Fun Stuff > MAKE
Writing club
questionablydiscontent:
--- Quote from: Morituri on 23 May 2018, 23:11 ---Just by the way, there's a sticky topic for fanfiction in the main QC forum. I think a lot of this stuff would be quite well-received there.
I could post chapters and bits, if people are interested in them, from a couple of things I've written and one I'm still working on. They have nothing to do with Questionable Content though - (albeit a few of them are...)
--- End quote ---
Oh, thanks for the notice ^^ In that case maybe I'll repost my play-styled fanfic there I guess? (even though it's probably horrible trash :psyduck:)
HughYeman:
--- Quote from: Zebediah on 18 Mar 2015, 09:29 ---(responding to your Marten/Charlie Brown story)
Wow. I used to read Peanuts as a kid, and that gave me the tingles. Thank you.
I'm curious: are you familiar with "Peanuts Halloween II: Electric Boogaloo"?
--- End quote ---
TheEvilDog:
Well, if we're sharing, here's one back from 2011.
Her Eyes
I remember her eyes.
I remember thinking that they were the most beautiful shade of amber as this petite, well-dressed woman wandered into the bookstore where I worked. I can remember her soft, delicate laugh as she corrected me, pointing out that her eyes, were in fact, hazel. This was of course after I had blurted it out to her as she asked if we had a first collection of nineteenth century short stories. There was something in the way she moved, in the manner that she spoke that drew me to her, indeed, one could have said that it was love at first sight, though I always wondered why she loved me. I was never the most handsome of men, my face gaunt and tired, a reminder of a childhood spent ill and frail.
I remember that there was something about this woman, her long, soft brown hair tied into a ponytail, that made me feel like a better man, just for having seen her. Even after my foolish stumbling, I somehow managed to ask her out, though she would tell me often afterwards, that she found me endearing, comforting and, to her apparently, perfect. She would tell me this, her hazel eyes looking deeply into mine as we would lie in bed at night.
I remember that night in September, when we sat on that park bench, under the branches of her favourite willow tree; I looked longingly into those eyes as I held her hand in mine, as I fumbled with the small velvet box with my other hand. It had been a year after we had met in the bookstore, a year of having her in my life and each day realising that I could not live my life without her. Even as I asked her the question, her eyes told me yes, lighting up in the glow of the full moon.
I remember her eyes, teary, yet joyful as her father escorted down the aisle to the altar, and to me. Her smile was radiant under her veil, beaming as I lifted the lacy material away as the priest's words droned into the background. I knew it was the happiest day of my life as she said "I do" as I slipped the wedding band over her finger as I felt her lips against mine and the congregation clapped and cheered.
I remember her eyes as she finally returned home. She had been gone for most of the night, to the point where my hand had just reached for the phone to call the police when she returned. Her eyes were scared, terrified, darting back and forth with fear as she sat walked through the door. Her jacket, her favourite, I had bought it for her birthday, was drenched, not by rain though, but by blood. It wasn't hers, but it still didn't stop me from worrying. She had told me that she had hit a dog with her car; that the poor beast had lashed out as she approached, its paw barely scratching her hand. I held my wife close for the rest of the day, watching her hazel eyes turn red as she cried for the dog.
I remember her eyes, as her hulking form broke through the door, only a few days after incident with the animal. I remembered the petite, beautiful girl who walked into my life on a warm September, the brown haired girl with the amber eyes, which were actually hazel. They were the same eyes that now approached me, that stared at me and hungered. As her claw clasped around my throat, those beautiful hazel eyes, the ones I fell in loved with, were the last things I saw as my wife tore my throat out.
BenRG:
Fan-Fiction Proposal
Player Unknown's Battlegrounds
Just an idea that came to me over the past week or so. I think that this game allows for the framework of a round-robin or multi-author anthology work all based in the same fictional universe. It works something like this:
In the early 21st Century, many political, economic and social issues led to a crisis with blooming prison populations and greater internal political unrest in the face of more and more ineffective and remote governance. In response to these problems, several countries with particularly authoritarian governments started a new, inhumane but astonishingly popular spectator sport - Mass gladiatorial combat.
In it's simplest form, the Battleground Games involved a hundred criminals, either political or criminal (condemned or just facing life imprisonment) being parachuted onto evacuated and geographically isolated areas a few miles across, which had previously been heavily seeded with the tools of violence and survival. The rules of the games were simple: Gather what you need and survive and then emerge as the last person standing. As everyone started with nothing but their bodies and their prison jumpsuits and because weapons were scattered randomly, there was very little chance for the more violent or those with military experience to gain automatic advantage.
The motive to fight was twofold:
* A specialised device based on the US governments HAARP weapon was used to create an ever-constricting ring of lightning around the fighting area, forcing the 'players' into closer and closer contact until violent conflict was inevitable; better to strike first whilst you have the chance;
* Those who emerged triumphant on their fifth Games would allegedly be given a full pardon and be set freeAlthough more liberal and enlightened countries tried to outlaw the Battlegrounds, thanks to the Internet and the number of state-sponsored TV stations that broadcast the events, they quickly became one of the fastest-growing spectator events on Earth. The most creative, savage and skilled gladiators developed rabid fan-followings and wagers often in the millions of dollars, euros or Yuan were placed on outcomes of certain events.
Over the years, a total of six distinct battlegrounds have appeared in the Russian Black Sea, the Far East and North America. Additionally, the games have become more complex with teams of two or four occasionally being forced to work together against other teams with the performance of the group determining the status of the survivors. Additionally one-on-one close combat arena fights are also broadcast in between the weekly 'headline' battleground events.
There remains doubt as to the sincerity of the offer to free the most successful gladiators for none have ever survived five matches to date.
Basically, a writer creates a Battleground character and their background (Rebel? Criminal? Dissident? What sub-flavour of these?) and tells the story of one or more of their experiences in the battlegrounds. Will they survive? Will they be freed? Or is there no survival for those condemned by repressive regimes? Or will the makers of this grotesque entertainment decline to lose the services of their most lucrative 'stars'? Those are the stories that this framework allow the author to tell.
Naturally, this setting almost demands storylines reminiscent of The Hunger Games, Rollerball and other dystopian 'bread and circuses' stories. The amount of behind-the-scenes politics one wishes to include in the saga is entirely up to the contributor.
Morituri:
I am stuck on a piece of dialog/military ritual in something I'm writing and I'm hoping that someone here who has appropriate military experience can help me create an authentic-seeming bit.
The basic situation is that there is a military detail (think of some analogue of the Secret Service except more directly military) whose duty is the safety of a VIP. They are handling this at a large, protracted, multi-week diplomatic event that involves some hundreds of nations organized on dozens of different sets of basic principles. There are theocracies, communist states, monarchies, direct democracies and mercantile unions present, and a lot of 'miscellaneous' or hard-to-classify. Many of these principles produce states neither likely nor expected to get along with each other. But this meeting is literally the only opportunity for a lot of things to get done. So everybody is doing business, but everybody is also being alert for potential subterfuge or espionage on any level.
The military detail whose job is the safety of a VIP (just short of the status of Royal Family) handles the work in shifts. So, during the day, likely multiple times, Officer Joshu will arrive to relieve Officer Awana, or whatever.
There has to be military ritual here. There has to be some sequence that is a proper security procedure, starting with
"Lieutenant Joshu, reporting as ordered"
and ending with
"Lieutenant Awana, you are relieved."
But how do actual military organizations handle things like this? A relief arrives as scheduled, but the stakes are high so there's procedure to follow. The security detail has some ritual that guarantees this is (a) really Lieutenant Joshu and (b) he's really there to relieve Lieutenant Awana and (c) he's really *supposed* to be there to relieve Lieutenant Awana, and (d) Lieutenant Awana is in fact scheduled to be relieved..... Basic security stuff, which obviously becomes military ritual.
But it's military ritual which I do not know.
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