Storytelling Discussion

[mikbuster]

I think his point was more to make sure that it wasn't too harsh and make sure I wasn't humiliated

[Raamyah]

I have heard it all, so no problem here. It only makes my next one better.

[Dirty n Evil]

I'm a sensitive person myself... so for me, it looks like a fine line between offering constructive advice and possibly insulting the other person and wanting them to aim a flamethrower at my head. I know that writing is an act of creation, and there are many people who don't react well to being told their creation isn't perfect as is. I just wanted to be considerate, and if I was offering any suggestions (for which I was solicited), I'd be gentle and offer them privately.

[hueloovoo]

I am totally game for C&C, I will admit sometimes it hurts me to hear what people think of what I write, but I accept that as well because A) I learn new things from failure and grow in my art, and B) Pain is useful for artists too, the entire scope of human emotion is useful. Also, usually it doesn't hurt anyway. ^_^

[Raamyah]

I'm a sensitive person myself... so for me, it looks like a fine line between offering constructive advice and possibly insulting the other person and wanting them to aim a flamethrower at my head.

I already do, so nothing will change

[Artemisia]

I want to thank everyone for their participation

Prompt 2:

I had originally thought about doing this as a bit about stereotypes, but I got to thinking about doing this a bit lighter. Stereotypes are all around us. They are part of who we are, to a certain extent. This isn’t stuff like racial stereotypes, but the tendency to assume that blondes are stupid and have more fun (like Didi in Menage a 3) or redheads are hotheaded (Cerise in Magick Chicks). Heck, stereotypes show up in a lot of things including TV commercials!

As author Terry Pratchett noted in Wee Free Men:

“The stories never said why she was wicked. It was enough to be an old woman, enough to be all alone, enough to look strange because you have no teeth. It was enough to be called a witch. If it came to that, the book never gave you the evidence of anything. It talked about ‘a handsome prince’... was he really, or was it just because he was a prince that people called handsome? As for ‘a girl who was as beautiful as the day was long’... well, which day? In midwinter it hardly ever got light! The stories don't want you to think, they just wanted you to believe what you were told...”

Fairytales rely upon stereotypes. The witch was always old and ugly, the princess beautiful and blonde, the prince beautiful and blonde, the prince’s horse beautiful and blonde.

So, I was thinking as a second prompt a short scene taking a fairytale and turning it on its head in some manner. For instance, say we find out that the Wicked Witch in Sleeping Beauty was actually trying to save the Princess instead of cursing her, or any number of other ideas.

And thank you again.

[Raamyah]

Now this prompt falls in line with two stories I was already working on. I won't bore you with them, but will try to come up with something new.

[Dirty n Evil]

*rubs hands together while grinning* Oh, I like this one. Good choice for a prompt, Artie.

[mikbuster]

I have an idea that's been done to death, but should be fun. Just have to wake up and be in a decent mood again ;)

[Retiarius]

Between Terry Pratchett and half the webcomics in existence, there are probably no fairy tales left that haven't been turned on their heads, both sides, and inside-out. But I will attempt to come up with one that hasn’t been done.

[Artemisia]

Don't worry too much if it's been done or you stray too close to something that has already been done as this is more practice than anything else. Besides, as someone pointed out, there really is not much new to be written. Ultimately, I'm interested in how you approach this more than anything else.

['J']

yeah when i said tuesday or wedsday, what i actually meant was friday.

ok, the real thing is that i had draft 1 done a week ago, & it was crap. i basically had to rewrite it almost completely, which i couldn't sit down to do until today. sorry. i'll try to get the next prompt done more promptly.


on the upside, i've found a nice little soundtrack to include with the vignette: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lZUMU7LG738


_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Strings of red and orange lanterns shine down on the night market and reflect upward from the wet asphalt. The rain has stopped now, and the clouds are just thin enough for the moon to shine through. The slow music of a saw-u wafts along the breeze between the vendors; beneath the sounds of haggling and conversation, above the sounds of the street and the storm drains. The vendors' folding tables hold everything from cheap lighters and flashlights, to jade jewelry and painted masks, to hash pipes and dildos.

They walk together between the food stalls, fingers intertwined, following the music; enjoying the warmth of each others' skin. She has a cob of barbequed corn on a bamboo skewer in her free hand; the butter is sweet and salty, and when it runs down her chin it catches the red-orange lights. He has her umbrella thrust through his belt like a sword; he's chewing thoughtfully on the last of the fried tarantulas they'd shared. The smell of spices and perfumes and incense masks the city's ever-present aroma of exhaust and sewage.

The source of the music is a teenage girl sitting under a beach umbrella, eyes closed in focus on her instrument. Next to her is a bored looking boy, much younger, manning a dented cash box and a stack of CDs. The labels are printed with photoshopped images of her playing in front of guilded temples and jungle waterfalls.

There's a street bar across from the girl, with wooden benches and plastic patio tables. They stop there and order a tall Singha. She discards the now expended cob in an overfilled bin, then joins him on a bench near the music, leaning close then smiling contentedly when he puts a warm arm round her shoulder. He passes her the bottle; the pale beer is cool and presently sour, if slightly flat.

“Where do you plan on going after the city?” she asks him.

“I don't know yet. North I guess, off the beaten track, away from the tourist stuff.” Out on the street a tuk-tuk with a broken muffler rounds the corner, advertising tickets to the night's fights from a staticy old megaphone.

He takes a drink “What time's your flight?”

“One o’clock.”

“I wish we'd met earlier.” he says.

“I wish I could stay longer.” she counters.

They're quiet for a long time. The sky clears, and the moon shines brighter. Gradually, more tourists start filtering in from wherever they'd been hiding from the rain. The market fills with sounds of people in a dozen or more languages.

Intent on celebrating their first and last nights in the country, a group of loud twenty-something Russians arrive at the bar. She has to lean close and speak into his ear, “Do you want to go back to my hotel, and, help me pack?”
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

['J']

critiques and comments are welcome, cruelty encouraged.


personally, i'm a big fan of the iceberg theory, and it's something i like to experiment with a lot when doing shorter pieces like this. i like to see how much of a story i can tell through implication, rather than exposition. for this thing, i decided not to say where they are, but anyone who's been there will know it.

honestly, once i figured out what i was doing i became less interested in the 'snap decision' from the prompt than in trying to evoke the sensory experience of the place and time. as a result, it might be a bit self-indulgent, and i don't think i quite nailed the ending.


also, i can't seem to make myself stop picking at the thing.

[Dirty n Evil]

Artie, this is your fault. You didn't mention if there was a word cound limit. <.< And I've been enjoying writing again, so I was inspired to write a funny little story (word count 2612) that's a retelling of the not-so-well-known fairy tale "Hop O' My Thumb". I decided to be very irreverent, and told it in a first person narrative just to try something out. I hope people get a few chuckles out of it. Hidden behind spoiler tag for size.

Hello and sit down kids and kittens, because you’re going to hear the straight dope about fairy tales. I’m going to give you the real story, as told by one of the worst suffering characters within these stories; I’m a sibling to the so-called ‘hero’ of the story. My brother is Hop O’ My Thumb.

My name is Tom, and no our family name isn’t Thumb. Because I’m confused with Tom Thumb all the time, and there’s a bore if ever there was one. People introduced us at one of Mother Goose’s wild parties, and for the rest of the night I had this two inch drunk making crude jokes about how I’m big Tom and he’s little Tom. With a wink, wink, and hoping that everyone gets the joke. Little Tom, as though he was my penis. Yeah, really hilarious.

My family was really poor, so we didn’t have a last name. In fact, we were so poor my proper name isn’t even Thomas. Simply Tom. We couldn’t afford a couple more letters for my name when I was born. And after me, matters just got worse. I’m no sicko, but my Mom is pretty hot and as a result growing up there were many times after dinner that father told us to “go out and play outside for at least an hour”, claiming it was good for digestion. This happened quite often, and that’s why I’m the eldest of seven children. All boys.

We’re Tom, Tim, Terry, Toby, Tory, Teddy, and Hop O’ My Thumb. Now, our father was a simple woodcutter, and not terribly original when it came to naming us as you can tell. And by the time our mother was pregnant with Hop, she swore that either she got to name the next child or else father would have to find someone else to play hide the sausage with. When Hop was born, though, he was a frail and tiny thing. Maybe it had to do with the fact that Father was still a horny bugger and Hop should consider himself lucky that he didn’t have a dent in his forehead, but we’ll never know. Nobody thought he would live the night, so Mother never invested so much in naming him. She made a remark that he was so small he would barely be able to “Hop over my thumb”. Well, that comment stuck in Father’s brain somehow, and when Hop started to get stronger that was the name Father insisted on calling him. Mother wasn’t very happy with that, but figured it was better than ending up with a boy named Tito.

The story really picks up when I was newly turned 16, and looking for love. There was this girl in our village named Greta, and she was gorgeous. She had a sweet smile, blue eyes, and these cute little freckles that spread over her cheeks. Well, yeah, puberty was very kind to her so she looked liked she was smuggling a pair of pumpkins under her blouse, but that’s entirely besides why I liked her. Now, Greta got a lot of attention from boys all over the village, but she was clearly most fond of me. Always finding time to come out and chat when my family made deliveries, mentioning how our family seemed to have the biggest wood around - you know how it is.

Unfortunately, Greta’s father wasn’t going to let her see a woodcutter’s son who didn’t even have his own job. So, I realized that perhaps if I could con my brothers into helping me make some coins, I could buy my own ax and earn at least as much as my old man. I mean, he only spent a few hours of each day cutting wood before claiming he was tired and wanted the company of Mother. Perhaps if he spent a little more time working and less time making the beast with two backs, we wouldn’t be so poor. I tell my brothers my plan, of how if I was a woodcutter I’d get to marry Greta. Then we’d have a house of our own, and that would be someplace they could come visit when Father and Mother were ‘resting’. Someplace out of earshot. Toby tried to haggle to get to see Greta’s jugs, but I smacked that idea out of him. Toby is going to grow up to be a pervert, I just know it.

So, my plan was that every day while Father was out chopping wood in the forest, we would head out as well and collect fallen limbs and branches for some smaller kindling. They’re trees, after all. It wasn’t so rough to pick up twigs, and there we six of us; seven, if you include Hop O’ My Thumb. Terry grumbles the whole time that he doesn’t want to spend the day picking up nasty old sticks, but I threaten to put my foot up his ass and he joined in well enough.

Now, we all figured Hop was a bit off. Firstly, even at nine years old the squirt barely looked big enough to walk on his own. On top of that, Hop was… odd. Always claiming he saw dragons and faeries and purple dinosaurs. So, we felt bad for him and tried our best to look out for the pain in the ass. Since Hop couldn’t really help carry the kindling, I asked him to do the simplest of jobs. I asked him to make sure that he just stayed in this clearing we found, which was just within sight of Father at the chopping block. This way we knew when Father might start on back home, and the six of us could collect as many twigs as we could.

Not twenty minutes pass before I come back and Hop is gone. Nowhere to be seen. I’m freaking out, because I’m pretty sure that if I lost one of my brothers, our parents would made sure I never had kids of my own. So, I organize everyone and we head out into the forest looking for Hop. Takes us half the day, but he’s there chatting away to the sparrows as though they gave a rat’s ass about this crazy little shit. I’m angry as hell with Hop, but he says not to worry. He collected pebbles by the creek we passed earlier in the day, and left a trail back to home.

I tried to point out that there were stones all over the carpet of the forest so a couple pebbles really didn’t help us a whole lot. That’s when Tim realizes that in looking for Hop we’ve gotten lost, so now instead of just one of us missing Hop has managed to get us all screwed. Teddy was the crybaby so he starts bawling that we’re going to find a witch with a gingerbread house, but I give him a smack on the back of the head to remind him that we’re all boys and none of us are named Hansel.

That’s when Hop shouts out that he’s seen the pebble path he made, and darts into the forest. What choice did we have, we had to chase the little turd. Tory has always been the slowest, and he’s huffing along in the rear like an overweight stalker. Just as I catch Hop by the collar and give him a good shaking, I happened to see something. Not that far away was a cottage in the middle of the woods. Which is really strange, until we got closer and I saw how fancy the whole thing was. It was one of those places the rich people own, the ones who liked to have a place where they could ‘enjoy the comforts of the common folk’. You know, without any of our constant hardships and all. However, I just want directions back home. I’m tired and a watery bowl of squirrel soup sounds good at this point.

Knocking on the door, this old lady opens up and squints over the six of us. She had glasses on thicker than the scum in an outhouse, and it was clear she could barely tell we were there. I did my best to simply ask for directions, wanting to get back to town. But no, this old biddy with a mouth like a cat’s ass snaps at us that we’d better piss off. The master of the house was away, and he hated little grimy beggars. After she slammed the door, I immediately asked if any of us had to relieve ourselves with a show of hands. We’d been out running about all day, so that was everyone, and in due course I took us about the corner and had us paint the side of that fancy house.

I got a bit distracted when Toby started trying to compare how big each of us was to one another, and in the desperation of tucking myself back in I didn’t see Hop wander off again. He starts to yell, “The giant is chasing us, the giant is chasing us!” All the while running around like a faerie on pixie dust. I start running after this hallucinating brat, and call for everyone else to help me corral him in. We spread out, and all the while Hop is running away whenever we get near. I’m seriously considering if Mother would miss one out of seven missing when we finally catch up to him.

He’s standing dumbfounded at the edge of a pond, and when I see what’s got his attention I’m pretty gob smacked myself. We found the owner of the house, and I realize that he’s got this fancy house out in the middle of nowhere for other reasons. He’s passed out naked on a blanket by the water. There are at least three bottles of wine scattered about, and trapped in his arms is a very traumatized sheep. This freak is drunk out of his mind, so I do the only humane thing and free the poor animal. It has a blue ribbon tied about its neck claiming to be the property of one Miss Peep, but before I could return the sheep and perhaps make a small amount of money in reward it goes running as far away from its former lover. Teddy, ever the softy, is crying for the indignities caused by human nature.

It’s nearly dark by now, but at least all seven of us are together again. Tory is exhausted and laying on the grass from all the running. Except I see that Hop has gathered up the rich fellow’s boots and cinched them on. It was actually pretty funny, because the ankle straps were tied up about Hop’s thighs and he looked ridiculous. I tried talking him out of wearing them, but he claimed they were magic and let him run seven leagues with one stride. Well, I would have thought that by now for certain this aggravating twerp was too tired to run any more. I was wrong, and had to shake Tory back to his feet to chase the fucker one last time. And I say one last time, because I was determined to break his foot after this.

He’s running ahead of us, shouting about having an idea that will make us all rich. Meanwhile, it’s easier to chase him this time because it’s simple to hear him ahead of us in those oversized boots. Clomp, clomp, clomp. Feet slapping against the ground. I get a bit worried when Hop runs straight back to the wealthy deviant’s home, but he charges straight up and starts pounding on the door. The prune face reappears, scowling like somebody put poison ivy in her underbritches. “Bring me my gold, for I’m a giant now-”

I scooped up behind Hop, and put my hand over his mouth. “Pardon me, Master? I heard you stomp up the yard … did you say that you wanted your gold?”

“Why… yes, yes I did.” She was looking all about, trying to see right in front of her, so I did my best to deepen my voice. “Bring me all of my gold. I’ve… I’ve a terrible desire to buy an entire flock of sheep.” She was scandalized by this comment, too obviously knowing her master’s predilections, and nodding in obedience as she went back inside. She comes back out with a sack nearly as large as Hop himself, so I’m surprised that he gets a good hold of it and heads off running. Boots clomping and he’s screaming about taking seven leagues every step.

By this time, I’m getting used to Hop’s new routine, and I’m about to grab him by the short hairs when I suddenly realize something. We’re running down some sort of path leading away from the cottage in the woods. Which makes sense, because rich asses are lazy and don’t want to trudge through actual wilderness to get away from it all when they’re fucking livestock. I’m so happy, that I decide not to kill Hop as I shout and point. “Hey, this is going to lead us back to the main road!” I hear Terry bitching about having to walk any more, and I tell him that he’s more than welcome to stay out in the forest if he wants. Damn, can he complain.

It’s late at night by the time we get home, and thankfully there aren’t the sounds of moans and squeaking springs greeting us when we get back. All of us are on the verge of passing out, gasping for breath when we’re met by Mother and Father. So, Hop O’ My Thumb starts to tell the twisted version of events that were in his head. The pebble path, meeting a giant in the forest, him personally being responsible for tricking the old woman out of the gold… all of it. Tim’s the one who’s good at pointing out the obvious and mentions how Hop’s boots clearly aren’t the right size for a giant - to which Hop reminds Tim that they’re magic boots, and they shrunk down just enough to fit him.

The good news was that we finally had money, and things should have been good for us by then. Unfortunately, that’s when everything started to unravel for all of us. I asked father for enough money to offer as a dowry in exchange for Greta’s hand in marriage. The only problem was, that very morning she had been sent away by her very irate father. It seemed that Greta had been caught in a barn with Miss Muffet eating her tuffet. Hey, I don’t judge, but Greta’s father sent her away to avoid scandal.

Mother left father, taking half the gold. She said that she was tired of being treated like a brass nail he could bang away at through both day and night, and that she hated names that began with the letter “T” anyway. Leaving the other half of the money for Father to raise us kids with. And with Mother gone, Father spent all of his money in town just to satisfy his want for lady companionship. But not before I bought myself an ax.

I was able to support my siblings, get us on our feet and ready for the real world. I found a nice girl who was independently wealthy, having come up with a themed restaurant that served porridge recipes that were always just right. She had really curly blonde hair that I adored. And as rough as it had felt when Mother left us, it wasn’t all bad.

She took Hop along with her.

"J", I will resume with the cruelty soon. I'm just glad I cranked this out since it's been stuck in my head all day.

[mikbuster]

I had an idea of what I wanted to do, then while driving and thinking about dozens of things, including trying to sleep, I thought of a second idea, so I'm going to write both for the fun of it. Also, I may have thought a few random references were fun to add... I have to say, I enjoyed writing both of these stories, and hopefully they're only half bad to read

Had to trim this one down a wee bit.
----------------------------
The business man walked along, looking for a house to sell his wares. The straw house didn’t seem likely to need kerosene, but someone around here had to, right? Then he saw it, smoke rising from the behind the house. Quickly he ran to the house, pounding on the door, which miraculously didn’t cave in. “Get out of the house! It’s on fire, you have to hurry!”

From inside he heard, “This is Lloyd’s house, and Lloyd don’t let noone tell him what to do, by the hair on his chinny chin chin!”

The man sighed, walking around to look for the source of the fire, hoping to put it out and save the homeowner. He found the source around back and grabbed a bucket of water to throw on it, when his allergies suddenly kicked in and he gave a mighty sneeze. It put the fire out, but blew the straw into the wind. Seriously, he thought, who builds a house out of straw?

Still, he had saved the occupant, a sus domesticus which immediately squealed and ran a few houses down. Knocking on the door Lloyd yelled, “Ortiz! You have to let Lloyd in! There’s a killer out to get him!” The door promptly opened, letting him in. The man shrugged, figuring his good deed was good no matter what. That is, until he saw smoke appearing behind that house as well. This time he saw someone running from it, into a brick house!

He quickly ran to that house, repeating his pleas to get out before it was too late, hearing only, “Ya’ll ain’t foolin’ me and ya ain’t gettin’ in by the hair on my chinny chin chin!” This time he at least had an idea of where the fire was, and water to put it out. So he ran to try to put it out. Unfortunately allergens were exceptionally high that day and he sneezed again. The sticks making up the house definitely weren’t up to code and collapsed, barely giving the pair inside a chance to get out.

They then ran to the brick house nearby, “Brother Liam, let us in quickly!” The door opened almost instantly, letting the pair in.

The business man thought to himself, Mal, you’d be letting down mama Lobo if you didn’t at least try to save those people from the guy trying to kill them. So he went to that house, “Please, you don’t know what you’re doing! That man tried to kill you!”

“Not by the hair on our chinny chin chins!”

Mal climbed the house to drop down the chimney. He heard there was a man that did that yearly to deliver packages, so it was worth a try. When he got to the bottom, though, he found the owner with an axe...

Later, Liam was sitting at his kitchen table eating his soup, smiling at his new wolf skin rug and congratulating himself on his freezer, freshly filled with ham, pork, and bacon.
------------------------------------
I probably don't know this genre well enough to write in it, but it seemed like a fun idea, so... I kinda had to end it too quickly, so the ending is sudden and not what I was hoping to do, but that's always fun too.
------------------------------------
Red was talking to the distraught widow in her darkly lit office. She was claiming that her husband and two sons were murdered and was desperately asking Red to find out who had done it and get justice for her. Red had seen cases like this before, so she knew who the primary suspects would be. The widow seemed to think that her husband’s business partner, who was considered a real wolf among sheep, had to be behind it. According to her there were lots of rumors that Mr. Timber had previously killed dozens of people that were in his way. However, Red knew that the Goat Gang, somehow consisting of three gruff guys named Billy, also had a tendency to silence problems. Then there was Goose, a group new to the area run by a mysterious figure known only as Mother.

“Don’t worry ma’am, I’ll let you know what I find out.” Judging by the woman’s appearance, her family was probably a group of pigs. The sons were even too lazy to buy proper houses, merely setting up a pile of straw in one case and building a little hut out of sticks in the other. At least the pay was to be good. A nice pile of cold hard cash.

Red showed the woman out and headed for her first lead. Mr. Timber had to be cleared first, and was probably the safest place to start.

She headed to the mill to talk to him. He didn’t seem too anxious to talk, but he had an alibi, backed up by about a dozen workers. They could have been lying on his orders, but there wasn’t anything else she could get out of him at that time.

Her next stop was to talk with the Billies. They were a bunch of jerks, but she had dealt with them before. The leader stopped her as she entered their office. Lawn service. What a joke. “What brings little Red to our neck of the woods? Looking for a trim of that mane?”

They thought they were funny, but Red didn’t, “I’m here looking into a series of murders in the area. Know anything about it?”

“Of course not little Red. All we know about killing are weeds.” The other two chuckled behind their leader, obviously they were easily amused. “Actually, we were out of town the last week. A business convention in Atlanta.”

They had papers seeming to prove their story, so another dead end. “Know anything about Goose?” Billy gave her an address to an informant of his going by Grasshopper. Apparently a flaky character that never really worked, but managed to survive anyway.

Grasshopper met Red in an abandoned warehouse. “Yes, Goose killed those idiots. Unfortunately for you, Mother doesn’t like meddlers in her affairs.” That’s when Red saw them, dozens of men with machine guns. The last thing that went through her head was, “Darn, I won’t get paid.” Well, other than a bullet, obviously.
---------------------------
Hehe, DnE, I assumed the same word limits as the last ones ;) Otherwise I'd have a couple hundred extra on each ;)