Struggling Writers discussion

If you have any science fiction you'd like immediate critique on, just post them under this topic. Remember, NO LINKS are accepted. And you cannot post a gateway link to ALL of your stories. That's what the Your Writing testimont is for.

Type Away!

Trying this out for content. I know their are still edits to be done but I want to know... does this grab you as a reader?

I woke up to the glow of Neeve's skin and I knew something was desperately wrong. It was well before we were supposed to be awake and out of our stasis chambers which could only mean one thing, Neeve had had a nightmare and had opened my chamber. Neeve serves under me as my second in Zeta Tank and is the closest thing I have to a friend. We have been close for many decades and were born at the same time. Maybe born isn't the correct term for how we came to have life. To tell the truth, I don't know what you would call it. We have seen and experienced much together although lately Neeve is beginning to concern me. Her nightmares have become regular, almost two per week, which is a lot in sixteen days. Each one seems to create more fear and confusion than the last. We are not supposed to dream with, or even have, extreme emotions. Our chips are programmed to regulate our emotions and the fact that Neeve is having nightmares that actually come to fruition is baffling and dangerous. Oh don't get me wrong, we feel emotion. It's just that we have never felt hate, rage, or love. We are kept on a more even emotional scale because it is required of our job, our purpose for being.

I sat up and rubbed my eyes as I looked at the clock that glared back at me 25:16AH. This was extremely early, even for me, and I usually am awake at least thirty minutes before the others, mostly because I'm the leader of Zeta Tank and feel I need time to mentally prepare for my day without the buzz of the tank. I turned to Neeve dreading the conversation I knew I was getting ready to have. "Neeve, what are you doing awake and out of your stasis chamber? You know if the council finds out you are having these incidents they will want you to have your chip worked on. Especially if they know your dreams are really happening" I said.

Neeve, glowing more brightly now that she knew my eyes were fully open, seemed out of breath and was almost trembling from her fear. She was sweating which wasn't normal either. "I'm sorry Keelin but you know I can't talk to anyone else about these dreams. I had the worst nightmare of an expedition that has not yet happened. I dreamt that Zeta Tank was sent to a galaxy to research a species that took the very life force of others. It was so strange because they looked humanoid most of the time but then there were times they changed into something I can't even describe. They were hideous, beautiful, and dangerous all at the same time. And they could do things that organic life forms shouldn't be able to do. They could teleport and warp reality so it was like you were somewhere else with someone else."

I tried to listen with an open mind but the things that were coming out of her mouth were flat out absurd. This is definitely the worst nightmare she has had, I thought to myself. Neeve usually has nightmares about the council members doing dirty deeds or something on I-STAR breaking causing harm to someone but this was a whole new level of crazy, even for Neeve. "Neeve, I've never experienced what it's like to have lost my mind but I'm pretty sure you're there. Maybe you should go see Leandra first thing in the morning and tell her what's happening to you because if you are this unstable in your dreams, I don't want you going on the next expedition."

If I thought Neeve looked frightened before, now she looked absolutely terrified. "I can't do that. They will research me and possibly even take out my chip. I am worth more than just parts on a table. Please, I'm begging you, don't make me tell them!" she exclaimed with urgency.

"Neeve, you are my second and my friend but I have to think of the tank and what is best for us all. You are not well and need to see Leandra. I will talk to her about what is happening and ask that she keep it in confidence. You have seen the way Leandra treats us and I can promise you that no harm will come to you. Leandra would never let that happen. You will leave my room and return to your stasis chamber until it is time for you to be awake. This is the last we will speak of these dreams, is that clear?" Could I keep my promise? I was pretty sure that Leandra wouldn't let any harm come to Neeve and keep this from the rest of council, then again, you never could predict the actions of any council member no matter how much time you spent with them.

Neeve looked at me as if I had already removed her chip and began disassembling her body piece by piece. It was a look I didn't like but Neeve new better than to question my decision once I had made up my mind. Neeve looked at me, almost through me, with glazed eyes and said "Yes Keelin, your decision is final and as your second I will follow your orders." It was a very robotic response and one I was used to and comfortable with, though I could detect her animosity. She quickly turned and left my quarters while the glowing of her skin faded as she walked down the hall to the Inquisitors mass quarter. Because I am the leader of Zeta Tank I have my own quarters but the rest of the Inquisitors under my command sleep in a large room just down the hall from mine, their chambers lining the wall.

29:30 above horizon sounded like a perfect time to wake up, allowing me time to organize my day before the others would arise. I typed the code on the keypad inside my chamber to put myself back into stasis and set the alarm for when I wanted to be woken up. Just as I started to think about Neeve and what I would tell Leandra about her current state the door to my chamber came up and I drifted into stasis.

C wrote: "Trying this out for content. I know their are still edits to be done but I want to know... does this grab you as a reader?

I woke up to the glow of Neeve's skin and I knew something was desperatel..."

I would work on the first bit if you are looking to really grab your reader. It is not boring but it doesn't shout "read me". I found it interesting enough once I continued with it but if you are looking for a grabbing piece I would work on it. Also be careful with your tenses. You have done well in slipping the bits of information in with the story instead of doing what I call "information dumps". Overall it needs work but it has potential, good luck!

it's interesting and I'm curious about this world or culture you are describing, but after the 4th paragraph, I think I lost it. Maybe shorter paragraphs? Some action or dialog instead of just being in the character's head? Stuff needs to happen in order to keep my attention.
Are you going to put some more up?? Please keep writing!

Michael, you're very welcome to post your story here:)

*I hope I'm doing this correctly. I'd like to post the first chapter of one of my current WIP's, but it exceeds the character limit by a good amount. I can post it in chunks, but I'm not sure if I'd be breaking any rules.

Anyway, here's the first section of that first chapter. I think I got all the paragraphs (Goodreads formatting is terrible). The book is currently titled, "Easy Money."*

The chime of an old-time alarm clock shattered the silence of early morning. Foot tall numbers flashed in the dark, a slow strobe timed perfectly to ease one out of sleep. A disorderly room appeared and disappeared in the strobe, clothes and food cartons scattered around everywhere. A man was sprawled on a foam mattress, face down in dried vomit.

He moaned at the flashing vidscreen, lofting a pillow at it. The pillow silently bounced off the ‘screen, falling gently on to the floor. He lifted his head, vomit crusted hair cracking as it pried loose from the mattress. Smacking his lips, pulling his tongue from where it was stuck to the roof of his mouth, he fumbled one arm over the side of the mattress, knocking an empty food carton away until he found a mostly empty bottle of beer. Rolling over just enough, he emptied the warm, flat lager into his desert mouth.
“Alarm, off!” he croaked. The chimes stopped and the vidscreen blazed to life, displaying current weather conditions along the Eastern Seaboard and Europe, news headlines, unread messages and the date and time: April 25, 2073, 10:34 am.

“Good Morning, Reg,” the vidscreen faded into a woman’s face, long, curly red hair cascading around her head and past her shoulders. Green eyes glowed within a freckled face to either side of a small pointed nose. The voice was a playful female Irish brogue. Reggie had passed a lot of credit for that interface.

“Ugh, I gotta piss,” he rolled off the bedmat, stood on unsteady legs and stretched. “Light. Dim,” he commanded and the room was bathed in a soft glow. His frame was tall and thin, but well muscled. Shoulder length dirty blond hair stood out at odd angles here and there, the entire left side matted and crusted as a result of last night’s binge. He was naked except for one sock and his body was meshed with a number of scars.

“Mornin’, Kate,” he said to the ‘screen. Kate smiled a perfectly programed smile. He stood near the center of a small room, roughly ten feet by twenty. The foam mat took up most of the space. In one corner was a waste disposal unit and a sonic shower, in another, a small cabinet that housed a built-in Contractor Food Printer. The vidscreen took up most of the wall opposite the bed. Along a side wall was a rickety bench. On it were scattered various handguns and sniper rifles in differing states of assembly.

He staggered over to the waste unit, scratching himself, kicking refuse out of the way. “You have two messages, Reg,” Kate said as he relieved himself.

“Play,” he grunted.

“First message.”

Kate faded out and a different redhead took her place. Centered in the frame was a small, Hollywood thin woman. Where Kate’s hair simulated a true Irish red, this woman’s was a highly dyed affair of brilliant orange, cut short to resemble a male military crew. She was so close to the camera, all Reggie could look at were her lightning blue eyes.

The small woman smiled. “Hey, Reg, been lookin’ for you,” her voice was a no-nonsense mid-west. “You weren’t home or at the Zephyr. Hope everything is realz.” She leaned closer to the camera and whispered, “Why don’t you stop by later? I’ve got something to show you.”

As the video winked out and Kate returned, Reggie mumbled, “I bet you do, Gris,” a smile playing across his lips.

“Second message. Audio only,” announced Kate.

The vidscreen faded to black and a thin voice began talking. It was a voice used to giving commands and being obeyed without question. “Reginald. I’m sure that after our visit, you did what you usually do and are now just waking up, vomit soaked and head splitting. I’m also sure that you don’t remember a thing about our conversation. Be so kind as to access your RAM bank and review our meeting. I look forward to the results.”

There was only one person who called him Reginald besides his grandmother. Only one person that Reggie knew who spoke with that kind of command.

Johann Stahler.

Stahler was President and CEO of Yndi Halda Heavy Industries, a robotics manufacturer that focused on industrial robots and military applications. The company was a minor player during the Corporate Takeover of 2023, when major corporations used their influence with financial institutions and their own large private armies to enact a coup. It was three years of slaughter, but in the end, the old United States government was overthrown. Since that time, borders were redrawn, and the new corporate-led countries prospered more than they ever did under the old republic rule.

Yndi Halda H.I. flourished during the third World War with a quadrupedal tank design that could go anywhere and housed enough firepower to destroy entire villages. With the money and power it gained, YHHI carved out its own space in what was once southern New England. It renamed the area Yndi City Provence and subdivided the land as per the new treaty regulations after 2026.

Stahler wasn’t just the President and CEO of YHHI, he was also the governor of Yndi City. He knew everything that happened in his domain and when he told you to do something, you did it.

Reggie was one of the special chosen few who worked directly with Stahler. The governor was a ruthless man and ruthless men often resorted to less than savory means of dealing with problems. Reggie was one of Stahler’s Guns.

Kate came back and smiled warmly at Reggie. He sighed and stepped into the shower. Punching a button, his body was bombarded with sub-sonic pulses. Dirt, grime and vomit all fell away and were whisked into the disposal tube. He missed the water showers he used to take when he was a kid, but global warming and other threats reduced the earth’s potable water supply enough that sonic showers were not only encouraged, in some places they were enforced by law.

He stepped out of the shower and pulled the neural umbilical off the wall and slipped the end into the slot behind his right ear. “Kate, download video and audio. Ten, twenty-four, twenty-seventy-three. Twenty hundred to zero hundred.”

“Accessing,” she said and then without a noticeable pause, “File RHE-10-20-4-20-73-T-20-0 is ready.”

“Thanks, Kate,” Reggie said as he pulled the umbilical out of the slot and hung it back up on the wall, carefully placing the plug end in an alcohol solution. “Play file.”

Kate once again blinked out and the file began. A view of a night-time Yndi street began moving. The point of view was Reggie’s, the footage recorded by his eyes. When the North American Alliance army gave him his new eyes, not only was he a walking, talking targeting computer, they also equipped him with camera, microphone and a terabyte of RAM to record everything he saw and heard. It was put there so that he could be monitored; functioning cybernetics were still in their infancy and his squad in the NAA army, the Jolly Rogers, were one of the few test groups. Access and playback of the RAM was pass protected, but Skitch had figured out how to break it and all the Rogers now enjoyed the ability to access their own RAM, either viewing it within their mind’s eye or by direct download.

Reggie recognized the view as the street just outside his flat. “Kate, forward thirty minutes.” He began hunting around the room, grabbing a pair of black jeans with a belt still through the loops from the back of a chair.

The playback flashed ahead, a blur of urban light and motion. He slipped on the jeans, and when the video jumped back to a normal speed, Reggie recognized the interior of the mag-train. “Kate, thirty more.”

Again the video flashed. Reggie found a black t-shirt with Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon prism on it. It was a gift from Gris that she bought from a second hand shop. She joked about his like of oldies music, but Reggie suspected that she found it endearing. He sniffed the shirt, determined that it didn’t smell that bad, and slipped it on. The fast forward ended, the view centered on a monstrous pyramid of glass and plasteel.

Yndi Halda Heavy Industries’ headquarters was a monument to geometry and corporate power that dominated the skyline of Sector One. Roughly half a mile square at the base, it rose over a quarter mile into the sky. A city block’s width of park area surrounded the pyramid; an arboretum celebrating the diversity of Earth’s flora.

The view shifted as Reggie walked toward the the main entrance of the pyramid, armed guards stopping him and conducting a quick search. He was told he was expected and would be escorted to Conference Room 27.

As Reggie pulled on a sock while he watched the footage, he relived the sinking feeling he felt last night.

An excerpt from the 'history' of an alien race.

Larqalon was a Waenstil theoretical physicist born shortly after the end of the First Great War. According to anecdotal evidence, as a hatchling Larqalon was considered mentally defective by the technician healers who examined him and teachers who attempted to instruct him – his mother was ignored when she pointed out he was simply bored by his surroundings.

After lackluster performance in a ‘normal’ learning venue, Larqalon’s parents sent him to a special education center with the thought he might possibly be rehabilitated enough by the age of twelve to return to a ‘normal’ academy. Instead, Larqalon managed to evade security in his new venue within the first few days and after a prolonged search was later discovered lecturing a small pack of virtually mesmerized raqucharls. One of the searchers, who had actually understood part of Larqalon’s impromptu lecture, promptly referred the young male to the mathematics instructor.

By age fifteen, Larqalon had graduated from his sociopolitical subdivision’s advanced university with specialties in both physics and pottery. By age twenty-one, Larqalon was teaching advanced courses on physics, performing theoretical work for his sociopolitical subdivision, and creating advanced porcelain pieces. If not for the ingenuity of a twenty-six year old physics student named Cerntifa, Larqalon might never have produced offspring.

According to a story related many years later by Larqalon’s first hatchling and daughter, Zertifu, Cerntifa first attempted to catch Larqalon’s attention by assuming an obvious mating posture in front of an instructional surface that contained a very detailed and very incorrect set of equations. Larqalon simply moved Cerntifa aside and began correcting the equations.

Cerntifa’s second and very successful attempt occurred in Larqalon’s ceramic’s studio one afternoon when he entered to find Cerntifa, her body smeared with clay, seated on his potter’s wheel. Zertifu was the result of Larqalon’s first mating with Cerntifa. They produced several other offspring together, but since none were as brilliant as the first child was, they have been forgotten over time.

R.F.G. wrote: "An excerpt from the 'history' of an alien race.

Larqalon was a Waenstil theoretical physicist born shortly after the end of the First Great War. According to anecdotal evidence, as a hatchling La..."

Interesting, though I don't get the feeling that there is anything "alien" about these characters. Their behaviors are very human. I assume that since this is an excerpt there is more. Perhaps an explanation as to why Larqalon specialized in physics AND pottery (a strange combination).

E.W. wrote: "Interesting, though I don't get the feeling that there is anything "alien" about these characters. Their behaviors are very human. I assume that since this is an excerpt there is more. Perhaps an explanation as to why Larqalon specialized in physics AND pottery (a strange combination). "

There is more, the race is prototherian (egg-laying 'mammals' with poison glands and an XY-ZW determinant pattern), and via their "Great Wars" they almost eradicated themselves as well as most of the other lifeforms on their planet.

One definition of the word human is 'having the characteristics of people'.

In my current work I am using base five for some of the alien numbers - its a long story literally. I am thinking of using sub-script to show the numbers to highlight to readers that the aliens are using base five. Having started the process I am now not convinced - just on the written page it looks odd - any suggestions? The alien use of base five is discussed in the mission statement for the main protagonist, which opens the book. Still have too much tell and not enough show. Extract below using brackets for the subscript

40(5) years of planning, 3(5) years of implementation measures, a year of practise and exercises and still the convergence caused concern. Apparently this was the 13(5) time in recorded history the convergence had occurred. The alignment of the 10(5) moons ...

@Philips I love Sci-fi, but to be honest, I don't get what you're trying to show there. You are probably aiming at hard core sci-fi and very specific readers, else, lose the double number thingy for something more simple.
This is only my two cents, but you want the readers to be drawn in the story, not do math.

Sorry G.G. for not being clear 40 in base five is 20 in base ten i.e. how we normally count. As part of the confusion the aliens have with humans and vice-versa I want to describe how they view numbers, currency distances and time. It's something I have blogged about as well. In this case in the MS I was trying to show base 5 numbers using a sub-srcipt notation to signify when the number written is in base 5. As I can't get Goodreads to show sub-script I used brackets to indicate.

As I have already demonstrated to you G.G, it may just add to reader confusion, but I don't want to use base ten . Maybe I'll try bold and italic formatting to indicate instead.

Philip wrote: "In my current work I am using base five for some of the alien numbers - its a long story literally. I am thinking of using sub-script to show the numbers to highlight to readers that the aliens are..."

I think it's cool that you're using a different number system for an alien species. I would strongly suggest that you do away with all that subscript stuff. If you've let the reader know about the base five system and explained it in the opening mission statement, that should be enough. If you're quoting directly from an alien manuscript, present it as the aliens have written it - trust that your readers will be able to follow along.

E.W. wrote: "Philip wrote: "In my current work I am using base five for some of the alien numbers - its a long story literally. I am thinking of using sub-script to show the numbers to highlight to readers that..."

Thanks E.W. I just tried a few with bold and italic and it doesn't look right - so back to how it was.

@Philips And I don't mean you to change anything. As E.W. said, it's cool that you use different system for the aliens as it most probably would be in real life anyway. I just thought it jarring to see two numbers. I think if you explain it quickly once, you shouldn't have to explain it every time you use their ways instead of Earth's ways as long as you make it clear from which side we're seeing it, you should be fine.

(And even at that. I'm sure that if that were to happen for real, there would be more than one instance that humans would use alien's measure and aliens might still think it's Earth's and vice versa.)

The confusion is a great idea, and the reader will fall for it more if they too are confused, but not by the way you write it but rather by the way of: "Do they mean 20 or 40? 1.5 or 3?"
(The same way the characters in the stories would.)

I just wrote this -- I hope you like it :D

The gentlemen entered the aged mansion. They were four in number: three were scientists, the fourth a medic. From a common colleague, a professor that they all knew, they had heard of this estate. They were all fairly intrigued by what they had heard, and by chance had all met one another.

Although the doors and windows of the antique home had long been boarded up, and an ominous mood had been set by that, none of the men were frightened in the least. Together, the first two broke down the rotting wooden planks which covered an old doorframe, and the others followed them inside.

Hats were not taken off when they entered, as they customarily would be in most situations. It was of no importance, though, for the mansion had remained uninhabited by humans for many years.

The first room, in which they had arrived, had fought a war, which Nature won in the end: mosses and molds of various sorts were sprawled across the chamber, having conquered furniture and floorspace. It was fairly likely that the rotting remains of a deceased rodent had been covered by the mound of crisp leafs that was situated in one corner. The smell of must and decay was as potent in the area as a bouquet of lilacs, freshly picked from the bush. Nonetheless, the scent was nowhere near as delightful.

Professor Armistead, the first of the four who had entered the abandoned estate, slightly loosened the tie which was tight around his neck. He coughed into his shoulder for a moment, the pungent smell echoing in his throat. After the slight pause, the quartet continued into the next room.

As they furthered into the mansion, the smell of decomposition decreased, as did the sight of Nature's invasion. Old furniture filled many of the rooms, dating to almost a century prior. They were in the style which was popular during the revolution in the country that was across the English Channel.

All the furnishings were very dusty, causing the men to sniffle every so often, and then sneeze violently. All but Professor Armistead did so at least twice, for he had covered his nose and mouth with a small cotton handkerchief which he had taken from his jacket's inside pocket.

The third, and youngest, of the four scientists, Mr. William Harrow, was using his handkerchief as well, burying his nose in it whenever he sniffled and sneezed. He was beginning to regret his decision to come on this excursion.

"Why do we have to come and do this?" he questioned, "Could we not have sent another man in our place? Someone more accustomed to this-" he sneezed again, "-dust."

Professor Hemmingsworth, the second of the men, replied: "If another man were to come, he, perhaps, would not knew what to look for, or where to find it."

"Or what to do with it," Dr. Burland, the fourth, added. "But we do."

"Quite," was all Professor Armistead contributed.

They continued to walk further into the old estate in silence. The stillness was only broken when Mr. Harrow sneezed again. "Bloody dust!" he exclaimed.

"Hush," Professor Armistead said in a steady tone.

Why he wished for silence confused Mr. Harrow. There was nobody to hear them, after all.

"The doctor's study cannot be too far," the professor added quietly.

They walked through the hallways in single file, none of them uttering another word. The ornately decorated walls and antique furniture pieces were of little or no consequence to the men, who only sought after an unknown answer to their questions.

At the end of the long corridor, down which they were currently walking, was a large pair of mahogany doors. A set of two identical bronze handles was set upon them, one with a keyhole underneath. The intricacies were becoming more visible on the grandiose doors and their handles as they approached. The rococo styled inlays in the wood and the framework around the edges were magnificent.

Professor Armistead stopped in front of them, and the gentlemen behind him did the same. He took a moment to inspect the entranceway before reaching into the inside pocket of his tweed jacket.

"Is this it?" Mr. Harrow asked, excitement and impatience evident in his voice.

"I believe so," Professor Hemmingsworth replied.

"But we shall soon see," added Professor Armistead. "Patience." Thus he proceeded to take a small key of bronze from his pocket, its style matching that of the doors and handles. After locating the keyhole, he inserted the key and turned it ever so carefully. It snapped forward and locked into place.

A series of clicks were heard beyond the doors, but then all sound of motion ceased.

The professor turned one of the handles and then pushed forward; lightly at first, then a bit harder. At first, the doors seemed to hesitate, perhaps from remaining closed for so long, but then they slowly opened, almost as if it was by their own power.

The professor smiled to himself. Professor Hemmingsworth and Dr. Burland were surprised, but not as much as Mr. Harrow, who was gaping in awe.

Still in single file, the four men walked in. They only audible sound was that of their shoes clicking on the hardwood floors.

Layers upon layers of dust coated everything in the large chamber. When the scientists walked through, their shoes left imprints in the dust-covered floor, like they might in a fresh layer of snow on the sidewalk.

Rows of floor-to-ceiling windows lined the walls, letting ample light pour into the long room. The glass in them was miraculously not broken and rather clean, and the sunshine from outside illuminated the specks of dust which flew in the air, hesitating as though they were unsure of which object to float down and adhere to. The humidity was low, and the air inside was crisp and dry.

"What exactly is it that we are looking for, Professor?" Mr. Harrow asked as the four men gazed upon the room, which contained numerous tables. Upon them, aged laboratory setups were laid out.

"You will know when you see it," Professor Armistead replied simply, not offering any other specific information.

"But what-"

"You will know it," the professor repeated slowly, "when you see it."

Mr. Harrow just stood still and silent, unsure of what to do now, or how to break the quiet that had just come upon the room. Meanwhile, the other three split from each other, silently moving about the various tables.

Dr. Burland looked over the first table on the left side of the grand chamber. It was covered with papers, some of which had blown on to the floor nearby in the past years.
The ones which remained upon the table were covered with a thick layer of dust. When he put his hand to one, intending on moving it over slightly, it crinkled, making a crips noise. His finger, which had briefly touched the document, now had a film of dust on it as well. He was disgusted by the uncleanliness.

The two other professors inspected the other tables in the room. All they found was a large collection of outdated instruments, dead specimens, and glass slides. The most notable discovery was a first edition copy of Charles Darwin's The Origin of Species in a stack of now obsolete reference books.

Mr. Harrow roamed to the far end of the room, still unsure of what to look for. On the last table in a dark corner on the left side of the room sat an old microscope and a tray which held a set of glass slides. Many were broken, just as the lens on the microscope likely was.

He wished he could see a little better in the dark, but there was no nearby source of power to connect a lamp to. He doubted that the old mansion was connected to electricity in the first place.

Picking up one of the slides to see what it had once contained, Mr. Harrow read 'horse hair'. On another slide he read 'horse skin'. The other slides in the set were labeled similarly, each with a different part of the horse. He inched towards the microscope, not wanting to touch them any longer.

Then the young man moved his attention to the antique instrument. He leaned over it and wiped some dust off the eyepiece with his thumb. He bent down and looked through it.

As expected, nothing was visible in the darkness.

Suddenly, he heard a click, like a switch being flipped.

The light of the microscope turned on.

"Professor!"