Lights Out Skáldskaparmál

[Lacedaemonian]

Hey, been a long time since I have posted here but it has been an awful long time since I have wrote anything. A friend of mine asked me to contribute a short story to an anthology for an ebook. The theme of the anthology is post nuclear holocaust which is well outside of my comfort zone. Anyhow the piece I am asking people to kindly critique is fairly raw and I am just wanting some feed back on the style more than anything. I have written everything else in a more orthodox style but it felt stilted so I tried my hand at this:



Lights Out Skáldskaparmál


Breathless standing mucky. Threads hanging like bark stripped elm, yawing across the blue and the dim and the dark*. Damp moss loose ‘neath the tread, covered in sweeping tangles of bracken. The woodland air, fresh and lovely as cold spring water. He drank it into his lungs, reckoning it imbued with a power. Steadys his hands at least. Looks to his arms; a spear, a hammer and a knife. Gungnir, Mjöllnir and Hævatein he decides on their names.


Gnarling and baying closing in. Stands faster than Thermopylae.
Shifts a foot for purchase and lays Gungnir into a peeled maw. Rips it clear with guts and all and stabs a scrawny looking horror. Misses. Inhales. Stabs at beady black eyes. The shadows slip into the bracken. A bigger shadow, a hulking brute, a monstrous, snarling, mastiff. Pulls Mjöllnir and Hævatein loose from his belted waist. Blesses each with a kiss.

Smash! Stab! Smash! Stab! Smash! Stab!

Shadows on shadow pouring forth, screaming happy, as through the valley of Hinnom. Darkness.

“Got you now, c**t!”

Looks through pale sheets of pain and smiles up at the raider. “I would wink but my eyelids are fu**ed.”

A boot heal stamps down on his face. Darkness and the words unbidden but truer, Joy is your sorrow unmasked.**

*WB Yeats – Tread Softly
**Khalil Gibran – Joy and Sorrow.

 

[Lacedaemonian]

*heel

I feel so vulnerable without my mod powers.

 

[Nik]

It reads like a 'story board', or my frantic scribbling when I 'wake, grabbing for notebook'...

I can see what you're trying to do, and I doubt I could do better in this format. IMHO, close-combat is hard, with every move and breath taken--or not-- carrying great weight. A bit like writing verse, in fact. Yes, there will be desperate action and disjointed images. But, I feel you need to to flesh it out a bit. At the moment, IMHO, it is but an animated skeleton with a few scraps of skin dangling...

 

[HareBrain]

I think it works pretty much as it is. It took me two readings to get a proper sense of it, but with a piece this short, that doesn't matter. Well, it would matter if there was nothing in the first reading to persuade me to read it again, but there is. Maybe the language -- I love the first line. Maybe the struggle to communicate in terms of modern consciousness a more primitive mode of being (God that sounds pretentious.) Reminded me a little of two of my favourite works -- Russell Hoban's Riddley Walker, and the first chapter of Alan Moore's Voice of the Fire, although reading through a third time, I'm not wholly sure why.

I'd take out the asterisked footnotes, though. Feels too postmodern. Also "bark stripped elm" can only mean the elm stripped of its bark, when I think you mean the shreds of bark hanging from it?

 

[Lacedaemonian]

As somebody who scrapped in their youth, I have a very specific view of how violent encounters should be described in literature. Fights never last very long and rather than slow these down with too many words, I only cover actions and a base level of emotions. Whether this style is enjoyable to a reader though is obviously questionable. Realism is not necessarily entertaining.

Lastly, the word limitations of this short story mean I can't linger long at scenes like this. I will try and flesh it out a little and maybe repost it. Thanks for taking the time to read this and respond, Nik. Much appreciated.

 

[Menion]

I'm sorry to say I couldn't really get the whole scene with...

Breathless standing mucky. Threads hanging like bark stripped elm, yawing across the blue and the dim and the dark*. Damp moss loose ‘neath the tread, covered in sweeping tangles of bracken. The woodland air, fresh and lovely as cold spring water. He drank it into his lungs, reckoning it imbued with a power

Was this necesary?

Looks to his arms; a spear, a hammer and a knife. Gungnir, Mjöllnir and Hævatein he decides on their names.

It would read better if you gave us more of an insight into the story, world, character. Not as part of the writing, just tell us.

 

[Lacedaemonian]

Harebrain - thanks for taking the time to read the extract and I appreciate your compliments. Christ but I feel need them. The asterixes were there purely for this post just in case I was accused of plagerism for the few words I borrowed. You are bang on about the 'bark' line, sounded good but made no sense. I will remedy this. Once again thanks for giving up some of your time.

Menion - I don't like to post too much of my work online. But I will give you a brief insight into the story. The story is set in Northumberland after a nuclear holocaust. Society/life is very much akin to that of the dark ages, albeit with some traces of modern culture etc etc. Life expectancy is reduced and birth rates are virtually nil. The population of the earth is perhaps in the tens of millions. This is just a very short story so the world at large might not be mentioned. The character being set upon by dogs is the anti hero main character. He is a bit kooked hence him naming his weapons but I think I agree with you, Menion with regards that paragraph. It seems a bit childish and cack.

Edit: thanks for taking the time to read this, Menion.

 

[Menion]

Him naming his weapons is a good idea, but at that moment the second he takes them out to smash a few puppys isn't the right place. A good place to add it would be him alone around a camp fire talking to himself, and maybe naming his weapons there. If you say "kooked"

 

[Lacedaemonian]

It might just not fit in with it being a 7500 word story. He thinks he is a hero but people fear him as much as they fear the raider types. I wrote one piece of dialogue where he tells his brother he used to dress with a cape and a mask like Batman, when killing the raiders. Kooked.

 

[Menion]

Ah ok, I didn't knw it was going to be so short.

 

[alchemist]

Not my normal thing, Lack...Leac...Leak...dude, but I liked it the more I read. The whole story as you described it sounds fantastic.

Lights Out Skáldskaparmál


Breathless standing mucky. unlike harebrain, the unusual opening line threw me. It made me think I was reading poetryThreads hanging like bark stripped elm, yawing across the blue and the dim and the dark*. Damp moss loose ‘neath the tread, covered in sweeping tangles of bracken. The woodland air, fresh and lovely as cold spring water. the mix of present and past tense confused me He drank it into his lungs, reckoning it imbued with a power. Steadys his hands at least. Looks to his arms; a spear, a hammer and a knife. Gungnir, Mjöllnir and Hævatein he decides on their names. as said, naming them should be low on the list of priorities


Gnarling and baying closing in. Stands faster than Thermopylae.
Shifts a foot for purchase and lays Gungnir into a peeled maw. Rips it clear with guts and all and stabs a scrawny looking horror. Misses. Inhales. Stabs at beady black eyes. The shadows slip into the bracken. A bigger shadow, a hulking brute, a monstrous, snarling, mastiff. Pulls Mjöllnir and Hævatein loose from his belted waist. Blesses each with a kiss. he has time for this? If he does, it certainly adds to the sense of an antihero.

Smash! Stab! Smash! Stab! Smash! Stab!

Shadows on shadow pouring forth, screaming happy, as through the valley of Hinnom. Darkness.

“Got you now, c**t!”

Looks through pale sheets of pain and smiles up at the raider. “I would wink but my eyelids are fu**ed.”

A boot heal stamps down on his face. I'm not entirely sure who got stamped on. Darkness and the words unbidden but truer, Joy is your sorrow unmasked.**

*WB Yeats – Tread Softly
**Khalil Gibran – Joy and Sorrow.

 

[TheEndIsNigh]

Hey, been a long time since I have posted here but it has been an awful long time since I have wrote anything. A friend of mine asked me to contribute a short story to an anthology for an ebook. The theme of the anthology is post nuclear holocaust which is well outside of my comfort zone. Anyhow the piece I am asking people to kindly critique is fairly raw and I am just wanting some feed back on the style more than anything. I have written everything else in a more orthodox style but it felt stilted so I tried my hand at this:



Lights Out Skáldskaparmál


Breathless standing mucky. Threads hanging like bark stripped elm, yawing across the blue and the dim and the dark*. Damp moss loose ‘neath the tread, covered in sweeping tangles of bracken. The woodland air, fresh and lovely as cold spring water. He drank it into his lungs, reckoning it imbued with a power. Steadys his hands at least. Looks to his arms; a spear, a hammer and a knife. Gungnir, Mjöllnir and Hævatein he decides on their names.


Gnarling and baying closing in. Stands faster than Thermopylae.
Shifts a foot for purchase and lays Gungnir into a peeled maw. Rips it clear with guts and all and stabs a scrawny looking horror. Misses. Inhales. Stabs at beady black eyes. The shadows slip into the bracken. A bigger shadow, a hulking brute, a monstrous, snarling, mastiff. Pulls Mjöllnir and Hævatein loose from his belted waist. Blesses each with a kiss.

Smash! Stab! Smash! Stab! Smash! Stab!

Shadows on shadow pouring forth, screaming happy, as through the valley of Hinnom. Darkness.

“Got you now, c**t!”

Looks through pale sheets of pain and smiles up at the raider. “I would wink but my eyelids are fu**ed.”

A boot heal stamps down on his face. Darkness and the words unbidden but truer, Joy is your sorrow unmasked.**

*WB Yeats – Tread Softly
**Khalil Gibran – Joy and Sorrow.

The problem I have is that I can't see it's relevance to the subject matter. What is post nuclear apocalyptic about it. Or am I missing something deep and meaningful that all you clever bu**ers get and I don't?

All that said, I can't see the need for the bad language. It doesn't quite add anything extra for me. Don't get me wrong I thing a well place foul mouthful can do wonders in the right place. It's just that they aren't the right places to me.

 

[Lacedaemonian]

Thanks for reading my extract, The End Is Nigh.

Menion - I don't like to post too much of my work online. But I will give you a brief insight into the story. The story is set in Northumberland after a nuclear holocaust. Society/life is very much akin to that of the dark ages, albeit with some traces of modern culture etc etc. Life expectancy is reduced and birth rates are virtually nil. The population of the earth is perhaps in the tens of millions. This is just a very short story so the world at large might not be mentioned.

I think that covers your question. I plan to weave modern elements into a dark ages world. I admit I am struggling with this aspect mainly because I ain't a huge fan of the genre.

The use of expletives is always going divide folk. As much as I have no fear using it, I will consider replacing it if it feels wrong. What would you suggest I use instead of an expletive when the raider stamps on his head? I can't see how anything 'cleaner' would work. Though my main character need not swear at this point. He communicates differently later with a mother and child. I guess we all communicate differently depending on what company we keep. I also think the dialogue adds to the fact thus isn't set in the past.

Thanks for the feedback, mate.