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Post by Kaez on Jan 8, 2015 1:05:37 GMT -5
A favored means of pulling a reader into a setting is by actually presenting them with pieces of writing from within the setting itself. Whether in the form of journal entries, historical excerpts, or religious poetry, the mere act of reading literature that is not about the world, but within the world adds an entirely new layer of depth and dimension, transporting the audience into the setting and vividly and viscerally exposing them to the world the author has created.
Your topic is: HOROSCOPE
Your restriction: Must be written as an in-setting religious document.
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Post by JMDavis ((Silver)) on Jan 12, 2015 13:10:55 GMT -5
For the child born at the last minute of Brahmas and the first minute of Lengsar their destiny shall be one of marked interest and dual-purpose. For the child’s mind will forever be devoted to Brahm, but their legs – and their heart – shall be beholden to Leng. It is foretold in the Book of Brahm and the Path of Leng that such a child will be born, and their birth aboard the Will of Brahm shall be the beginning of The Long Journey.
Brahm will wish this child to question what is seen. He will test this child in peace and in war. He will show this child true sin in the most devoted, and true virtue in the most heretical. Through war, this child will bring peace. Through peace, this child will bring prosperity. Through prosperity, this child will bring acceptance. As is told in the Book of Brahm.
While Brahm questions, Leng acts. This child will walk the journey of the Seven Million Steps. The child will begin in the dark, in the underworld and ascend above. The child will pass through the land of the righteous sinners wiser than before. The child will walk the verdant lands and bring to question the integrity of kings. The child’s feet will tread on soft loam and they will listen to the strife of the lords of the forest and the jungle as they roar and bellow their deeds. The child’s feet will kiss the cool waters of the endless lake and they will bathe in the waters of the heavens. The child will swim in the eternal sea and visit the masters of the lost isles. The child will walk in the lands of the withdrawn faithful and the lands of the false-believers. The child will ascend into the world of the blind priests before taking their last steps to witness the heavens above. In fear, the child finds love. In love, the child finds sin. In sin, the child finds virtue. In virtue, the child finds peace. As is told in the Path of Leng.
This child, if it is a boy, will end his journey at the final step. He will be driven to feel the Void and swim the Great Ocean alongside Brahm – even though it shall kill him. But he will die after spreading knowledge and wisdom, carried on a journey that could only occur with the blessings of two gods. He will be remembered as a Saint of Leng – one who could not allow his journey to end.
This child, if it is a girl, will continue her journey. She shall retreat from the Great Ocean and return to the dark underworld where she was born and bring with her the knowledge she has gathered. She will live a long life and when she passes it will be both joyous and sorrowful. She will be remembered as a Saint of Brahm – one who could not allow knowledge to remain lost.
The old man slowly closed the ancient tome, The Two-Fold Path, gnarled fingers running over the worn text on the ancient leather. He raised his eyes to the young boy studying from two holy books just as ancient: the Path of Leng, thin by all comparisons but with the tightly written script of the Talonites condensing its pages, and the Book of Brahm, a massive text filled with breathtaking illustrations of Brahm and his chosen. Tears sprang unbidden to his eyes as the old priest of Ohkwariok and Vynoslivost looked at his pupil – the child born on the last minute of Brahmas and the first minute of Lengsar. He held back a sob and set down the tome, rising to his feet so the tan and forest green buckskin of Ohkwariok smoothed out alongside the crimson and black sackcloth of Vynoslivost and eased down the steps toward the still studious disciple. His chest tightened as he stood over the boy – his boy – and looked down at him knowing him to be condemned.
A gentle hand was laid on the boy’s shoulder, drawing the pupil’s eyes upward to the glistening eyes of his mentor. “Ananta,” the wizened priest’s words were thick and he cleared his throat before continuing, “I believe that that is enough studying for the day. How about I take you to get your favourite meal? I managed to scrounge enough coin together for the both of us to feast tonight,” his words quavered just slightly, but his smile was bright as ever.
Ananta smiled wide – his eyes brightening at the thought and nodded, gently closing each book and rising to his feet – letting the blue and white silks of Brahm smooth out with the red and gold cotton of Leng, “Thank you, Master Dayaram!”
The old priest and his young disciple walked from their tiny temple, striding down the uneven dirt roads of Kama Siti – their village, and one of the many villages on the lowest deckingdom of the Will of Brahm – to a small river-side tavern that served the most delicious of river creatures caught fresh every day-cycle.
Dayaram would not live to witness Ananta’s journey. But he knew, in his sorrowful heart, that it was amazing.
He never heard the tales from the deckingdom above of how Ananta found his enlightenment amongst the engine-cults of Brahm where he learned that the most faithful are those carved and molded by pleasures of the moment and the promise of peace. That the boy – now a man by this point – spent seven days locked in the pleasures of the flesh or toiling at the massive engines that thrummed with the very power of Brahm’s life. Ananta journeyed up, leaving behind a world of pipes and roaring engines, of ramshackle brothels and holes-in-the-wall that served rotgut to the rolling fields and pastoral lands of deckingdom Agri.
How Ananta sat within the court of Queen Leelavathi to observe and advise. The young man sitting quietly at her side, his head bowed, just listening to her judgments and reading the history of deckingdom Agri for six days before questioning her. Softly, with the curiosity of a child more than the understanding of an adult, he asked her about her rigidity to the caste system. How she could believe the integrity and honour of one was greater than the integrity and honour of another just because of the family they were born to. He never raised his voice, he never told her she was wrong – he listened to her beliefs and questioned them. He seemed to accept what she said and spent one more day of rest before gathering his things to continue his journey, pausing just to ask her a question that resounds through the metal halls of Agri: “If being born into a higher caste makes one more honourable – then why did the Forest Lord during the reign of the Queen’s grandfather lie about the war he waged against Agri?”
Leaving behind the pastures with their raucous animals and ordered fields, Ananta now moved through the man-made chaos of deckingdom Arborus with its beautiful trees – some as old as lost Mundo Cuna itself, others as young as he. Leaves of green, red, blue, purple and gold shadowed him as he walked along rough-hewn roads to arrive and sit between two armies. Arrows afraid to fire, men and cavalry afraid to charge, for this monk with a mostly shaven head and a long black mohawk knelt praying quietly. The priest ignorant to the threats of King Sikandar of the Forest who promised to gut him if he did not move, nor the entreaties of King Singh of the Jungle who threatened to destroy Sikandar’s family if he came near the kneeling Ananta. It was only through this quiet refusal to move that he managed to get both Sikandar and Singh to storm towards one another – Sikandar to kill Ananta and Sing to protect him – which the young priest was able to force both mighty kings to speak to one another. Through talks of peace, the Forest Lords pledged to refrain from making war on either Agri or deckingdom Jung – and the Lion’s Children to retreat from Arborus to Jung.
Ananta did not stay long in Jung – though he was given an armed guard to get him through the twisting paths and ward away fearsome hybrid beasts which stalked just beyond view in the dense foliage and the thick ground-covered mist, the guard only retreating when he was lead to the ladder that lead him up to the loam shores of the Eternal Lake. Ananta walking along the eternal lake, ignoring kings and men to reach Svarga ki Pholsa – the Heaven’s Fall. The water fell in a great torrent from above, trapping lights within it to cause it to glow and shift colours at random. He bathed in the glistening waters of the world above, feeling empowered as nutrient saturated water brought vigour to a body wearing down from a long journey.
Revitalized, he left Svarga ki Pholsa, and Laak, behind to journey upwards – ever upwards – and arrive on burning red sands to look upon the Endless Sea, the few who lived on the shore closest to the ladders and civilization warned Ananta when he told of his plan to swim the seas. One offered Ananta a boat to safely travel, but he declined. Instead, the boat was used to hold the possessions of Ananta – his robes, a finely crafted walking stick, prayer beads, and newer copies of both the Path of Leng and the Book of Brahm before the priest dove into the sea. The fisherman traveled with, and warned Ananta away, fretting the priest would die, yet – Ananta was spared by the vicious creatures both great and small of the Endless Sea. His fingers lightly touching the fins monstrous sharks or the tails of vicious whales. Only to wash up on the shores of the Masters of the Lost Isles, learning of the ancient feuds between them through the aid of the fisherman. By healing ancient wounds and salving hurt pride, Ananta managed to broker not only peace – but prosperity – between these savage kings who turned their knowledge of the waves into a profit for the fishers of the shore.
Ferried from the Lost Isles in the shell of a great leviathan, he was once more climbing higher, emerging from the ladder into a world of brushed steel walls and floor, of buzzing synthetic light and men and women in odd dress. They wore dark blue uniforms with polished black boots, Ananta was frozen as he stared at these unusual people who returned his stare before bowing their heads only slightly as they continued on. Following one such group, a primitive amongst them, he stumbled onto the staggering sight of the command bridge for the Will of Brahm. He looked around, at a loss for words as men and women – enough to fill thirty villages in Kama Siti – sat in concentric wings before glowing monitors and stations, tapping out cryptic codes and muttering in a language both completely alien and completely known. Ananta did not linger here long, lead away by a man in an ornate uniform of white and gold, metal epaulettes worked into trumpeting mastodons, one hand on the hilt of a sword worked into a lunging tiger. The man, the Captain of the Will of Brahm, lightly guided Ananta to a small metal room. With a sad smile, knowing what Ananta would face, he pressed a plastic button and doors wooshed shut, carrying Ananta higher and higher up.
The doors opened, leaving behind the crew of the Will of Brahm who guided the ancient voidgod through the Great Ocean and commanded his wrath in times of strife to a land of towering buildings with mirror surfaces, to roaring metal beasts that sped down great frozen rivers of black and yellow. Immediately, Ananta felt ignored and lost – hated and looked upon with disgust as men in fashionable suits and ladies in flowing gowns stalked past, glaring at the grubby thing in their midst. Ananta had heard of this land as a myth, and dreaded to believe that it was real. He moved through the throngs of the false-believers as a whipped dog, tail between its legs. He began to doubt his beliefs, his entire journey, until a girl his age stopped him. She lead him away from great mega-temples, and the boulevards of sneering disdain to a small palace. There, she sat with Ananta and tearfully begged him to let her know that Brahm’s will was real, that Brahm was real, and that he cared for them. The girl, Rohana, cried as she pleaded with Ananta, shuddering with bottled emotion now freed. Ananta looked at her, unsure what to say for many long moments, before leaning in to hug and comfort her – holding her close as he whispered: “If Brahm was not real, I would not be here now for you.”
Rohana, still lost but slowly finding her way, brought Ananta to his penultimate stop in one of the great metal beasts that populated this great city. The car slewing to a stop let Ananta exit and say his farewells to Rohana before he began the journey through the world of the Brahmin. The priests, those who were blessed with the Gift of Brahm, looked at one such as he – a boy born in Kama Siti just as they had but with no powers. They laughed at his amusing interpretations of his visit, and asked him what he truly knew of Brahm. They heckled him when he brought up the strife of the lower deckingdoms, when he remarked on the faithlessness of those who ‘worshipped’ just below the Brahmin. This was a land of blind and deaf clerics who seemed to care not for the pains below, as long as the caste system was maintained with them on top.
Ananta did not stay long in their pristine white rooms with the affectations of tribal mysticism hanging on the walls. He left their mocking laughs and jeers behind to begin the final climb. One foot in front of the other – no elevator or maintenance ladder this, but a spiral stair worn by trillions of feet that lead up and up into a glass dome. A blister on the skin of the ship that stared out into the eternal night and star-filled void of the Great Ocean. Step-by-step Ananta climbed, feeling as if he were getting closer and closer to the stars as he viewed heaven by standing just above true hell. His journey had carried him through the eleven deckingdoms of the Will of Brahm, and now here he stood at the twelfth – hands pressed against the cold glass that separated him from the eternal night.
Eyes closed, Ananta pressed on one pane of glass – a pane that was sealed tight and should not realistically be able to be moved. He pressed just lightly, and a flare of light left his hands. He heard, for just a moment, warning klaxons as the pane was pushed away and Ananta’s journey to heaven ended as he swam eternally in the gravity-wake alongside the Will of Brahm.
Ananta had never read The Two-Fold Path, with its ancient destinies for those born under two gods. It had been burned with Master Dayaram at the old man’s death. Those who mock fate, the gods, whatever it is called would be left wondering as Ananta willingly went to his death. For how could a boy, with no sign of the obvious psychic blessings of the voidgods, move the pane of glass? And why? Not even Ananta, in his last moments, truly knew.
But Dayaram knew, and it was his burden to know that all of this would come to pass. It was his burden to rail against the gods who would curse a boy so full of life, compassion and love, to ultimately die in the void. It was his burden to know he would protect the boy from the truth and pray the writings were wrong, to commit a great sin by destroying an ancient text to shield Ananta’s eyes out of love. It was his burden, for The Two-Fold Path was not long in speaking of the destiny of those born under the uncaring eyes of Vynoslivost and in the protective arms of Ohkwariok.
The child born on the last minute of Ohkwar and the first minute of Vynost will be a guardian and arbiter. They will seek to protect those they care for from the truth, and endure the heart break of knowing the truth – and that they are unable to stop it. They will judge what sins are necessary to struggle to save those they care for. Their destiny is one of utmost sorrow as they realize they cannot change the will of the gods. Only accept it and pray that they are not there to witness the word come into life.
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Post by Jenny (Reffy) on Jan 12, 2015 16:37:48 GMT -5
"We need something new …"
"Something fresh …" another voice rose from no discernible source, echoing the original thought. It wasn't a normal voice but rustled and creased.
"Something people want, no, they need to read about."
A piece of paper, that had been resting up against one of the chimney stacks, unfolded like a complex piece of origami and became the silhouette of a boy maybe around five or six years of age. It was only a silhouette of a boy though because on closer inspection it was made out of newspaper folded together to form legs and arms and a torso complete with a head. The entire being, if you were to look from the side, would appear no thicker than a single page of cheap newspaper. "But what. No use having these thoughts. We need ideas."
"Last story was about the serial killer. That stuff was good. We need more," a poster that had been plastered over one of the chimney stacks, probably by the Upper-alley Gang, curled and flopped down and folded in to another boy. It wobbled on flimsy legs and wavered in the light breeze. "We need a new contender."
From up on the roofs, where The Paper Boys congregated, almost all of the Bizarre Bazaar could be seen stretching out in to the far distance in all directions. The city revolved around the Bizarre Bazaar, in more than one way, since it could move when nobody was watching. The city was alive. It was a living thing. One day Tick-Tock's would be next to the Memory Market and the park. The next Mother When's would be there instead along with her hospital. None of it made sense and yet people never questioned it and somehow you always got to where you were going.
The hustle and bustle of the market could be heard as a low rumbling din below; people trying to sell trash or treasure for one price or another. It was almost closing time for the Bazaar Night was approaching on the back of prized racing stallions. The deep purple and pink hues of the sky reflected off every shiny surface. The local area could only be described as a shanty town but mixed with the vibe of an old Victorian town. There were old skinny Victorian terraces and small pieces of green dotted around. The only part of the city that truly sparkled could be seen in the distance: Tick-Tock's police Headquarters and behind that the air-port tower.
It was a whole new world up here. The police couldn't touch the roof's. This was gang area.
The first Paper Boy picked up the train of thought. "We know what we need but nobody can give it us."
"Who said it needs to be given?" A new Paper Boy had joined the group. It was a folded up napkin that had shaped itself in to a smaller version. Despite not being here from the start of the conversation it knew what had already transpired as if all Paper Boys shared one hive-mind. "We could do it. We make the papers. We are the news."
"We could. But what if caught?" The second one rubbed his chin with a crumpled hand causing a crumpling sound that was stolen by the wind.
"Why we report on our own violation? Crime? Would never be investigated. We are neutral in this war. Neutrals don't kill people."
They all agreed that it made sense. The plan would work.
Stacie Lauder had had a bad day at the Bizarre Bazaar Barely anybody wanted to buy her hand-made posies, especially not since Lady Muck had moved in. Lucy Shard had taken over in the plot next to hers and she sold real flowers. Not the felt ones that Stacie worked so hard on every night. Everybody loved Lucy. She was new to The Mad City and that made her special. Everybody wanted to make her feel welcome and Stacie was pushed to one side.
All of this wouldn't have been so bad but at about midday some of the local kids (a gang of some sort) had come racing through the market, chased by Tick-Tock's police men, and had knocked over her goods. All of her flowers had ended up in the gutter, hopelessly ruined. She'd spent the rest of the day trying to rescue them and dry them out.
The business was all that mattered to Stacie. She'd long forgotten her previous life. The life that existed outside of The Mad City. She'd become one of the Sleepers.
The Sleepers were common people who'd forgotten that they had a choice about their lives, and where their lives were going, and instead fell in to a continuous cycle. The next day, and the one after that, and the following: she'd get up, go to the market, go home, eat dinner, and sleep. The rest was repeat after this. She never thought about the family she had outside of the city any more. She never considered trying to escape any more. All of that was in the past. She couldn't even remember how she'd ever got here in the first place.
Now her feet pounded towards her house on Rose Lane. Stacie knew it was currently spitting distance from The Park and Mother When's hospital, as it always was on a … she struggled to remember which day it was. She'd reasoned it was probably Wednesday.
The moment had caused her to slow down for a second as her brain engaged. Her attention was quickly pulled away by a figure in an alleyway off to one side. "Hello, Stacie Lauder."
"Good night." No need to be rude, she thought, but best get home quickly to make some new flowers. She'd need to best Lucy tomorrow with her display.
"Stacie," it seemed to sigh as it stepped out of the shadows, "where are you going?"
"Home. Sorry, I must get going, things to do." The words came tumbling out as she realised who, or what, she had been stopped by. The Paper Boys. She'd heard rumours about them, she was sure of it. Somewhere in the back of her mind she knew these things weren't to be trusted. She turned to move away but another Paper Boy was in her way. She pushed it aside and it tore and fell in tatters the way soggy newspaper would disintegrate.
"But we need you, Stacie. We need some feedback, you see? Feedback about the newspaper. We're looking to change a few things, Stacie, and we hoped you'd help," it moved with her, easily keeping stride.
Stacie turned another corner, hoping to throw it, and bumped in to another one. She started to scream but it was muffled as she walked head first in to the paper. For a second it stayed stuck to her face like a vacuum packed piece of packaging would. When she pulled back Stacie could see her lipstick smudged on the paper in front of her. A cold sweat shivered it's way down her body and curled around her feet like a python ready to start swallowing.
"What do you like reading about in papers, Stacie?"
The mark where her lipstick had gotten moved like real lips. It had broken out into a torn and wicked smile.
"Uh, horoscopes, I suppose, or crosswords? You know, nice stuff," she stammered, frozen like a rabbit in headlights.
"You like horoscopes?"
"We could write you a horoscope, Stacie, yes. A horror-scope …" The original Paper Boy was so close behind her that Stacie could almost imaging the hot breathe on the back of her neck.
"No, no. Thank you. Really. I have to be getting home now," she turned and darted away, dropping the felt flowers as she broke in to a run.
"Your horoscope, Stacie. Today you will make a wrong turn but don't worry, the moon is in your quarter, because you'll always find your way to your future, Stacie."
She ran so hard that she was sure her heart would burst in to a million fractured pieces and fall out of the bottom of her soles. The sweat that had been curled around her feet rose and swallowed her whole. The salty liquid plastered back her brown hair and tears curled around her gaping wide mouth to kiss her tongue. Each moment was broken down in to little slithers of time that seemed to take an eternity to pass.
"That wrong turning I mentioned, Stacie, was back there. You should have taken Dire Moors to Primrose Land and then followed the train tracks home. Don't you know where you are?"
She couldn't pin-point the voice. It was seemingly coming from everywhere. The Victorian terraces just helped to magnify it and distort it even further as it echoed like a pinball in a machine. She knew she would have to stop soon. She was running out of breathe as her lungs burnt like a pot left to boil too long; red hot and smoking.
"You know what people like to read about, Stacie? Murder. That's something people will always enjoy. It's a kind of morbid fascination. People like to know gory details. Here, shall I write you an obituary? I'll make it awfully kind."
Stacie all but gave up. She had to stop for breath. She had to stop. She leaned against a wall gasping like a fish out of water. Where were the people? This was a city and yet she'd not seen anybody for a while. Why was she alone? Why her?
"Why you? Because people like you. Shall I add that bit? Stacie Lauder was well loved by all … no? You aren't interested in that bit?" the shadows mused, the voices moving and picking up where one stopped. The road seemed to be full of Paper Boys, each turned to face Stacie. "How's about the gory details then."
"She was murdered on … what's this road? Ah, Walmington's Road …"
"By hanging. A noose!" From one of the buildings a thin noose made of twisted paper spun down not far away from the breathless woman who was clutching at her lungs.
"No, no. Not bloody enough."
"A gun? Fatal shot to the head. Blood everywhere!" It cackled and suddenly the sound of a gun-shot rang out.
"Please! Let me go," she could barely speak. Her mind was racing. Why her? Why was she even here? What had happened? And where was her family? The panic had woken her up, brought back memories of a fire, and the intoxication … and that it was her fault. She'd left a cigarette lit while she'd injected some thing. She'd gotten high and killed her family by accident. The screams that came from upstairs, from the children's bedrooms, and the wail of sirens as they rushed to save the family. Stacie had tried to help but the fire pushed her back. She couldn't breathe then and she couldn't breathe now. The flames had licked at her arms and smoke drenched her in mourning black. "What-what have I done?"
"You've made the papers," they snarled back and as one all of the Paper Boys rose and swirled like a tornado towards Stacie. She only had enough time to raise her hands in front of her face before the first piece of paper made it's cut. A thin line of red leaked from her arm as she howled.
The next cut quickly followed, tearing a part the day dress with flowers on it. It didn't hurt at first but as more cuts were forced the pain welled and grew like eddies on the edge of rivers. Stacie felt the sickness come, pushing at her gullet, but the how kept it back. The howl became a scream. The scream became a guttural and damp moan. The moan continued for a long time but ended in a thick and thunderous squelch.
The twister of paper rolled around her, each leaving it's mark. Each piece of paper sliced in to her flesh, cut at her hair, nicked at her rosey cheeks, and drew itself through Stacie's body.
The whole fiasco was over in less than a few minutes. All that was left was a bloody pile of bones and various inner fluids which were already leaking away over the edge of the pavement and in to the gutter. Paper could never cut bones but everything else had been stripped clean like a piranha’s lunch.
The Paper Boy's slunk away, leaving only the torn corner of a newspaper. The headline: Stacie Lauder Mutilated. Murderer Still At Large.
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Post by Kaez on Feb 2, 2015 9:27:46 GMT -5
She will be remembered as a Saint of Brahm – one who could not allow knowledge to remain lost. I thought this whole prophecy bit was very cool. Written in its own distinct style without coming off as being too gimmicky for it. Definitely sets the mood. That it's not just a prologue, but actually is incorporated into the coming text via the man closing the tome only adds to that. Ugh, yet again though, you really like throwing in the names that are hard to follow. That's an awfully weird thing without some context. Why not every day? Are we somewhere with unconventional days? The bulk of this story contains a lot of these. They're not exactly incorrect sentences (though in this case, the comma after "boots" should actually be a semicolon or a period) but they're just structured in a really odd way. I understand you may have been trying to go for something with the slightly odd sentence formatting to make it read a little archaic -- and I think you actually do mostly achieve that tone -- but the result is that it's actually a bit of a clunky read. It's not so much that it doesn't "flow", but rather that the order the reader is presented information makes following the sequence of events slightly tricky. This is cool. I don't have any good reason for why it's cool, but I like how this happened and I like the strange place he's ended up and the girl there whose hopes depend on him. I definitely didn't expect the story to end on Dayaram rather than the protagonist, which I think works really well. Dayaram's fate is a lot more accessible for the reader and the result is that it's a story about a man who bears a burden and who dies before he can see that which he knows will come -- something relatable and visceral and emotional. I do think that it's possible to improve this story, if you're so inclined -- sit on it for another two weeks, then go back to the bulk of it when you're less familiar with it and change up some of the wording and sentence structures. You'll be able to catch the odd stuff. But for the most part, a pretty good story with a satisfying ending. |
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Post by Kaez on Feb 2, 2015 9:28:16 GMT -5
None of it made sense and yet people never questioned it and somehow you always got to where you were going. That'd kind of the tagline of the whole City, isn't it? A quick read-through probably would have caught this. There are a few of these throughout, whether word repetition or a missing period or some other small grammar point. They don't detract from the story at all, but always something to watch out for. The Paper Boys are really neat and this particular feature of them really makes them seem like fully fleshed out -creatures-, you know? I just wished you'd shown this more than once. I love the idea that they take on human attributes when they encounter them. You know what else is a trademark of the Mad City? Seemingly benign creatures being deeply morbid. Haha.I think you've achieved something here that almost borders on... social commentary, actually. Something about tabloids and paparazzi. At any rate, the whole story really comes together nicely and finishes in a way that feels right. That said, I wish there'd have been a bit more to the early interaction of the Paper Boys that had let the reader know they were kind of sinister. Sure, we know they're going to invent their own news story... but that they turned out to be morbid wasn't exactly expected and I think, if it had been, there would've been this cool noir suspense thing going on when we first encountered Stacie. But that's really the only thing I'd change about this. Otherwise, I liked it quite a bit. |
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Post by Kaez on Feb 2, 2015 9:29:38 GMT -5
This one is really hard to call, to be honest. These two stories are just so very different and, frankly, I liked them both and had small critiques for both.
So I've got to make my judgment on the fact that Silver's was loyal to the round's restriction.
Silver 1 - Reffy 0
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