Originally Posted by rubber soul (Post 1907284) I'm not looking for a pat on the back, but a little encouragement goes a long way. That's all I'm saying.

It's kind of maybe trippy on one level

Originally Posted by grindy (Post 1907286) Yeah, who cares what some MB *******s say about one's stuff. I'm barely even traumatized and bitter from that one time I put something up here and nobody really dug it.

Originally Posted by rubber soul (Post 1907275) It's not that you critique so much, Trolls. It's more about style. At the writing forum we'd have to critique some pretty atrocious stuff as you can imagine. A good critique there would certainly attack the flaws with the piece, but then we'd say something encouraging mentioning the one or two things we'd actually like about a piece, kind of like you did in the second critique. I didn't see that in your first critique; the only thing I saw was that I sucked.

Anyway, I won't post any writing in this thread for a while. Certainly be constructive with your criticism, but don't come off like Simon Cowell if you want people to post their writing here.

Originally Posted by Frownland (Post 1907279) Nah, you need to try to be less sensitive to criticism. TH wasn't even harsh with his comments and viewing them as such just tells me that you want a pat on the back instead of honest thoughts on your work. When you post something online, you need to be prepared for a response from Simon Cowell's bully's bully.

Originally Posted by grindy (Post 1907286) Yeah, who cares what some MB *******s say about one's stuff. I'm barely even traumatized and bitter from that one time I put something up here and nobody really dug it.

Originally Posted by Frownland (Post 1907288) I really liked your imagery and style, but the concept was kind of lost on me. It was translated, right? Is there a big difference between the original and the English version in your eyes?

Originally Posted by rubber soul (Post 1907293) Yeah, I'll get over it :laughing: Where's your piece, Grindy? I'll look at it,

Agent in a trap “Do you have any last words Mr. Green?” Sam Green of the FBI glared at his captor as he lay in his death trap struggling to escape from what looked like a giant mouse trap. “You won’t get away with this, Gluberg,” Sam said with a sneer. Sam was sent by his superiors to prevent the diabolical Gluberg from his evil plans to take over the Pentagon with his new and improved death ray. Gluberg, however, proved to have the upper hand, catching the unsuspecting agent in an elaborate trap. Now Sam was secure in the giant contraption waiting for the bar holding the hammer to spring, thus sealing his fate. Gluberg looked at the helpless agent through his glass eye. “In just five minutes the catch controlling the holding bar will release the hammer, and within an instant, your head will be smashed into guacamole.” The bald-headed monster then let out a maniacal laugh as he prepared to take his leave. “I must depart now Mr. Green. Sweet Dreams.” Gluberg dropped a capsule, and vanished in a cloud of smoke. Sam was desperately left to his own devices. He was a clever agent who had been through similar death traps, always able to escape in the nick of time. Sam was confident that this would be no exception. As with other villains, Gluberg never thought to search Sam’s underwear. This is where Sam kept an emergency kit where he kept certain gadgets to assist in dire situations such as this. The agent looked at the clock on the wall. He had less than five minutes to escape. Sam was able to get his hands inside his underwear, and found his utility pouch. The crafty agent was able to retrieve his trusty pocket knife to cut the binds. He began to slice into the binds carefully with his fingers. Within seconds, it was obvious that the binds were too strong for the super sharp knife. Sam had to dig into his underwear to find another device that would untie him. He looked at the clock. There were three minutes left. Sam retrieved a mini-blowtorch from his emergency kit. This had to work. He was able to set the flame, and aim it on the binds. The flames couldn’t penetrate the steely rope either. It did give the agent a pretty solid first degree burn, however. He dropped the blowtorch, and took another glance at the clock. Two minutes left. Sam still felt confident he could escape from this dastardly trap as he again reached for his emergency kit. This time he retrieved a special substance that could melt steel without hurting his hands. This had to be successful. Sam went to work, and somehow was able to pour the substance on the steel binds with his fingers. Within seconds smoke emerged from the steely binds. Sam took another look at the clock. Still ninety seconds left. Sam patiently waited for the liquid to work. He took another look at….. Snap! Gluberg returned to the scene of the crime with his cat Little Frisky. He looked at the mess that was once agent Sam Green. “I forgot to tell you Mr. Green. The clock was exactly one minute and twenty-two seconds too fast.” Gluberg took out his glass eye, and let out another maniacal laugh as he gloated over the splattered brains of Sam Green. “Goodbye, Mr. Green. Now the Pentagon is mine.”

Originally Posted by rubber soul (Post 1907293) Yeah, I'll get over it :laughing:

Originally Posted by Trollheart (Post 1907291) If it doesn't spur you to write better, or differently, then it's probably wasted effort, but that would be the hope for me with any criticism given or received, that you look at your writing and ask yourself is that person right, and if so, how can you improve your work?

Originally Posted by Mondo Bungle (Post 1907307) I'm not that good the more I think about it

Originally Posted by grindy (Post 1907313) Your travel journey was the **** though.

Originally Posted by Mondo Bungle (Post 1907315) I dunno why though, I'm just saying what happened, which really wasn't much

Originally Posted by grindy (Post 1907317) But you told it in a cool way.

Originally Posted by rubber soul (Post 1907308) The first piece I never wrote on the other site; The second piece was when I was starting out and it isn't especially good. I did get some decent criticism on a couple chapters on the book I wrote and have yet to publish. Again they told me what they thought was wrong and one guy even gave me a couple ideas. I also entered a few contests finally winning one. I'd post that one but it was from a contest where you're doing a twist on somebody else's work. Here's a flash fiction I wrote for a contest that was judged by three people. It's limited to 650 words so it isn't exactly fleshed out. Two people thought it was an original twist on James Bond while another, well, made Simon Cowell look like Polyanna of the seas. Anyway, there are many ways to do a critique (and no, I didn't win)

Originally Posted by Frownland (Post 1907323) I liked how you used paragraphs. Lot of exposition there, I would recommend trying to show more than you tell. A lot of your details seem to be there just to fill space, it would be better if they conveyed something meaningful about the character and a lot of your descriptors are used in a boring and unnecessary way, especially when you describe a scheme as dastardly or an obvious antagonist as evil. I also think that your characters need to grow more. What's the point of the story? Sure, he escaped but I don't see how that affected him or why you're relaying it to me.

Originally Posted by Mondo Bungle (Post 1907307) I'm not that good the more I think about it

Originally Posted by rubber soul (Post 1907308) The first piece I never wrote on the other site; The second piece was when I was starting out and it isn't especially good. I did get some decent criticism on a couple chapters on the book I wrote and have yet to publish. Again they told me what they thought was wrong and one guy even gave me a couple ideas. I also entered a few contests finally winning one. I'd post that one but it was from a contest where you're doing a twist on somebody else's work. Here's a flash fiction I wrote for a contest that was judged by three people. It's limited to 650 words so it isn't exactly fleshed out. Two people thought it was an original twist on James Bond while another, well, made Simon Cowell look like Polyanna of the seas. Anyway, there are many ways to do a critique (and no, I didn't win)

Originally Posted by Mondo Bungle (Post 1907318) that's the part I don't understand. But I mean you are your own worst critic

Originally Posted by Trollheart (Post 1907381) If you know it sucks, then everyone else is going to know that too. Why not post something you're actually proud of? I wouldn't post anything here that I didn't think was good enough to be read.

Agent in a trap

“Do you have any last words Mr. Green?” Sam Green of the FBI glared at his captor as he lay in his death trap struggling to escape from what looked like a giant mouse trap. “You won’t get away with this, Gluberg,” Sam said with a sneer.

Sam was sent by his superiors to prevent the diabolical Gluberg from his evil plans to take over the Pentagon with his new and improved death ray.

Gluberg, however, proved to have the upper hand, catching the unsuspecting agent in an elaborate trap. Now Sam was secure in the giant contraption waiting for the bar holding the hammer to spring, thus sealing his fate.

Gluberg looked at the helpless agent through his glass eye.

“In just five minutes the catch controlling the holding bar will release the hammer,

and within an instant, your head will be smashed into guacamole.” The bald-headed monster then let out a maniacal laugh as he prepared to take his leave. “I must depart now Mr. Green. Sweet Dreams.” Gluberg dropped a capsule, and vanished in a cloud of smoke.

Sam was desperately left to his own devices. He was a clever agent who had been through similar death traps, always able to escape in the nick of time. Sam was confident that this would be no exception. As with other villains, Gluberg never thought to search Sam’s underwear.

This is where Sam kept an emergency kit where he kept certain gadgets to assist in dire situations such as this. The agent looked at the clock on the wall. He had less than five minutes to escape.

Sam was able to get his hands inside his underwear, and found his utility pouch. The crafty agent was able to retrieve his trusty pocket knife to cut the binds. He began to slice into the binds carefully with his fingers. Within seconds, it was obvious that the binds were too strong for the super sharp knife. Sam had to dig into his underwear to find another device that would untie him. He looked at the clock. There were three minutes left. Sam retrieved a mini-blowtorch from his emergency kit. This had to work. He was able to set the flame, and aim it on the binds. The flames couldn’t penetrate the steely rope either. It did give the agent a pretty solid first degree burn, however. He dropped the blowtorch, and took another glance at the clock. Two minutes left.

Sam still felt confident he could escape from this dastardly trap as he again reached for his emergency kit. This time he retrieved a special substance that could melt steel without hurting his hands. This had to be successful. Sam went to work, and somehow was able to pour the substance on the steel binds with his fingers. Within seconds smoke emerged from the steely binds. Sam took another look at the clock. Still ninety seconds left. Sam patiently waited for the liquid to work. He took another look at…..

Snap! Gluberg returned to the scene of the crime with his cat Little Frisky. He looked at the mess that was once agent Sam Green. “I forgot to tell you Mr. Green. The clock was exactly one minute and twenty-two seconds too fast.” Gluberg took out his glass eye, and let out another maniacal laugh as he gloated over the splattered brains of Sam Green. “Goodbye, Mr. Green. Now the Pentagon is mine.”

Originally Posted by rubber soul (Post 1907544) That was a good critique, thanks. I can explain the glass eye. The challenge always has a prompt. In this case, you had to include a glass eye somewhere in your story. That's why Gluberg has a glass eye, though I guess I could have had Green throw an explosive glass eye at him. I do have a habit of repeating words. When I was trying to get a chapter critiqued, a guy mentioned that I used 'just' something like 23 times. Now, I panic every time I use that word somewhere. Okay, I'm ready. I'm sure I'll find something. I usually concentrate mostly on grammar (and yes, I know about English vs. American spelling. If I'm unsure about a word, I'll check it out before I go kamikaze XD). Thanks for the critique :)

Originally Posted by rubber soul (Post 1907577) I do a lot of re-reading actually. It's one reason you see a lot of edit notes in a lot of my posts. I'm sorry to hear about Karen (Karen is your wife, right? I know you said something about a sister too). Anyway, I hope she feels better. Take your time with the story; I won't be going anywhere. :)

Originally Posted by The Batlord (Post 1909890) And I'm sure he will read it.

The Mind Room: Introduction

Seated in a firm chair that straddles the fringe of discomfort, in a drab and small cubicle of a room not unlike the lobby/waiting area of a professional building that would constitute the employment of a lobby/waiting area, I stare ahead blankly while ruminating a perplexing omission of memory. Most of what I see exists, somehow, in black and white. The black and white of a modern art film rather than that of antiquity. In fact, there are colors, sparse as they are. The room is almost featureless aside from a reception desk where a monochromatic woman pounds away upon a blocky keyboard, focusing on the blocky monitor. Immediately at my left is a door, a mirror image across from it. Reflected almost completely, the door across the way stands beneath a glass strip. There are three more chairs at my right, two facing me from the opposite side of the room. The reception counter is no more than five feet away from that door, occupying a corner diagonal from myself. What little features remain to be described come in the form of ragged posters, still black and white. They are weathered to a downright prehistoric degree. There are three: two shots of the space shuttle and one of the moon. All are torn and faded and aesthetically terrible.

It was during or perhaps after a fit of near cataleptic exertion when my perception temporarily ceased. A psychotic black out. I'm deciding to cut this passage short for the post, it will be in the final product.

My blank slate is filled in when there sounds a dense chime, as if from nowhere at all. "Interview time." The woman says. "Have you your summoning card, sir?"

"Me?" I say, fully aware of being the only other person in the room.

"Are you number five?"

"I don't think so."

"What does your card say, sir?"

"My-" I look down at a rectangle of paper in my hands. A 5 is direct center, the only marking at all. How long have I been holding this? "Well, I guess I am five."

"Then your interview is scheduled for this very moment, through here." She indicates the door beneath the strip. I rise from the chair and approach the entry way. Just as my hand reaches for the knob, I'm interrupted. "Wait."

"What?" I ask.

"I said wait. The coordinates must be configured to the office hall. I wouldn't suggest opening the door while it is dormant." She smashes a few keys, and then the glass strip above the door shines an artificial green. "You never know where you might end up, but it's safe now. You will find your interviewer in the first room on the left. Good luck!"

"Thanks." I say, pondering many, many things. I push open the door and find myself in an interminable hallway with doors lining the walls as far as I can see, creating a symmetry that gives me chills. I feel like I could walk forever straight. In a smooth manner, I turn to the door at my left and enter. Inside there is a cold looking metal desk, three stacks of papers rising as much as the desk in height. Behind it sits a lone man presumably sitting in a lone chair. But he's not, he motions to a corner where I find another chair. I pull it up to the desk and take a seat. The man is so generic that he's almost invisible, with all the personality of a soccer ball.

"Sorry about this lack of mess." He begins. "You've been summoned at a time of great order and cleanliness. I hope it won't bother you."

"You want me to rip apart and scatter these sheets?" He smiles.

"I am Mr. Z. That's what you can call me. First thing first, I'd like you to know that you're not a lone anymore."

"I'm not?"

"You don't deserve any of that."

"Sometimes I wonder."

"We here at Archware Designs strive to dissolve the notion that you, anyone, has been abandoned. You've simply transcended past it all. It is an inert quality some have, and at some point it releases itself without warning. Now you're going to be a part of something special and advanced. Larger than the world itself."

"I don't understand." I don't understand.

"Have you ever been to the moon?"

"Sure," I answer, "I go there on vacations.

"Ha!" Mr. Z laughs boisterously. "You're a real jokester, you know that?"

"No."

"Well you are, and who couldn't resist? These are the kind of things that make you an Archware VIP. We're coming together, all of us, all that transcend, and are forming a perfect society leaving the rest behind. We're architects and explorers." He leans in a touch closer and continues. "You've been selected to join the Archware Lunar Compound, as employee and resident.

"Huh." Because I couldn't think of a legit response if I tried.

"You're skeptical."

"Probably."

"Well," He says, "How about we pay it a visit?" He stands up-as do I- and rings the receptionist from the door adjacent intercom. "Lunar Compound, please." The receptionist says to wait a moment, as reconfiguration is a more massive process for the moon, I guess. But the green light shines after a handful of seconds. Mr. Z pulls the door open and we step through. It's true. We are surrounded by transparent glass through which the universe could be seen from a whole new perspective. The Earth can be seen in all of it's titanic glory. The floor is white and heavily reflective, like a porcelain mirror. "That's right." Mr. Z says in a response to nothing in particular. "I hope you enjoy long and spacious hallways, cuz we got em." We are in fact facing one right now.

"How exactly did we get here?" I ask.

"Through the door."

"Well sure but-" Cut off.

"You're not giving our doors enough credit, they're just as intelligent as any of us, inanimate Archware residents." It's strange to look through a window and see an atmosphere-less stretch of cosmic rock. Strange and not at all reassuring, not that I need reassurance for anything, the impossible has already proven to be just the opposite.

Things start opening up more as we near a wide pavilion, where I see other people for the first time. It is the intersection of four surrounding halls that take on architecturally maddening shapes and twists and grades and insanity. This room would appear to be the main gathering point of the compound. All walls are still transparent and the floor maintains its shiny-beyond-shinyness quality. The reflections, though, are much busier here. There are benches and other seating apparati freckled sporadically but plentifully through out the area. It is very much like a shopping mall, sans the shopping. Even the clamor of voices sounds structured. An efficient machine here no doubt.

"This is where people tend to conglomerate outside of work, at least for the time being while we are building endless new wings and levels which will eventually annex other astral bodies. Have I briefed you on the work?"

"No."

"It's not hard, easy in fact. Completely simple in fact. In fact in fact. A training course bestows upon you the mechanics of Archware Design Studios. It's the program we use. We never stop expanding, and we never will."

"There's no way I could do that. I don't even know... Like what are w-"

"The single training program will teach you everything about our technology. There will always be more to join the compound, hence the never ending expansion. Soon the moon will not be enough to contain our dream community. No matter our size, though, we will work with one hundred percent efficiency and productivity. We're not that far off from paradise." I just don't know how or with what or by whom all this building is conducted. It doesn't even make sense. I don't know what does anymore. We walked to the center of the plaza and Mr. Z began pointing out the halls, describing what can be found before the expansions. "Commons, mess hall, utility, computers. It's easy. The living quarters' hallway grows as more folks come along., so unfortunately, newer residents find themselves stationed further and further away. But it's not so bad, you get used to all the vastness." We start towards one of the wings, the one that apparently leads to the computers. Not long after the hall got narrow again, I notice a small building like a tool shed beyond the glass a little ways away. It doesn't seem to be connected to this building.

"What's that out there?" I ask.

"Nothing to be concerned with. It's only for authorized personnel, and it's no matter of the citizens. They couldn't get there anyway. The door is locked, and you can't just walk across the moon like that. Commanders have the keys and the suits to keep it as secure as a fortress. But it's really more of a storage shed than anything."

"Huh."

"Now this is what's important." Mr. Z says as we encounter an obscenely large computer lab. Here, endless waves of citizens keep diligently at their designs. It's all so orderly and in sync. "You will get started on this tomorrow. The training goes by like a finger snap, you won't even notice, but just like that you'll be a master of our complex systems."

"When do I start the course?"

"Tonight. Again, you won't even notice. Suppose we should go to your quarters now?"

"Sure." I don't think I have much choice anyway. Mr. Z and I do a 180 and pass through the hall again, my mind fixed on the stand alone building. Even if it doesn't matter to me, it's only natural to be curious. "This all is pretty vast." I started up. "Can't we just use the doors like before?"

"Actually, you can only find one of those doors in the entire compound, in the utility hall where we came in. But I've seen some creative types at work on conveyors and stuff like that to make navigation easier. Efficiency. It's the name of the game."

*****

It happened to be near curfew when Mr. Z's tour was concluded. I find the last room of the endless hall, where there is a surplus of cots for sleeping. I claimed the freshest, sharing the dingy room with four others. The juxtaposition of aesthetic is great. Outside the room everything is of godlike essence, pristine and bright, cleaner than clean. Inside the room is dark even with the lights on. The walls look similar to brick in color and clay in texture. I sit on my cot taking in the lameness.

"You're gonna be sleeping weird tonight, my man." One of the other occupants says to me, disregarding pleasantries of any kind. He has quite short light brown hair that would appear to be well kempt, but any longer and it would be construed as messy. His eyes are harmlessly deranged and though his face isn't too scruffy right now, I imagine his beard grows quickly."You ever take too much melatonin?" In fact I'd never taken any. "It's like that. The training is."

"Is it hard?" I ask.

"Van Kezzle."

"What?"

"That's my name."

"Pretty stupid huh." A thick voice bellows into existence from a man whose largeness stretches beyond physical size.

"Is that your last name, or is it like Van Morrison?"

"I don't believe in last names." Van Kezzle replies.

"They took my name." The large man booms. "Then I named myself Spencer. It's better than the number they gave me. Fourteen? That's not even a name. Maybe eight but not fourteen.

"They took my name too." I say. "So I guess it's Five. Not really that bad, at least it's easy."

"The training isn't hard but you'll be sore." Spencer says. "You don't do anything but experience it. And you drift in and out of the experience to a lot of hellish places not always identifiable as places. The training masks itself as a dream segment, and when you wake, it's all just dream images to you. I guess it's for safety."

"Huh." I enunciate my catchphrase.

"Might as well hit the hay anyway." Spencer declares, and everyone in the room unanimously decides to go to sleep. We could better acquainted tomorrow.