The Writers Group.

The Writers Group.

Postby Lord-Eris » Tue Mar 04, 2014 3:22 pm

Here I'd like to have a "writers group". It is a chance for you to upload your writing, of any kind, prose poetry, fiction, non fiction, whatever! and have it reviewed by other writers. The idea is, that people will read the work posted, and give an honest critique. You can then use this critique to improve the piece, and your ability as a writer in general.

Be warned. This is not a slagging match. so;
A) Do not be intentionally hurtful when reviewing other peoples work.
B) Do not take other peoples reviews of your work personally.

We are all adults here and can conduct ourselves objectively around this subjective subject.

Other than that, these are the only 2 rules of the Writers Group, and shortly, below, I shall post a piece of my own work to get the ball rolling.

Happy Writing.
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Re: The Writers Group.

Postby Lord-Eris » Tue Mar 04, 2014 7:26 pm

Terracide - Jon's Prologue.

A fierce explosion rang out somewhere behind Jon just as he reached the top of the cliff face, and after the blinding light had seared his peripheral vision into blurs and dark spots, the deafening sound had him covering his ears. Milliseconds later the shockwave blew him off of his feet, and flying over the mountainous peak of the crater he was climbing, forcing him high into the air, careering towards a short plateau that went on for a bare 3 yards before disappearing downwards in the direction of a barely visible desert floor. He landed inches from the edge before skidding over it, turning head over heels as he went, barely managing to grab the ledge. Just saving himself from a long drop, and a quick stop, and what was sure to be an untimely demise. He hung from there for a few moments, dazed and utterly confused, and not to mention winded. After few moments intelligent thought began to seep back into his mind, and he urged his body to haul himself back onto the plateau so he could look back towards the centre of the crater. He scraped himself over the precipice he had moments ago bounced off, forcing the machinery in his gut and chest to fire his nerves into an intense pain. He winced and rolled, to lie on his back, cradling himself like a child who feared the dark. He let several minutes pass like this, before he forced himself to stand, and to look back towards the east, in the direction of the city at the centre of the crater, he had just ran away from, and what must have been the epicentre of the blast that had caused this recent ordeal.

He straightened himself up reveal the short man that he was. He was of an gaunt frame, with not an ounce of spare meat on him. From that miniscule frame hung dirty and torn clothes, woven from the synthetic materials common in the city. They were cut in places, and stained blood from shallow cuts. They were also soaked through from his swim though the moat-like lake that surrounded the city in the middle of the crater. As were the few long strands of hair that clung to his scalp like ravenous parasites on a whale’s hide. If he had been and old and infirm you might not have looked twice. But he wasn’t, he was barely 20. If you looked closely there was something of a young man’s fire still in his eyes that might have hinted at the youth underneath his weathered exterior. Not that one was going to look that closely at Jon. Something far more striking took your attention first. He had no mouth and nose. They were replaced, like most of his internal organs, by machinery. Something akin to a metallic gas mask was surgically implanted over the lower half of his face. He couldn’t talk. Not in the conventional sense. A synthetic voice box was wired directly into his brain that translated signals it to what it was programmed to believe was a rough approximation of human speech. It wasn’t. And it was faulty too. Sometimes it would go weeks without emitting so much as a beep. Other times that’s all it would do. Just beep. Jon had lost many a night’s sleep to its incessant 8-bit nonsense. This probably added to his tired physique. He couldn’t eat, either. At all. The machines within him sustained him, converting the omnipresent poisons in the air around him into sustenance for his body. He supposed it was the only upshot of the The Great Fall. There was now enough biological matter in the air, however hazardous, that technology like his could put it to good use. He didn’t breath really either, those same systems that replaced his digestive organs also replaced his lungs. They worked as one to provide energy and oxygen to the cells of his body.

20 years ago he would have been hailed as a marvel of biomechanical engineering. An unheard of scientific advance. 20 years ago all the metal in his body would have been unnecessary though. See, he had been the first to receive the biomechanical cardiovascular systems. Shortly after The Great Fall, as Earths green and lush landscapes were so rapidly dying as the poisons in the atmosphere were first released. His parents, two prolific scientists had invented them with foresight of the fallout. Although they didn’t expect it to be as terrible as it had. They moved quickly, and against the scientific community. The science of what they were doing was risky and untested, but in their mind, the only way forward. They became pariahs. As the rest of the world was building rapidly conceived biome domes, they were forging forward with the plans they had had for years. They experimented on the only available subject. Their son. The prototypes they installed in there only living son had saved his life, as well as a number of others that followed. After these original successes the world looked upon them with glorious hindsight. They had perfected the system after the semi-successful installation into Jon though, and results improved with every installation, as more and more was understood about what they were doing, and more and more of the scientific community rallied behind them. Indeed, the most recently procedures left almost no trace. But he was the unlucky number one. His procedure had left him immobile for months wondering if he would move again. It had left him with no speech. No ability to eat, and it had left him obviously disfigured when compared to the rest of mankind’s survivors. While his parents had been raised on shoulders and carried aloft in man’s new era, he was the ugly experiment forgotten and growing resentful for being scarred by the success of others. After years of enduring life like this, of letting his body recover as much as it was able, while aiding in the installations in other people, he had finally had enough.,

One day he cast his eye from the city in the middle of the crater, to the ridge, to the outside world. In an instance his decision was made. He steeled himself for the journey, acquired everything he would need in to survive the outside world, and ran.

As he looked back towards the city he had come from. With smoke rising from its rubble in great plumes, waves of confusion crashed over him. What had happened? What should he do? Should he go back?

No. He turned his back on his old home, and started climbing down the outside of the crater. He had a journey to begin.
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