Improving our 300 Word Stories -- READ FIRST POST!

[Ursa major]

when I miss the horses for the zebras

And don't forget: it's three stripes and you're out!

​

 

[Star-child]

Thank you for clarifying that.

Awake or aware?
I didn't know people in comas can hear conversations, as in understanding them. All I heared on that topic was that familiar voices can make a difference.

"Awake on a certain level", not awake or aware in general.

 

[Victoria Silverwolf]

I wrote my 300 word story quite a while ago and as it fitted nicely with the picture I posted it. I was very chuffed to get two votes, however here is the story. Please comment, many thanks.

The Day the World Ended.

I couldn't believe what was happening I sat there waiting for the show to begin, I arrived early to get the best seat, paying top price. Still the curtain hadn't gone up, and a strange feeling was overpowering me from within, I looked around and found it strange that there were no other people. Mind you at least I wouldn't have to put up with anyone using their mobile phones during the performance, but surely I cannot be the only one here. It was weird that as I walked in no usher checked my ticket, however I sat in the designated seat number.

What was going on, it was now well past the time that the curtain was to rise. Perhaps one of the cast was ill, yet there had been no announcement, so I sat patiently, for there was no way I was going to miss this chance. I anxiously looked around me, that odd feeling was still inside me, yet I just waited.

Eventually I got up, something was wrong and I wanted to investigate. Timorously I made my way back to the foyer, nobody stopped me, the nearer I got that feeling deepened within me. What was wrong? I approached the foyer I noticed a body trapped in the half open door. I glanced outside all was brilliantly white, like a bright spotlight pointing towards the theatre.

Drawing closer I realised I was gasping for air, my breathing was getting more difficult as though I was suffocating. I wasn't going to make it to the door, and as my last breath was consumed a thought struggled to the surface, 'what a waste of money I paid for my ticket.'

This isn't a bad little bit of surrealism, with an intriguing touch of allegory about life and death. What immediately strikes me about it is the fact that you have a large number of run-on sentences. Just look at the first sentence. I really stumbled over the lack of a full stop after "happening" and again after "begin." Your intent may have been to convey the frenzied emotions of the narrator, but a very little of this goes a very long way. Notice, for example, how much impact the simple sentence "What was wrong?" has in the middle of the story. The two sentences after that short one cause the reader to expect a break after
"foyer" and again after "outside." I'm not saying you can never use run-on sentences, but they should be used judiciously.

The other thing that hits me is a certain vagueness about this story. I have no sense about what the narrator is like (other than the emotional state) and no feeling for the setting. This would seem to be due to a lack of sensory details. Just a few hints of what the place looks like, smells like, etc. would help. The best descriptions, for example, come near the end, with "brilliantly white" and "gasping for air" adding vivid sensations that are otherwise lacking.

 

[Ian Fortytwo]

This isn't a bad little bit of surrealism, with an intriguing touch of allegory about life and death. What immediately strikes me about it is the fact that you have a large number of run-on sentences. Just look at the first sentence. I really stumbled over the lack of a full stop after "happening" and again after "begin." Your intent may have been to convey the frenzied emotions of the narrator, but a very little of this goes a very long way. Notice, for example, how much impact the simple sentence "What was wrong?" has in the middle of the story. The two sentences after that short one cause the reader to expect a break after
"foyer" and again after "outside." I'm not saying you can never use run-on sentences, but they should be used judiciously.

The other thing that hits me is a certain vagueness about this story. I have no sense about what the narrator is like (other than the emotional state) and no feeling for the setting. This would seem to be due to a lack of sensory details. Just a few hints of what the place looks like, smells like, etc. would help. The best descriptions, for example, come near the end, with "brilliantly white" and "gasping for air" adding vivid sensations that are otherwise lacking.

Thanks for responding, one reason for the long sentences, was that I wanted the reader to be panting at same time as the character in the story.

 

[Elckerlyc]

Thanks for responding, one reason for the long sentences, was that I wanted the reader to be panting at same time as the character in the story.

Those long sentences, in which sometimes the subject seems to change, were a hindrance for me to enjoy your story. They did not give me the idea that panting was in order! Perhaps you could have made a remark about feeling a bit wheezy or slightly lightheaded, blaming you had to run to get there early.

.

 

[mosaix]

I wrote my 300 word story quite a while ago and as it fitted nicely with the picture I posted it. I was very chuffed to get two votes, however here is the story. Please comment, many thanks.

The Day the World Ended.

I couldn't believe what was happening I sat there waiting for the show to begin, I arrived early to get the best seat, paying top price. Still the curtain hadn't gone up, and a strange feeling was overpowering me from within, I looked around and found it strange that there were no other people. Mind you at least I wouldn't have to put up with anyone using their mobile phones during the performance, but surely I cannot be the only one here. It was weird that as I walked in no usher checked my ticket, however I sat in the designated seat number.

What was going on, it was now well past the time that the curtain was to rise. Perhaps one of the cast was ill, yet there had been no announcement, so I sat patiently, for there was no way I was going to miss this chance. I anxiously looked around me, that odd feeling was still inside me, yet I just waited.

Eventually I got up, something was wrong and I wanted to investigate. Timorously I made my way back to the foyer, nobody stopped me, the nearer I got that feeling deepened within me. What was wrong? I approached the foyer I noticed a body trapped in the half open door. I glanced outside all was brilliantly white, like a bright spotlight pointing towards the theatre.

Drawing closer I realised I was gasping for air, my breathing was getting more difficult as though I was suffocating. I wasn't going to make it to the door, and as my last breath was consumed a thought struggled to the surface, 'what a waste of money I paid for my ticket.'

Hi, Ian.

First, I want to reiterate what Victoria has said about the run-on sentences. As I'm reading the piece there's a little gremlin at the back of my mind, grabbing my attention and saying 'there should be a full stop there, and there, and there'.

Two other things prompted the gremlin. Both minor - but the gremlin doesn't care.

The first is places where some words seem extraneous. In 'a strange feeling was overpowering me from within' is 'from within' really necessary? And 'designated seat number'. Just 'designated seat' seems, to me, a smoother read. That's three words that could be used elsewhere.

The second is no question marks after 'but surely I cannot be the only one here' and 'What was going on'.

Anyway, you have my admiration for writing such a piece, I'm hopeless at that kind of thing.

 

[olive]

olive -- I thought I understood your story, but now I'm not so sure. My first read was that they're two stucco/plaster putti on the ceiling of the theatre who have been trapped in place, but can now release themselves as an adjoining bit of plasterwork has broken free, and they are about to drop down, though quite what happens when they hit the ground is another matter. But I can't recall ever seeing lions as part of a ceiling decoration in a theatre or equivalent, nor do I get what "base" he broke from.

I got a bit confused by the line "Sometimes we end up in bad pieces" as I wasn't sure if that was meant to be "places" or they literally do end up in pieces, having been smashed. But if they have done this before, why does it seem to have come as such as surprise to Pambino? And if they're getting better each time, why does Guilio say "We just managed to lose our wings" as if it's no big deal? And I'm afraid the line about waking up in art went straight over my head.

Anyhow, it's a fun idea, and handled quite well, and the last line was nicely comic. For myself, I'd have liked a bit more about the setting -- ie if it is a theatre -- and their background -- eg where they've been stuck before and how they got free. Overall, it felt a bit laid back, which fitted the humour well, but for me the slightly repetitive nature of the conversation and the lack of urgency in the writing worked against the story, making it seem too low-key and trifling. But as a first attempt, you're right to be pleased with it.

https://www.sffchronicles.com/attachments/56648/

Look at the picture. Do you see the right corner broken up there? It's the broken, corner 'base' supporting the decoration platform, also there is no figure on it. But the whole decoration is designed in symetry, if you look at the left corner there is a lion figure there. So there was a lion figure at the right side before too. Also the corner was just broken down from the exact point it at the base that sperated the part of the lion figure from the part Guilio and Pambino occuppied. Something is wrong, don't you think? Something is happening there. Because that is not just the only damaged part in the theatre's decoration, it is also very high up, so whatever happened there highly likely it wasn't an accident. It was deliberate. E: It's the Left Leo from their point of view, the Right Leo from ours.

When we look into it, we catch Guilio and Pambino at the dawn of a great epiphany which was long coming. Mostly Guilio, he is the type who would notice things, question all this and push, Pambino is more like a go with the flow, happy go lucky type. He sleeps too much anyway.

They are conscious, individual beings. They started their life as a pair of putti hundreds of years ago -at least they only remember that far- but every time something happened to the material supported their forms that would compromise the integrity of the art work they lived in, they found themselves in another art work, in a similar, but different form. At some point they have lost their wings, because they have stopped ending in putti figures. Probably they've started in a painting or may be in a mural, I don't know, but definitely not in a 3 dimensional piece. So as the time passed -which is a very long time- they started to find themselves in more complicated, more dynamic, bigger forms than what they started with.

I don't know why this is happening to them. (They are not the only ones. But they are pretty highly developed ones.) Probably because all forms are some sort of derivative of each other started as very simple ones in the end/beginning. While the forms kept developing, because it wasn't a linear kind of development (the change and the experience of being in different forms; the accumulation of being in different forms) caused this tiny bit of essence being born in it and that started to gain consciousness, individuality and character independent from its form. It started to gain more and more experience, because artists -which were craftsmen of the time and the ones who made these particular ones are not artist either, they are craftsmen- even the ones who created original works started to do it by imitating others' works. They added on added on... This is a process as old as our history.

So obviously, the right Leo couldn't take being in that awful piece which is a very bad example of a common form in a common position, and at some point in his long severe depression he managed to jump. When he jumped, he broke into pieces and so managed to escape. Where? who knows, hopefully in a better lion figure.

Guilio had started to figure this all out some time ago. Of course Pambino knows his theories because he keeps talking about them, they only have each other, but as they don't have any mortal urgencies, it probably took a very long time and very bad examples/imitations of art to get through. I don't know the exact process or how and when Guilio got it, but I know he would choose to drown in Rococo rather than living in an overgrown, manifactured, plaster toddler with flailing arms pretending to give a dynamic pose.

This was just a theory Guilio kept thinking about until he reached the point to be capable, strong enough after he realised what the Right Leo actually did. [He also sensed something from the Left Leo, but I had to remove that as I couldn't make it fit due to the word count and but then also I find it better this way.]

So the Right Leo's jump was the catalyst. It also made their job much easier compared to him. They had an idea about how they changed forms, but the realisation of the fact that they could do it on their own, jump and break themselves into pieces, to get to some different pieces and place, not necessarily an art work may be, but how to move from piece to piece instead of waiting in one for something to happen to the decoration or the theatre by outside forces happens in the this dialogue.

So we witness them making their first conscious jump. One little jump for the Right Leo, a giant leap for Pambino and Guilio.

I wrote 'places' in that sentence first as you suggested, but then 'pieces' I think the right word. Because they are the independet symmetrical piece(s) of one composition struggling to break in pieces to be independent. Also as plaster they are made from simple moulds, probably same one is used for each figure. Connected to the idea of every figure as some derivative of each other in a symmetrical, smaller sense.

When I looked into the picture for the first time, that broken corner was the first thing I saw. Imagine the process like this. A little tiny piece of rope was dangling from that part; that corner of the picture. I pulled it and suddenly this piled on me jumping out of it. Dust, mortar all over the place, on me, bits and pieces are falling down right and left, I am trying to catch and collect every piece and fit into each other 'the right way'. As if the 'right way' was there hidden and not mine. That is what I meant by 'I wrote that as if I was possessed'. It's an unvbelievable experience. Like magic. It's a bit frightening. Also apparently, I see myself as a sum of Pambino and Guilio. *Nervous laugh. I don't have delusions of being a writer one day, I honestly just want to learn about writing -stories- to empty my mind, otherwise I'll go bonkers, because I have anxiety in real life. For the first time this was a bit too much, too real. Pretty intense. So am I pleased with it? Yes, because it made sense to me, but I have no idea what really happened.

Thank you.

 

[olive]

Hmm. To be honest, I couldn't follow what it was you were telling. And still can't, though I suspect it was about statues of winged lions breaking free. Thus, I think it might be about breaking free of an strict and oppressive society. Writing reviews helps understanding the stories.
But the dialogs seemed a bit disjointed.
Keep writing and surprising yourself.

It's not about the society I live in, but what I live in me. I wrote an explanation to The Judge if you are interested.

Thank you.

 

[J.C. Scoberg]

Hi all,

I've not requested feedback on any of my stories before but reading all the above comments I think it would benefit me to do so; if anyone can spare the time.

My entry in the 300 worder did not do as well as I'd hope so it would be good to know people's thoughts on what they liked/did not etc.

The story is below - many thanks in advance, J.C.

E-licit Liaisons

Thom4$$_23 took a seat in the empty theatre and plugged in. He didn’t like to visit the Old Palladium in person but it granted an encrypted anonymity his home connection lacked. Wriggling in the threadbare chair he made himself comfortable as he began to upload.

The familiar surge rushed through him and he blinked – once, twice, three times – and the world suddenly became clearer, richer, more sensual. The tapestries on the wall spoke their tales as he glanced at them and the sound of an orchestra filled the room with arias he now knew. Thom4$$_23 stood, relishing the power of his avatar and rotated his world view to admire the clearer skin, straighter nose and athletic frame of his true self.

He was ready, and the stage called to him.

In a single leap he landed and stepped into an Italian square. The troupe were waiting, attired in renaissance garb and practising their lines ahead of First Night, even x0Mamozzetx0 and Chocolate_Toad. He looked around and spotted Perse(mobile)phone stood near a marble fountain waving at him. He waved back and she blew him a kiss from bright green lips. Emotions stirred within him more strongly than he thought possible; desire, excitement, guilt.

For an age she had haunted his thoughts and too often had he replayed their time together, running analytics over their conversations to assess if she shared his feelings. He could not be certain but he wanted to believe she did. And so he had practised, not just his lines but also the words he would say to her.

And tonight was The Night.

His heart pounded and beyond the fourth wall his hands sweated. He feared heartbreak, and the cheating scans of his official e-lover, but in both his hearts he knew Perse(mobile)phone was worth it.

 

[Elckerlyc]

I got 4 votes for this story. Which isn't bad, but does leave room for improvement. I would like to hear you thoughts about it.

Once Upon A Timing

Napoleon Bonaparte clutched his tormenting stomach and vomited his lunch on the turf of Longwood House, Saint Helena. It ended his stroll in gall.
He was ill and blamed the island; the damp and windswept place that was his final home was far removed from his beloved Corse. Even Elba was heaven compared to this... outhouse of the world.
It began to rain.
“Merde!”
Hunched against rain and wind he hurried back to the House.
“Get me my syrup!” he barked from the hall, ridding himself of his drenched cloak.
“How about something more… futuristic?” an unfamiliar voice called from the parlor.
Belatedly Napoleon remembered he had sent his attendant on an errand. He entered the parlor and scowled at a stranger; outlandishly dressed, peculiar haircut, impertinent. And dry, top to toe.
“How did you get in?”
“By an extraordinary route,” the stranger smiled, ”The future.”
“I have little patience with fools or waffle,” Napoleon snapped.
The man retrieved a slim device from his pocket, fingered it. A circular, opaque object appeared, 7 feet in diameter. “This is a portal to anytime, anywhere. An unequaled escape route.”
“Escaping from Elba got me on this... Ile du Diable.”
“It can’t get worse, than. Right?”
The temptation was like fever.
“When could I...”
“Anytime. Time travel made timing a thing of the past!”
Out of nowhere a curiously attired woman materialized. She pointed a finger at Napoleon’s visitor.
“We will not suffer such asininities. Leave.”
Wordlessly the man acquiesced and stepped through the portal. It winked out of existence.
The woman turned to Napoleon. “Be assured we keep eyes on you, all the time.”
She paused, then added, “Your medical condition would make portaling painfully unwise. Probably fatal.”
Napoleon watched her vanish, utterly flabbergasted.
His stomach cramped and heaved.

 

[Azoraa]

@Elckerlyc
I did like the start of your story, especially that sentence: "He was ill and blamed the island" -- I can simply see it in front of my eyes
I thought that the rest of the story was fine, but I found it a bit lacking in story. Or tension. Out of nowhere appears a man and offers him time travel? Why? Why now? Why him? It felt too arbitrary. And then the woman - why?
It felt a bit too arbitrary. True, there is not much space for explanations in that format, but maybe you could have left some hints to help us understand, or get an idea that there IS a background.

 

[The Judge]

I thought it was a clever idea, Elckerlyc and it was a story I'd mentally put into my long list. It didn't make my shortlist as I felt it needed better integration of the time-travel aspect with Bonaparte. Was the time-traveller a Bonapartiste who was going to try and get him back into France to have another attempt at defeating the perfidious English, either then in the 1800s or in the future? A showman who was going to exhibit Bonaparte in some kind of historical figures show? A historian anxious to get the real details of his campaigns from the horse's mouth?

I assumed the woman was some kind of time cop, ensuring the past wasn't screwed up, but in that case why is she (a) effectively threatening Bonaparte and then (b) telling him he'd not survive the portaling anyway? Neither seemed to make sense, and together they appear contradictory.

I was also a trifle disappointed you didn't mention the once-popular theory that he died from arsenic poisioning from the wallpaper in his residence. A off-hand quip from the woman that the wallpaper was to die for, or advising him to change it, would have just added an element of humour which would have lifted it a little,

As I say, though, a neat idea, and 4 votes is certainly not to be sniffed at!

 

[Star-child]

Please dissect the following. The basis is a conspiracy inside a conspiracy theory, but the construction is my usual attempt to depict a large story through a small window. Thanks!


Beware the Paper Tiger


“General Cao, President Reagan wants this dialogue. That’s why you were invited.”

PRC Chairman of Historical Affairs Cao gave no immediate reaction to the State Department woman. This was not unexpected. “Our position is that this chart is a cultural artifact of Zheng He’s fleet. It belongs to the People. I don’t understand your reticence – this is Chinese history.”

Julie Winn offered an ambassador’s smile, “I felt the same, until the Stanford group detailed some problems with that theory. Do you see this lake, and these mountain peaks? Precisely located, just as the coastlines are, on an inexplicable perspective projection? This map is not something a fifteenth century mariner could have drawn.”

Cao rose, thumping the photocopied parchment with a rigid finger as he spoke, “Please relay our disappointment at this imperialist appropriation of our cultural objects.” The secretary leapt up to grab the attaché case, storming out behind his boss as a startled Winn stammered at their backs, “We don’t know who drew this map!”


Security reported that Cao’s plane, registered as a Soviet made Yak-40D, departed twenty minutes later. On board, the younger man addressed the pensive diplomat. “They are going to figure it out, eventually.”

“It will be decades before they have a theory, and even longer before they can test that theory. There’s time.”

Passing 8000 feet the engines cut fuel, heating the turbine air without combustion. Thirty minutes later the pilot checked out with Pacific ATC and left radar control. The synthetic radar echo switched off, and the contours of the airframe warped and reset to hypersonic aerodynamics.

At mach seven, the now unrecognizable aircraft crushed its passengers with a high G climb. As the windows revealed stars, super heated Jet A plasma propelled them through low earth orbit.


Cao Sing was returning home.

 

[ozmosis]

There is so much talent in this forum! As a brand spanking newbie writer, I love that there is so much material here to peruse and learn from - I'm very thankful for having stumbled onto this treasure of a forum.

If you have a moment to spare, I would love any/all feedback or comments - the more brutal the better (so I can correct bad habits very early in my writing)! I'll be checking back on this thread regularly to provide feedback to others on their stories as well!

Revenge of the Meek (January 2020 - 300 word challenge)

The smell was finally starting to get to him. Ragu landed with a soft thud in the small canoe and gestured towards the open sea. “Go Babu! That’s the last one!” Babu nodded and began rowing long, powerful strokes. There were no signs they’d been seen, and in moments the night had swallowed the anchored frigate’s massive form, leaving only the sound of its sails snapping in the vicious wind.

   Ragu finally exhaled and dipped his arms into the warm seawater, hoping to weaken the stench of the black rimfire smeared on his limbs. He knew it was no use, the odor would haunt him always, and that tomorrow deep, open wounds would crisscross his arms. The extraordinarily corrosive sludge spared nothing – not his flesh, not his nose, nor the wooden decks of the four pirate ships it had been slopped on. The slime would spare nothing until it met the ocean floor.

“You did it Ragu.” Ragu’s eyes widened – never before had his warrior name been uttered. Recognizing awe in Babu’s eyes, a momentary tinge of pride pierced his pain fog. “By morning, your name will be exalted on the lips of our people.” 

      The pride quickly faded to searing sadness. “Yes - what’s left of our people.” The pirates, appearing two days ago had wasted no time plundering and slaughtering. The survivors had made their way to the veiled caves, and now waited for the return of the four canoes carrying their last hope. Ragu knew the other warriors would be similarly successful – stalking unseen in the shadows was second nature to them.

      Behind them, a bright flash lit up the night, followed by a deafening BOOM. Then another thunderous flash-boom, and yet another. The rimfire had reached the ordnance in the belly of the ships. Babu smiled.

 

[Elckerlyc]

@Elckerlyc
I did like the start of your story, especially that sentence: "He was ill and blamed the island" -- I can simply see it in front of my eyes
I thought that the rest of the story was fine, but I found it a bit lacking in story. Or tension. Out of nowhere appears a man and offers him time travel? Why? Why now? Why him? It felt too arbitrary. And then the woman - why?
It felt a bit too arbitrary. True, there is not much space for explanations in that format, but maybe you could have left some hints to help us understand, or get an idea that there IS a background.

Thank you @Azoraa for your response.
And you are correct. The story lacks background. It was in my mind - and originally somewhat in the story - but didn't survive the cutting-room.
The questions 'Why' and especially the 'Why now' have kept me busy for a while while writing this story. Finding the answers to those question resulted in plans for an extended version (with enough room for backstory!) and using an alternative ending for this, the challenge version. And then I forgot to include the background. But in fact all versions (I had 3 possible endings in mind to choose from) needed more background then there was room for to exhibit.
I guess that is the trouble I have with the 300-word challenges. I want to tell a story, where there is only room to show a single act, added with the background that tells about the why. It's more like painting a picture.

 

[Elckerlyc]

I thought it was a clever idea, Elckerlyc and it was a story I'd mentally put into my long list. It didn't make my shortlist as I felt it needed better integration of the time-travel aspect with Bonaparte. Was the time-traveller a Bonapartiste who was going to try and get him back into France to have another attempt at defeating the perfidious English, either then in the 1800s or in the future? A showman who was going to exhibit Bonaparte in some kind of historical figures show? A historian anxious to get the real details of his campaigns from the horse's mouth?

I assumed the woman was some kind of time cop, ensuring the past wasn't screwed up, but in that case why is she (a) effectively threatening Bonaparte and then (b) telling him he'd not survive the portaling anyway? Neither seemed to make sense, and together they appear contradictory.

I was also a trifle disappointed you didn't mention the once-popular theory that he died from arsenic poisioning from the wallpaper in his residence. A off-hand quip from the woman that the wallpaper was to die for, or advising him to change it, would have just added an element of humour which would have lifted it a little,

As I say, though, a neat idea, and 4 votes is certainly not to be sniffed at!

Thank you!
It certainly needed more background than it got (which basically was nothing.) My originally idea was to have him be recruited by French nationalist to 'make Frexit happen' and to let it hang in the air when and where he would show up in the not to far future. But how likely is it that an ex-emperor would work for anyone's ideal but his own?
Anyway, thinking the thing through and reading some more about his last years on the island gave me new ideas and better background, which needed room that was not available. I reserved that for future use. The suspected poisoning, unwittingly by wallpaper or willfully by human hand (which Napoleon himself believed), was too much too include. And, as I started the story by telling he was ill and blamed the island (which, broadly speaking, includes the wallpaper in an already unhealthy damp and hot house) would only complicate the story.
Yes, the woman came from a more distant era as the male time-traveler and as such felt entitled to act as a time cop. She did not need the aid of a portal to travel through time. You are quite right about the points made as (a) and (b). It does seem contradictory.
I didn't picture her as someone who made quips! Plus I needed something to upset his stomach.
It is funny that you can spent so much time about a story, thinking it though from all sides, and still overlook details.

 

[The Judge]

Star-child -- to be honest, yours was one of the stories that I didn't fully understand. I couldn't work out if the map is a modern forgery or is a genuine artefact from the C15th but Zheng He had access to planes/spacecraft because Chinese technology was so advanced or he is/they are aliens. Likewise, I couldn't decide if Cao Sing's plane is advanced tech, incredibly ahead of the West, or he and his cohorts -- or all Chinese?? -- are aliens. His comment about "There's time" also confused me -- time for China to become pre-eminent or aliens to take over everything? And I couldn't understand the reference to President Reagen, suggesting this is all happening in the 1980s -- was there an actual dispute over a Chinese map then?

From my perspective this needed more explanation -- the plot is clear to you because you know what is going on, of course. I'd always suggest erring on the side of over-explanation, and there's plenty here which doesn't advance the plot and could be removed with affecting the story, thereby giving you room to be more explicit.


ozmosis -- I really liked your opening paragraph, and largely on the strength of that your story hovered at the edge of my mental longlist for a while. I also liked the general tenor of the story. However, on a re-read it seemed a tad lacking. You give the backstory of the pirates arriving, but pirates surely hit and run, they don't stay where they'd have to work on the land, so the villagers could just wait them out. And if they're so good at hiding in shadows, how come so many of them were killed?

More importantly, the rimfire itself didn't make sense to me, though that could be because I'm missing something. You say it's highly corrosive, but there's no indication how it was made/found and carried to the ships without going through the containers and their boats. If it can burn through wooden planks, how is it Ragu will only have open wounds, suggesting merely his skin is burnt -- surely it would go through skin, bone, muscle, all? And why would it take until tomorrow to burn those wounds when the wood is being eaten at once? Why is it on his arms, anyway? Surely they'd use tools to spread it, and if not, if would be on his hands alone unless he was clumsy. And if he's in pain from it, why do you start with its stench, which is surely a minor issue? And how does it set off ordnance? Cannons and cannonballs are just going to melt! I've no idea if gunpowder explodes if something acid hits it, but what are the chances of barrels being hit by the rimfire unless Ragu and his people know exactly where it's stored and therefore where to spread the stuff? I know this sounds daft, questioning things like this, but to me these are loose ends which could so easily be tied up with a few words.

I also couldn't grasp the significance of Babu calling Ragu by name -- I don't think it added enough to the story to justify its place when every word has to count.

On a word use note: the repetition of "spare(d) nothing" didn't work for me and just seemed ungainly; to my mind sludge and slime have very different textures and properties, so calling the rimfire both, and in consecutive sentences, felt wrong; using "limbs" not just repeating "arms" makes it appear his legs are covered too, though presumably they're not; Babu is rowing, but you call their craft a canoe, which is surely propelled by paddling; a ragu is a sauce made with meat and tomatoes so as a name it didn't work for me; and Ragu/Babu seemed a tad babyish as names which worked against the story for me.

Overall, I liked the idea, but for my taste it needed a bit more thought in the story to make it compelling. But not at all bad for your first 300 worder! Well done.

 

[olive]

I wasn't expecting any votes, it was really surprising so thanks again. I was trying to work on writing something without dialogue because I realised that's what I try to do first -as if it is easier- with anything that comes to my mind. I have difficulty how to arrange what I think around showing and telling so I just went on with how I saw it. I'd be so happy to hear your opinions on it. Thank you.

The Weather Inside

A man from the Landing has appeared near the bridge for the third time in the last few weeks. Hearing the voices, Martin reckoned he had a bottle with him. He shut his eyes with a stabbing pain, wishing he was deep in the cave. He decided to stay. He hoped he wouldn’t pay too much attention to the men. The voice was familiar, but he couldn’t give it a name. He couldn’t remember things lately. This was the worst winter in years. The blizzards have been hitting so hard at nights, they were worried about their cheap labor freezing to death.

What they didn’t know at the Landing was that the weather under the Old Bridge wasn’t just fine but warm enough to make someone look around for a big crackling fireplace if they’ve walked in. Nobody else got close to the piles of the bridge, the opening was covered, but these checks have made him nervous. Someone could've noticed something.

It seemed that the colder the weather got outside, the warmer it got under the bridge. Not in the cave though. The weather, everything there was... perfect. Provided they’ve stayed in separate rooms. You couldn’t see beyond another man’s crime. But the cave changed everything they’ve done wrong, let them live it over and over again at nights, which seemed to get longer and longer while they slept less and less. When did it start? He couldn’t think. The day time was unbearable.

A shadow. Trevor. He barely walked, murmuring to himself. Martin slipped into a crouch with another stabbing pain. He forgot what he was worried about. He tried to imagine himself in the cave past nightfall, the images of two little mangled bodies changing into two beautiful children, laughing and playing with a wooden horse.

 

[Rafellin]

Please dissect the following. The basis is a conspiracy inside a conspiracy theory, but the construction is my usual attempt to depict a large story through a small window. Thanks!

@Star-child Please excuse me for just wading in with an edit - my writing mind knows what goes where, but I can't always explain why or how. The story features a common theme for me and I hope this helps. Please feel free to ask questions, and I'll answer as best I can. Oh, a final question (forgive me if I've missed a cue): the title - why 'beware'?

Beware the Paper Tiger

“General Cao, President Reagan wants this dialogue. That’s why you were invited.” Ambassador Julie Winn was trying her best.

Cao didn’t react. Things were progressing as expected - there was no need to change tack.
“Our position is that the original chart is a cultural artefact from Zheng He’s fleet. It belongs to the People’s Republic of China. I don’t understand your reticence – this is a piece of our history.”

Julie offered a conciliatory smile, “I agreed, until the Stanford group pointed out some problems with that theory. Do you see this lake, these mountain peaks, and the coastline? Precisely located, but from an inexplicable perspective. The map is not something a fifteenth century mariner could have drawn.”

Cao rose, thumping the photocopy with a rigid finger.
“Please relay our disappointment at this imperialist appropriation of our cultural objects.”
The aide leapt to follow his boss as a startled Winn stammered at their backs, “We just don’t know who drew the map!”
Security reported that Cao’s plane departed twenty minutes later.

On board, the younger man addressed Cao. “They’re going to figure it out eventually.”

“It’ll be decades before they have a theory, and even longer before they can test it. We have time.”

Thirty minutes later the pilot checked out with Pacific ATC and left radar control. The synthetic radar echo was switched off, and the contours of the airframe warped from small Soviet jet into the flowing curves of hypersonic aerodynamics.

The now unrecognizable craft curved upward into a high-G climb. As the windows revealed stars, the main drive cut in and propelled them into free space.

Cao was returning home.

*************

In general: there was a lack of clarity as to the focus of the piece, and too much unecessary detail that detracted from the story you were trying to convey.

 

[Star-child]

Star-child -- to be honest, yours was one of the stories that I didn't fully understand. I couldn't work out if the map is a modern forgery or is a genuine artefact from the C15th but Zheng He had access to planes/spacecraft because Chinese technology was so advanced or he is/they are aliens. Likewise, I couldn't decide if Cao Sing's plane is advanced tech, incredibly ahead of the West, or he and his cohorts -- or all Chinese?? -- are aliens. His comment about "There's time" also confused me -- time for China to become pre-eminent or aliens to take over everything? And I couldn't understand the reference to President Reagen, suggesting this is all happening in the 1980s -- was there an actual dispute over a Chinese map then?

From my perspective this needed more explanation -- the plot is clear to you because you know what is going on, of course. I'd always suggest erring on the side of over-explanation, and there's plenty here which doesn't advance the plot and could be removed with affecting the story, thereby giving you room to be more explicit.

Thank you for your comments. There is an approach to SF, often used by Gibson, where the text is somewhat opaque and requires that the reader has a certain familiarity with the subject matter, and "helps" the process by dropping names that you might be able to look up. This approach is going to be off-putting to a lot of readers, so I probably shouldn't expect better than the 5 votes I got. But a lot of SF readers find The Peripheral too difficult to bother with as well.

To answer your questions, I set the story in the Reagan era because there was less likely to be satellite coverage of aircraft and it was "decades" from the present, leading the reader to regard the present with anticipation of decisive action. The '80s was also before Gavin Menzies published 1421, which suggests that the Chinese discovered America before Columbus - and that book would have been one of the steps in "figuring it out". But the '80s are also a modern enough era that the established age of the map would have been unquestionable - it dates from the time of Zheng He.

Cao Sing is a member of forgotten Chinese population that left the earth a thousand years ago. "Stuck" in space, they advanced out of necessity and were revisiting earth and the motherland by the 13th century, equipping their astronauts with cartographic information that were used to make the map. So he is "Chinese", but his home is clearly in space, not China. I"m fine with the reader explaining Chinese in space however they want - but the point is that some Chinese folks have super advanced technology by even 2020 standards.

@Star-child Please excuse me for just wading in with an edit - my writing mind knows what goes where, but I can't always explain why or how. The story features a common theme for me and I hope this helps. Please feel free to ask questions, and I'll answer as best I can. Oh, a final question (forgive me if I've missed a cue): the title - why 'beware'?

Thanks for writing!

I'm not sure I understand how you grouped the paragraphs, but that is minor. "Beware" because the answer to the mystery is a hidden super power that lives above us. Clearly Cao Sing feels the mystery must be maintained for a good reason, fearing the result of earth people "figuring it out".

Personally, I would rather use "Yak-40D" than "Soviet jet" for the same reason that the Police sing about "Armalites" rather than "American machine gun" - especially when I'm word count limited.

In general: there was a lack of clarity as to the focus of the piece,

What do you think is the focus of the piece that should have been clearer?