Story Word For Word (feedback thread)

[persimmon]

Ehh, this will take off or it won't but I've decided I need some feedback on a little thing I've started writing and obviously the best way to do that is to trade it for feedback from me on other people's work! And then anyone else who wants feedback can carry on posting their own stuff whilst reviewing the work of the person before them.

So; give as detailed a critique as you yourself want to receive, and make sure to give new feedback every time you post a new piece!

If this already exists somewhere on here... I don't know, the more the merrier?? Here is the piece I would like you all fab people to look over -tell me, if you stumbled across this somewhere on the Internet (say, I don't know, here), would you read on? Bonus question for brownie points, who's perspective would you expect to be reading from following that segment?

Spoiler

Ten of them entered the town, riding hard down the single dirt road past half shuttered windows and suspicious glances, watched over by swaying willows still naked in the early spring days. Their clothes were filthy, but even from a distance it was obvious they were well made, fine riders on horses bred from fine stock. These great beasts were built to run down anyone foolish enough to cross their path and struggled under their own weight on the path. Unrelenting rains turned soil to treacherous sludge under those great black hooves, their chaotic passage sending mud flying and chickens scattering uncertainly out of the way. The riders slowed to make their way down this black river stagnating between washed out buildings faintly painted with colourful flowers of blue and red and white, disdainful as they took in the poverty surrounding them. Perhaps one day the town would have enough money, enough of a workforce to pack the path properly, perhaps even build a proper road. Perhaps. The war had hit these people hard and they wouldn't give the instigators a warm reception. Their discontent manifested easily in dark doorways and sheltered gaps between buildings, a few teenagers holding sticks and rakes lounging around a broken cart, two grandmothers in bloodstained aprons sharing a meaningful glance as they plucked a chicken. A group of old men watched the newcomers and muttered amongst themselves under their thick moustaches in a harsh language, a low hum of discontent like wasps circling a crushed nest. One broke away from the group and boldly stepped up as the horses pounded past. He spat at an officer, catching his filthy boot with blood-specked phlegm - there was anger and resignation in his eyes as he watched the horse wheel around with a surprised whinny. The officer looked ready for a confrontation, half-hoisted out of his saddle, one hand already on the grip of his sword. The villager squared his shoulders; it was obvious he had no weapon to draw and he swayed once, unsteadily, waiting for the punishment to begin. Onlookers were already gathering by the time the officer's boot splashed in the black mud, drawn by the tension in the air, the crackle of an impending conflict. A brawl was a familiar spectacle, and a welcome change from the weariness of wartime life in a run down village.
The moment drew itself out to its breaking point. In the space of five seconds a man's life was measured and weighed out against the affronted honour of an exhausted military officer.
“Fall in!”
The sharp cry split the air and shattered the tension into a multitude of reactions. A deep, clear voice carried a steady thread of authority, and restored some idea of balance while the townspeople scattered back to their tasks, blended back into the shadows of their homes. The offender released the breath he'd been holding while his wife sobbed in relief, and the officer ground his boots into the dirt while he considered disobeying his orders. The internal conflict played out in his eyes and sent a shiver of adrenaline down through his tense muscles - he hesitated on the side of disobedience for just a moment too long.
“What did I just say? Fall in, *now*.”
A gloved hand fell on his shoulder and pulled him back towards his comrades. He stumbled back towards his captain and had enough wits to look somewhat shamefaced, barely meeting her eye as he gathered his reins and stepped swiftly up into the saddle. It was clear that the moment was gone, and with it the hope for a clear and defined display of violence. Disappointment mingled with relief in the chilled evening wind as the company rode into the town.

 

[persimmon]

Bump!

 

[persimmon]

:V

 

[Elephantom]

One of the major flaws of this work is the apparent usage of far-too elongated sentences — or it could be because of my love for Oxford commas. Nevertheless, I believe my doubt is concrete. Let's start with the starting sentence:

Ten of them entered the town, riding hard down the single dirt road past half shuttered windows and suspicious glances, watched over by swaying willows still naked in the early spring days.
​

This sentence could easily be divided to a good two sentences, with ample commas to serve and conjunct the passages. The sentence can also be simplified to include more details and reduce the number of conjunctions required. Refer to this rework for elaboration:

Ten of them entered the town, by the glare of daylight. They rode hard down the road, hooves clattering and flitting on the dirt path. They were greeted by wary scrutiny, shutters flying down as they passed, schools of men darting to the sides with hollow glares. Above them, the still-naked willows, dour and omen-bearing, of the past Autumn swayed to and fro. The wind rode with them, they were sure.
​

The rework adds more crucial points when it comes to the fantasy genre: immersion, atmosphere, and most importantly, a willingness to keep things moist and wet. Literary drought is the last thing anyone would want to encounter.

There are a few more trivial mistakes. Such as the walls of text, unbroken (and even then, lacking indentations), and a simple italicized word could've been used instead of, frankly, amateurish asterisks.

On the brighter side, this excerpt is a solid starter, though bereft of introductions, it highlights the nature of the story, the desperation and cowardly bravado that war brings with itself, the wariness of ordinary townies. I could ramble on and on about this for hours. In a nutshell, dee-hee-cent.

On a more personal note, the last conversation (more a brief monologue) sequence could be worked better a bit. This is a bit of a rework:

A gloved hand fell on his shoulder. “What did I just say? Fall in, now,” the grip tightened, and pulled him back towards his comrades.


And a bit of my excerpt. Partially complete, however:

Spoiler

The Rat's Stow was a dirty place. Though, it fit the lower dregs of Pilon perfectly. The road was ill-maintained, potholes and cracks webbing the gravelly surface, the sound of the carriages' wheels — which had to bump across them — doubly audible. Thus, occasionally, a rattle of crashes echoed throughout the streets. It had just rained, a few hours back, Harin reckoned. He was too damn blasted, snoring up his sleep deprivation in a relatively nearby inn, to have noticed it. There was reason to it too. He hadn't the mind to fight off a disease — the Rat's Stow seemed a rather welcoming habitat for them. The place smelled strongly of mud, wet shit, and other fluids of the human element. He shrugged. Nothing much he could do about it — stuff like this was normal in Pilon, even back in his days.

Harin observed as a carriage rolled forward, slanting in and out of the sharp drop, the force sending water splashing everywhere. The horse nearly drew off track — a frightened neophyte, likely — only to be held by the firm hands of the driver. Others weren't so lucky. Adjacent to the carriage was a fleeting group of people, packed together like a paranoid school of fishes. They scattered and fled as the droplets of mire pushed everywhere. Even poor people have a sort of pride within them. Or just a survivalist's exaggerated instinct. Most of these lived in on the streets, Harin supposed, and drenching your clothes in these pale times could likely earn you a very dangerous night. Drunkards were far more bereaved of fortune — in their misty daze, they stumbled right through the great washes, sometimes ignorant, sometimes taken off from the edges of their feet, like a comedic farce. It wasn't a comedic farce, however, and people hadn't it in them to laugh anymore. Especially during these days. Hard times, he reckoned, hard times.

The Rat's Stow was on the rightmost side of the road, cut off abruptly by a crossroad. To its left, stood the local haberdashery. A bit of time spent prodding a dozen or so locals — taking a good view of the lay of the land, as one can never be too cautious — and he learned that its owner, Hiroph, had long since fled the place. No bloody overreaction, Harin knew. War did that to people. More so since Pilon was damned near the frontlines, and perhaps one of the only towns yet to be shelled. That just made things worse. The wait is always worse.

Chance had done good by Pilon, whether the folks acknowledged it or not. A few Ha'asharin spies — it was hardly a secret now — had intercepted messengers, most furtively, and discovered the Camryn battery pack's lack of munitions. Could've been a bluff, could've not been. Harin didn't care. The job was different. His first battle, in and out, after his vague retirement, and he's being shipped off to the Brimstone. There was an arm's race in place, and it became a matter of who could get munitions first. Undoubtedly, the Kev were confident. You don't really hire a rank amateur like Tolin for no reason — at least, Harin was told that man was a rank amateur. He couldn't quite trust the church and their hypocritical hubris. Nevertheless, one thing was true: the Ha'asharin were good at their job.

In all ways possible, the inn suited the road, as the road suited the town. The red of the bricks were fading to a dull brown, the windows ripe with dust. The patches on the roof, and there was many, was slick and glossy with rainwater. Unlike the more unlucky windows. Though the roof appeared more verdant due to its watery sheen, the building's colour had evidently turned ashen. The people who dwelt within them were sharply different. Vivid, colourful. Not always in a good way. It was a filthy inn, and filthy places attract filthy men. Tolin was a good example, as the apparent will of Khavamir would have him believe. Harin shrugged again, observing the building. Why was he doing that again? He hardly knew himself.

Rogue mud, splatters of rainwater straddled by shirking mire, embraced the lower thatched roofs that hiked over the windows. Constant wear and the humid weather had curled their roots, giving the roofs a sinister curve. More mud tainted the side-lines, and the bottoms of the building's foundation. Pilon, dirty as always, if not dirtier. Most street sweepers and dung cleaners had been drafted into the army. Harin couldn't blame them. Jobs like those could do without for a time, especially in a town where it scarcely mattered.

About front of the inn, on a stretched layer that separated the two storeys, there was a sign. RAT'S STOW. It boasted its name, with great pride, and accompanying the flourished words were the engravings of a rat. Harin knew the words and picture from memory; it was hardly coherent these days. How much could he remember? How much did he *desire* to remember?

Harin was well used to the unshorn edges of cities, the slums — having spent a queer amount of past years in brackish environs, and the other quarter in the company of rich men, and a good decade or so in a southron hamlet where wealth was a sparse subject. He knew the deep segregation of the very poor and the very wealthy, he knew how they tilted, and he knew how they get influenced. And, besides, Kev was one an extreme country with an extreme population. Many of whom were poor. A lot of people, and a lack of proper resources. Not raw, however. Raw, unfiltered resources were truly abundant here, though never finely manipulated to the greater advantage. Nobody was smart around here, nobody.

Having gathered a commendable amount of wasted time under his belt, and a pinch of steadfast courage, Harin entered the Rat's Stow. Even before he opened the door, he was blasted by raucous scores of laughter and screeching chords of a string, all of which rang and pierced through the thin walls. Inside was even worse. The place smelled of piss, sweat, and rotten alcohol. And with the thick knit today, it stank even stronger. Not that anybody mind. Harin narrowly avoided the left-footed stumble of a bearded worker, drifting to the clearing that was the bar's counter more by empty force than by choice. The cascade of fate. Harin, even through the layers of noise that surrounded him, could hear the quivering blows of the outdoor carriages against the tough roads. The two, the crackling streets that refused to be quiet, and the overflowing bar, didn't mix well.

At the sharp roar of a man, and a narrowly-escaped bar feud — two drunkards duking it out, barely being able to put their fists up — Harin winced. It could've been because of the sharp nausea too. He quickly side-stepped from possible reach, remaining enough to notice a man break up the fight. Unfazed, Harin trudged to the counter. He had steeled himself to the horrors of warfare, and in extension the horrors of life as well, and to the bitter aftertaste that comes with glory, but he could never get used to the glaring lack of valour and honour in armies. Never.

Harin grunted, and shifted his weight on a nearby stool. He turned towards the entirety of the inn, to the bemusement of the bartender. Fresh troopers, with only bushels of wiry growth on their chin and misty eyes, drowning their intrepid excitement with women on their laps and a mug of ale in their hands. A couple of relatively quiet farmers on the counter, bouncing forth and back news of the world. They, at least, weren't here to out-drink their anxieties, as the troopers were doing, just prodding for information only indirectly related to their wellbeing.

Barmaids scuttled around the room, under the watchful glare of the innkeeper, passing mugs of mead and other profound brews around, the lagging ones continuously harried by the innkeeper. The large, burly man stood by the counter, keeping the taps steady and the mugs clean. Well, as clean as the standards of Pilon made it, which was low. The rotund man wore a stained apron, which stretched tightly across his pot belly. His eyes were half bloodshot, two chins covering his neck, and bushy brows drooping to a tired glare. His wrinkles were doubly visible — he was truly tired. A heavy length of hair lifted itself off of the peak of his hair small elsewhere, on the corners and sides. It mimicked the warrior ties and braids of the some of the less-eclectic bauwnek tribes. The shade of his skin, however, disputed that claim. He probably innocently mimicked it, unaware. Shitty trends.

The soldier straightened his back, and walked over to the counter, nudging in between two very annoyed farmers. He smacked his dried lips together, lifting his chin up to the nonchalant bartender. “Looking for Tolin,” Harin realized his tone was too stiff. Awkward. It had been quite a lot of time since he had talked, properly, to a sociable entity.

The bartender paused, hand and rug deep inside a mug. His gaze wasn't impressionable. “Whas't yer b'zness?”

Harin gulped. A single trail of sweat ran down his back. “New train commission,” he said. “Guardsman.”

“Figures,” the bartender's glare darkened, to one of withering suspicion. Harin's back relaxed. No point trying anymore, he supposed. The soldier backed away slowly, mumbling an apology to the two farmers. He'd have to find that man himself. Thing was, he didn't ever see that man.

Perusing through the piles of men, Harin eventually fixed on a solitary man on a quiet side of the room. He was conversing quietly with another man to his left. Tolin was easy to the eyes, rather unique from the rest of the hooligans here. He was tall. Taller than most men of kev, and especially the ones in Pilon. It would've seemed too lanky on any other man, but not him. Everything just added up with Tolin, full circle. The man was in line with his self, the soldier mused. Harin had never seen him, this Tolin, but he recognized him. Tolin wore the carefully stitched emblem of his company, he was an arms trader and worked with the country from time to time. A fire on a bare stick imprisoned in a triangle, on the shoulder of his jacket. The man was bald, a rugged dome still tainted with a mask of past hair, and had a dusky complexion all too resembling the common hue of Kev outlanders, though lighter. His face was stoic and spartan, a hunk of iron battered to a robust shape, though sprinkled with good humour and an evergreen grin.

It wasn't his skin nor his build that made him stand out, no. It was his sharp, amber eyes, radiant and starkly visible, which seemed as if it could pierce through even the harshest of men. Few could look at it, Harin supposed, and talk big. His jacket was spanned haphazardly, with a thick flak vest and rows of belts and munition counters. Hiding them, barely, was a hide cloak. His arms were covered with plain metal gauntlets bound with leather belts. His legs were fitted with down-cuffed boots, leather knee covers, and thick pants that were tucked inside the boots. A Kalica rifle hung on his back, strapped across with its sling.

Kalica rifles were staples of the Kev army, as common as bad stew and dried fish. Cheap rifles, made up with rough components with hardly an edge to them. Tolin's one, however, was refined and fair to the eyes. The barrel had been lengthened, affixed to it was a metal-and-wood casing. The receiver was embellished with brass, so was the ejector, sticking out from beneath it a long square magazine. Flourished with a slight curve, but nonetheless, completely in accordance to unspoken protocols. Behind the trigger and the grip, instead of a stunted wire stock common to the gun, was a wooden, graceful barrel. Carved with great care, Harin thought. It was designed with a slight slant, instead of the basic straight wood, and was burnished and well-cleaned. A deep colour of ashen ochre. The rest of the additions were hardly noteworthy. The barrel was stumped on the front by a choke muzzle. The triggers had been replaced with more expensive, tuned ones — with the rustic, emaciated appearance of many an olden guns. A rear and fore-sight had been added, though simple. And, there was a lithe end that ran beneath the barrel casing, probably with a better grip in mind. It was a good gun, all in all. Harin knew, now and then, that Tolin wasn't a thrifty man at all.

 

[Avouleance]

Snip

Can I interest you in trading feedback for feedback? Since your piece is substantial I'd like to commit some time to make more detailed notes via Google Docs but I wouldn't go ahead with it without checking that's what you were looking for.

 

[Elephantom]

Can I interest you in trading feedback for feedback? Since your piece is substantial I'd like to commit some time to make more detailed notes via Google Docs but I wouldn't go ahead with it without checking that's what you were looking for.

A vastly great idea, at least, what it appears to my puny, puny mind.