remove the sentence. It’s filler.

“The people need me now, father.”

---

But, Lyra was distracted from his confusion, she had already looked over to the next scene. She vaguely remembered this one, the killing of the guard. Snakes zigged and zagged over bright red floors as great indomitable men in steel armour stamped down atop them. The imagery was bright and demanded respect, though Boris had told her what had really happened. His friends, and his comrades, hunted inside the palace during another bout of imperial paranoia. Apparently the bodies had been strung up beside the throne for a week before her father had let them down.

“Wh-what do they need you for, child?” Her father finally asked, relenting in trying to decipher her meaning.

“Hm?” She refused to turn, dragging her gaze on to the final and most deplorable chapter of her father’s history. The city, her home, and the homes of the people, sprawled out into a setting sun. A picturesque representation of the hope their kingdom was meant to represent. Along a road winding through the city crosses stood high and, nailed into each one with a terrible expression of agony, a person hung. Each one desperately torn and twisted as soldiers tortured them with weapons and tools, the kind Lyra could not bear to imagine mangling flesh.

She knew of this day all too well, the Day of Snakes. Protest had erupted, spontaneously it is said, against the rule of her father. Rumour had it even sections of the army were ready to mutiny, she had heard Boris giving that report, and join the protestors who marched up and down the streets. They had wanted him deposed, and he had taken an afront. He saw himself as their guardian and their guide, the only one capable of saving them from perceived threats, and so he had taken against the people such malice and force that they might never see him as anything but their king again.

He had taken against the people *with such malice and force. And just a lot of edits to make things more concise.

But Lyra was distracted from his confusion and already looked over to the next scene. Recalling the killing of the guard. Snakes zigged and zagged over floors as indomitable men in steel armour stamped them. The imagery demanded respect, but Boris told her what really happened. His friends and comrades hunted inside the palace during another bout of paranoia. The bodies strung up beside the throne for a week before her father let them down.

“Wh-what do they need you for, child?”

“Hm?” She refused to turn, dragging her gaze on to the most deplorable final chapter of her father’s history. The city, her home, the homes of the people, sprawled out into a setting sun. A picturesque representation of their kingdom’s hope. Along a road through the city crosses stood, nailed into each one with agony as a person hung. Each one desperately twisted as soldiers tortured them with weapons and tools, the kind she couldn’t bear to imagine mangling flesh.

She knew of the Day of Snakes too well. Protest had erupted spontaneously, against her father’s rule. Boris reporting that sections of the army were rumoured to be ready to mutiny and join the protestors marching the streets. They had wanted him deposed. He saw that as an afront as their guardian and guide, the only one capable of saving them. So he’d taken against the people with such malice that they’d never see him as anything but their king.

---

“Lyra?” The voice was more strained now, without thinking her hands had slipped from his to the pillow beside him. “What are you doing?” Delicate and gentle hands, loving hands, slipped the heavy cushion up and over his face. No longer capable of words, his weak hands clawed feebly at her cheeks, like a puppy trying to push away a storm. As she pressed down his body convulsed and tears stained the top of the weapon, dripping from her cheeks. Eventually the struggling slowed, slowed, and then ceased. The quiet of the act faded into the silence of murder.

Lyra stayed there for some time, she could not tell how long, weeping still as she kept the pillow pressed down firmly over the face of her father. She couldn’t bear to lift it and see him. A hand on her shoulder was the thing that summoned her back to the present.

“Your majesty?” The question was draped in sorrow. Boris had appeared, now awaiting her first command. She was suddenly aware of herself again, and her heart froze on the words of the valet. The boy. He knew of her patricide, he might undo all they had accomplished here.

“My valet.” She said. “I need you to imprison my valet.”

I apologize. But I’m sticking to can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all. More edits.

“Lyra?” His voice strained. Her hands had slipped from his to the pillow beside him. “What are you doing?” Delicate hands slipped the heavy cushion onto his face. No longer capable of words, he clawed feebly at her cheeks like a puppy trying to push away a storm. She pressed down as his body convulsed and tears stained the top of the weapon, dripping from her cheeks. Eventually the struggling slowed, slowed, and then ceased. The quiet of the act faded into silence.

Lyra stayed there for a time, weeping as she kept the pillow over the face of her father. She couldn’t bear to lift it. A hand on her shoulder was the thing that summoned her back to the present.

“Your majesty?” The question was draped in sorrow. Boris had appeared, now awaiting her first command. She was suddenly aware of herself again, and her heart froze on the words of the valet. He knew of her patricide and might undo what she’d accomplished.

“I need you to imprison my valet.”

Voting for @Kalleth.

---

I also reviewed my work. Though I was overtly sarcastic. So I was going to wait to post it, to let the winner be chosen, to see if a certain prediction I make will prove true. But because I don't expect nor care for victory. I just tried my best to be consistent in my reviewing and actually useful in that I show you what I like and don't. And how I'd fix it and sometimes why I would fix it that way if I feel it needs explaining. You don't grow or learn if you get one sentence saying "that was swell." Or the opposite of such. Here's my review and what I thought of my own work. It's strengths, weaknesses and as always all the deeper meanings I cram into my stories. Frankly, this one is just for my own satisfaction.

Reviewing/Analyzing my own work: Phantom Vision

Because I want someone to give me a worthwhile critique, even if it has to be myself. (How meta.) I’ll also give in depth analysis over every sentence, so anyone can better understand where the strengths and weaknesses lie. Everyone should be capable of doing this with their work, because if you have skill you’ll always want to be better at what you do. The last thing the skilled do is turn their noses at advice or objective mistakes in their writing. As long as it actually is advice, which isn’t just pointing out problems, but providing solutions.

With the preamble out of the way, I’ll be going line by line. Pedantic and precise as possible. Good writing should be in every line. If it doesn’t have plot relevance, foreshadow upcoming events, use wordplay, or have meaningful character growth and actions. It is likely a straightforward sentence at best, something to get from point A to B, like a line of exposition. Nothing wrong with it, but it doesn’t make it an interesting read. And does every word need to be there to provide detail? Or is something redundant? And it a word or phrase is repeated, is there purpose to it? Time to find out…

Warning: I like being sarcastic. Feel free to add a laugh if you know I’m right. ;D

This is spoilers for this story’s symbolism and aim.

May be presumptuous to assume how apparent this is, but it’s about the dangers of modern censorship and ‘dog whistles’ viewed through an ancient lense. Someone that believes words cause these problems and that silencing them and eventually using violence. but he inevitability hurts those he cares about too.

Phantoms are just people who commit sin or wrongdoing. Blaming it on anything other than themselves. It’s pretty clear that they don’t exist and it’s also “chasing phantoms” is quite literally trying to find something that doesn’t exist.

Phantom Vision, is obviously dog whistling and thought policing, running on speculation and what you know what people are thinking. But it’s also mixed in with another symbolic gesture, that he’s literally seeing red. Becoming a violent soul. Though it’s pretty explainable otherwise, that the main character has gotten sick and delusional. The sicker he got the less sense he was making, becoming figuratively and literally blinded by it.

A few symbols, I sort of made idiot proof. Not purposefully mind, but I can’t imagine that it wouldn’t be understood as something more than what was simply at the face of it. White lilies symbolize innocence, often a female’s virginity, not only stained by red blood after some sexually attacks another. The flowers are get crushed, but the weight of the men knocking her over being on top of her in the story.

This isn’t symbolism, per say, but if one might assume the brother feels a more incestual vibe going on. Well, it *is* in less modern times where that was much more common. I didn’t intend to give a clear answer there, but hopefully the tease is clear.

All in all, I stuffed about as much meaning and depth in a simple story as I could.

---

April, 4th

I don’t even have to be me, to see how much of an after thought these dates are. None of them hold relevance and that’s because they were added at the last minute decision.

I thought the separation and explanation of him writing in the first paragraph might be enough for the reader to infer what was going on. But I gave dates for my reader’s experience. Plus, I pretend the dates when turned into words could count as two words which would make the word count go over. So that’s why all have single digit days. But you work with the limits you’ve been given. So let’s acknowledge these as just above worthless and move on.

Justice is blind, but can it foresee the unseen?

The strongest start I could imagine having. It’s a common phrase and an interesting question to leave a reader with. But justice being blind not only foreshadows the main character’s blind judgement spree and literal blindness. Foresee is wordplay relating to sight, meaning predicting of the “unseen”. Which is actually referring to what’s not really there.

How do you stop creatures that hide within mortals’ flesh and lurk around every corner?

Scary sounding. A mortal’s inner demons one might say. They go wherever you do. It’s another good line with more and separate meanings to the character and what it represents.

Phantoms that possess others to commit unspeakable acts against the innocent.

You paid off your previous question. And introduced your main ‘antagonist’ of the story. Also there’s no mistake that “unspeakable” is used. For a story about censorship.

Our beloved kingdom was burdened with rumors as pervasive as the winds whispering outside my bedroom window.

‘Beloved’ is a word the character seems to use, but it also shows what he cares about the most. You know the scene this takes place in and even have some audio visualization. You also know the troubles the place he lives is in and you might be able to guess he’s a member of royalty referring to a kingdom as their own. Him being wealthy and his actions also greatly parallel things it’s meant to symbolize.

But as I write and witness the beautiful starlit sky and smell my sister’s pungent perfume still lingering on my fingertips, I’m reminded that I’m not alone in the unrest; my father is losing his senses.

One sentence packed with so much information, and all so quickly. More visual detail. Starry skies are always pretty to think about. But explains the time of day. And both the important side characters of the story. And what main character is doing and a clue toward the story’s structure and writing style. The strength of the perfume seems like a pointless inclusion aside from more sensual stimulation, but it’s plot relevant. It also might give you ideas of why his hands smell that way.

Sharp yet frail like a feather arrowhead, I fear his aim of chasing these phantoms down has risen tensions between our neighbors and brought us unnecessary conflict..

Wordplay with the ancient weaponry. “The aim” and “chasing phantoms” all together at once. Hint of more conflict and cruel irony.

We’ve been blessed to live in the most peaceful era in history, but if you listened to their trembling lips you’d believe the earth was collapsing beneath your feet.

Explanation that symbolises more modern day realities. But wordplay also explains the state of their kingdom that such catastrophic rumors are burdening the city despite this peace shows more about the people in that world. Or for those unaware yet, see it as doomsday scenarios, which are typical for older times.

“May the gods have mercy on your soul if you’re unfortunate enough to be their target,” they say. But as midnight arrives I remain skeptical of such ridiculous…

Certainly the least important or engaging of the sentences. It’s not useless as it shows the exact time to hint that the next entry in the journal and why it seemed to stop mid-sentence means they’re connected.

April 5th

My sister’s scream chilled my bones, but the silence scared me half to death.

Wordplay. Mood change. And atmosphere. It’s a solid sentence. Though a reader doesn’t immediately know when this is and that could’ve potentially have been made clearer. Blaming word count on this one.

But I’d rather be a dead man running than live without her.

It is wordplay. And it does further how he feels about his sister. And his actions as running. But it’s also very goddamn cheesy.

I stumbled through dark hallways of our home, wondering why my father had told the nightly patrol to leave and not trouble our guests.

I could arguments for and against including ‘of our home’. But it's another sentence that makes things quick and clear for explanation. And provides explanation for why things happen this way.

I was compelled to rush outside towards our garden, where my sister liked to wander at night.

Again, your main character has a lot of familiarity with his sisters whereabouts. But it is plot relevant. Explains the who, how, where and why.

My sword was drawn the moment I remembered it was strapped to my waist, but I hadn’t expected to face such a monster.

More hints about the character and we already get a taste of the exaggerated language he uses to describe people. And really it just leads to more foreshadowing in how he perceives the Phantoms.”

A young man with a devil’s grin, his bloody claws twisting the dagger right out of her left hand.

Going further into visualizing the man as a monster and opposite direction wordplay. Quickly showing the power struggle in the scenario and that this is no misunderstanding.

Both laying on a bed of white lilies, watered by tears falling from her pale cheeks.

Symbolism! Wordplay too. Like laying on a bed/contrasting with the assaulter intentions.

Like a dragon’s fury building in my stomach, I felt like spitting fire as I roared.

Another fitting analogy for the old times these take place in.

It was the son of the guest that came to end a trade dispute between our kingdoms.

Lesser stories would have gone into greater detail about a character that doesn’t matter. Maybe give the color of his eyes. Or what that kingdom was and who was his father. But this simple sentence is kept mercifully brief as possible, to get to good writing again. Yay.

His cost would end up being more than an arm and his leg, as the price to be paid begged for war.

Wordplay twice in one sentence. Again. And the dramaticness of it works fine, especially from what the main character is seeing. You know if I judged almost anything other than my own work line by line, things might get unnecessarily difficult. But only you (me) get that pleasure. Lucky huh?

His expression filled with horror as his head twisted backward, immediately releasing his grubby fingers from her white dress and staining it red. Dropping onto his knees and clutching his face, sobbing and babbling like a maniac.

Again this could’ve been written with absolutely no flavor. “This son was a bad person. Angry, it was true, the most crazy I’ve seen. Angrily he let her go with anger and dropped to his knees, sobbing, crying, whimpering.” But instead there’s a purposeful exaggeration and words added because the character is purposely slandering the fiend touching his sister. I don’t know maybe that’s an improvement because it's clearly structured better. Whatever it takes to judge you, I’m happy with.

“The phantoms told me to! The phantoms made me do this!”

My sister stopped me from ending his words with a single strike, keeping two men’s heads on their shoulders. Her embrace calmed us both, as she informed me that I’d arrived in time. She wanted him brought to justice through proper means, not wanting to cause misunderstandings and turmoil for her sake. But knowing the man would be merely locked in the cell until morning wouldn’t help me sleep. As I felt invisible hands gripping my heart at the mere thought of crushed flowers.

Some wordplay. A few particularly good lines sandwiching the paragraph. To help build characters and maybe even since you never get to hear her own reasoning or dialogue. On purpose for it following the important person’s perspective.

April 6th

My father and I waited alone in the dimly lit throne room for the guards to bring in the possessed, at least that’s what he claimed to be. Like the rest of our prisoners, these phantoms served as the underlying cause for their crimes. But these summoners of lies only want to escape the truth and time as it ticked by. The darkness couldn’t cover up my father’s ghostly pale complexion, or stop him coughing into his golden robes. Despite my mind overflowing with thought, I remained silent as I struggled to find the words that would make my father smile and laugh like he once had. Our last conversation related to me claiming his throne after his inevitable passing. How could I confront someone who shook death’s hand, comfortable with having their last dream?

There’s wordplay and more words introduced and used that are obviously symbolism for something else. “Summoners” I almost feel like I could’ve done something more with this. Because like the father, the son got sick and lost his senses. An obvious vibe of self importance. (Irony. I’m sure.) Saw the phantoms like his father did. I could’ve had something in the end about dreams as well. I probably would’ve if I had more time and words.

Interrupted by the clamoring of armor that burst through the front doors, four soldiers carried him in, appropriately trussed like a pig ready to be roasted alive. I remember feeling relief that his hands were tied behind his back and his legs shackled together, but I’d soon learn that wasn’t enough to restrain one’s acts of violence. As the soldiers kept the prisoner's head bent and staring at the red carpet as a reminder that those deemed guilty would bleed. My father cleared his throat before speaking with an authoritative tone.

There’s probably ways to shorten this paragraph. A pig ready to be roasted. Still works. Adding alive is for added drama, but is overall a meaningless addition. Also despite the wordplay, the carpet line is probably too clunky for its own good. And it’s the most pointless sentence, because it honestly doesn’t add anything but a line of admittedly weak melodrama.

“For the evil acts you’ve committed, you’re—” But his words were cut off by screams of indignant passion.

“The phantoms dug their claws inside my brain! They contorted my body with every violent thrust as they penetrated your daughter! The phantoms raped her!”

This really would be so much better as an audio drama. I personally feel cheap and sleazy for using a rape plot point in my story. Even if it’s very good character motivation and it is exactly the kind of thing I needed for a story about censorship. Though it’s not bad because it has an additional point of the horrible thing doesn’t even have to be true to be effective enough to damage lives.

The incantations slaughtered my father’s innocent spirit like a baby beaten bloody. The destructive fuel caused his pupils to spread like wildfire. Clutching his chest with an agonized cry, my father had collapsed forward. Nothing we did could bring him back…

I spent so much time editing this story and editing it down. I know I have nothing spelled wrong. No typos that show a lack of polish. All the punctuation should be on point, plus even if it’s not entirely, it does have a little meta leeway with being written inside someone’s journal who eventually goes mad. If I was lazier, I just would have put no polish whatsoever and have a billion misspellings and claim it was 100% intentional. Would probably win too.

Sarcasm aside, another example I have of adding words for dramatic purpose that end up making it weaker. Is originally I had the first line “a baby bunny beaten bloody”, frankly I have no idea why I thought of that first. A human analogy would be infinitely more graphic than an animal. It’s still a rather forceful and blunt analogy. Pun unintended and intention doesn’t stop it from being kinda bleh to read.

The summoner had killed my father and had stolen his dream. With the heaviest of hearts that make strong men buckle to their knees, I intend to accept this anchor and refuse to be dragged into the depths of their despair. By my honor, I will eliminate the speech of liars and cover the mouths of kingdoms that let it fester like an open wound. By my hands, I shall bandage the world and end all of its’ suffering.

Yay censorship for the good of all! I just love a good tyrant speech, but I’ll admit I think I did even better as it went on. Because madness is always more engaging. The heavy heart buckling men to their knees line is very sappy. But he is supposed to sound that way. If he comes across as a pretentious twat that is most certainly part of the point. And I might as well get this criticism out of the way. The story is very cliched through and though. Not something I can deny. But I think good artful writing can make up such a simple premise.

April, 9th

My beloved sister was strange. You’d never expect someone so visually pleasing to be so sharp, albeit rough around the edges, like a thorny rose beginning to wilt. She was self-sacrificing to a fault. Donating her long flowing raven-locks, soft as silk, snipped off until she resembled somebody more masculine. When we were younger, I would often tease her about being blessed with hair that grew like a weed. So she'd challenge me to arm wrestling match where she’d always fail with a smile on her face. I never understood why until she admitted it was due to how flustered I’d stay afterward.

But the burial today had the brightness faded from her face. The mood was as gray as the clouds cast over our heads, killing daylight and seeming to promise darker days ahead. The eventual rain accompanied our cold silence as I held my sister’s hand, refusing to leave to her side, until she couldn’t bare the sight of a gravestone and locked herself in her room. I could open the door, but her mouth was sealed and I haven’t been blessed with her voice since. I knew she was hesitant on my call to silencing the possessed and fighting “against what we don’t understand”. But another piece of my soul was stolen from me, and I had every intention of getting it back.

Two paragraphs to sum up that he wuvs his sister. Maybe even in a creepy or obsessive way. Can’t wait to see this end well for her in the end. Don’t exactly need to genre savvy to predict this one...

June, 6th

I’d gotten off my mare and tread past some of my fallen soldiers, giving them a silent prayer as I stepped on the slain fertilizing the soil. We made tremendous progress pushing back enemy lines. While their king stuffed his face and sent fodder to die like sheep, I was the Alpha wolf leading our pack to victory. Then I noticed a young man standing alone in the field and hovering over an enemy with arrows piercing their legs, still living and pleading to be spared and treated. Both sides were aware that we had a greater amount of supplies from successful raids claiming theirs to preserve ours. I saw the shocked stare in his eyes as his trembling arms lowered his spear. I felt like I was floating in the air, as he failed to notice my presence until I had gripped his shoulder and grounded him back into reality. His reluctant glance up seemed to expect a scolding, but I gave him a smile and said, “A leader shouldn’t expect his followers to do for him, what he can’t do for them.”

The young man stepped back to watch as I unsheathed my bloody blade and readied my strike as the injured man had rolled onto his stomach. Suddenly springing up onto his two feet, the enemy’s fist nearly struck my face with his metal glove. I slashed straight through his head and had him crumbling over. The blood sprayed through the air and splashed across my face. Immediately I tried to wipe my eyes, but likely only caused more blood to get into them. The young man took my arm and helped me onto my horse, which he rode back to camp where I was able to flush out my eyes and wash my skin. It didn’t hurt, but my red-eyed reflection in the mirror was a reminder of what I sacrificed that day. And the incredible power I gained that changed everything; Phantom Vision.

Title drop. Ding. I like it because it’s not only actually action and things happening instead of just words. But it builds character, builds plot and promises some things to come. But it’s also still has enough wordplay and some nice things to visualize. And best of all the piece of action doesn’t seemed force and it’s not the most interesting part that was added just because there wasn’t any other action after the fact. It does actually seem like someone wrote this down and knew what he wanted before he started it.

September, 8th

With my disciples by my side, I climbed above the rubble of those who thought lowly of us and reached heights rivaling the gods. But even after being humbled by the lavish praise once we returned home, my ambitions felt far from accomplished. My sister seemed to resent me for purging the unworthy. But as I’ve been losing my worthless sight, my third eye has begun opening and I fear the phantoms were always there. No matter how hard I ran, my peripheral vision couldn’t escape the darkness following my footsteps. And I knew I couldn’t sleep when the phantoms were trying to stab me in the back! Rumors spreading like a plague and infecting those I considered allies; it sickened me enough to make me vomit.

“He’s unfit to claim the throne.”

“He’s muttering scary things again.”

“He’s going mad.”

Starting out the gate with the strongest bit of wordplay, so much connection between the words and you instantly grasp the inflated ego of the character. More ironic that he pretends to be “humbled”, when it’s just more bragging. And of course like most insane people, no matter what he censors or kills, he isn’t satisfied. He is a step away from just saying something is “his truth.” Some paranoia and insanity beginning to show its face. And it’s also funny in its own way how blase the comments actually are, but are still nonetheless so sickening to the character he wants to puke. Just because someone said he muttered scary things. Could you blame them if it was anything like this?

To the summoners and their forked tongues that preach chaos and practice evil; I am not wrong! I could see in black and white and it wouldn’t affect my ability to understand someone’s true colors. My illness has bought me purity! They’ve all been possessed! But I needed to know more and go deeper! My fingernails dug through my eyes to peel away the artificial layer to see the invisible. I couldn’t stop laughing afterward; my eyes now perceive all! The phantoms have thousands of eyes that watch your every move. They steal your breath and exhale poison. Their thin thread-like fingers prick mortals skin like needles and manipulate them like puppets on strings. The possessed beg on their hands and knees for forgiveness, but in their clasped hands they conceal a blade meant to eliminate your existence. But you must never listen, nor stop progressing! Let them sway above and be hung by the gallows! Let them hide beneath their dirt beds! Let them be cleansed on pyres burning in the middle of the town square! If they intend to run their mouths, let them run the rivers red with their screams until they drown! They’ve all got to die!

This is the pinnacle of the story. Every line is grand when combined. Some of the stronger lines just all by themselves. All wordplay or symbolic and more importantly interesting. Action and disturbing action at that. So it’s not just mere empty words. Builds the character and the madness. It perfectly reflects someone who sees dog whistles and invisible problems to chase. Literally making them into descriptive creatures. Sin controlling people’s actions. They speak with literal poison for bad words said. And will kill you, for doing it. Their obvious illness isn’t an illness, it's something to be celebrated. The character seems long gone at this point. But it’s not quite an ending. And believe me trying to edit this down to make the ending fit and be lengthy enough to not be an anti-climax was difficult.

November 3rd

I’ve felt sick and sluggish, but this will be the last day I can write before I’m completely blind. So I must admit that something has been bothering me. My morning routine went by as usual, passing judgement on those that challenged me. The line of the guilty was always long, but their wait was short. I sat blindfolded upon my throne with my executioner axe in hand, relying on my believers guidance to walk forward until I stood over the possessed. They remained gagged so the phantoms couldn’t steal my breath. I rested my palm on top of their shaking bald head caked in wet mud to know where to swing. I ended their fear when I lifted my hands and chopped off their head. And I repeated the process over and over, until I was ready for them to clean up the mess.

But how I could I feel satisfied when my sister had ran away from home last night and nobody has found her? I know the phantoms have gotten to her and to me. My senses have been playing tricks on me to make my stomach feel rotten. When I struck down my first enemy, I sneezed loudly and snorted. I couldn’t help but inhale the familiar scent of perfu

It’s obvious. It’s short. There’s not that much wordplay. So it’s probably shit writing in comparison to many of the other bits. But it gets the job done. Literally. There’s very little mess to clean up, because everything has been polished. The weakest part is the sheer predictably of the plot. But it’s done in a way, that I can’t imagine would be done better by anyone else…

*Perfume. :D

And one thing I’ve yet to see anyone do effectively besides me. Granted unless it’s a story, you shouldn’t do this. A spelling ‘mistake’/unfinished word done intentionally that actually makes the story better. You know exactly why it was stopped and that where the character understood he fucked up.

But everything I said is subjective. So none of my effort likely means anything and if the shortest or most obviously flawed story doesn’t win because it’s the quickest to read and makes people feel the least overwhelmed. I will be floored. I did warn you about sarcasm didn’t I?

But I didn’t enter this for any other reason than hopefully providing a half-decent story to read. Hope my review was...long enough? :D

Current Mood in One Gif

Give Me Your Favorite Lyric(s).

The blood was dry, it was sober
The feeling of audible cracks
And I could tell it was over
From the curtains that hung from your neck

And I realized that then you were perfect
And my teeth ripping out of my head
And it looked like a painting I once knew
Back when my thoughts weren't entirely intact

To pray for what I thought were angels
Ended up being ambulances
And the Lord showed me dreams of my daughter
She was crying inside your stomach

And I felt love again.

I Can Feel A Hot One, Manchester Orchestra