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Post by James on Jan 19, 2011 20:43:52 GMT -5
Famished Investigation The ship sways perilously in the curling waves of the Irish Sea, your legs slipping out from beneath you. They clatter to the floor with two thick thuds, the wooden pegs skittering across the deck of the ship. You wonder how the pirates of folklore survived with their peg legs, but then again, they probably had rich and well-fitted mahogany legs. You, meanwhile, had settled on some cheap oak because clearly having functioning legs was beyond your soldiers’ pension.
What makes the situation even worse, as one of the wooden legs disappears beneath a wave that laps across the deck of the ship, was that the strange voice within your head has returned to narrate your life to you. A strange, dashing voice, if I might be so bold to add. It had sporadically reared up since your return from Waterloo, where you lost both your legs from a stray cannon ball, although I suppose you don’t need reminding of that, do you? You know, since you’re the one currently lying on the deck of a rocking ship, unable to get up.
Often you have considered voicing your concern to a doctor or a physician or a barber, but fear holds you back. You wouldn’t receive any treatment, only the rich gets treatment and lets face it, your clothes, stench and the fact that you were currently lying on a ship’s deck legless didn’t imply a man of wealth. Also considering your current lack of hair, one of those fancy institutions wouldn’t be opening its door to you. Oh no, you were getting one of the special institutions that made the River Thames look clean.
So you had chosen to wear a stiff upper lip, which originally seemed unnecessary considering you had two functioning lips already, but later after an outbreak of Herpes turned out to be a sound decision. Several months after valiantly watching your friends die upon the battlefield and a host of nights in such wonderful hotels as Mrs Sixpence’s Street Corner, you found yourself in the employ of Lord Mandelson of Cork. How you found yourself in his employment, one shall never know, for I won’t be narrating it to you at this present time. Heck, this is your history; you should really have a firm grasp of the subject by now.
Anyway, you’re lying upon the wooden deck of the ship, nothing more than a torso and some other limbs. Your mouth is pressing against the wood, taste buds being fed the delicious combination of salt water and mouldy ship. All around you sailors rush about to try and keep the ship from turning over, none offering a helping hand to pull you to safety. Risking splinters embedding themselves between nail and flesh, you began to pull yourself across the deck.
“What are you doing, Walker?” Lord Mandelson of Cork said, a crisp southern English accent riding upon the sea winds. Did you think the lord of an Irish town was going to be Irish? Oh, you make me laugh.
“Legs, sir,” you reply, still dragging yourself across the deck and towards your remaining wooden leg.
“Well, pull yourself together man,” Lord Mandelson yells before disappearing back into his cabin.
One of your hands – you can pick, I’m just narrating – wraps itself around the smooth surface that is the peg leg, pulling it into your body. Another wave sends you sliding across the deck, your eyes catching sight of land from behind the fog, as you smash into the railings of the ship. One arm snaking its way around the only barrier between you and your watery grave, you use the other to reattach your left leg.
Right trouser leg flapping comically in the wind, you pull yourself to your “feet” – zing – and watch the incoming coastline draw closer. Hey, maybe it has problems with its eyes? Don’t go laughing at that, it’s not cool and at least the coast won’t have to spend the rest of the story hopping. Good luck with that, Dick.
“Richard Walter,” a voice calls from across the ship, Lord Mandelson striding to meet you at the edge of the ship, his second appearance warranting some sort of descriptive sentence. You should think Lord Mandelson, but in nineteenth century dress.
“Sir?” the reply slipping from between all your lips.
“I want you to come with me to Cork,” Lord Mandelson says, watching the ship come to port. “I was going to ask Mary, but it completely slipped my mind that she has tits and therefore doesn’t warrant any serious role throughout this whole ordeal. I managed to catch that mistake didn’t I, Wallace?”
“Sir,” you agree, happy to avoid a lashing for disobedience.
“Then I thought this is a delicate situation we’re entering, and I need to show the people of Ireland that the British government can be sympathetic and caring. So I thought, I’d give the cripple a job,” he continues, ending his sentence with a cheesy smile and two thumbs up.
You nod as the sailors around you pull down the wooden plank that serves as a bridge between ship and land, gesturing for the Lord and you to disappear from the ship. Hopping after Lord Mandelson - who’s laughing now, Dick - you follow him down the slope and onto the cobble street of the port just outside the city of Cork. A horse and carriage waits for you and beside it stands a slightly frowning man, dressed in an impeccable black suit and clutching onto a briefcase.
“Excellent, you arrived exactly on time,” the man says as he shakes Lord Mandelson’s hand. “I just have a couple of legal points to go over before you continue.”
“Legal?” you repeat with an air of puzzlement, but Lord Mandelson merely gives a nod of Curt’s head. See, it’s lucky my dyslexia isn’t too bad.
“Firstly, the lawyers of Edwards and Daniels would like to say,” the lawyer began, staring at both you and the Lord. “That any perceived discrimination and or racism towards the Irish people is completely false. The author has a great-grandfather who was Irish and he even met him once. To suggest that he would participate in the discrimination of the Irish race is racism and we will be seeing you in court.”
“Me?” you cry.
“No, not you as in you, I meant you as in the reader,” the lawyer explains.
“But I am the reader,” you say, a sense of dread settling over you.
“Oh, then yes, you,” he concludes, handing you a piece of paper summoning you to the Magistrate’s Court in London upon your return from Ireland. Don’t worry about it; you’ll probably just be deported to Australia. Nothing to worry about. Well, your descendants are going to drown. Spoiler alert.
“Also,” the lawyer continues. “Any allegations of sexism are completely unfounded. The author has a mother. We, the lawyers of Edwards and Daniels, put to you how anyone can be sexist if they have a mother? Such talk would be slander, and we will be pressing a second case against you.”
You can only mumble a defence as a second summons is shoved into your hands, the day after the first, for slanderous speech. Maybe you should start worrying a little bit; they can only deport you so many times. Best not criticise this story in the slightest.
“Is that all?” Lord Mandelson asks, not a hint of concern about your legal plight.
“At the moment,” the lawyer replies. “But I should probably follow you just to make sure you don’t make any more offensive jokes. After my fee is paid, obviously.”
“And how much is your fee?”
“Seven million pounds,” the lawyer answers drawing a gasp from your throat.
Lord Mandelson stands motionless for several seconds after your gasp before pulling the revolver from his belt, firing several times into the lawyer’s chest. Blood spurts from the wound before he crumples to a heap upon the ground. Without so much as a second glances, Lord Mandelson orders you into the carriage, your leg thudding along the cobble street as you frantically hop towards it.
“I would also like to add,” the lawyer rattles out in a final breath as you disappear into the carriage. “That considering the author’s current training in the legal profession; this scene was in no way a slanderous slur upon the legal world.”
Leaving the dead lawyer behind, you travel along the uneven road into the city, passing several thatched farmhouses. The fields around them are barren and infertile, like your dead wife, – oh man, don’t you love me? – with real decaying corpses serving as scarecrows in the lonely fields.
“See this is exactly the problem with the Irish people,” Lord Mandelson says, looking out of the carriage’s window.
“What, sir?” you reply politely.
“No sense of innovation and ingenuity,” Lord Mandelson explains, an arm gesturing to the human scarecrows. “They complain they’re suffering from unemployment and yet here they are using dead people as scarecrows. Why not employ someone to chase the crows instead? Look, like that man fulfilling in the noble British profession of scarecrowing.”
Lord Mandelson was pointing at a man running wildly throughout one of the farmer’s fields, arms flapping like wings. With a lunge the unkempt man wraps a hand around the throat of a small, sickly crow, biting the head off with one foul bite. Both you and the Lord recoil slightly as the man spits the feathered crown from his mouth and begins to pluck hungrily at the rest of the bird.
“Ah,” Lord Mandelson says into the silence. “Maybe he’s not an employed scarecrow; in fact he’s probably trespassing and incredibly hungry. That could be one hell of a meal for him. Make a note of this, Warwick, could be a potential solution to this famine. Carry on, driver!”
With minutes the currently parched farmland of Ireland disappears into the scenery of the city of Cork, your carriage rumbling along past several buildings. A fenced building catches your eyes, barbed wire running high into the skyline, the occasional barred window visible just behind it. In the front garden children are raking leaves and pulling out weeds under the supervision of a frocked, portly man, a sign hanging next to his seat: St. Thomas’ Catholic Youth Church.
But don’t worry, the Pope doesn’t know about it. He’s already told everyone he has no idea about any St Thomas’ Catholic Youth Church in Cork that might be seen more as a prison than a church. None whatsoever.
The next building your carriage rattles past is that of Dr Phil’s Surgery, an extra sign added to the bottom of it: We do food too! Your eyes lock onto the wagon full of bodies that is slowly being dragged towards the restaurant part of the building. You make a mental note to try and not eat anything until you are back onboard the ship and returning to England. Probably a good call, the Irish can’t cook. What? I haven’t said anything in a while.
Finally you arrive at the Town Hall, the mayor already standing there awaiting you. His brown hair and green eyes probably signifies something important to his personality, or I just randomly picked two colours. Either way, he greets you with a bow as you tumble onto the ground, Lord Mandelson using you as a final step from the carriage, his boot digging into your back.
“Lord Mandelson,” the mayor says as you pull yourself upright. “It is an honour for you to make a visit to the towns that your Lordship is responsible for.”
“Well, I was ordered to investigate an Irish town,” Lord Mandelson explains. “And Cork by far has the least amount of deaths and Jews.” Hey, this is pre-Hitler. Jews are fair game still.
“Well, let us go into my office and we can discuss the famine and several proposals that I would wish to make on behalf of my people,” the mayor says, stepping towards the large oak doors of the town hall.
Pedestrians eye you carefully as you hop after Lord Mandelson and into the town hall, the building eerily quiet as you navigate hallways and doorframes. All along the walls, paintings of famous Irish heroes sneer down at you in disgust and dislike: Oliver Cromwell, King Henry II, Thorgest and many others. You notice the Irish mayor is determine not to look at the various paintings, but Lord Mandelson quite happily salutes and bows at each individual figure.
“Please, both of you take a seat,” the mayor insists as you step into his office and he seats himself behind his desk. Well, I say desk, but as you look around you realise that the Mayor of Cork’s office is nothing more than a tea room.
“Well, what’s the problem?” Lord Mandelson bluntly asks.
“Due to a failure of crops, we have no food. Without that food we cannot eat,” the mayor explains.
“Have you tried crows? Or cannibalism?” Lord Mandelson suggests. “Not only would you have food, but in the case of the latter, you would reduce the number of mouths to feed.”
“No, we haven’t tried that,” the mayor says and you note that he seems confuse at the Lord’s words. “But we have ideas of our own.”
“I want to hear them then,” Lord Mandelson insists.
“Okay,” the Mayor begins, slightly taken back at the speed of the discussion. “Firstly, and this would solve nearly all our problems, would be to repeal the Corn Laws.”
“Ah,” Lord Mandelson replies. “Sadly that’s not an actual viable option for the British Government. You see, corn is a valuable product to the British Empire but the Irish are not.”
“What?”
“Let me explain. Corn is vital to the British economy. Corn is vital to the rich agricultural elites’ ability to throw weekly social gatherings, as opposed to the dreadful fortnightly alternative. The Irish are more of a nuisance to the British economy. A pest. I suppose a little like cockroaches… actually, no that’s unfair. Cockroaches don’t spread that many diseases,” Lord Mandelson explains.
“I see,” the mayor replies and you notice his lips have thinned visibly in a matter of seconds. By the way, if you want the secrets to thin lips, try listening to Baroness Palin for more than ten seconds. Seriously, I dare you. Your face starts to turn inside out. She’s like a political Bloody Mary.
“So any other proposals?” Lord Mandelson asks.
“Reforming the Tenant Laws would at least alleviate homelessness,” the mayor suggests.
“But that would go against official British policy concerning Ireland.”
“Grant the country home rule?”
“I suppose if the government did just rule Ireland from the comfort of the prime minister’s living room, I wouldn’t have to make future trips to this city.”
“Reform the labour laws.”
“That’s an idea. We can end this dreadful practice of corpses as scarecrows and insist upon live human scarecrows.”
“Or you can just let us all die,” the mayor snaps, slamming his fist upon the desk.
“Interesting proposal,” Lord Mandelson says, rubbing his chin. “It would certainly open up huge chunks of Irish land to sell off and raise revenue on. Make a note of it, Watkins; I think the government might find it quite appealing.”
“Yes sir,” you say, hastily writing the words: Let them all die.
“You know what,” the mayor blurts out, abruptly standing up.
“What?” you ask slightly confuse.
“No, not you,” the mayor sighs, pointing a short and stubby finger at Lord Mandelson. “I meant our Lordship.”
“What?” Lord Mandelson asks lazily from his chair.
“Just get out,” the mayor says, staring daggers at the Lord. You feel a pang of admiration to the Irishman. “You obviously don’t care, so just leave and stop wasting my time. Stop wasting Ireland’s time.”
“Ireland? Ireland?” Lord Mandelson repeats, rising upright as well. “Ireland smells like something I’ve forgotten. Curled up died and now it’s rotten. In fact, narrator, play track three,” he orders, and I duly oblige. He’s a Lord after all.
“I’m not a gangster tonight,” Lord Mandelson begins to sing, a groan escaping from your mouth. “Don’t want to be a bad guy. I’m just a loner, baby. And now you’ve gotten in my way.”
You watch in terror as the revolver reappears in Lord Mandelson’s hand, the metal glinting from the sunlight through the window, before gunshot erupts across the room. Half a dozen metal slugs penetrate skin and bone as the Mayor of Cork is mow to the floor, bleeding from gaping wounds, gasping for every breath. Even the knock upon the door fails to gain your attention, until I forcibly turn you around, because I can do that.
“Ah, hi,” another man in a crisp suit says, sticking his head inside the tea room. “The lawyers of Edwards and Daniels would just like to say that Doctor Who is the work of BBC, which is owned by the British crown. And therefore it’s perfectly acceptable for this British writer to rip off the idea of using the Scissor Sisters. Well, of course, he didn’t come up with Scissor Sisters, whoever came up with that was a genius. I meant the idea of… just go on with the singing.”
“Thank you,” Lord Mandelson says, walking over to tower over the quivering form of the mayor before bursting once more into song. “I can’t decide whether you should live or die. Oh, you’ll probably go to heaven. Please don’t hang your head and cry.”
Fortunately at that point the mayor’s eyelids slowly flutter for the last time, the man failing to take in one more rattling breath. With the mayor dead beneath him, Lord Mandelson signals you to leave the room, and you think he has decided that continuing to sing would simply be bad taste. Fatigue starts to grip your body as you hop along the corridors once more, growing increasingly weaker as Lord Mandelson strolls beside you.
“Well, this has been a thoroughly eventful trip,” Lord Mandelson says as you walk back into the slightly decayed filled air of Cork.
However you fail to reply as your wooden leg embeds itself deep inside a potato, lying within the middle of the Irish street. You slip upon the vegetable, and lose your balance, tumbling onto the hard stone floor. A snap fills the town’s silence, your neck and back breaking in multiple different places as I emerge from behind the carriage.
“It turns out,” you hear me say as you lay upon the floor. “You haven’t been imagining someone narrating your life at all. I’ve just been following you around talking very loudly. How great is that? If you just asked someone about hearing voices then you would have resolved the whole situation, but no, you kept your mental health a closely guarded secret. That’s not healthy. And now look at you, you’re fucked. What should I do with you?”
“I can’t decide whether you should live or die,” Lord Mandelson begins to sing before he falls to the floor in a heap, his heart stopping with a single thought of mine.
“Never tell the same joke twice, it gets ol… oh, you’re dead. Well, good luck with that.”
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Post by Manny Nhaims on Jan 22, 2011 21:09:54 GMT -5
The Other White Meat So it finally happened. The world came to a screeching halt in terrible blazing inferno. Nuclear fire has turned the once beautiful earth into an uninhabitable wasteland. Trees are pillars of ash, waiting for the next strong breeze to whisk them away into memory. Water reeks of pollutants as years of industrial waste has turned rivers, streams and lakes toxic. The sky is choked black and with each breath your lungs burn and the taste of brimstone fouls your tongue. And danger is all about you as rapists, murderers and thieves roam the land unchallenged. What was once easy living has now been completely undone. Much as your ancestors before you everyday concerns are simple to recognize but hard to take care of. In this veritable desert, where will your next meal come from? How can you hydrate yourself without succumbing to the poisons lacing every body of water? And where can you find a safe place to rest, away from those who would snatch your life away in the middle of the darkness? How can you possibly hope to survive in this hell and manage to keep your sanity intact? Easily, that’s how. Because you’ve got the will to survive. Because you’re clever and resourceful. Because you thought ahead and prepared. Because you purchased the Peterson Publishing “Pocket Guide for Surviving a Nuclear Holocaust.” Within these pages you’ll be ahead of that dirty, shambling, sore covered, half-blind crowd. Inside is a quick-start guide guaranteed to help you through the tightest of spots and toughest decisions. From finding water and food to handling stranger danger, this pocket size manual has it all. All you have to do follow the simple step by step instructions and other survivors will be calling you king of the wasteland in no time. Just keep you chin up and this handy guide right at your side. *This foreword added to celebrate the 5th edition printing of Peterson Publishing’s “Pocket Guide for Surviving a Nuclear Holocaust.”* Table of Contents
Chapter 1: Finding the will to go on…………………………………………2-7
Chapter 2: Water water everywhere, but it really burns when I pee………..7-15
Chapter 3: Food and the people around you………………….……..………………16-24
Chapter 4: Bandits! Should you shoot them…………………………………………………25-27
Chapter 5: Refugees! Should you shoot them……………………………………………….26-30
Chapter 6: Basic shelters……………………………………………………………………..31-36
Chapter 7: Help! I’ve lost a limb…………………………………………………………….37-40
Chapter 8: Damn! I’ve gained a limb………………………………………………………..40-43
Chapter 9: Are you in Europe, do you need an adapter……………………………………..44-45 ************************** Chapter 3
Food and the people around you Now I know what you’re thinking: “But Peterson Publishing, I haven’t got the resources to take care of myself let alone manage a bunch of raggedy idiots following me around looking for some kind of leader type!” Well you sir, have completely misinterpreted the meaning behind this chapter’s title. Because we here at Peterson Publishing are a lot like you – we like to think two steps ahead of everyone else. You see, this chapter is not so much about how to manage edibles and people; so much as it is about managing to get edibles out of people. After all, we figure that if you’ve been able to survive so long – through the anarchy, mayhem, rioting, and face melting caused by nuclear fallout – you’ve got that special brand of instinct made up of 25% scruples and 75% “I don’t want to die.” And let’s be honest, you know that if there’s one thing this post-apocalyptic hell-scape isn’t short on, it’s bodies. Step 1: Realizing desperate times call for desperate measuresYou’ve been on the road for weeks now, alone against the world. Sure you’ve managed to get by on the bits of food you’ve come across – a can of pickled beets on a dusty grocery store shelf, a pilfered bag of rotten potatoes someone didn’t keep within eyesight, that dead crow lying on the side of the road, and those cockroaches under that bookshelf in the house by the edge of the woods. Just thinking about it makes your stomach turn though. Ugh, pickled beets, disgusting. But you did what you had to do. Meanwhile you stomach’s continued to recede until it eventually came up against your back and now you’re worried it’ll start working on your spine. The rest of you don’t look so good either. Your eyes are sunken, skin paling, cheekbones so sharp you could probably cut paper with them. And you’re so weak. So tired. You can barely keep a grip on that lead pipe you carry around for protection. Face it. You’re starving. You’ve been starving for a long time now. You can’t even remember the last time your belly stopped growling. Or maybe that’s just because the blood is pounding so loudly in your ears as the skin stretches tighter and tighter across your head. You have to do something. You haven’t found anything to eat in almost a week. And you certainly won’t last another one if you can’t find something to eat soon. You pause a moment to rifle through yet another corpse’s pockets, hoping in vain he might be carrying a pack of gum. Suddenly a strange smell drifts into you nostrils as you roll the body onto its back. The flesh has been searing on the black top under the blazing afternoon sun. It’s then that you begin thinking the unthinkable. This person…they smell…kind of good. And you really don’t want to die. Step 2: Picking the proper corpseGreat! Now that you know you’ve run out of options we can begin with the real work: teaching you what is and is not edible. We’re sure that in your current state almost everything, or rather everyone, looks delicious. But, you need to restrain yourself! Some of those bodies littering the streets out there are less than fresh. In fact, if you try cooking up the wrong person, it’ll be downright toxic. Generally, the rule of thumb when it comes to consuming human flesh is the same as any other meat: the fresher, the better. Not that we at Peterson Publishing are advocating murder in conjunction with cannibalism, but we doubt anyone would be too harsh a judge, if say, you clubbed someone over the head who was intruding upon you camp in the middle of the night. However, we digress. Take a look at any nearby corpses. Check them thoroughly for obvious signs of decay. A bloated body for instance, is much too far along in the stages of putrefaction to be of any worth as a meal. Also, you need to make sure there are no markers on the body to indicate they died of disease. Sores and boils for example are an instant no-no. While foggy eyes and blood caked around the mouth are a bit more open to interpretation. Once you have found some bodies that seem to be in relatively good condition, refine your search to find the freshest. Look to see if the skin still has some color in it. And check how flexible the limbs are. This will tell you how far along rigor mortis is and by extension how much time any bacteria have had to work on the meat. Go ahead and take you time. We’ll be waiting here when you get back. Oh, what’s that you say? You’ve already found a suitable body? My you are intrepid! Well then, moving right along. Step 3: Distancing yourself from the mealYou know it’s going to be hard doing this. Chowing down on another human being. It’s not entirely natural. But it must be done. For the sake of survival! And if that’s not impetus enough to get you around your trepidation, don’t worry; we’ll walk you through it with these simple mental preparations. This is not someone you know. Not your friend Billy or Joey or Jim-Bob. It’s not that big bully Dwayne who used to stuff you into lockers and pants you in the hallways back in highschool.* And certainly not darling Sally whom you were always a little sweet on but never had the nerve to ask her out. No siree, in fact, this isn’t even a human being you’re looking at. It’s an animal. It’s just an animal. No different than all those cows, pigs and chickens you’ve cooked and eaten over the years. And you weren’t even in dire straits back then. Hell, you used to spit them over open fires to celebrate holidays. That’s all it is in front of you. Just an animal. Keep repeating that to yourself. Just an animal. Some new found creature made up of legs, thighs, chops, steaks, ribs, briskets, and a rump roast. Just like a cow, chicken or pig. Repeat that too. Take a deep breath. There you go. Let it out slowly. Just an animal. Very good. Now to ensure efficiency, go ahead and round up the following tools while you run through these exercises. You’ll need: 1 Hacksaw, 1 Axe or hatchet, 1 Sharp Knife, 1 stainless steel meat thermometer, 1 two quart sauce pan, 1 frying pan, 1 wok, salt and pepper. If you cannot find all or any of these materials, a heavy blunt instrument and a sharp piece of metal will suffice. However, one item is an absolute requirement, and that is an open flame. *Unless of course thinking of it as Dwayne helps. Because then you’re definitely going to eat him. Step 4: Preparing the MeatYou start by removing the hands, feet and head. But don’t throw them away just yet! While not the meatiest parts of the body, they are perfect for soups, stews and sauces. Now, as you learn the best way to begin removing the entrails…
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Post by Meleta/Isoldaa on Jan 24, 2011 2:25:16 GMT -5
Manny Nhaims4/5 Spelling & Grammar 5/5 Ease of Read 10/10 Use of Topic 14/15 Entertainment 13/15 Quality Total: 46/50Loved it. Absolutely loved this piece, Manny. The post-apocalyptic topic, the use of second person throughout this 'do-it-yourself manual?' Dark and disturbing - and I definitely laughed through it all. (Though of course, I didn't feel very good about myself afterward... >.> ) The only thing I would offer in way of criticism for this piece was that the end felt "clipped," as if you had gotten on a roll - and then for whatever reason ran out of time, perhaps? Agro4/5 Spelling & Grammar 3/5 Ease of Read 8/10 Use of Topic 12/15 Entertainment 12/15 Quality Total: 39/50I got a very "Monty Python" feel throughout your piece, Agro - and since I'm a fan, that's not a bad thing at all.  Irish Potato Famine humor, too - oh, it doesn't get much darker, hmm? Where I had a problem, though, was the fact that part of me very much began to read this as a script of sorts, and not necessarily as a piece of prose. The action and dialogue seemed jerky and disjointed, which definitely hurt the ease of read and my overall enjoyment of your piece. And then at the end, with the surprise "Oh hey! It's not really second person! I'm a narrator!" Well, part of me just said, "Hey! That's cheating!" -.- Overall, this was a great piece. Neither genre nor perspective were easy at all, and you really gave both a good go, Agro.
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Mena
Scribe
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Post by Mena on Jan 24, 2011 13:36:09 GMT -5
Aggro
4/5 Spelling & Grammar
5/5 Ease of Read
10/10 Use of Topic
15/15 Entertainment
15/15 Quality
Total: 49/50
Aside from a few spelling errors, I thought you did an excellent job. Easy to read and flowed rather nicely. I laughed aloud a few times.
“Ah, hi,” another man in a crisp suit says, sticking his head inside the tea room. “The lawyers of Edwards and Daniels would just like to say that Doctor Who is the work of BBC, which is owned by the British crown. And therefore it’s perfectly acceptable for this British writer to rip off the idea of using the Scissor Sisters. Well, of course, he didn’t come up with Scissor Sisters, whoever came up with that was a genius. I meant the idea of… just go on with the singing.”
My favorite part! Well done old chap!
Manny
5/5 Spelling & Grammar
5/5 Ease of Read
10/10 Use of Topic
15/15 Entertainment
14/15 Quality
Total: 49/50
Awesome. Fantastic use of topic but it felt unfinished. If in the future you decide to add to it, I will definitely read it. I laughed throughout the whole story! Well done!
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Post by Dylaria on Jan 24, 2011 19:51:52 GMT -5
Agro:
Spelling & Grammar - 4/5
Ease of Read - 5/5
Use of Topic - 10/10
Entertainment - 14/15
Quality - 14/15
Total - 47/50
Notes:
I noted a couple of spelling errors but nothing major. I also never had a problem reading the piece which for this combo of topic/person is quite good. Let me say I found this quite funny once I got into it but not "laugh out loud" funny. More of a dark under the breath chuckle at this poor bastard's situation and how the narrator (not really a narrator) was just being an ass the whole time. I caught a few references to outside things and yet it never felt out of place.
Really the main complaint I have is that the ending kinda screwed the second person bit. I let that one slide though because it was just an extra kick in the... wait, I can't use that line. Damn. Anyway, it was at the real end and I thought it was just a nice extra little "screw you" as the main character laid dying. My real problem with it is that how the hell did this non-narrator know about Hitler among other things? If he really was a narrator then I'd get it but at the end we find out he isn't. That bit threw me off a lot as it hit a pet peeve of mine.
Beyond that, good job.
Manny:
Spelling & Grammar - 4/5
Ease of Read - 5/5
Use of Topic - 10/10
Entertainment - 15/15
Quality - 15/15
Total - 49/50
Notes:
This was magical. Well, not literally but you know what I mean. I personally love stuff like this, the whole "fake how to survive manual" thing. I noticed only a couple errors with spelling and stuff but nothing worth pointing out. Never had a problem reading it either. As for topic, well... yeah. You hit it on the head. I think my favorite parts of this were the table of contents and how the "guide" instructed the reader to go about the tasks. Upon reading the table of contents I actually kinda wished this was a whole survival guide, it would have been a blast to read.
The only negative I have is that I kinda wish you hadn't started the actual text for step four while just stoping a line and a half in. I really wanted to keep going and felt a little bothered that it just trailed off. I get what you were going for but even if you had just stopped at the bold of step four I think it might have wrapped up a little better. Beyond that I just kinda wish I could read chapters 5, 8 and 9.
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Irish Potato Famine humor, too - oh, it doesn't get much darker, hmm?
