A Novel Idea

Halibel Lecter

Well-Known Member
#1
I have a plan to write a novel. However, I have four ideas... and, uh, I can't pick. So I'm leaving my fate in your hands, TFF: Please choose one of the snippets below.

EDIT: The occasional review or reason for your choice is much appreciated.



[[1: Sparkweaver]]

Breakfast for Lilitkai was simple, spicy and hard to chew. Waking up when the train blew its whistle as it crossed MerickÆs only tiny trestle bridge, she found long shadows painted across her tiny apartment like stripes of grime on a dockside street. Rubbing her eyes, she rushed through her morning routine, half reading her list of clients for the night. She didnÆt have time to heat water for boiled grain, or kindle fire for a cooked egg, but she did have time to pay a street vendor four kalmets for a wriggling bundle of headless eel.

While she counted out the coins for him from the small purse on her hip, he pulled the eels from the brine, sliced off their heads, and jerked out the long, hard chain of bones. Lined up on a stick and dunked in boiling water, they came out swollen and porous so he could dip them in pepper sauce.

Marlyn smiled and thanked her as she took the stick from his hand, his booth swaying precariously when he opened the money box to put her coins inside. Like most of the vendors on her street, he lived in his stall and most of his profits went to paying for more supplies. Over time, the salt-soaked weather and the uneven, slippery stones of the road had taken their toll; his booth was always leaning to one side or looming over the customers. The roof rattled and the glued-on siding flapped in the wind.

His colorful flags distracted most people from the rotting wood and the ropes tied thickly around corners. In the evenings, what his flags couldnÆt do, lamps of colored paper did just as well or better. As she turned to walk away, she knew heÆd be looking for matches, fumbling through pots and bottles of spices to find the tiny book. The knocked over bottles would send up tiny colored puffs of dust, carrying their scents on the breeze that usually kicked up at about sundown. HeÆd be putting his lanterns to work first, then beginning to boil water because the evening breezes were starting to grow cold, and he could make a killing on just-boiled tea.

As she finished her meal, licking her lips and discarding the stick, Lilitkai broke into a trot. She knew, just as Marlyn did, that sundown was fast approaching... and for her that meant is was time to light up the city.

Her lights, unlike MarlynÆs strings of fold-out paper boxes, were waiting in a cage, the tiny cells no bigger than a large cupped hand. The original owner had trouble getting all his fingers inside to lift each light out, but she could get in easily, scooping the bright younger ones out first, then the dull, almost gold ones with papery, smooth wings. These lights chittered at her softly, the sound like a set of gears turning, as she placed them in her basket, her bottles and rags already bound to her hips. They settled beneath the soft fleece cover, tiny legs gripping their second home of woven willow-switches. Their glow wasn't visible yet, but as she walked and the solutions in the newly uncorked bottles moved about, a few began to softly light up, hesitant and curious at the hints of familiar smells.

First was the door of the street's only pub, a rare occurrence in Merick. Lilitkai took a brush from one bottle and daubed oil onto the wood frame, a rag polishing it in and spreading it. She only had to stick her hand in for the right lightsùthey ran easily into her palm when they smelled herùand set them down, and they started lighting up, trying to signal down that mate they could smell waiting for them. As they settled in she replaced the rag and brush and wiped her hands on a damp, mossy cornerstone to clean off the scent, making sure to be thorough. The next stop would need different lights with different senses to arouse, and the other scent might drive them away from her hands. Given the way her schedule looked for tonight, she just didn't have time for that.

Besides that, the next client was her favorite, a healer who was famous the whole city over for her skill. She was always happy to see Lilitkai, trading gossip and advice with her as several different extracts were rubbed onto the archway over her door.

The only advantage lanterns had over LilitkaiÆs work was color. Her lights lasted longer and required less coin from the person displaying them, but they lit only in white. Younger beetles had clear wings, free of impurities and glasslike, and therefore a much brighter glow. The oldest in her collection had been born before her father died. They had wings like paper or even like cloth, thicker and softer, full of dust and toxins from things theyÆd eaten in all that time. In point of fact, a type of poison could be rendered from the wings of the very oldest ones, the ones that died on their own after a good, full life. Their glow was soft, like a covered lamp, with a soft golden sheen. To the healer, these older ones were just perfect, and they were always welcome on the archway, nestled like jewels in the vines that covered the archway. Now, as autumn was beginning to turn into winter, her chichiri-vine was in full bloom, the bladelike flowers shining like backlit glass with the lights glowing around them. It was one of the prettiest doors, the healer always bragged, in all of Merickà much to LilitkaiÆs pride.

ôGood night, maÆam!ö

ôAnd you, child. Be careful! Come back here if you need anything!ö She stayed in her door, waving. Now the sunset was dying, its colors less fire and more water. Pools of shadow outnumbered the strips of light.

Lilitkai nodded. ôAfter my shift, maÆam!ö she knew it wasnÆt answer Shiia wanted but it was the truth. Her shift came firstà and it was a long way from being over.






[[2. Ideal Conditions]]

ThereÆs nothing in the room but dustàreally, nothing. Carpet and paint. Dust. ItÆs old, quiet, the floorÆs warm from a square of yellow sunlight. The air is thick, and close, and the quiet is thick, like fog in the bayou. ItÆs like the quiet is a spell, and if you move, or speak, or stir up the dust, youÆll break it.
Sacred.

The room is in the basement of a library, and the short, wide top windows are flooded with light. I donÆt know why I walked in here. I was supposed to go to the washroom and then come back, but somewhere on the way, I saw the door and wondered what was on the other side. And so here I stand in the doorway and I wonder if you can have ghosts in a town this small.

Because it seems like, if I stare long enough, IÆll see something, something bad.
Something I donÆt want to see.

Look away, look awayà

ôWell hello there.ö

I jump because I donÆt know how he did it. One second the room was empty and the next heÆs there, like a picture. HeÆs tall, taller than most of the grownups, and he has big, long hands, like spiders. I notice Æcause theyÆre folding and unfolding while he talks.

HeÆs pale, pale as death, like his skin is made of his bones, pale eyes like lemon juice, cloudy yellow, and shiny black hair to his shoulders. HeÆs strange-looking and I wonder if heÆs sick, or dying, or already dead.

ôCome on, come over here. I wonÆt bite.ö He tucks one leg under and goes down to one knee, like a knight. He has a nice smile but itÆs not simple or plain, like the folks around here. ItÆs complicated like he kind of doesnÆt want to smile, or he wants to smile a different way, but he canÆt. He has really white teeth and I can see his tongue move when he talks. One of those big spider-hands flattens against my back. Warm. He smiles bigger, showing those teeth, and leans in. His face is only half a foot from mine, but itÆs not like when a teacher does it when theyÆre angry and you can smell their breathùitÆs as if he wants a closer look.

ôWhatÆs your name, girl?ö

ôJ-Jonah.ö I may be young but I can answer that question. He nods and pulls back a little.

ôWell then. Jonah. Do you like this place?ö

I shake my head. The library is quiet but itÆs hot and stuffy, and the teacher whoÆs supposed to be helping us read is over talking to a man who sweeps the floors. She isnÆt much help. But weÆre supposed to be quiet anyway.

ôNo. Why? Is it hot?ö

I nod. This building has no air conditioning.

ôItÆsàboring?ö

I nod.

ôYou donÆt feel goodà YouÆre scared.ö

I freeze. Scared of what? Scared of the teacher? Of him? Or of everything else?

SomethingÆs happening to me sometimes, at night. IÆm seeing shadows and having bad dreams. But he canÆt know anything about that, can he?

I never even told Mama. She said shadows and bad dreams are of the devil, and IÆm not of the devil, right?

ôI can see it in your eyes, Jonah, youÆre scared.ö He winks. ôBut not to worry. WeÆre not as helpless as you might think. There are things humans can do, even little ones, to keep ourselves safe.ö When I nod again he reaches up and moves his hand, and hands me something smooth and warm and black. ôMagic.ö

ôMaàMagic?ö

ôMagic, Jonah, any kind of magic you like. So long as you know some, I wager you wonÆt feel so helpless.ö He stands. ôNow donÆt go eating that all at once, or giving it to anyone else. After all, it was in your ear.ö I donÆt like the way he stands, it has a kind of weight to it, as if heÆs leaving for a long time. We only just met. ôRemember what I said. YouÆre not going to forget, now, are you?ö

ôNo, sir.ö

His nose wrinkles at the word and suddenly I realize, I like that he doesn't seem to appreciate it. ôIÆm not anyoneÆs sir,ö he says, and sounds... disgusted. Not proud or deserving. Almost mad.

That's new.

ôThenàö

ôSitri. For future reference. DonÆt forget, now, because you'll need to know my name.ö

ôOkay.ö

ôThere you go. Now you have somewhere to be. Go on back to it, hmm?ö

I nod and turn. The second I do, everything about himùhis breathing, the rustle of his clothes, the echo of his voiceùstops. It goes totally silent. HeÆs gone, vanished like he was never even here. There are no marks on the carpet but those the vacuum cleaner left. And the quiet is still just as thick.

By the time I got back, the stuff heÆd given meùsmooth, black, pearly stuff, like a section of bald tireùhad gotten sticky, so I sat somewhere cool and ate it. First it tasted awful, but after a few days I liked it and was sorry to see it gone. It would be a while before I found some and asked for it. Turns out it was licorice, good quality black licorice. My folks couldnÆt figure out why I loved it.

--

ôYouÆve gotta be kidding me. Tomorrow?ö

7-20 Paranormal Company had only one member of the team that used Sitri's brand of magic: their resident combat specialist and necromancerùwho was currently leaning against the aged Formica countertop in the break room, wishing she could make the new guy take a nice long trip to Abaddon.

ôYes, Mike, tomorrow.ö Jonah picked up a long, cool metal can from her kit, cracked it open and held it to her lips, tipping her head back, letting the sharp-sweet fizz of the energy drink flood into her. She swallowed half-convulsively, trying to get the drink down and the caffeine into her system as fast as possible.

The sun was starting to rise outside the windows, and it peeked in through the open blinds to warm the linoleum of the break room. The single window wasnÆt much compared to the fluorescents theyÆd had going since four, but it was a different kind of light. Probably, she thought as the last drops fell onto her waiting tongue, it reminded Michael of the morning hours before school, making him sleepy.

Or he could just be sleep-deprived.

Ahh, well. Who said a little sleep-dep was a bad thing anyway?

ôBut we just got done with a client. We donÆt have time to rest!ö

ôExactlyùif we had time, weÆd rest, but we donÆt, so we wonÆt.ö She gave up and set the can down, sighing. ôHe wants us up there, weÆll go up there. Tomorrow. Which means we have a lot of work to do before we leave.ö

ôWork? What we need is sleep.ö He hadnÆt touched the coffee. Stubborn kid, no wonder he was sleepy. He wasnÆt getting any stimulants. ôIÆm exhausted. And itÆs five in the morning!ö

Jonah took a deep breath, removing the packet of Sen-Sen from her pocket and shaking out a single piece. She licked it up and began rocking it between two teeth as she contemplated what to do with him. ôLook, if youÆre going to spend the day complaining about being sleepy, then go to sleep. ItÆs not going to bother the rest of the team if you take a littleùö

She looked up. The break room was empty, running footsteps echoing.

ôàreal cute, Mike.ö The can fell into the trash can under the sink as she turned and headed out to the front steps. The shopÆs front porch seemed to be a sand magnet, so the first order of the day was usually sweeping it clean.

As a personal matter, Jonah didnÆt mind it, but on principal it irked her a little. Sweeping was womenÆs work, as was cleaning the shop, and working with customers. Work for women. She glanced over at the black rose that twined around the trellised porch, shaded by the roof from the merciless New Mexico sun, and put the broom away as she went to get some water for it. TheyÆd need to have someone come and water it every day while they were gone.

DalkoeÆs rose. Nikolai, and a few others, asked where heÆd found such a pure-black color, so dark it seemed to suck light to itself, such a well-shaped blossom with sharp, delicately formed petals and a heart of violet-blue, not a trace of red pigment. He would always laugh and say, heÆd gone to Hell and back for that rose.

Jonah remembered finding her relatively new boss, for all her previous thoughts just a kooky herbalist, sprawled in a complicated ritual array, clutching a sprig of plant so tightly his palm bled. The only identifying feature to the array was a symbol etched in blood, a trade, everything for anything. And anything apparently meant that rose, the tiny sprig that had rooted in watered-down blood and grown into a vine covered in a cascade of black flowers, its vicious thorns making them near-impossible to pick.

She hadnÆt yet gotten up the courage to ask him what was so special about it, exactly. Every so often heÆd take a leaf, or a thorn, or a flower, for use in a spell, but he was always sick afterwards. Which meant that by the time he was well sheÆd forgotten about it, and by the time she could ask him he was sick.

Again.

But to all other appearances, Dalkoe was a happy person. He seemed to be ageless, and had the best people skills on the team. None of them had ever seen him really get mad at anyone, or anything, even though thereÆd been plenty of opportunities.
Sighing, she looked over at the garage where Nikolai was tuning up the van. He was doing a major overhaul, at least in terms of what could be done to that rattletrap Caravan. Filters, belts and spark plugs lay scattered near the front wheels, the gasket cover was loose, and a hand flopped around, boots kicking fruitlessly, until it found a wrench, snagged it and disappeared. She had to laugh under her breath at the fearsome priest, reduced to a pair of steeltoes and a grimy, blacked palm.

ôMichael! I need the oil pan!ö

No reaction. His boots twitched.

ôMi-caaaaaal!ö

Jonah walked over, nudged the oil pan with her foot, and let him grab it. ôHeÆs asleep.ö

ôAsleep? Lazy little punk.ö There was the sound of something turning, a few curses, and something splattering. Nikolai slid out from under the van. ôGo getÆim, he has work to do out here. No sense in taking you out of the shop.ö

ôRightàö she resisted the thought that he thought of the van as menÆs work. He probably justà something else. Besides that, she hadnÆt seen Dalkoe since they got in, and he was walking out onto the porch. Jonah picked her way through the tools and came up the steps just as he was turning around from closing the door.

ôHowÆs the van?ö

ôJust going to get the reinforcements.ö

He smiled. ôRight. WeÆre ahead of schedule. And I just need to get supplies and pack upà anything you need from the dry-goods store?ö

ôJust some herbs. You may already have most of them.ö

Dalkoe nodded. ôAsafetida, valerianàö

ôHenbane.ö

ôàwhat?ö

ôHenbane. IÆm out. Could you get me some?ö

Jonah had to quickly, harshly stifle the urge to tell him to forget about it as her boss stared at her, his dark-brown eyes seeming to twitch in place as his mind clearly ran through a mental list of what she would need it for.

ôWhy?ö

ôJustàto have. It seems like it always brings me luck.ö And it always did. Henbane was something of a charm for her, always adding that extra edge to her spells. Dalkoe, she was sure, had other ideas as to why sheÆd want it.

ôJonah, youÆre not planningàö

ôNo. No, not on this trip. But, you know, for luck and all.ö

He nodded and turned. Henbane was notorious for its effect as the polar opposite of asafetidaùthe things it could do for dark magicks were a sort of twisted miracle. With all the talk about this being a big, thickly haunted location, she wouldnÆt be burning any of it, not this tripà but even so, 7-20 would need all the luck they could get.





[[3. Firebrand]]

When I was growing up, there was so much light in the world. There were people with bright swaths of clothing, children swaddled in overdyed stub-ends of the huntersÆ wraps and shirras. And the sunlight, burning down, soaking us, making us who we knew every day. La Tam are the people of the desert; we are born in the sun and, God willing, we die there. Color fills our lives as surely as the heat and the sand.

It did, anyway, for a long time.

There were days when there was nothing but color and sound and hotà the hot sand, the hot air, the hot water from the black skins. We bathed, steam rolling off us, in hot water in the frigid night airùthe night was cold and dark, thus bad luck, so we went to sleep at the end of dusk, but it was still cold even thenùand drank the water even though it was days old and tasted like some animalÆs tears.

Color was a symbol, tooùthe skyÆs color telling time, the sandÆs color telling us where we were. ItÆs how we knew we were near an oasis, rocks, water, green growing things. Other caravans with lanterns made of scraps and candles, bits of wire, glowing night-blooming flowers that hung and swayed to the music or the silly desert breezes that rocked the night. Scaring away the bad luck with songs and dances, stories acted out with the talebearerÆs whole body, and sometimes his soulùmagic flaring, another ring of color, tangled together like a novice glassmakerÆs attempts at banglesùand voice and heart and mind, and all around that a crowd that knew when to scream and laugh, dancing with him, jumping around the fire in ecstasy that was only new to a handful.

We danced like that. We washed and danced and laughed and we told stories, and we burrowed down into our beds when we were roaming, afraid of the night with its strange burning starsùmaybe they were the eyes of monsters or demonsùafraid of the dark.

Back then that was all we knew and it was enough. We didnÆt know what would happen to us, what our people would become. Now thereÆs only light when explosions rock us from our feet. We sleep away the sunlight and wake with the demons. Sometimes I think all of us are demons ourselves.

But IÆm getting ahead of myself.

My name is Anat JÆhisa. I was born in the year that the scorpion reigned in the night sky, when the second moon was just a low-hanging bladeùa plow moon, furrowing earth like the wife-pet of a rich oasis man. My mother used to tell me that the night I was born, that moon broke free of the horizon, and began to grow gold and high. It ended the night a warriorÆs moon, deep red, burning over their heads. Men consider a warriorÆs moon a lucky thing to be born under. Women make of it a curse.

My father was a glassmaker. That skill might seem useless for the La Tam, what with us wandering all over the dunes alone, but when our tribes came together he could sell whatever he made. Never did he have a gathering pass when he wasnÆt rich by the end, and our wagons were covered in his scrapsùcolorful rings and lumps of malformed, bubble-filled glass. The chief wore ornaments like bits of sunlight in his hair. And the childrenà well, needless to say they felt like royalty, all covered in droplets of color that my father couldnÆt use for his work.

My mother, she did what every woman in the tribe did bestùraised her children and kept track of the animals, fixed the wagons, wove the bottoms for the sleds when they broke, and whatever else it took to keep the tribe running. Men had hunting or fire-starting or other such work to doùwomen married to find someone to support.

She filled empty waterskins with camel pish to wash blades and tools with, dried meat in strips in the sun, packed leaves in boxes and wrapped them up to try and keep food from the oases as long as possible. She raised usùall six of usùand taught all of us how to take care of ourselves. When the boys came in bleeding from learning how to fight, she showed everyone who would learn how to make a poultice that would quickly stop the blood. And how to talk to someone who was nervous and in pain.

For a long time, thatÆs what our life wasùplaying and learning, watching the salty steam clouds die in the night, standing on the soaked sand naked and soapy, chanting to make the thunder-godÆs voice and jumping in delight for the dragon, her multi-colored flames spewing from the tailbearerÆs palms. It wasnÆt until the Great Gathering that things started to change.

IÆd never seen a firebrand before. Talebearers used magic to make their fire, with maybe a little powdered metal or a splash of strong spirits to color the flames. These menùand women!ùhad no magic to speak of. Their fire came from gear bound to thick leather belts, the belts buckled onto them with practiced ease before they started a mock firefight. Some knelt with metal tubes, dented and rusted, bracing their bottoms. They made a few motions and soon the ground shook and fire blasted out the end. Their hair wasnÆt braidedùit was cropped short. Symbols were burned into their skin, the source of the name.

They were beautiful. Powerful. And they were looking for help.





[[4. Blueprint Future]]

The railroad tracks were grimy, the asphalt between them a crumbling mess. Even though everything else around them was loose with age, dusty or dirty, they kept their shine. It wasnÆt a clean shine, but they still gleamed like spun fire under the setting sun as Morgan crossed them, and she got distracted enough to pause and look down until they narrowed into the trees and the shadows of downtown, bright against silhouettes in a fiery sunset sky. She stayed there for a minute and almost considered going back, feeling her feet shift on the metal rails, trees on one side, leaning brick shadows on the other.

After all, this idea was just full of problems.

Her dad taught her not only to be prepared, but to evaluate what she was walking into. To keep aware of her surroundings for the sake of her, her battle buddy and whoever else was in the unit with them. He wasnÆt always like thatù100% all-American Force Recon Extractùbut when he was, he liked to teach. And sheÆd be lying if she said she didnÆt like to learn from him.

On one side of the tracks was her homeùnow vacant except for her dog, with Dad deployed and no one to stay home with her. He didnÆt mind, and neither did sheùhe knew she wouldnÆt throw wild parties, she knew it was in her best interest to keep the house moving so he could do what he did best.

On the other was a legend that she found online, and had come down here to verify. Her two best friends had things to do, so here she was alone, glad for all her mock PT and curious about the old, derelict ghost village that used to be HeatherdaleÆs idyllic little Air Force base. When said base needed to become a better, more comprehensive repair station, they searched for a place to build the extended, C5-size airstrips theyÆd need, but there was no more space for them. They packed up and moved, built a new base, twenty years ago. Hangar 4220 caught fire two years later and burnedùnot to the ground, but to a gutted, blackened shell.

According to the legend, standing there when the last sunlight faded from the sky, you could see the fire and smell the smokeà

Morgan turned and crossed the tracks, a soft summer breeze kicking up and stirring the neighborhood trees. Sunset wouldnÆt last much longer.

---

Shortly after the fire, security at the old base had been tightened. There was nothing really left to protect, but they erected a fence to keep out whatever had started the fireùthe official explanation involved a homeless man named Dave and his six bottles of whiskey. They erected a chain-link fence topped with concertina wire coils, but they neglected to electrify, guard or survey the fence, so it now sported several body-sized rifts, probably made by wire cutters and elbow grease. She slipped through the first one she found, hurrying across the flight line toward the buildings. Occasionally, a police cruiser would pull by the compound to check it out, and she didnÆt want to get caught. Forget about staying lowùshe ran the last dozen yards across the beaten, bleached asphalt, ducking into the doorway of what looked like a tool crib. The shadows were cool and deep, and the breeze was gone. She edged out a little. No cars, no copsà nothing.

The sunset was starting to change color, fiery gold to cool red. Dusk was just beginningùthe temperature finally started to drop, the tree frogs waking up for a chorus that sounded faint so far away from the houses and trees. Morgan looked around for the burned hangar, her eyes finally catching on its smoke-streaked walls. She checked for headlights and started over, jogging toward it.

After the hangar burned, it was pretty clear that there was nothing of value left inside, nor was there anything left to catch fire. There wasnÆt funding to pull it down so they just left it standing, the doors and windows gaping open. A few flimsy boards with rust-weeping nails were all that separated her from the legend and darkness was falling fastà she quickly slipped between them and inside, taking a deep breath of the ashes she stirred up, and waited until the last stripes of cool evening light faded away.

No smoke, no fire. Morgan wandered further in, pulling her flashlight out of her backpack and shining it around. Apparently this was a popular entrance. Footprints led around the room from it; a few of them led back out. Most prints led into the shadows beyond her light. One, she noticed as a chill ran down her spine, led into a pile of ashes and disappeared. No footprints in the ash, no nothing. The scene was as still as a photograph.

She edged toward the ashes, sick dread blossoming in her veins like an opening flower. What if they were the ashes of the last person to stand there, burned to death on the spot by those flames? The only way to find out would be to go thereùthe tracks didnÆt stop, speed up or even slow while they walked, so nothing had happened until they reached those ashesà

Toes of her sneakers in the grey drift, she gulped. Her dad wouldnÆt be scared. He'd just distract himself even if he wasù most likely with one of his seemingly endless cadence calls.

She felt silly, but the words came anyway, her steps falling in rhythm across the edge of the drift to its center.

"Can't stop... won't stop..."

Almost there. Just have to step forward andù

The boards cracked under her feet, the hole tripped her, and the flimsy slats under her heels broke in half and gave way. The vibrations loosened some ash from the ceiling; she saw it start to fall as her head tipped back, the rottenùfire-eaten?ùwood that remained scraping her sides as she fell. Her scream echoed around the walls of the building past the paint hangar and the tool crib, across the flight line to the railroad tracks, but it was a long way to the nearest person, and she was lucky: there werenÆt any patrols scheduled to go by tonight.

 

Avider

Well-Known Member
#2
But...you already made two threads in the General Forum...
 

Avider

Well-Known Member
#4
Oh and the third one.

Head over to the writing IRC. Maybe they can help you more.

Oh, right, reasons.

It's the best written and most interesting piece.
 

Avider

Well-Known Member
#6
<a href='http://z14.invisionfree.com/The_Fanfiction_Forum/index.php?showtopic=19605' target='_blank' rel='nofollow'>http://z14.invisionfree.com/The_Fanfiction...showtopic=19605</a>

That one there. It got started a day (?) ago.
 

rukia8492

Well-Known Member
#7
and you have me interested now.
 

Rooster455

Well-Known Member
#9
Well, for a novel, I think the fourth one has the most possibility for intriguing, sustainable plot. Most of the others lack that bit of...driving force to go to a believable important plot point.
 

Ina_meishou

Well-Known Member
#10
Firebrand.

It flows best, gives a sense of character and setting that the others lack.
 
#11
Number four. I can't really explain why, but it seems the most interesting to me personally.

Might just be the military references.
 

Halibel Lecter

Well-Known Member
#12
Question... how many of you guys can I count on for research help with Blueprint, besides Rukia, / am I welcome in the Military Thread in Rants?
 

Latewave

Well-Known Member
#13
Four, cause it's blue.
 

Marth

Well-Known Member
#14
I prefer the third one, myself. It has a certain appeal the others lack. The first one confused me, the second creeped me out, and the fourth seems kinda depressing in a way.

But the third was quite nice. It was fairly simple (not necessarily a bad thing), and reminds me of a bunch of nomads gathering around a fire to tell tales of the days gone by. ^_^

And it's red. :p
 

JiigarGhen

Well-Known Member
#15
Hm. Third one, HL. Fourth is a close second, but the third is the most complete and attention-catching of the snips.
 

cgobyd

Well-Known Member
#16
I vote third one.
 

GoatMan

Well-Known Member
#19
I prefer the first, if only for the descriptive scenery.
 

Megaolix

Well-Known Member
#22
Third one (Red). It looks the most interesting for me.
 

twin blade

Well-Known Member
#25
1: Sparkweaver

The first thing that comes to mind is that itÆs pretty. Like, really, really pretty. The descriptions are done fairly well, and IÆd love to see more of the setting. But, really, the setting is the only main draw. The snippet you have doesnÆt have any plot, and Lilitkai is still bland as a character. I can get a general idea of her personality and so on, but itÆs not really enough to make her interesting. ThereÆs not much info to pull from the snippet, so itÆs hard to draw attention to it. While it does have a slice of life flavor, maybe you could have added onto the snippet for more plot or characterization?

But, stillàso pretty~

----------

2: Ideal Conditions

Okay, see, this is much better. IÆm a sucker for Modern Fantasy works, so thatÆs a plus. The characters are interesting, the interplay between Jonah and everyone else draws me in, and thereÆs enough plot in the snippet to make me want more. You also explain the magic the characters use well enough to make the suspension of disbelief easier, which is a must if youÆre doing Modern Fantasy.

I like it.

--------------

3: Firebrand

The attention to the background is awesome. ItÆs all too easy to imagine being in that desert, feeling the heat and the sand. ThereÆs not much to speak of characters, but having Anat flashback to her childhood is going to allow for a wonderful comparison between the past and the present. Making her Jump At The Call is enough plot hook to make me wonder what happens next.

----------------

4: Future Blueprint

Eràyeah, IÆm not really feeling this one. The descriptions are really well done, and while I canÆt vouch for accuracy of any military details, they seem real enough for anyone with no experience to buy. But on the other hand, what plot you do have in the snippet doesnÆt really seem all that interesting. Of course, Morgan is going to find something, but what it is or what sheÆd do with it isnÆt really stated û or implied. Does she even have an idea of what sheÆll find?

In this case, ending it as she fell seemed like a bad move. It doesnÆt really inspire thoughts of ôOh, what will happen next?ö so much as ôWelp, she fell. What now?ö

-------------

Using excerpts to showcase the story choices doesnÆt seem like itÆll work here. I mean, for Sparkweaver and Future Blueprint, youÆre going with a slow, calm opening thatÆll probably get into the plot about a couple chapters in. For Ideal Conditions, you open with a ôWhat the fuck is going onö scene and then throw the reader into the thick of things, while in Firebrand, you open with a flashback that just details the setting more then anything else.

But, if youÆre okay with the discrepancies effecting voting, thenà Ideal Conditions or Firebrand û Favoring IC more than Fire - would be the most interesting, based on the snippets alone. Although I really, really want to see more of SparkweaverÆs setting.
 
Top