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Troll In The Dungeon

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  #1  
Old 03-02-2018, 11:48 AM
Beesauce (Offline)
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FICTION -- SHORT STORY -- ROUGH DRAFT -- word count: 528 --



"You work for murderers. You know that signing up meant shutting up or else they'd murder you too. You knew that didn't you?"
He remained silent, shaking, trying not to show the pain and nightmares of every night of his owned existence.
"You knew -- you thought you were doing it for your country, I know what they told you too, they tried that on everybody when those planes fell, it was our generations Pearl Harbor," she spoke slowly, holding in her tears and all her emotions, calm she watched the military spies owned, crumble into fear and shame, rocking back and forth in the terror of what they had been forced to shut up about for years, "How long did it take before you stopped caring that you were being paid to bully peaceful people online? How many nightmares did you have of people traveling to the land of the dead, screaming, crying your name wanting you to whistle and blow the truth out with those lists. Those lists. All those lists of nouns and content you were given, did you ever put the dots together? And if you did, how long was it until you stopped feeling bad about being a bully?"
He could not answer. Whimpering, he fell forward in his chair, looking away from the woman who his bosses had wanted dead or owned as he was owned and slaved. Shaking, his insides began to roll, his muscles tensed and he silently began to convulse, he was sobbing without tears or sound, it was complete shivering panic as if he was to die soon of hypothermia all alone without love or condolences.
"I know your kind very well and am indeed in the know beyond what you are told, as you are just the owned fool, while I was shown what you are used for," reaching into her pocket she pulled out a crinkled piece of paper, blank on one side a portrait on the other. She threw it down at the man's feet where he would see.
Landing face up it was the image of a beautiful woman with small text on the right-hand side, on the left below the woman's name read the dates 1974-2016.
"Open your eyes. Look at the photo," she waited for him to oblige her, "She's dead because of your boss. She's dead because your boss keeps making mistakes. Those mistakes are continual and perpetual mass murder for the end of time, and you are working for him."
"No. No, we're not."
"Yes. Yes you are," she waited but he remained silent, "It's going to come out you know. And when it does, you might as well stay alive and say what you know because let me tell you, that boss of yours is worse than any imprisoned mass murder in written history and it's because it's not history yet, which means your boss is winning and as he wins you lose."
"Can we talk about this tomorrow?" he looked up, but the girl was gone.
That night the man went home, drank the beer his trainers taught him would stave away the nightmares but it didn't help.

THE END

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Old 03-02-2018, 01:27 PM
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I like this. A lot of strong dialog. I wish you didn't open on dialog, but maybe you're Hunter S. Thompson. It could work. Maybe move some furniture around, but I think the guts are there.

Don't wanna sound like one of those writer workshop poofs that goes on about sensual balance, but two-thirds of the way through I thought someone needed to fart. Then, it occurred to me that we hadn't heard anything or smelled anything. And that's what writing is, says the workshop poofs, making us smell the fart. What's beer smell like? The sweat? Maybe leather straps holding him to a creaky chair, etc.
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  #3  
Old 03-02-2018, 03:22 PM
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Originally Posted by Beesauce View Post
FICTION -- SHORT STORY -- ROUGH DRAFT -- word count: 528 --



"You work for murderers. You know that signing up meant shutting up or else they'd murder you too. You knew that didn't you?"

He remained silent, shaking, trying not to show the pain and nightmares of every night of his owned existence.

"You knew -- you thought you were doing it for your country, I know what they told you too, they tried that on everybody when those planes fell, it was our generations Pearl Harbor," she spoke slowly, holding in her tears and all her emotions, calm she watched the military spies owned, crumble into fear and shame, rocking back and forth in the terror of what they had been forced to shut up about for years, "How long did it take before you stopped caring that you were being paid to bully peaceful people online? How many nightmares did you have of people traveling to the land of the dead, screaming, crying your name wanting you to whistle and blow the truth out with those lists. Those lists. All those lists of nouns and content you were given, did you ever put the dots together? And if you did, how long was it until you stopped feeling bad about being a bully?"

He could not answer. Whimpering, he fell forward in his chair, looking away from the woman who his bosses had wanted dead or owned as he was owned and slaved. Shaking, his insides began to roll, his muscles tensed and he silently began to convulse, he was sobbing without tears or sound, it was complete shivering panic as if he was to die soon of hypothermia all alone without love or condolences.

"I know your kind very well and am indeed in the know beyond what you are told, as you are just the owned fool, while I was shown what you are used for," reaching into her pocket she pulled out a crinkled piece of paper, blank on one side a portrait on the other. She threw it down at the man's feet where he would see.

Landing face up it was the image of a beautiful woman with small text on the right-hand side, on the left below the woman's name read the dates 1974-2016.

"Open your eyes. Look at the photo," she waited for him to oblige her, "She's dead because of your boss. She's dead because your boss keeps making mistakes. Those mistakes are continual and perpetual mass murder for the end of time, and you are working for him."

"No. No, we're not."

"Yes. Yes you are," she waited but he remained silent, "It's going to come out you know. And when it does, you might as well stay alive and say what you know because let me tell you, that boss of yours is worse than any imprisoned mass murder in written history and it's because it's not history yet, which means your boss is winning and as he wins you lose."

"Can we talk about this tomorrow?" he looked up, but the girl was gone.

That night the man went home, drank the beer his trainers taught him would stave away the nightmares but it didn't help.

THE END

Phew. Couldn't see the story for the text
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  #4  
Old 03-03-2018, 06:38 AM
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Thanks Nick. Of course you've got the time to fix the spacers . Thanks

SpS! Of course you'd want the farts! But sorry, the man is sitting in a dungeon and its vomit and metallic blood he tastes mixed with the exhallation of the toxins of alcohol seeping out his sweaty pores.

Hows that for a second draft add on? Except, I was hoping to narrow it down by 28 words, rounded out to 500 makes for a very precise published short story. Thanks guyss
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  #5  
Old 03-03-2018, 07:43 AM
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Beesauce -- this piece has promise.

Three things, however...

1) Why not give them names? It might help the story flow better and help ground us readers.

2) I noticed some POV errors. Most of the story, we seem to be in the guy's POV, but then in one instance, we're thrust into the woman's. I would definitely pick one, then eliminate the content that contradicts it

3) I question your speech tags. Sometimes you leave it out and only insert the accompanying actions, which makes it awkward.

EXAMPLE:
"While I was shown what you are used for," reaching into her pocket she pulled out a crinkled piece of paper.

This would be right.

"While I was shown what you are used for," she said, reaching into her pocket and pulling out a crinkled piece of paper.

This would be a variation of right too:

"While I was shown what you are used for." She reach into her pocket and pulled out a crinkled piece of paper.

There's numerous places things like this happen in your prose.
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Old 03-03-2018, 05:28 PM
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You can compress your dialog, if it's word count, you're after.

"You work for murderers. Signing up meant shutting up or they'd kill you too."

"You thought you were doing it for your country. They told everybody when those planes fell, it was our generations Pearl Harbor,"


"When did stop caring that you were bullying peaceful people online? How many nightmares did you have of people traveling to the land of the dead, screaming, crying your name wanting you to whistle and blow the truth out with those lists. All those lists of nouns and content you were given, did you ever put the dots together? And how long was it until you stopped feeling bad about being a bully?"
You can probably break this blurb up.

"You are just the owned fool, while I was shown what you are used for,"


Reaching into her pocket she pulled out a crinkled piece of paper, blank on one side a portrait on the other. Think you could open with this.

"Open your eyes. Look at the photo," she waited for him to oblige her, "She's dead because of your boss. Because your boss keeps making mistakes. Those mistakes are continual and perpetual mass murder for the end of time"

"No. No, we're not."
Cut ["Yes. Yes you are,"] she waited but he remained silent, "It's going to come out you know. And when it does, you might as well stay alive and say what you know because let me tell you, that boss of yours is worse than any imprisoned mass murder in history."

"Can we talk about this tomorrow?"

That night the man went home, drank the beer his trainers taught him would stave away the nightmares but it didn't help.
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  #7  
Old 03-04-2018, 08:09 AM
spshane (Offline)
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Was the lady in the picture the same lady who was talking to him? That's what I thought you were implying. That she was like a ghost/hallucination or something. Anyway, that's how I read it. Good work.
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Old 03-04-2018, 12:11 PM
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Originally Posted by spshane View Post
Was the lady in the picture the same lady who was talking to him? That's what I thought you were implying. That she was like a ghost/hallucination or something. Anyway, that's how I read it. Good work.

The woman speaking is alive, the woman in the photo is dead.
It's for you decide if the one alive was really there or remote viewing, a topic that won't be mentioned in the story as it's for you to decide what the reality of the short story is and that's the reason it's only as long as it is and the scene repeats everyday until the man's death.
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Old 03-04-2018, 02:27 PM
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"He remained silent, shaking, trying not to show the pain and nightmares of every night of his owned existence."

You can do better.

He grit his teeth, seething in silence. Refusing to show the nightly pain of his owned existence any weakness.

Use powerful words that keep it in the moment. Words that have cadence.

Story is sound, just needs a little more flesh. Either be ambiguous or show what is going to happen. Have him sight the bottle, his savior. Or, give the visions an ambiguous description. Make it faint. Get drunk and remember your own ghosts and rewrite. Gotta be a psycho to write
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Old 03-05-2018, 03:32 PM
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Originally Posted by daes13 View Post
"He remained silent, shaking, trying not to show the pain and nightmares of every night of his owned existence."

You can do better.

He grit his teeth, seething in silence. Refusing to show the nightly pain of his owned existence any weakness.

Use powerful words that keep it in the moment. Words that have cadence.

Story is sound, just needs a little more flesh. Either be ambiguous or show what is going to happen. Have him sight the bottle, his savior. Or, give the visions an ambiguous description. Make it faint. Get drunk and remember your own ghosts and rewrite. Gotta be a psycho to write

Well Thanks. I've got a lot to say about alcohol and writing drunk isn't as great as slightly tipsy or not at all. Poison is a migraine and I'm only a tiny mouse er. bee. euhm. Thanks right, I'll take your suggestions for the 2nd draft.
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Old 03-05-2018, 03:55 PM
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Let me weave a tale my friend, a tale that may not include you, or even be remotely close to your own situation, but one that must be told:

Many years ago I wrote, and by that word I mean of course smeared my mental feces on some medium. It was shit, but god Damn did I think it was good... My oh my thats a weird casing.

Nowhere. I went nowhere with that shit. Too big to even flush down the commode. Clogged in the U-pipe as it were. 2 years I sat and thought, douchbagging around I like to say. Almost got married, and by that I mean I received a break up text on the way to propose. Lots of coke and lamentation. Woe is me bullshit, ugh.

There was a light. True love, and isn't it blecky to say such? But it was, love at that. A genius with a body worthy of worship.

Anyway, she found my work, amidst my hiatus, and laughed. Its shit she said, pure shit, she told me the truth. The truth is writing is work, fun work, but work nonetheless. There is a step before editing called rewriting. First, the excrement must be wiped away and then the rewriting may occur.

My point? None whatso-fucking-ever. There is no point. But know, there is a reason that we must persevere and continue. If the first thing you write is good, then everyone is lying. We must write and read, write and read, until we bleed our soul and torment it into a working piece.

I honestly have no idea where i am going with this...
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Old 04-08-2018, 02:42 PM
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Originally Posted by daes13 View Post
Let me weave a tale my friend, a tale that may not include you, or even be remotely close to your own situation, but one that must be told:

Many years ago I wrote, and by that word I mean of course smeared my mental feces on some medium. It was shit, but god Damn did I think it was good... My oh my thats a weird casing.

Nowhere. I went nowhere with that shit. Too big to even flush down the commode. Clogged in the U-pipe as it were. 2 years I sat and thought, douchbagging around I like to say. Almost got married, and by that I mean I received a break up text on the way to propose. Lots of coke and lamentation. Woe is me bullshit, ugh.

There was a light. True love, and isn't it blecky to say such? But it was, love at that. A genius with a body worthy of worship.

Anyway, she found my work, amidst my hiatus, and laughed. Its shit she said, pure shit, she told me the truth. The truth is writing is work, fun work, but work nonetheless. There is a step before editing called rewriting. First, the excrement must be wiped away and then the rewriting may occur.

My point? None whatso-fucking-ever. There is no point. But know, there is a reason that we must persevere and continue. If the first thing you write is good, then everyone is lying. We must write and read, write and read, until we bleed our soul and torment it into a working piece.

I honestly have no idea where i am going with this...
Yea.. I must say, it was quiet a blathering of nothing from the get go. But when you read the last sentence first and the couple lines second, you know.. Boy Howdy. Alcohol let the dogs out?
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Old 04-08-2018, 03:07 PM
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Fuck me but I was drunk there.... As opposed to my normal sober self hahaha
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Old 04-11-2018, 03:57 AM
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"If the first thing you write is good, then everyone is lying."

Whether you stole that, or wrote it drunk, daes13, it's the truest goddamn thing I've ever seen.
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  #15  
Old 04-13-2018, 06:41 AM
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Originally Posted by Prodigalson View Post
"If the first thing you write is good, then everyone is lying."

Whether you stole that, or wrote it drunk, daes13, it's the truest goddamn thing I've ever seen.
I drunkenly stole it from my girl hahaha
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Old 05-07-2018, 09:25 PM
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Originally Posted by daes13 View Post
Let me weave a tale my friend, a tale that may not include you, or even be remotely close to your own situation, but one that must be told:

Many years ago I wrote, and by that word I mean of course smeared my mental feces on some medium. It was shit, but god Damn did I think it was good... My oh my thats a weird casing.

Nowhere. I went nowhere with that shit. Too big to even flush down the commode. Clogged in the U-pipe as it were. 2 years I sat and thought, douchbagging around I like to say. Almost got married, and by that I mean I received a break up text on the way to propose. Lots of coke and lamentation. Woe is me bullshit, ugh.

There was a light. True love, and isn't it blecky to say such? But it was, love at that. A genius with a body worthy of worship.

Anyway, she found my work, amidst my hiatus, and laughed. Its shit she said, pure shit, she told me the truth. The truth is writing is work, fun work, but work nonetheless. There is a step before editing called rewriting. First, the excrement must be wiped away and then the rewriting may occur.

My point? None whatso-fucking-ever. There is no point. But know, there is a reason that we must persevere and continue. If the first thing you write is good, then everyone is lying. We must write and read, write and read, until we bleed our soul and torment it into a working piece.

I honestly have no idea where i am going with this...
Thanks for this. Very enlightening. It's the sort of shit I came onto this forum to hear. I think I'll paste it up on my bedroom wall and read it every time I think I've done something good! Ha ha.
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