Man of Steel's Tales

I thought I'd post a short story or two that I've previously written here, and let you guys and gals help me improve my writing. Constructive criticism is appreciated greatly. I write as a hobby, mostly short stories, mostly Star Wars based.

This one is a bit weak in the latter part, I feel. I had intended to rewrite it, as the 'job' felt both out of character and a bit lame, but I've never gotten around to it. It's Star Wars based, but I don't think it will be too difficult for a non-Star Wars fan to relate to. The first half doesn't use a great deal of SW terminology, and what little is there is easy to figure out. Without further ado:

Corellian Odds

I was just stepping out of the doorway of my favorite tapcaf when she ran right into me, the most beautiful girl I'd ever seen. Looking down at her datapad, she hadn't noticed me, and I was preoccupied thinking about the essay I had yet to write on the Bothawui Conflict. My espresso, in it's plastifoam cup, spilled all over both of us, soaking the white shirt of my academy uniform and her blue blouse as she bounced off of my chest, looking up at my face then down at the mess the dark caf had made on our respective clothing. “I-I'm so sorry-I wasn't paying attention, I am so sorry,” she stammered, the startled yet apologetic expression on her beautiful face, surrounded by straight dark hair bringing an amused smile to my own face. “Don't worry about it. I wasn't paying attention where I was going either.” The girl looked sheepishly down at my now nearly empty plastifoam mug, then spoke again. “Let me buy you another cup of caf? Please?” I couldn't very well refuse such an offer from such an attractive girl as her. “Well... sure. Okay.” So much for that essay. “Great! Come on, then.” I followed her back into the tapcaf, her hips swaying with each step under the knee-length light blue skirt she wore, her dark hair swinging against her shoulders.


“What were you drinking?” she asked, reaching the counter. “Ah, an Unguay espresso, no foam,” I replied, peeling my wayward eyes away from her hips. She placed the order, and as we waited for the drinks to be prepared, extended a hand. “I'm Tyri.” “Eoin. Nice to meet you,” I said, taking her hand. “I really am sorry for that. I'll pay for your shirt, too.” “No, no. It was partly my fault, too. If I'd been paying attention, I could have stepped out of your way.” “Well, if you're sure...” The droid behind the counter handed us our caf drinks, and Tyri nodded toward a booth near the door. “Would you like to sit with me for a minute?” “Sure.” I slid into the seat opposite her as she sat, placing her datapad on the table. Tyri blew into her cup, cooling the hot caf with her breath, then took a careful sip. “Mmm, that's good. They have the best caf here,” she said, swallowing the hot liquid. Amazed at my good fortune in meeting such an attractive girl, as my luck usually went the other ay altogether, I just nodded, smiling. “So, I notice by your uniform you go to Guntell Academy? I'm transferring there from Hinyu,” she announced.


“Yeah, it's a pretty good school. Hinyu? Isn't that in Kor Vella?” She's going to be going to Guntell. Wow. This gorgeous girl is going to be in the same classes as me... I thought to myself as I spoke. Kor Vella was the capital of my home planet of Corellia, a large, mainly tourist-oriented city. Here in Junei, a much smaller city in the shadow of the mountain ranges, we hardly ever saw any off-worlders. “Yeah. My parents got me into Hinyu, then my dad lost a lot of money gambling, and they had to transfer me because money was getting tight.” I wondered briefly why she would tell me, a complete stranger, this. “Wow. That sucks. Hope everything works out.” Tyri smiled, just that small smile nearly halting my bodily functions with it's sheer beauty. “Oh, don't worry. He does it every year or so. Kind of a tradition, usually just enough to really make my mom mad. He just overdid it this time, is all.” She shook her head, her hair falling over into her eyes, a laugh coming from her near perfect mouth. “My dad's a mess,” she said fondly, brushing the hair from her eyes with a well manicured hand.


For some reason I felt at ease with her, something I hadn't felt around a girl in years, since my sister died. I grinned widely. “Sounds like it. I think I'd like your dad.” Tyri laughed, a sparkle in her eyes. I could tell she really loved her father. “Do you have anything planned for tonight?” When the most charmingly beautiful girl you've ever seen, much less had the extreme pleasure of meeting, asks you if you're busy that night, it doesn't matter if you had a meeting with the Supreme Chancellor himself. You're suddenly not busy at all. “Not that I know of. What did you have in mind?” “A friend told me about this great Coruscanti restaurant in Thoro Square. Want to go try it out with me?” Again, the answer was a given. “That sounds great. Want me to pick you up?” She smiled again, the sight melting my heart like warm nerf butter. “Sure. Around 1900 hours? I'm in Dorm Dorn Besh Kresh.” I replied, glancing at my wrist chrono, “Okay, 1900 it is.” It was 1426 now, so that would give me better than two and a half standard hours to get ready. Maybe I could even get started on that essay. Tyri stood, as did I, and said, “Well, I'd better be going. I still need to finish unpacking. See you at 1900!” “See you then.” With that, she was gone, whisking out of the tapcaf toward the school campus. I couldn't believe it. I had a date with the most beautiful girl on Corellia.

* * * * * *

Of course, as with most things in my life, it didn't work out. By the time I got there, a friend had invited her to go to a different restaurant, and not thinking, she had been talked into it. So I was left sitting in my late-model speeder, dejectedly listening to the local radio broadcasts. That had been eighteen years ago, long before I got where I am today. I sighed, straightening up in my seat, shaking off the daydream. That was one of the more vivid memories of my younger years, just another reason I had eventually become what I had. A thief. Not just any thief, though. I only stole from the rich, preferably only Imperials or those who supported the Empire. I gave what I could to those who needed it, making the occasional donation to the Rebellion, but mainly giving to those whose lives the Empire had disrupted. I was good at what I did. A master of disguises, expert slicer and superb actor, I could bluff, slice, or con my way through anything to get the goods. Despite the large amounts of credits I often possessed, I lived modestly. I owned an upper level apartment on Coruscant, which is where I did most of my work, and another apartment back on Corellia. Neither were furnished richly, just well enough to be comfortable when I was there, which I often wasn't.


Such as today. Though I hated taking public transport on Coruscant, it was at times a necessary evil. Glancing out of the viewport beside me, I saw that the shuttle was approaching my stop. Standing, I made my way to the front of the vehicle, reaching the doors just as the transport came to a stop. Stepping through the doors down onto the worn duracrete of the busy street, I looked around, surveying the crowds. All manner of sentients could be seen in the streets, each hurrying to their respective destinations. So many people, most with jobs they likely considered important. I began to walk, heading toward Kulu Square. There were a group of buildings facing Kulu Square, including a museum and a bank. My destination was the museum. A large plaque out front proclaimed Coruscant War Museum and Memorial in bold lettering.

They had a certain artifact from the Clone Wars that I needed. Apparently there had been a top-ranking general on the side of the CIS in the Clone Wars, by the name of Grievous, and he had the habit of collecting his Jedi victims' lightsabers. He had carried on his person four of these trophies, and when he had died at the hands of a Jedi, one had been recovered and the others reproduced. It was that one functioning lightsaber on display here that I was after. I had a collector willing to pay top credit. I paused briefly at the steps leading up to the museum's entrance at this level, adjusting the collar of the uniform I wore. I had decided upon a less direct approach for this job. I had a uniform made that matched that of the security inspector, who was due to run a routine check on the museum security later today. I had all the appropriate identification and papers, and had planned it down to the minute.

Checking my chrono, I saw that I was running a good five minutes early. Perfect. I walked briskly up the steps and through the automatic doors, striding confidently, with just a hint of a limp in my left leg. I headed straight to the main security desk, nodding to the guard at the entrance, who looked at the nameplate on my chest with apprehension. Reaching the security desk, I spoke to the senior guard on duty, “Security Inspector Held Spalden. I was due to arrive later this afternoon.” The man rose from his seat quickly, dropping a flimsiplast news bulletin onto the floor in his haste. “Inspector! We weren't expecting you for several hours. What brings you so early, sir?” This was going to be too easy... “Surprise is an important element in a proper inspection, as I'm sure you well know, Mr. ...” I made a show of looking for his nameplate, which I had already noticed was missing from his uniform shirt. “Er, Julf, sir. Trew Julf.” “I see. I'll need your passcards, Mr. Julf,” I said expectantly.

Always be expectant, I'd learned. If you expect to be obeyed, you stand a much better chance of being obeyed. Trew Julf fumbled at his belt, unclipping his small ring of passcards and handing them to me wordlessly. I took them and indicated for him to follow me, as protocol called for. This was the tricky part. The shift change was in exactly fourteen minutes, and I had to be out by then, because the senior guard that would go on duty then knew the Security Inspector by sight. So I started directly for the floor that the model of General Grievous and his equipment was displayed on.

To be continued at a later date, if I don't completely rewrite it first . . .

* * * * *

Let me know what you think, all opinions welcome, especially prais-- Er, constructive criticism. I know it's not all that great, but I write what my fingers type, if that makes any sense, and go back and edit it later. Most of my writing comes off the top of my head, with no real thought behind it, just . . . daydreams, really. Anyhow, please do comment. More on the way pending comments on this one.

I LOVED your plot. But im not the guy to go to for Grammar and stuff. Keep it up!

i like it :) good story so far :D the begining (with all the talking) kinda drags on a litttle, but the 2nd part is great :) write the rest!

Wow just wow. Your writing is very catchy. If there was a book i would read it! But short stories are short stories. I hope you become a professional writer so i can read your work. Truly you should think of a professional career.

Thanks guys! I really appreciate all the positive comments! Freefire, as I said, this isn't one of my best, and I'm not all that great at writing the social aspects of it. If that makes sense. I tend more toward a single character's inner thoughts when possible.

Elwood, thanks! I could never really write professionally, I just can't seem to keep a coherent plot going on for long.

Okay, so I figured I'd post another, and hopefully get more responses. This is one I'd actually forgotten about, and it fits well into this site. It's intended to be about a guy that discovers he has telekinetic powers through his dreams. It needs tidying up still, keep that in mind. There are a couple of things that don't really make sense as they stand; I'll try and edit that to fix it as soon as I have time, as well as add on to these. Anyway, here it is. It is untitled, as of yet.

* * * * * *

My name is Kent Clark. My parents just had to go and name me Kent; my dad, being a huge Superman fan, just couldn't resist. I can't count how many times I was picked on in middle school, because of my name. See, I'm not an especially big kid. In fact, until recently, I was pretty scrawny. Being at the top of my class didn't help, either. The smart kids always get the most flak, it seems. Luckily, I never needed glasses. That would've just been the last straw.

I guess I should start with some sort of description of myself, really. I'm eighteen years old, right about five feet ten inches tall, and pretty slim. Brown hair; cut short, and blue eyes. I'm still plagued by acne most of the time, though sometimes it miraculously clears up for a week or so at a time, only to come back as quickly as it left. Lately I've built up some decent muscle structure; I actually have a six-pack now, something I never thought I'd get. Sometimes I wonder if I'm able to get into shape easier because of my ability.

That's the real reason you're reading this, of course: my ability. I'll have sent this out to all of my family and dearest friends. I suppose I should start at the beginning, I realize I haven't been very coherent this far. It's still overwhelming to think about, to tell you the truth. Here we go:



It was last summer. I woke up one morning, in my ordinary twin-size bed, to the loud, annoying buzzing of my alarm, that had somehow been knocked off of my bedside table the night before, as I discovered when I reached for the snooze button. That same drop must have turned the alarm on, because I didn't remember setting it. I rolled over, my sheet tangling around me, and fumbled on the floor for the clock radio, tracing the cord from where it came over the top of my bedside table. I had a pounding headache, whether from the alarm or from too little sleep, I didn't know. I finally found the alarm, flipped it over, hit snooze, and managed to get it back on my nightstand where it belonged. Then, of course, I rolled back over and promptly went back to sleep. I must have fallen directly into the REM stage, because I immediately entered a dreamscape.

In my dream, I was standing alone in the middle of a huge grassy meadow, with nothing but grass and the occasional patch of wildflowers for miles in any direction. I was just standing there, obviously waiting for something or someone. After about thirty seconds, I saw a sudden rustling in the grass, maybe twenty feet in front of me. Watching it, I knew it was what I'd been waiting for. The rustling grew nearer, then a furry head popped up, about ten feet away. It appeared to be an otter. It opened it's wide mouth, and spoke, “The grass is beautiful this time of year, no? But we don't have time to stand around ogling the scenery, we must be going. They near.” This being a dream, I of course thought nothing of a talking otter, but I was curious as to who he was talking about. “Who nears?”

"Enemies. Be ware of the flowers, they hide them.” Evidently this was enough information. The otter turned and began to trundle off, the way he had come. Looking over his smooth-furred shoulder, he gestured with a paw for me to follow. I nodded, and moved, keeping pace, a few feet behind the animal. With no warning whatsoever, I was suddenly jumped from behind by a heavy form, pushing me to the ground. I rolled, coming up smoothly, facing my attacker, to see what looked like an upright bison. Walking on it's hind two legs, the creature glared at me and bellowed deeply, then charged, making a strange buzzing noise in his throat. Just as I was sure he was about to hit me, I threw up my arm and gestured at him, somehow throwing him across the field, head over heels, still making that buzzing noise, until he hit the ground a good hundred yards away with a solid thud, like a sack of potatoes, and the sound quit. I looked at my hands in awe, amazed at my ability to telekinetically throw the creature with ease.

It was then that I realized that I was dreaming. Becoming fully aware now, I turned to look for the otter behind me. Seeing no sign of the little animal, I instead turned back to the bison, who was lying in a crumpled heap a hundred yards away. Focusing, I tried to lift the body with my thoughts, but I must have become too excited at that point, as I woke up, quite quickly, with a gut-wrenching falling sensation. One moment I was trying to pick up a buffalo in a huge meadow of green grass, the next I was laying in my bed, my arms moving in the gesture I had intended to make in the dream. Sighing, I shook my head. Time to get up and start the day.

It wasn't until I was up and almost fully dressed, pulling my socks on while sitting on the side of my bed, that I noticed my alarm clock. It was laying on the floor beside my door, the cord trailing behind it, unplugged. It looked like someone had thrown it clear across the room, ripping the cord out of the socket in the process. There was a mark on the wall by the door, about even with the height of my bedside table, and a piece of the plastic at the front of the clock was broken. Could someone have come into my room while I was asleep? I looked quickly at my door, sure I had locked it the night before. Sure enough, it was locked. The way my door locks, it can't be locked, then shut, either.

Then I remembered my dream. I remembered that odd buzzing noise the bison creature had made as it charged, and how I had hurled it across the meadow with telekinesis. No. It couldn't be. But... I thought back to those nights when I was younger, when I would awake from strange dreams to find that objects in my room seemed to have moved around in the night. I hadn't thought much of it at the time; either it was just my over-active imagination, which was a great possibility at the time, or my dad messing with me, as he sometimes did. My parents have a weird sense of humor at times.

I looked again at the clock radio. It had definitely been thrown, to have the front broken like that and that mark on the wall. There had been no one besides me in the room, of this I was certain. Well, I thought, what could it hurt? I raised my hand in front of me, to point at the clock radio, and slowly crooked my finger. I imagined the alarm clock slowly rising into the air, righting itself, and flying to my hand. Nothing, as expected. I shrugged. Well, it was worth a try. I stood, picked the clock up and set it on my nightstand, plugging it in. Reaching for my watch, I reset the clock radio to the correct time.

Breakfast time.



To be continued...

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Again, please do post comments, constructive criticism, or whatever. I appreciate you taking the time to read, and post.

"Sometimes I wonder if I'm able to get into shape easier because of my ability.

That's the real reason you're reading this, of course: my ability. "

This struck me as particularly effective. When I got to the last word of the first sentence, I thought "Wow, wow... hold on a second, did I miss something here? What ability?" As soon as I resumed reading, it was explained. For me, this did two things - one, it added a nice human touch, because the narrator evidently didn't know how to introduce the subject and it seems like it just sort of slipped out. Two, on a higher level, I appreciated how you as the author anticipated the reader's confusion and proceeded to address it in such a satisfying manner. After that, you pretty much have to read through the whole thing, so it was a very effective hook.

Also, in your first story, you did something vaguely similar - you mentioned an android behind the bar, and before that, a datapad. The datapad went over my head, I figured it was some sort of newfangled PDA I didn't know about, but the android thing made me stop to think - was it a metaphor, a joke about how mechanical the service guy is, or was it actually an android?! This sort of stringing along of the reader is very good for keeping people interested, because it keeps them on their toes and gives them something to think about actively as the tale unfolds.

Great job, overall! Spelling-and-grammar wise, I didn't notice any spelling mistakes, but one sentence struck me as being a tad too long -
"I woke up one morning, in my ordinary twin-size bed, to the loud, annoying buzzing of my alarm, that had somehow been knocked off of my bedside table the night before, as I discovered when I reached for the snooze button. "

I don't know what I would do with that, it's your story, but maybe cut it into two sentences or fuse some of the phrases together so there are less commas. The pacing is generally very good, but I found myself pausing a bit too much during this sentence, and it made me have to re-read it to get the full meaning.

Other than that, awesome! :D

Quote:

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Originally Posted by thegnome54

"Sometimes I wonder if I'm able to get into shape easier because of my ability.

That's the real reason you're reading this, of course: my ability. "

This struck me as particularly effective. When I got to the last word of the first sentence, I thought "Wow, wow... hold on a second, did I miss something here? What ability?" As soon as I resumed reading, it was explained. For me, this did two things - one, it added a nice human touch, because the narrator evidently didn't know how to introduce the subject and it seems like it just sort of slipped out. Two, on a higher level, I appreciated how you as the author anticipated the reader's confusion and proceeded to address it in such a satisfying manner. After that, you pretty much have to read through the whole thing, so it was a very effective hook.

Also, in your first story, you did something vaguely similar - you mentioned an android behind the bar, and before that, a datapad. The datapad went over my head, I figured it was some sort of newfangled PDA I didn't know about, but the android thing made me stop to think - was it a metaphor, a joke about how mechanical the service guy is, or was it actually an android?! This sort of stringing along of the reader is very good for keeping people interested, because it keeps them on their toes and gives them something to think about actively as the tale unfolds.

Great job, overall! Spelling-and-grammar wise, I didn't notice any spelling mistakes, but one sentence struck me as being a tad too long -
"I woke up one morning, in my ordinary twin-size bed, to the loud, annoying buzzing of my alarm, that had somehow been knocked off of my bedside table the night before, as I discovered when I reached for the snooze button. "

I don't know what I would do with that, it's your story, but maybe cut it into two sentences or fuse some of the phrases together so there are less commas. The pacing is generally very good, but I found myself pausing a bit too much during this sentence, and it made me have to re-read it to get the full meaning.

Other than that, awesome! :D

---

Wow, um, thank you, Gnome! I really don't know what to say, I'm not used to such praise. :embarrassed: The "stringing along" as you put it is actually not so much a though-out ploy as just how it flowed. I tend to write like that -- mention something early on, almost as if the narrator expects the reader to know what he means, then either explaining it, or simply extrapolating on it, later. In the case of the last story I posted, it was just as you saw it, semi-intentional on my part, as a way to show that the narrator (Kent) was no storyteller, and was putting it down almost in a journal form. He didn't quite know where to start.

In the first, I must be honest; it was more that I expected the intended audience (a Star Wars message board that I frequent) to know the terms used already. And I'll see what I can do about that sentence, it's another of my tendencies, which I try to keep to a minimum, that I tend to get a bit verbose, and stretch out my sentences. However, on second thought, I think I'll leave it as it is. It may help to add to the aforementioned concept that Kent isn't much of a storyteller. :D

Oh, and I do apologize for taking so long to reply.


Here's another story, while I'm at it. I'm quite proud of this piece. I wrote this in a very different style, and I realize that it is very . . . disjointed, and broken up in some spots. This is intentional, so please keep that in mind when commenting. It's a product of adrenaline, that when we're scared, we notice things much more abstractly. That's what I tried to convey here. Also, don't ask me to finish it, it is finished. That's the end. I decided to leave it up to the reader to draw their own conclusion as to what's actually going on, too. I have my own idea, but I'd like to see what you think it is. So please, let me know. Thanks in advance for reading.

---

Gravel, crunching underfoot. A stray ray of sunlight, filtering through the trees overhead. Waves, whispering against the wooden dock. The bark of a dog, almost too far away to hear. Heavy breathing, echoing in his head. Feet hitting the gravel behind him. Too close. Wind, against his face. Sweat, running into his eyes. Pain, in his side. Burning, in his lungs. Running too long. A quick glance over his shoulder. A depression in the path. He stumbled, almost falling.


A sudden crack, loud in the still air. A burning in his leg, as sharp pieces of gravel flew up. A thought, brief and fleeting; that was a gunshot. They're shooting at me now. He caught himself, willing his legs to catch up to his body as he ran faster. He had to escape. But there was nowhere to go. Another crack. Another. He ran yet faster. Sunlight, bright and glaring, in his eyes as he broke out of the stand of trees. The wide expanse of water, glinting in front of him.


The footsteps behind him had disappeared. He spared another glance over his shoulder, knowing he shouldn't. A figure, lying crumpled on the gravel path. The man that had been chasing him. A sudden blurred shape, coming from his right. His breath, expelled in a burst as the blur hit him, knocking him off his feet. Another loud crack, closer this time. Stars, in his vision as his head hit the ground.


A voice, saying something loudly, urgently. The figure's hand, coming up in a blur. His ears ringing. The feel of hot brass hitting his arm. The sharp report of the pistol. A grunt, from the tree line. A thump, as a body hit the ground. A low laugh, from the figure crouched beside him. Blood rushing through his veins, his heart beating fast, too fast, he thought. His breathing slowing. His eyes, finally focusing on the figure at his side.


A man. Military haircut, dark tracksuit. Running shoes. A scar, on his right cheek. His gaze searching the trees. His mouth, moving as he spoke. His voice, coming as if from a long distance. “Get up.” The words seemed to take shape, develop meaning. His own mouth opened, as if to form an answer, but he could think of none.


He got up, slowly, pushing himself to his feet, cautiously. His bones hurt. The man spoke again. “This way.” The man turned, jogging along the edge of the water, away from the newly dead bodies. Thoughts, flickering through his head. Finding nothing to object, he jogged after the man. Burning, in his leg muscles. His shirt wet, sweat still pouring from his every pore.


The man ahead slowed, his jog becoming a quick walk. Another dock, this one larger. A speedboat, tied off, nosing the dock. The man, stepping aboard, gesturing for him to follow. The dip and sway of the deck, its difference from the steady ground causing his legs to buckle. Barely reaching the seat in time. The hard seat under him. A throaty roar; the engine coming to life.


The man's gloved hands, on the steering wheel and throttle. Acceleration, pushing him back into his seat. The rocky dipping of the hull as it passed over the gentle waves. Wind, pushing his cheeks back. Mist, stinging his skin as the boat sped on. His brain, slowly beginning to work again. Conscious thought, taking over from instinct. What now? he thought, are the others all dead, or did some of them get away?


Clouds, blocking the sun. The wind, picking up, making the waves larger. Ahead, a shoreline. The opposite side of the lake. Another dock, this one big enough for several larger boats. The wind easing as the speedboat slowed. The man's voice, speaking for the third time, finally penetrating his daze, “Tie us off!” His hands, fumbling for the line. The wet rope slipping through his fingers.


The feel of the wood post under his clammy palm. The knot, firm as he could get it. The man, nodding. Indicating he should follow him down the dock. Walking, mindlessly. His body moving of its own accord. A street. A restaurant. Looking down, seeing the dirt and grit turned to mud from the mist of the lake and his own sweat on his clothes.


Looking up, to the table the man indicated he was to sit at. At the man already seated. Tall, well-dressed, and balding, with a birthmark in the shape of a star on his left temple. Surprise flashed through his mind. How did-


“Don't worry, Robert. Everything is going to be alright. It's all being taken care of.”


* * * * * *


One year later...


Robert McCann sat back in his seat at an outside table of one of the finest cafes in Venice. He raised his dry martini to his lips for another sip, then thought better of it, and set it back down again. Across the table, the empty seat mocked him. He should have known she'd never show up. Sighing, he turned his gaze back down to the book he held in his lap. He was nearly through this chapter. He always enjoyed re-reading Moby Dick.


The sound of a chair sliding on the cement made him look up. In the seat across the table sat a man; tall, well-dressed, and balding, with a birthmark in the shape of a star on his left temple.


“It's time, son.”

You weren't kidding about it being disjointed.

Pretty interesting, though it does feel like a piece of a larger story, but I take it that's how you wanted it presented to the reader.

Not bad, keep up the good work. Entertaining reads.

Though, I'm not too sure my computer agrees with me. It randomly restarted itself when I was in the middle of reading it. o_0

Wow, your writing style is very clear and pleasant to read. I like the way that the beginning of the first story might just as well have been on earth, but then in the third or so paragraph it is suddenly revealed that we are on a planet that is in turn part of a huge empire.
I can't quite believe that this was all made up on the spot as it seems to be all leading up to events yet to come, and the whole setting seems well thought through. I genuinly want to find out what's going to happen next. Please keep writing.

Of, thanks. I wrote this last one kind of similar to James Patterson's style of writing, when he writes that type of scene. Though it's actually more similar to say Robert Ludlum in subject material.


Toast, thank you. I do try. In fact, as I originally wrote it, it was set here on Earth. But then I thought of the twist I wanted to take with the character, and I was planning on making a thief character on a Star Wars RP board I visit, so I rewrote it to fit in the Star Wars universe. As it turned out, I never did create that character, but that would have been the introductory post for an RP if I had.

And yes, I write pretty much every one of my stories on the spot, with no forethought as to storyline. I just let it flow. Now that's not to say that I don't have a plot in mind, and sometimes I'll go back and edit a particular story to make sure it fits with yet-to-come development. Also, just to let y'all know, since I do have a few requests to finish "Corellian Odds", I'm going to try to work on that some next week. I'm just too busy this week.

The Kent Clark one I do have a set story in mind for, but it came to me as I wrote what you've already seen. I'll work on that, hopefully, next week as well. Though it may have to wait a bit longer.

Anyhow, I'll try to put up another story here later, as I still have several in store.

A short unfinished Discworld fan-fic I wrote:

Here we see a big, grassy meadow, the grass greener than anywhere on the Disc. Wildflowers grow in large patches, in a multitude of colors, all brighter than would seem possible to the average person. The meadow stretches for miles in every direction, rolling hills cascading smoothly with their ever-greener carpet of luxurious, soft grass. A stream, clear and sparkling, flows through it all, it's bed lined with the roundest of rocks, smoothed by the flow of water.

A figure stands in the middle of this beatific scene, tall, clad in a once-red bathrobe now so faded as to be pink in color. Blue bunny slippers, complete with furry ears*, cover his otherwise bare feet. He stands perfectly still, seemingly unaffected by the pure beauty of this place. Then his hands reach up to feel of his face, and hesitantly pull up the bright purple sleeping mask he wears over his eyes. Now that the man can see, he looks around at this awe-inspiring vista, an unimpressed expression on his somewhat plain face. Then he exclaims, “This isn't Klatch!”

If there were any bystanders, they would be shocked at this statement. Not the fact that it isn't Klatch, of course; that much is obvious. That the man apparently doesn't want to be here, in this tranquil scene. He speaks again, “This is my bloody dream, and I'd better bloody well go where I want to! And I want to go to Klatch!” With these words, the rolling meadow's brilliant colors begin to dull. For a moment, the landscape flutters, as if it is a rug that being shaken by an Ankh-Morpork housewife. Then it quickly starts to dissolve, another, even brighter, landscape filling in the blank spots, soon overtaking the grassy meadow.

In moments, the grass and wildflowers are replaced by sand, the stream with a small oasis, and the rolling hillocks with sand dunes. This, as any well-educated schoolboy could tell you, is Klatch. The man in the bathrobe nods in satisfaction. “Now then, that's more like it.” With this he looks down at his faded bathrobe and furry blue slippers with the bunnies on. “I'm going to need something a bit more suitable for the desert, now. I should have thought that would be obvious.”

His clothing immediately, if somewhat reluctantly**, shimmers, then resolves itself once more, now consisting of light linen robes and more appropriate leather sandals. Feeling the sun beating down on his thin-haired head, he says, “And a hat, if you please.” The air above his head wavers briefly, then there is a wide-brimmed straw hat sitting atop his skull.

“There we are. Now. A flying carpet would certainly be nice.” Perhaps ten feet in front of him, a large camel suddenly appears, complete with halter and saddle, pleasantly*** chewing over it's lunch, most likely for the second time that day. “I said flying carpet, not walking rug. Bloody dreams...” The camel disappears as quickly as it came, with a confused sound much like a dying donkey with laryngitis might make in it's final throes. In it's place appears a somewhat ragged around the edges carpet, floating three feet in the air, albeit perhaps a bit unsteadily. “That'll do,” mumbles the man to himself, climbing aboard.




* Amazing what you could find in those second hand stores, really.

** Scientists around the Disc have argued whether clothes can, in fact, be reluctant. Or happy, or sad, or angry, for that matter. It is generally agreed that they can, but only when exposed to magic for prolonged periods, or when in dreams.

*** Camels are almost never pleasant. The last recorded incident of a pleasant camel was in the Century of the Milkworm, and turned out, upon further investigation, to be a hoax involving a mule, a large sack full of cotton, and a very drunk audience.

And a quick bump, along with another story, which again involves dreaming. In fact, this story is based nearly entirely on lucid dreaming. It will be about ten chapters when finished. Enjoy this small bit that I have written already, and let me know what you think.

What's In A Nightmare?

“What is it to dream, Teacher?”
“To dream can be many things, child.”
-- Sing Tao to his student, Gli Tsun

Prologue

“Curse these gloomy nights. We should have stayed in Tso'lin, at least there was an inn there.”

“Oh, shut it, Grier. Get closer to the fire.”

“You call this a fire? There's hardly any flame, it's burning so low!”

“It's all we can afford, any larger and it would give away our position.”

“To who?! There's no one out here but us, for miles!”

“We don't know that. The commander said to keep a low profile. Like it or not, that means a small fire.”

Grier mumbled something under his breath, but moved to huddle closer to the flames. It truly was a gloomy night in the Diro'in Mountains. It had been a wet year, and autumn was the wettest season this far north. The damp fog obscured anything beyond a dozen paces, and it was impossible to remain dry in the slight but constant misting of rain. If not for their orders, Grier and Miniot would have been warm and dry, or at least dry, in Tso'lin's one inn, drinking a tankard of the fermented rice liquor that went for beer in these parts. What were they supposed to be watching for, anyway? They couldn't see anything unless it was already on top of them, in this blasted fog.

Grier cursed the ancestry of his unit's commander under his breath, a white cloud of steam puffing briefly from his cracked lips. He always hated these new commanders. They were constantly jostling with the other unit commanders for the next promotion, instead of paying any real mind to the comfort of their men, which in Grier's mind was a high priority. At least the last one had given him and Miniot guard duty in town, instead of sending them two miles out, to “keep an eye on that ridge.” Really, Grier thought, what kind of commander gives such vague instructions? He didn't even tell them what they were looking for, for Jür's sake!

He rose from his crouch over the small fire, and turned to talk to Miniot again. “Hey, did you hear old Missiu talking about General Vodian's daught-” He broke off, as Miniot wasn't there. “Miniot? Mate? Where'd you go?” He got no answer. Turning, Grier's eyes swept around their small campsite. There was no sign of his companion. “Miniot?” Grier was starting to get nervous. He didn't know why, Miniot was probably just off behind a bush relieving his bladder just out of sight from the camp. But then why hadn't he answered? Why hadn't he said anything to Grier?

Grier turned back to the fire, but remained standing. Shaking his head, he reached inside his cloak for the small steel flask he always carried. Taking a swig, he had just secreted it back inside his waistband when he sensed movement out of the corner of his eye. Sighing in relief, he started to turn. The last thing he experienced was a ripping pain in his spine, and then Grier Wasborn was no more.

~*~

“What is it to be awake, Teacher?”
“To be awake can be many things, child.”
-- Sing Tao to his student, Gli Tsun

Chapter I

Trent Glistet woke with a gasp, gripping his sheets with clenched fists. He had just had another nightmare. Before these nightmares, his dreams had always been vague, and quite simply, dreamlike. These were something different, though. He had been having these nightmares off and on for the past month, and they got more and more vivid – more and more real, it seemed. He could remember these dreams much more clearly, as well. Almost as if they were memories of actual events, and not just fantasies created by his subconscious to give his brain something to do as he slept, which he knew they were.

In this one, there had been two soldiers, camping on a ridge, cold and miserable. He remembered fog so thick that it was impossible to see past a few dozen feet, and a steady misting of rain. There was dialog, too, something about a town he couldn't remember the name of now. And then there was it. It struck, taking both of the men. Just as it had done in all his other nightmares, to all the others in those dreams. Did it mean something, he wondered? Was this just his brain trying to tell him to lay off all those soft drinks, or something else? Something more? He shook his head and got up to get ready for work.

To be continued...