Writing Discussion II

[Bezombia]

I wrote a short story in form of a court transcript and placed third two contests ago. If it's good, the format won't matter that much, even if utterly unorthodox.

Stories which are mostly dialogue aren't even all that unorthodox, all things considered.

Of course, if you wanted to make your story truly unorthodox and dramatic, you'd write it in blank verse. Not that I'm giving you any hints on how to pander to me. That would be unethical.

Do I get extra points for writing it in Old English and then engraving it on stone tablets?


While we're being unorthodox and all.

[Laerod]

Stories which are mostly dialogue aren't even all that unorthodox, all things considered.

Of course, if you wanted to make your story truly unorthodox and dramatic, you'd write it in blank verse. Not that I'm giving you any hints on how to pander to me. That would be unethical.

Do I get extra points for writing it in Old English and then engraving it on stone tablets?


While we're being unorthodox and all.

That sounds even worse than the occasional bit of stream of consciousness stuff we get.

[The New World Oceania]

Stories which are mostly dialogue aren't even all that unorthodox, all things considered.

Of course, if you wanted to make your story truly unorthodox and dramatic, you'd write it in blank verse. Not that I'm giving you any hints on how to pander to me. That would be unethical.

Do I get extra points for writing it in Old English and then engraving it on stone tablets?


While we're being unorthodox and all.

I was thinking about a 95 Theses type thing. That'd be unorthodox.

Do I get extra points for writing it in Old English and then engraving it on stone tablets?


While we're being unorthodox and all.

That sounds even worse than the occasional bit of stream of consciousness stuff we get.

Pardon?

[Bezombia]

Do I get extra points for writing it in Old English and then engraving it on stone tablets?


While we're being unorthodox and all.

I was thinking about a 95 Theses type thing. That'd be unorthodox.

Not only would it not be orthodox, but it wouldn't be Orthodox either.

ba-dum tish

[Respubliko de Libereco]

I was thinking about a 95 Theses type thing. That'd be unorthodox.

Not only would it not be orthodox, but it wouldn't be Orthodox either.

ba-dum tish

I think that was the joke.

[Bezombia]

Not only would it not be orthodox, but it wouldn't be Orthodox either.

ba-dum tish

I think that was the joke.

Fuck.

[Bezombia]

What are you guys' opinions on POV changes?


In the novella I'm writing I'm thinking of splitting the story into two halves, with the first half being told in third-person objective and the second half being told in first-person.
The reason I'm planning this is because I feel the story will have more of an effect as told from the protagonists point of view directly, but the first part of the story doesn't make sense in first person.

[Unitaristic Regions]

What are you guys' opinions on POV changes?


In the novella I'm writing I'm thinking of splitting the story into two halves, with the first half being told in third-person objective and the second half being told in first-person.
The reason I'm planning this is because I feel the story will have more of an effect as told from the protagonists point of view directly, but the first part of the story doesn't make sense in first person.

As long as we care about the second POV before you change to it, it should be fine.

[Conserative Morality]

What are you guys' opinions on POV changes?


In the novella I'm writing I'm thinking of splitting the story into two halves, with the first half being told in third-person objective and the second half being told in first-person.
The reason I'm planning this is because I feel the story will have more of an effect as told from the protagonists point of view directly, but the first part of the story doesn't make sense in first person.

Usually not a fan. I prefer to take a single kind of POV and apply it to all viewpoint characters.

[Unitaristic Regions]

What are you guys' opinions on POV changes?


In the novella I'm writing I'm thinking of splitting the story into two halves, with the first half being told in third-person objective and the second half being told in first-person.
The reason I'm planning this is because I feel the story will have more of an effect as told from the protagonists point of view directly, but the first part of the story doesn't make sense in first person.

Usually not a fan. I prefer to take a single kind of POV and apply it to all viewpoint characters.

The reason most hate character change is the same reason most hate prologues: you suddenly have to learn to care about a character again. Same for you?

(This argument is, of course, irrelevant is the POV change does not include character change.) Of course, a variation of it might apply: that you are torn from your immersion as you suddenly have to read the novel another way. It's usually best to stick to the ground rules, and you establish a ground rule by choosing a POV at the beginning.

[Unitaristic Regions]

Hey guys, would you mind telling me what you think of this short story I submitted to the writing contest? It's only 2,000 words. (I swear that I won't use feedback to change my final submission, that would be kinda unfair and childish. I'm just really impatient to get some judgement .)

The Bleak Place

On the horizon the sun hung, dying its own private death, signalling a sickly dusk on the city’s warped streets and leaking houses. The many bricks of this place stank of unspecified liquids and vague corruption, hinting at the disasters of the past and prophesying the horrors of the future. Their once virile brown colour had now eroded into that of mud, surface covered in the rust of ancient blood.
It was in this twilight that two figures crept, the silhouettes of their bodies pressed against the crumbling walls, now climbing over a some rotting fences, then running through the dried-up grass of gardens, barely pausing to shoot a glance at such lost potential. The citizens of this bleak place did not reflect much on their fate: such is the nature of survival; those that are filled with the rush of adrenaline and the pump of a terrified heart can little afford philosophical reflection.
The one in front raised a hand as they approached a particularly low building, so squat and torn at the bottom, it resembled a ragged pustule bursting out of a ruined skin, nearly all its surface covered in bleached signs and anarchic blood-paintings. All that gave away its previous function now, was the oven-chimney jutting out of its side and the sign the figure with his hand up stood on, depicting a fresh loaf of bread.
“Seems a solid place,” he said to his companion, trying to control his raging fear, “It would work.”
“Are you absolutely sure?” The other said, voice shaking, “Baked goods do not last all that long…”
The one with his hand up looked back, irritation born out of panic lining his voice as he spoke: “Ain’t the dam’ bakery we looking for, ‘tis the dam’ house the baker lived in! Place is built like a bunker, ugly one at that, and ‘tis not such a stretch to believe the man saw all this coming and built in expectation of it, nah?”
“A bunker-bakery? Eh… it would be worth the risk, but... we really need shelter for the night. We really, really-”
The one up front did not wait to hear him finish, instead walking over to the building, his broad body casting wide shadows onto the houses nearby, their silent posture relentless and threatening. He was never careful, his companion thought, always too brash, but he followed him down the street nonetheless, both careful to walk on the balls of their naked feet, even more careful not to touch anything that might make a noise.
Indeed, they were a ragged bunch, their clothes tattered strips of cloth of faded colour and their skin sun-burnt yet brown. Over their sharp eyes, fat locks of hair hung, thick and unwashed.
They were lean, covered in a criss-cross of scars, the rash one more so than his friend.
As they pressed their bodies against the walls of the bakery, near-panting with cropped-up fear, their patchwork shirts clinging to their bodies, sure to leave a fine lining of salt on their skin when and if the sweat dried, the rash one hissed: “’Tis it, little man,” the sick light illuminating his rash expression of triumph.
“Fuck off, Ryk.”
The one that had just spoken was tense, his eyes looking from here to fro, checking the open doorways and looming alleys, but found nothing: all was silent. Indeed, even the wind had no power here, leaving the smells of rot to float through the air unabated.
Ryk shot him a glance and said: “Keep it together, Urd.”
He clenched his jaw together, opened the door slowly, his feet tapping on the ground as soft as his body would have it, beckoning Urd to follow him with a thick arm.
As they walked inside, Urd let his eyes trail along the furniture and goods, all covered in a generous layer of dust, and soot: for some reason or another, the back of the building had been blasted away, charring the buildings’ tables and floor. Through the hole more pale light seeped into the building, made of that which had been eroded for so long now. It shone some peace upon the ruins, and seemed to Urd to be a small kindness, in its own way. God was dead. Only the sun was left now, however soon it might be extinguished.
He traced a finger along a crust of bread: a rock’s surface would not have felt differently, if perhaps more clean.
“Fuck!”
“Hm?” mumbled Urd.
“’Fuckin’ wall is broken, ye blind Dutch git. No shelter when day dies. If dis ain’t no ‘bakery-bunker’, we’re fucked.”
Urd nodded. Right. Should have thought of that. He said: “Well, it would be possible that there is a trapdoor somewhere…”
He crouched, looked underneath a few tables. Behind him, there were some harsh sounds: likely Ryk flipping over couches.
“Should we be so loud?” Urd said.
“If yer’ scared, go fuck off.”
Always a hospitable lad, dear Ryk.
“Too rash,” Urd mumbled, “So rash…”
It was truly a dank place, although not quite ridden with the musk of evil that had infected this city so dearly, it felt as if its soul had been ripped through the hole so unsubtly blasted in the wall. The bakery was a shell.
“Nothin’,” Ryk whispered, his fingers pawing through the sand on the stones, ‘Nothin’ at all!’
Urd shook his head and, shaking a little, crept to to the hole, feeling the sun’s meagre warmth consoling his skin. It was now nearly gone, lighting up the horizon in a dawn so pale it looked as if cancerous piss had spread itself over those far-away mountain peaks.
“We’re fucked,” He said, “So fucked…”
It was, of course, their arrogance that was to blame. Even the most careful gambler is at risk of deeming himself a ‘natural’ if his luck strikes true enough times, to then take the fall is his darkest and most undeserved self-assurance. And Urd and Ryk were much, but not exactly careful.
Urd kept shaking his head, tears now showing in his eyes as the light disappeared. The sun was the only thing left that could embrace him with a mother’s warmth: now it was gone, and it left them, all alone and scared. In his head, that one childhood rhyme abounded, again and again in schizophrenic determination. He whispered it out loud:

“Listen Child,
Do this for me.
Live not Loud,
And do not See.

Be blessed with that,
A wileful yawn,
Look not for that,
Which swallows Dawn.

The Sight will blind,
The Ears will falter,
The Tongue will still,
But the Nose shall alter.

Out there it doth Lurks,
Creeps and it does Wait,
it What follows Dark,
And doth People ate.“

Ryk stood, minding little his step, and came standing next to Urd as the pale yellow of the final light was gone. Night did not wait: it crept over the houses like an impatient shadow, the ever-omniscient fog thickening like it was to be the courier of its coming. No man should be outside at this time. At home, Urd and Ryk had had the great bunkers, the underground dwellings were humanity cowered as night cloyed over the land. But here, in the city? There would be no relief.
“Ryk,” Urd said, growing more pale, “I just realized something.”
“Hm?”
“What if… what if this bakery appeared to others too as a shelter, as some ingenious bunker but above-ground? What if it was intact, then? What if the wall was too thin and the Night… the Night came in by making this hole?”
Silence as the bakery went black and the fog seeped in. There was a stink, now, rotten like sulphur and dung, and there were sounds of creaking and moaning, ever so softly. Ryk peered out of the hole.
“’Tis the houses…”
Urd followed his gaze, and with great horror saw what his half-brother meant: the ancient houses, constructed in the glorious time of legendary queen Victoria, were moving, swaying, from left, to right, to left, to right, terribly hypnotic, side by side. Their windows and doors seemingly replaced by holes of darkness, it seemed as if they had eyes and a mouth: all gaping and staring at the two boys as they moved. The crumbling mortar keeping them together seemed to suffer, as creaks erupted from the buildings.
“This would not have been how mother would have wanted me to die…” Urd whispered.
“Dam’ yer fuckin' ugly motter! ‘Tis not ‘ow fatter would wan’ et!”
Would any father want such a fate as was coming for his sons, however estranged they might be? Urd’s startled mind wandered in absent wonder and shock, as the houses continued to sway like animated corpses. From the creaks their unnatural movement opened in their stony skin, thick liquid oozed like pus, leaking onto the pavement and slithering towards the bakery in small trickles. Urd stared at them: such heaving and intense darkness! Death was mesmerizing, tru-
A hand slapping the back of his head.
“Run, ye git!”
They turned. Ryk bashed open the bakery’s doors and they hurtled out on to the streets, near-gagging from the fog that they breathed and near-crying from the shock, but their pounding heart flogged them onwards. The street shook, their cobbles flowing wave-like as the houses at both of its sides continued their mesmerized dance.
As the air rippled along with the ground, Urd stumbled and tripped, the stone no longer to be trusted. The floor rose, then fell, dropping him and shaking his body. He coughed, screamed, scrambled to his feet and screamed for his mother but she was dead and would not hear. He looked for Ryk, but his half-brother ran on, only looking back at Urd with terror in his eyes.
Urd yelled: “Wai!” but his brother turned his head away and ran. Between them, the dark pus trickled its way through the street and so they were separated. Urd looked: what way, what way? But there was but the dark stone of street, the dark brick of house, and the pus, the pus. Clawing at his hair he ran into an alley.
Above his head lisping voices seeped from the window-sills: “Brother, brother, come find me! Save me!”
These empty echoes floated through the air, taunting him and burrowing in his ears.
“BROTHER! BROTHER! BROTHER!”
Urd wanted to scream, but his breath had left him, and so he begged it to stop, but the voices continued, the shrill destroyers ripping through his head and drilling at his skull. As his resolve faltered and his mind crumbled, he put his hands to his ears, and ripped. There was no more sound, just the feeling of wetness at his head and pain, pain, pain…
He felt himself pant through his heaving chest, his eyes burning as if blood-shot. He wanted to run, but he had reached a dead-end. Clawing at the wall of the house blocking him, he felt his arms sink into the stone: when he pulled them back they dripped stinking mud and writhing maggot. He moaned. The house collapsed.
The insects were in his mouth instantaneously, biting at his tongue and ripping shreds off of it. He could not die now! He brought his hand into his mouth, and ripped.
As he thrashed about, body contorting, he could still see the houses as he came out of the pile, bending over, their doorways hungry maws… and the teeth that came from those doors! Yellow, sharp, twisting outwards, and the stink… he could not bear the sight of his death. He brought his hands to his eyes, and ripped.

Below is the story's official explanation, for who is interested, but if you want your own interpretation, don't read it!:

The 'fog' is actually leftover gas from biological warfare, which drives whoever breathes it insane, making him/herself kill him/herself. The sun counters its effects. It's actually hinted at in the rhyme: it messes with your senses by breathing it (the Nose that 'alters'). The ones that took shelter in airtight bunkers before 'the war' survived only to find mutilated bodies when they came out and they think some horror kills you at night, while you actually do it to yourself. The reason they have weird names and talk odd is because time has advanced, and so has the English and Dutch language. 'Rick' is 'Ryk' and 'Sjoerd' has become 'Urd'. 'Urd' speaks very formal English because it's his second language: he's actually from Holland.


Extra, for those who didn't get what wasn't all too obvious: Urd and Ryk are scavengers who got too cocky: they went scavenging at what seemed to be a bunker, but it was, in the end, just a bakery.

[Respubliko de Libereco]

The reason most hate character change is the same reason most hate prologues: you suddenly have to learn to care about a character again. Same for you?

(This argument is, of course, irrelevant is the POV change does not include character change.) Of course, a variation of it might apply: that you are torn from your immersion as you suddenly have to read the novel another way. It's usually best to stick to the ground rules, and you establish a ground rule by choosing a POV at the beginning.

For me, learning about a new character has nothing to do with it. I wouldn't really say it's about immersion, either; it's just that the point of view is an integral aspect of how the story is told, and changing it may severely disrupt the feel of the story.

[Bezombia]

The reason most hate character change is the same reason most hate prologues: you suddenly have to learn to care about a character again. Same for you?

(This argument is, of course, irrelevant is the POV change does not include character change.) Of course, a variation of it might apply: that you are torn from your immersion as you suddenly have to read the novel another way. It's usually best to stick to the ground rules, and you establish a ground rule by choosing a POV at the beginning.

For me, learning about a new character has nothing to do with it. I wouldn't really say it's about immersion, either; it's just that the point of view is an integral aspect of how the story is told, and changing it may severely disrupt the feel of the story.

So it would make sense if disrupting the feel of the story is your goal?


I admit that makes me sound like a terrible writer but it's not like anybody's gonna read this.

[Unitaristic Regions]

The reason most hate character change is the same reason most hate prologues: you suddenly have to learn to care about a character again. Same for you?

(This argument is, of course, irrelevant is the POV change does not include character change.) Of course, a variation of it might apply: that you are torn from your immersion as you suddenly have to read the novel another way. It's usually best to stick to the ground rules, and you establish a ground rule by choosing a POV at the beginning.

For me, learning about a new character has nothing to do with it. I wouldn't really say it's about immersion, either; it's just that the point of view is an integral aspect of how the story is told, and changing it may severely disrupt the feel of the story.

Are you sure we aren't using feel and immersion interchangeably?

[Unitaristic Regions]

For me, learning about a new character has nothing to do with it. I wouldn't really say it's about immersion, either; it's just that the point of view is an integral aspect of how the story is told, and changing it may severely disrupt the feel of the story.

So it would make sense if disrupting the feel of the story is your goal?


I admit that makes me sound like a terrible writer but it's not like anybody's gonna read this.

Yeah, why in god's name would you do that?

[Bezombia]

So it would make sense if disrupting the feel of the story is your goal?


I admit that makes me sound like a terrible writer but it's not like anybody's gonna read this.

Yeah, why in god's name would you do that?

The story is split into two parts, with the first half taking place over about fifteen years and the second half taking place over about a week (although I'm planning for both halves to be about the same length).
In a way I'm trying to make it so the two halves tell a continuous story but in totally different ways - the first half is in third person, has large gaps of time between chapters and chapters often span years, most of the plot is drawn out in small doses, and characters are plenty. The second half, on the other hand, is first person, has traces of unreliable narratorship, has a compressed but consistent timeline, and only has a couple characters.

[Respubliko de Libereco]

For me, learning about a new character has nothing to do with it. I wouldn't really say it's about immersion, either; it's just that the point of view is an integral aspect of how the story is told, and changing it may severely disrupt the feel of the story.

So it would make sense if disrupting the feel of the story is your goal?

Sure, but as with any other exception to a "rule" of good writing it takes attention and skill to make sure that everything comes out well.

Are you sure we aren't using feel and immersion interchangeably?

Sorta? I mean, "immersion" is usually related to feeling like you're "in the story," whereas what I'm referring to is probably closer to "unity of effect." The two may very well be related, though.

Yes, I know that Poe would say that a novel already lacks unity of effect simply by virtue of being a novel, but I still think the concept is relevant.

[Unitaristic Regions]

Yeah, why in god's name would you do that?

The story is split into two parts, with the first half taking place over about fifteen years and the second half taking place over about a week (although I'm planning for both halves to be about the same length).
In a way I'm trying to make it so the two halves tell a continuous story but in totally different ways - the first half is in third person, has large gaps of time between chapters and chapters often span years, most of the plot is drawn out in small doses, and characters are plenty. The second half, on the other hand, is first person, has traces of unreliable narratorship, has a compressed but consistent timeline, and only has a couple characters.

Hmmm... I'm honestly not sure if that'd work, I guess it would depends on how well you write it .

[Respubliko de Libereco]

Hey guys, would you mind telling me what you think of this short story I submitted to the writing contest? It's only 2,000 words. (I swear that I won't use feedback to change my final submission, that would be kinda unfair and childish. I'm just really impatient to get some judgement .)

The Bleak Place

On the horizon the sun hung, dying its own private death, signalling a sickly dusk on the city’s warped streets and leaking houses. The many bricks of this place stank of unspecified liquids and vague corruption, hinting at the disasters of the past and prophesying the horrors of the future. Their once virile brown colour had now eroded into that of mud, surface covered in the rust of ancient blood.
It was in this twilight that two figures crept, the silhouettes of their bodies pressed against the crumbling walls, now climbing over a some rotting fences, then running through the dried-up grass of gardens, barely pausing to shoot a glance at such lost potential. The citizens of this bleak place did not reflect much on their fate: such is the nature of survival; those that are filled with the rush of adrenaline and the pump of a terrified heart can little afford philosophical reflection.
The one in front raised a hand as they approached a particularly low building, so squat and torn at the bottom, it resembled a ragged pustule bursting out of a ruined skin, nearly all its surface covered in bleached signs and anarchic blood-paintings. All that gave away its previous function now, was the oven-chimney jutting out of its side and the sign the figure with his hand up stood on, depicting a fresh loaf of bread.
“Seems a solid place,” he said to his companion, trying to control his raging fear, “It would work.”
“Are you absolutely sure?” The other said, voice shaking, “Baked goods do not last all that long…”
The one with his hand up looked back, irritation born out of panic lining his voice as he spoke: “Ain’t the dam’ bakery we looking for, ‘tis the dam’ house the baker lived in! Place is built like a bunker, ugly one at that, and ‘tis not such a stretch to believe the man saw all this coming and built in expectation of it, nah?”
“A bunker-bakery? Eh… it would be worth the risk, but... we really need shelter for the night. We really, really-”
The one up front did not wait to hear him finish, instead walking over to the building, his broad body casting wide shadows onto the houses nearby, their silent posture relentless and threatening. He was never careful, his companion thought, always too brash, but he followed him down the street nonetheless, both careful to walk on the balls of their naked feet, even more careful not to touch anything that might make a noise.
Indeed, they were a ragged bunch, their clothes tattered strips of cloth of faded colour and their skin sun-burnt yet brown. Over their sharp eyes, fat locks of hair hung, thick and unwashed.
They were lean, covered in a criss-cross of scars, the rash one more so than his friend.
As they pressed their bodies against the walls of the bakery, near-panting with cropped-up fear, their patchwork shirts clinging to their bodies, sure to leave a fine lining of salt on their skin when and if the sweat dried, the rash one hissed: “’Tis it, little man,” the sick light illuminating his rash expression of triumph.
“Fuck off, Ryk.”
The one that had just spoken was tense, his eyes looking from here to fro, checking the open doorways and looming alleys, but found nothing: all was silent. Indeed, even the wind had no power here, leaving the smells of rot to float through the air unabated.
Ryk shot him a glance and said: “Keep it together, Urd.”
He clenched his jaw together, opened the door slowly, his feet tapping on the ground as soft as his body would have it, beckoning Urd to follow him with a thick arm.
As they walked inside, Urd let his eyes trail along the furniture and goods, all covered in a generous layer of dust, and soot: for some reason or another, the back of the building had been blasted away, charring the buildings’ tables and floor. Through the hole more pale light seeped into the building, made of that which had been eroded for so long now. It shone some peace upon the ruins, and seemed to Urd to be a small kindness, in its own way. God was dead. Only the sun was left now, however soon it might be extinguished.
He traced a finger along a crust of bread: a rock’s surface would not have felt differently, if perhaps more clean.
“Fuck!”
“Hm?” mumbled Urd.
“’Fuckin’ wall is broken, ye blind Dutch git. No shelter when day dies. If dis ain’t no ‘bakery-bunker’, we’re fucked.”
Urd nodded. Right. Should have thought of that. He said: “Well, it would be possible that there is a trapdoor somewhere…”
He crouched, looked underneath a few tables. Behind him, there were some harsh sounds: likely Ryk flipping over couches.
“Should we be so loud?” Urd said.
“If yer’ scared, go fuck off.”
Always a hospitable lad, dear Ryk.
“Too rash,” Urd mumbled, “So rash…”
It was truly a dank place, although not quite ridden with the musk of evil that had infected this city so dearly, it felt as if its soul had been ripped through the hole so unsubtly blasted in the wall. The bakery was a shell.
“Nothin’,” Ryk whispered, his fingers pawing through the sand on the stones, ‘Nothin’ at all!’
Urd shook his head and, shaking a little, crept to to the hole, feeling the sun’s meagre warmth consoling his skin. It was now nearly gone, lighting up the horizon in a dawn so pale it looked as if cancerous piss had spread itself over those far-away mountain peaks.
“We’re fucked,” He said, “So fucked…”
It was, of course, their arrogance that was to blame. Even the most careful gambler is at risk of deeming himself a ‘natural’ if his luck strikes true enough times, to then take the fall is his darkest and most undeserved self-assurance. And Urd and Ryk were much, but not exactly careful.
Urd kept shaking his head, tears now showing in his eyes as the light disappeared. The sun was the only thing left that could embrace him with a mother’s warmth: now it was gone, and it left them, all alone and scared. In his head, that one childhood rhyme abounded, again and again in schizophrenic determination. He whispered it out loud:

“Listen Child,
Do this for me.
Live not Loud,
And do not See.

Be blessed with that,
A wileful yawn,
Look not for that,
Which swallows Dawn.

The Sight will blind,
The Ears will falter,
The Tongue will still,
But the Nose shall alter.

Out there it doth Lurks,
Creeps and it does Wait,
it What follows Dark,
And doth People ate.“

Ryk stood, minding little his step, and came standing next to Urd as the pale yellow of the final light was gone. Night did not wait: it crept over the houses like an impatient shadow, the ever-omniscient fog thickening like it was to be the courier of its coming. No man should be outside at this time. At home, Urd and Ryk had had the great bunkers, the underground dwellings were humanity cowered as night cloyed over the land. But here, in the city? There would be no relief.
“Ryk,” Urd said, growing more pale, “I just realized something.”
“Hm?”
“What if… what if this bakery appeared to others too as a shelter, as some ingenious bunker but above-ground? What if it was intact, then? What if the wall was too thin and the Night… the Night came in by making this hole?”
Silence as the bakery went black and the fog seeped in. There was a stink, now, rotten like sulphur and dung, and there were sounds of creaking and moaning, ever so softly. Ryk peered out of the hole.
“’Tis the houses…”
Urd followed his gaze, and with great horror saw what his half-brother meant: the ancient houses, constructed in the glorious time of legendary queen Victoria, were moving, swaying, from left, to right, to left, to right, terribly hypnotic, side by side. Their windows and doors seemingly replaced by holes of darkness, it seemed as if they had eyes and a mouth: all gaping and staring at the two boys as they moved. The crumbling mortar keeping them together seemed to suffer, as creaks erupted from the buildings.
“This would not have been how mother would have wanted me to die…” Urd whispered.
“Dam’ yer fuckin' ugly motter! ‘Tis not ‘ow fatter would wan’ et!”
Would any father want such a fate as was coming for his sons, however estranged they might be? Urd’s startled mind wandered in absent wonder and shock, as the houses continued to sway like animated corpses. From the creaks their unnatural movement opened in their stony skin, thick liquid oozed like pus, leaking onto the pavement and slithering towards the bakery in small trickles. Urd stared at them: such heaving and intense darkness! Death was mesmerizing, tru-
A hand slapping the back of his head.
“Run, ye git!”
They turned. Ryk bashed open the bakery’s doors and they hurtled out on to the streets, near-gagging from the fog that they breathed and near-crying from the shock, but their pounding heart flogged them onwards. The street shook, their cobbles flowing wave-like as the houses at both of its sides continued their mesmerized dance.
As the air rippled along with the ground, Urd stumbled and tripped, the stone no longer to be trusted. The floor rose, then fell, dropping him and shaking his body. He coughed, screamed, scrambled to his feet and screamed for his mother but she was dead and would not hear. He looked for Ryk, but his half-brother ran on, only looking back at Urd with terror in his eyes.
Urd yelled: “Wai!” but his brother turned his head away and ran. Between them, the dark pus trickled its way through the street and so they were separated. Urd looked: what way, what way? But there was but the dark stone of street, the dark brick of house, and the pus, the pus. Clawing at his hair he ran into an alley.
Above his head lisping voices seeped from the window-sills: “Brother, brother, come find me! Save me!”
These empty echoes floated through the air, taunting him and burrowing in his ears.
“BROTHER! BROTHER! BROTHER!”
Urd wanted to scream, but his breath had left him, and so he begged it to stop, but the voices continued, the shrill destroyers ripping through his head and drilling at his skull. As his resolve faltered and his mind crumbled, he put his hands to his ears, and ripped. There was no more sound, just the feeling of wetness at his head and pain, pain, pain…
He felt himself pant through his heaving chest, his eyes burning as if blood-shot. He wanted to run, but he had reached a dead-end. Clawing at the wall of the house blocking him, he felt his arms sink into the stone: when he pulled them back they dripped stinking mud and writhing maggot. He moaned. The house collapsed.
The insects were in his mouth instantaneously, biting at his tongue and ripping shreds off of it. He could not die now! He brought his hand into his mouth, and ripped.
As he thrashed about, body contorting, he could still see the houses as he came out of the pile, bending over, their doorways hungry maws… and the teeth that came from those doors! Yellow, sharp, twisting outwards, and the stink… he could not bear the sight of his death. He brought his hands to his eyes, and ripped.

As a judge, I won't comment on the text, but I suggest that you reconsider certain formatting choices. History has been known to repeat itself.

[Unitaristic Regions]

Hey guys, would you mind telling me what you think of this short story I submitted to the writing contest? It's only 2,000 words. (I swear that I won't use feedback to change my final submission, that would be kinda unfair and childish. I'm just really impatient to get some judgement .)

The Bleak Place

On the horizon the sun hung, dying its own private death, signalling a sickly dusk on the city’s warped streets and leaking houses. The many bricks of this place stank of unspecified liquids and vague corruption, hinting at the disasters of the past and prophesying the horrors of the future. Their once virile brown colour had now eroded into that of mud, surface covered in the rust of ancient blood.
It was in this twilight that two figures crept, the silhouettes of their bodies pressed against the crumbling walls, now climbing over a some rotting fences, then running through the dried-up grass of gardens, barely pausing to shoot a glance at such lost potential. The citizens of this bleak place did not reflect much on their fate: such is the nature of survival; those that are filled with the rush of adrenaline and the pump of a terrified heart can little afford philosophical reflection.
The one in front raised a hand as they approached a particularly low building, so squat and torn at the bottom, it resembled a ragged pustule bursting out of a ruined skin, nearly all its surface covered in bleached signs and anarchic blood-paintings. All that gave away its previous function now, was the oven-chimney jutting out of its side and the sign the figure with his hand up stood on, depicting a fresh loaf of bread.
“Seems a solid place,” he said to his companion, trying to control his raging fear, “It would work.”
“Are you absolutely sure?” The other said, voice shaking, “Baked goods do not last all that long…”
The one with his hand up looked back, irritation born out of panic lining his voice as he spoke: “Ain’t the dam’ bakery we looking for, ‘tis the dam’ house the baker lived in! Place is built like a bunker, ugly one at that, and ‘tis not such a stretch to believe the man saw all this coming and built in expectation of it, nah?”
“A bunker-bakery? Eh… it would be worth the risk, but... we really need shelter for the night. We really, really-”
The one up front did not wait to hear him finish, instead walking over to the building, his broad body casting wide shadows onto the houses nearby, their silent posture relentless and threatening. He was never careful, his companion thought, always too brash, but he followed him down the street nonetheless, both careful to walk on the balls of their naked feet, even more careful not to touch anything that might make a noise.
Indeed, they were a ragged bunch, their clothes tattered strips of cloth of faded colour and their skin sun-burnt yet brown. Over their sharp eyes, fat locks of hair hung, thick and unwashed.
They were lean, covered in a criss-cross of scars, the rash one more so than his friend.
As they pressed their bodies against the walls of the bakery, near-panting with cropped-up fear, their patchwork shirts clinging to their bodies, sure to leave a fine lining of salt on their skin when and if the sweat dried, the rash one hissed: “’Tis it, little man,” the sick light illuminating his rash expression of triumph.
“Fuck off, Ryk.”
The one that had just spoken was tense, his eyes looking from here to fro, checking the open doorways and looming alleys, but found nothing: all was silent. Indeed, even the wind had no power here, leaving the smells of rot to float through the air unabated.
Ryk shot him a glance and said: “Keep it together, Urd.”
He clenched his jaw together, opened the door slowly, his feet tapping on the ground as soft as his body would have it, beckoning Urd to follow him with a thick arm.
As they walked inside, Urd let his eyes trail along the furniture and goods, all covered in a generous layer of dust, and soot: for some reason or another, the back of the building had been blasted away, charring the buildings’ tables and floor. Through the hole more pale light seeped into the building, made of that which had been eroded for so long now. It shone some peace upon the ruins, and seemed to Urd to be a small kindness, in its own way. God was dead. Only the sun was left now, however soon it might be extinguished.
He traced a finger along a crust of bread: a rock’s surface would not have felt differently, if perhaps more clean.
“Fuck!”
“Hm?” mumbled Urd.
“’Fuckin’ wall is broken, ye blind Dutch git. No shelter when day dies. If dis ain’t no ‘bakery-bunker’, we’re fucked.”
Urd nodded. Right. Should have thought of that. He said: “Well, it would be possible that there is a trapdoor somewhere…”
He crouched, looked underneath a few tables. Behind him, there were some harsh sounds: likely Ryk flipping over couches.
“Should we be so loud?” Urd said.
“If yer’ scared, go fuck off.”
Always a hospitable lad, dear Ryk.
“Too rash,” Urd mumbled, “So rash…”
It was truly a dank place, although not quite ridden with the musk of evil that had infected this city so dearly, it felt as if its soul had been ripped through the hole so unsubtly blasted in the wall. The bakery was a shell.
“Nothin’,” Ryk whispered, his fingers pawing through the sand on the stones, ‘Nothin’ at all!’
Urd shook his head and, shaking a little, crept to to the hole, feeling the sun’s meagre warmth consoling his skin. It was now nearly gone, lighting up the horizon in a dawn so pale it looked as if cancerous piss had spread itself over those far-away mountain peaks.
“We’re fucked,” He said, “So fucked…”
It was, of course, their arrogance that was to blame. Even the most careful gambler is at risk of deeming himself a ‘natural’ if his luck strikes true enough times, to then take the fall is his darkest and most undeserved self-assurance. And Urd and Ryk were much, but not exactly careful.
Urd kept shaking his head, tears now showing in his eyes as the light disappeared. The sun was the only thing left that could embrace him with a mother’s warmth: now it was gone, and it left them, all alone and scared. In his head, that one childhood rhyme abounded, again and again in schizophrenic determination. He whispered it out loud:

“Listen Child,
Do this for me.
Live not Loud,
And do not See.

Be blessed with that,
A wileful yawn,
Look not for that,
Which swallows Dawn.

The Sight will blind,
The Ears will falter,
The Tongue will still,
But the Nose shall alter.

Out there it doth Lurks,
Creeps and it does Wait,
it What follows Dark,
And doth People ate.“

Ryk stood, minding little his step, and came standing next to Urd as the pale yellow of the final light was gone. Night did not wait: it crept over the houses like an impatient shadow, the ever-omniscient fog thickening like it was to be the courier of its coming. No man should be outside at this time. At home, Urd and Ryk had had the great bunkers, the underground dwellings were humanity cowered as night cloyed over the land. But here, in the city? There would be no relief.
“Ryk,” Urd said, growing more pale, “I just realized something.”
“Hm?”
“What if… what if this bakery appeared to others too as a shelter, as some ingenious bunker but above-ground? What if it was intact, then? What if the wall was too thin and the Night… the Night came in by making this hole?”
Silence as the bakery went black and the fog seeped in. There was a stink, now, rotten like sulphur and dung, and there were sounds of creaking and moaning, ever so softly. Ryk peered out of the hole.
“’Tis the houses…”
Urd followed his gaze, and with great horror saw what his half-brother meant: the ancient houses, constructed in the glorious time of legendary queen Victoria, were moving, swaying, from left, to right, to left, to right, terribly hypnotic, side by side. Their windows and doors seemingly replaced by holes of darkness, it seemed as if they had eyes and a mouth: all gaping and staring at the two boys as they moved. The crumbling mortar keeping them together seemed to suffer, as creaks erupted from the buildings.
“This would not have been how mother would have wanted me to die…” Urd whispered.
“Dam’ yer fuckin' ugly motter! ‘Tis not ‘ow fatter would wan’ et!”
Would any father want such a fate as was coming for his sons, however estranged they might be? Urd’s startled mind wandered in absent wonder and shock, as the houses continued to sway like animated corpses. From the creaks their unnatural movement opened in their stony skin, thick liquid oozed like pus, leaking onto the pavement and slithering towards the bakery in small trickles. Urd stared at them: such heaving and intense darkness! Death was mesmerizing, tru-
A hand slapping the back of his head.
“Run, ye git!”
They turned. Ryk bashed open the bakery’s doors and they hurtled out on to the streets, near-gagging from the fog that they breathed and near-crying from the shock, but their pounding heart flogged them onwards. The street shook, their cobbles flowing wave-like as the houses at both of its sides continued their mesmerized dance.
As the air rippled along with the ground, Urd stumbled and tripped, the stone no longer to be trusted. The floor rose, then fell, dropping him and shaking his body. He coughed, screamed, scrambled to his feet and screamed for his mother but she was dead and would not hear. He looked for Ryk, but his half-brother ran on, only looking back at Urd with terror in his eyes.
Urd yelled: “Wai!” but his brother turned his head away and ran. Between them, the dark pus trickled its way through the street and so they were separated. Urd looked: what way, what way? But there was but the dark stone of street, the dark brick of house, and the pus, the pus. Clawing at his hair he ran into an alley.
Above his head lisping voices seeped from the window-sills: “Brother, brother, come find me! Save me!”
These empty echoes floated through the air, taunting him and burrowing in his ears.
“BROTHER! BROTHER! BROTHER!”
Urd wanted to scream, but his breath had left him, and so he begged it to stop, but the voices continued, the shrill destroyers ripping through his head and drilling at his skull. As his resolve faltered and his mind crumbled, he put his hands to his ears, and ripped. There was no more sound, just the feeling of wetness at his head and pain, pain, pain…
He felt himself pant through his heaving chest, his eyes burning as if blood-shot. He wanted to run, but he had reached a dead-end. Clawing at the wall of the house blocking him, he felt his arms sink into the stone: when he pulled them back they dripped stinking mud and writhing maggot. He moaned. The house collapsed.
The insects were in his mouth instantaneously, biting at his tongue and ripping shreds off of it. He could not die now! He brought his hand into his mouth, and ripped.
As he thrashed about, body contorting, he could still see the houses as he came out of the pile, bending over, their doorways hungry maws… and the teeth that came from those doors! Yellow, sharp, twisting outwards, and the stink… he could not bear the sight of his death. He brought his hands to his eyes, and ripped.

As a judge, I won't comment on the text, but I suggest that you reconsider certain formatting choices. History has been known to repeat itself.

Okay, I'll do that. Thank you.

[Unitaristic Regions]

As a judge, I won't comment on the text, but I suggest that you reconsider certain formatting choices. History has been known to repeat itself.

Okay, I'll do that. Thank you.

Now that I think of it, I'm not sure why I even chose center in the first place. Probably to make it look pretty. Bad reason.

[Unitaristic Regions]

I just realized it's ridiculous a rhyme knows the right cause, but most people don't. I should correct that.

[Roritania]

Hello everyone! I'm new here as you can tell. I dabble in writing. I've got two books out so far, actually. I mostly so sci-fi and science fantasy.

[Respubliko de Libereco]

I've decided to start collecting my poems into one of those personal gallery threads that everyone else seems to have, so they won't just sit around rotting in the the annals of the Writing Discussion. Any advice from people who already have similar threads?

[Nerotysia]

I've decided to start collecting my poems into one of those personal gallery threads that everyone else seems to have, so they won't just sit around rotting in the the annals of the Writing Discussion. Any advice from people who already have similar threads?

Remember to actually keep updating them. That's something I'm bad at. You might say it's because I'm terrible at thread maintenance, but you would be wrong. Because reasons.