So far, I''ve posted this in its own excerpt thread, read the Amateur Writing thread and posted it there, and finally reread the amateur writing thread, noticed that someone specifically requested no other text be posted there. Ergo, i removed it from that thread and posted it here. Apologies. I hope someone will still at least read & comment. ANYWAY. This is an excerpt from something I''ve been working on for a long time. Comments greatly encouraged. I collapse into a chair with the pina colada that Willil mixed while I showered. I let my aching muscles nestle into the soft cushions and flick on the television to find out what the wide world has in store for us today. Maybe someone else will show up to join the cause, so to speak. The news comes on and I wait to watch and record the latest reports on our efforts. Never one to disappoint, the anchor lady comes onscreen with a cheesy picture of me and Willil in our gear – surrounded by speed lines – next to her head. “A disturbing note for the populace at large today,” she begins, “The vigilantes known as ‘The Superheroes’ were caught on tape brutalizing one of their targets.” Her lip is trembling and her forehead shows all of her old-girl worry lines as she continues, “We must warn viewers that the following footage is graphic and not suitable for the young or the faint of heart.” She turns away to fake interest in the tape that’s about to be played. I smirk at this attempt to screw us; no one’s going to believe this is real. The tape starts. It looks like us all right, moving down the street in exactly the same spot we were in today. Looks like it can’t have been more than twenty minutes after the fact – I even recognize some of the people walking down the street in the foreground. The cameraman pans and zooms down to where ‘we’ are moving on the burner. As the shot closes in, I stop smirking. The camera catches a glimpse of the burner that we’re moving on – it’s the same guy. I get an awful feeling in the pit of my stomach. So today was a setup and we got the guy just after the tape was shot. But I’ve got a little voice in the back of my head telling me something is wrong with that particular idea, so I lean in real close to see the people claiming to be us. Every detail is perfect. Even the armor dents are recreated in exact detail. The awful feeling balloons. It’s us, I realize, as the beating begins. It’s really us. Nobody needed to set us up. And it''s the worst thing I’ve ever seen happen to anyone. I start out with the forearm shield. The guy doesn’t even get his arm up to fend it off, just gets it clean in the teeth with a couple of inches of bulletproof ceramics, falls back on his ass, breaks his wrist trying to catch himself. Willil hesitates for only a second before he gets drawn in, connected to me at every level, part of the same animal. He swings with his club, smashing the guy’s ribs, forcing him to spit up blood. Both of us plant our skates, keeping him down, but the strikes are brutal, catching him in the stomach and the face. The guy spits up more blood, maybe a couple of teeth. He tries to roll over, away from us. I draw back my foot and kick him in the temple, knocking him out. It looks like that bone might be broken, too. The camera zooms as close as it can and fixes on the bloody, broken form for a second. It’s so still. And then the clip ends; it couldn''t have run more than ten seconds. And somewhere outside all that I know the perp''s victim is stumbling to his feet and limping over to us to thank us and give us a fifty-shot for our troubles. And I’m on the phone getting the police to come by. And I know the guy was carrying someone to their death. And I know he was a sick fuck with murder in his eyes and the potential for more in his hands. And I know all of this. And all I can do is lean back with my eyes open wide for what suddenly seems like the first time in forever and wonder what could possibly have come over me. I can’t grasp how I lost control so completely, even for a second, let alone long enough to go to town on the guy like I obviously did. It’s even worse than that: I drew Willil into it. I close my eyes and wait for him to come out so I can show him what I – we’ve – done. My finger hovers over the button that will let me record over the data; I want to erase this mistake as I’ve erased so much of my pain. The bathroom door opens and Willil steps out and heads into the room to get dressed. Can I protect him from this? Do I dare? What if (oh god)...What if it happens again? What if I lose control again...suck us both into some kind of downward spiral of destruction...perverting everything that we’ve worked for...by brutalizing the killers? Can I afford to protect him from this? The idea that I’m praying for an answer comes to mind. I almost smirk, but I snap instead, and start crying. The sound brings my poor in-over-his-head one and only running to console me. “What’s up, Juliana?” he begs, wrapping me up in his thick arms, sopping up my tears with his still-wet beard. I push him away long enough to play the tape for him. “Watch the news, Wee,” I sob into his shoulder. I feel rather than see him turn to the screen as the anchor starts her spiel, and the tears come in, gushing full and hot. Stupid thoughts about how wet he must be getting cross my mind as I try to block out the words which have already seared themselves into my brain forever. I wrap my arms around him and sob in anguish when he starts to shudder, shake, and finally crumple. I feel the other arm come down around me and then his head is buried in my hair. The sickening crunch of foot-meets-head fills the room as we gasp into each other, horrified by what we’ve done, who we’ve become. ld

If you''re saying I said that no more should be posted in that Amatuer Writing post, then you''re wrong. I was sick of the damned poetry in a game writing forum. Poetry has no relevance in video games, with the exception of epic poetry, such as The Illiad, The Oddysey, Dante''s Inferno, or Paradise Lost.

Let me explain. With stories and the epic poetry, there''re characters, items, and events that could possibly be made into a pretty good game. For instance, Dante''s Inferno could be made into an action/adventure or a puzzle game, or Paradise Lost could be made into a RTS (which I would like to play). (Note that Dante''s Inferno was the inspiration for Devil May Cry.) Poetry, like what was in the forum, does nothing in the way of influencing game stories.

quote: Original post by orionx103
If you''re saying I said that no more should be posted in that Amatuer Writing post, then you''re wrong.

No, just ahw''s post:

quote: ahw''s post to the Amateur Writing thread
it would be simpler if you start a thread for your own text, otherwise we are gonna get endless threads, and it''s much more annoying to comment. (I ahve to read your text later)

However, this:

quote: Poetry has no relevance in video games

is not a fair judgement. Amped and Frequency both broke ground by wrapping a game around musical composition.

Moreover, poetry is something entirely different from narrative writing, with the exception, as you''ve mentioned, of epic poetry . Pure poetic forms almost certainly have a number of contributions to make in the area of games, but I don''t think many people have tapped into them.


Aside:
In the course of writing this reply, i realized something insidious: the official game sites for a lot of PS games have zero mention of the developer on the Sony game sites. That''s total bullshit.

ld

First off, I have a question. Is this meant as a kind of ficticious "biography"? (At least I hope it''s ficticious!) If not, then I would consider some basic grammatical changes (such as changing "me and Willil" to "Willil and I"). If it''s meant as a bio of sorts, then I think that the occasional error would not only be acceptable but also encouraged in order to "humanize" the narrator more.
Also, when the narrator begins to reflect on the gruesome act during the newscast, I would change the verbs to past tense, indicating the narrator''s reflection over the events. We don''t really need to see the newscast, we just need to know what happened. (BTW, I would change the tense in the sentence that begins, "I start out with...") I think the reader would reflect and ponder the occurrence a little more, realizing how horrific the situation really was. Also, during that portion, I would slow the pace a little, adding in some sparse details in order to build up some tension within the reader. Just think about all the horror movies where you have to wait and wait and wait before the person in the closet jumps out to scare the hero (...or victim...).
These have just been a couple of nit-picky items that jumped out at me. Otherwise, this is great! I can''t wait to read more! Keep up the good work.

~del

quote: Original post by Del Snd of Thndr
First off, I have a question. Is this meant as a kind of ficticious "biography"?

In essence. It''s so character-driven that it may as well be.

quote: We don''t really need to see the newscast, we just need to know what happened.

This is interesting. I''ll have to revisit the text and make a decision. Perspectives are used in the book in a very specific manner, so decisions like that aren''t simple to decouple based on single passages. But at the same time, if the technique is in the way, it''s in the way. Urgh. That wouldn''t be good.

ld

Then let me read more

~del

Ok, here''s a better example of the style of the book (and incidentally the only other part that''s seen enough editing to be worth reading):


They arrive at Fourth and Downing in time to see hulking brute number umpteen slamming the incinerator door, cutting desperate screams short. She moves quickly and fluidly, her inlines gliding over cracked sidewalk as if over poured metal, her hands pulling out her blunt to strike down another evil. He circles, slightly less fluidly and more deliberately, his eyes tracking her and their target in tandem, searching for the openings provided by surrounding the opponent. He, too, grips a blunt metal shaft meant for striking without killing.

The brute has spotted them and is attempting to run, as always. One would think that a large, fast man might be able to outmaneuver these two on the grungy, broken concrete, to use their speed against them – perhaps by ducking down one of the trash-infested alleys or scrambling up one of the hand-lacerating fire escapes. But the city is their home; she is both womb and reaper. They know how to use her rhythms to pin violators against the brickwork long enough to knock them senseless. If it is a little different every time, it must be noted that they are still learning.


Brute stands to face us, like that’s going to do him any good. I’m coming in fast and high on his right while Willil comes in low on his left. The pipes hold lines of smog-filtered sunshine as we move in on the guy. In perfect synchro, Willil and I swing. Somehow, the brute manages to dodge both blunts, and out of the corner of my eye I see Willil take an elbow in the back and go down into an agonizingly long face-skid. No time to check on him now. I turn back to the brute, who’s pretty cocky after that stunt. Arrogance, I tell ya, it’ll get you every time.

Moving fast and pumping hard now, I skate directly at him, the pipe horizontal in front of me, ready to smash his big, ugly head in. Willil finally stops skidding, which is sort of a plus, but I don’t hear him get up. An instant later I’m on top of el bruto, ramming the pipe up into his face, trying to get this thing over with quick. Bingo. He goes over with one hand flopping up towards his broken head like he’s still awake. I just about chuckle and then turn back to scrape my unlucky partner off the concrete.

Brute’s fist is already flying full speed into my head. Nobody ever hit me so hard, not even in prison – a freight train of pain tracks all up and down my body, carrying a full load of unconsciousness with it. My ass smashes off the concrete in about three milliseconds flat and all of a sudden I’m in a world of brute, three hundred pounds of black-eyed killer on my chest looking for the best ways to hurt me before I die. I see decision dark up his eyes even more, and one big fist goes up and comes down. It’s cell block hell all over again, pain ripping through nerves I barely remember to scream into the abyss that''s blotting in my head.

I’m practically dead with fright, and the big guy just lays it in. Fist up, fist down, broken rib. Fist up, fist down, ruptured spleen. Fist up…and finally Willil is back in the game, and brute is laid out on top of me. All I can hear is my own blood and taunts from a place worse than nightmares screaming through my head. Later Willil will tell me, real quiet, that my whole face is wet and salty, wracked with pain, panic, fear, and that I am screeching to shatter windows.

For now he just comes back and rolls the big man off of me, checking for breath, careful not to smack that broken skull any more than it has to be smacked. The guy’s down but not out, as they say. Me, I’m down and done for the day. I’ll be grabbing a cab home, I think, and letting him try to work up the daily donation.


Eventually, I manage to get her to go to the hospital. I can see that she’s been beaten up really badly, but she doesn’t want to hear about it – so I don’t let her get a word out. There’s blood soaking through the cotton pads and a trickle from the side of her mouth, a couple of bruises that are going to keep her inside for a few days, and maybe a broken rib. So I get her into the cab, tell him where to go , and sit on our giant until he wakes up.

The cab pulls away without ado, but once it’s gone a few stupid people decide it’s a good time to come around. Some recognize me, or saw what happened, and figure they can stiff me for some of my apparently magnificent wealth so they don’t sic the police on me. I tell those to move along and I laugh when they’re gone.

Who in their right mind thinks that we’re rich? I think, pulling open the burner door and offering a hand to the terrified woman inside. We’re wearing secondhand street armor and wielding stolen metal bars; we make enough for food and parts and that’s about it. The rich clients are few and far between, too obnoxious not to have gun wielding cronies even though the crooks don’t – it’s the perfect excuse to kill a man these days. “He had a gun, officer. Sorry.” Wouldn’t even make it to a prelim. Not that you need an excuse, unless you screw up, I remind myself.

The lady is pretty shaken, but I direct her to the nearby clinic and remind her to stay the fuck away from this man; repeat business is not on my list of top priorities. She stumbles off, glassy-eyed, private bits flashing through the torn dress that hangs from her frame.

By this time the big guy is coming around, so I get up, going over my lines in my head. He opens his eyes, squinting obsidian up at me, slowly and painfully climbing the gravity tree. “Listen,” I say. “You fucking scum.” I kick him for good measure. “If we ever,” and I get up close, eye to abyss-black eye, “ever catch you with another body, we will break you. This city has heroes now; spread the word.” The words feel cheesy coming out to an actual would-be murderer, but I push on. “And get out of here before I decide to break you too.” I laugh inside, but tears are sliding down my mind.

It’s too much. Or maybe it works – the giant moves off at a limping lope – but I don’t know that it does. Maybe someday we’ll find this guy again, again after the fact, this time successful in extinguishing someone who wouldn’t have died if I broke him here and now. But I can’t; I don’t know if Julie can''t or if she just doesn’t. The big guy goes out of my sight and off I move again, looking for another chance for today.


ld

quote: Original post by liquiddark
Amped and Frequency both broke ground by wrapping a game around musical composition.

Music composition, but not poetry, right? Also, tell me how well these games have done. I''ve not heard of them much, and haven''t looked into them at all. I still hold my position-- poetry, with the exception of epic poetry, has no relevance in a game writing forum.

quote: Original post by orionx103
Music composition, but not poetry, right? Also, tell me how well these games have done. I''ve not heard of them much, and haven''t looked into them at all. I still hold my position-- poetry, with the exception of epic poetry, has no relevance in a game writing forum.

I don''t think you''ve given a real answer here. If musical composition can be turned into a game, then regardless of how well these games do, there is certainly something to take out of non-narrative artistic forms, which quite clearly contradicts your original contention. That''s all I''ll say on that front.

ld

Attack of the perspective changes! lol Now I understand what you meant earlier. As I read this work, it comes to me in comic book fashion. I can clearly see the stenciled (cel-shaded?) characters leaping out of your words and into my mind. Honestly, I thought that the second excerpt was better than the first. I really like how you have shown these heros (or hero and heroine...however you like it) to be merely human, with a full arsenal of sarcasm and anger. I hope you can continue to make your characters grow and become more real and believable. Good luck with your project. Oh, and I''d always love to be a second set of eyes, so if you want, you can always drop me a line. Again, good luck!

~del