Young Writers Society

The shambler gently rocked, almost lulling me to sleep, but the knowledge of my arrival to the cliff town of Spondekai kept me stark awake. Besides, I would hate to miss passing over the flaming rivers of Gwely's resident volcano, although most folk say that a web of orange-red streaks is only interesting to see once. But something else attracted me here; the knowledge of how far away the flows were, perhaps, or the barely perceptible pulse they give off, like the veins of a living creature.

The whine of a badly-oiled hatch behind me heralded a visitor. Seems that I was not alone in my fancy to see Gwely's lava streams after all.

"It's a good day to spend outside," I said, starting the conversation. "Isn't it? I think it was yesterday's Edna VI eruption that stirred the ash the other way."

"Don't remind me," the stranger said. The safety rails groaned in undeserved protest as he propped his small frame against them, taking position beside me. "I made the mistake of going out up-wind once. Even though it was just for a minute, it took me a week to get the smell of sulphur out of my hair."

We stood in silence for a few minutes, watching the insectoid legs of the shambler dive in and out of the bleak ocean of volcanic ash. And there they were - faint, but definitely occurring pulses in the lava's flow.

After a sudden woeful groan from one of the legs, a violent tremor shook the shambler. Hearing the rattling of the machine's gears disengaging themselves from the main flywheel, I fastened my grip on the railing to brace for the upcoming stop. The shambler came to a halt, and rested in contemplative silence for a few seconds before resuming its course.

"Similar problems occurred the last time I travelled through here," I said. "The land below is irregular. Considering what's down there, it really is a wonder that they don't do that more often. Did you read what--"

The distant roar of a horn momentarily drowned my voice and the mechanical clashing of the driving apparatus beneath. The dark form emerging from the impenetrable wall of ash ahead soon adopted the shape of another shambler from Spondekai. I could not discern the black circle of its generator turbine on the front; the tame winds appeared to lack the strength that the great propeller needed, leaving the machine to depend on its flywheel alone. After catching the sound of the fog horn, our shambler drifted to the side, allowing the larger one to pass by. Once again did I find myself reflecting on how they could do this without a pilot or any sort of guidance at all.

"Did you read," I continued, "what the expedition to the surface found down there, beneath the ash?"

"Nothing," he said. "An acquaintance of mine was on the team, he told me before it was even in the papers. Just rocks, fissures, and plains. We've tried looking for them everywhere, and all we have are the shamblers and the hollowed out mountains."

He paused.

"He didn't say very much, which, if you knew my acquaintance, is rather odd of him - especially since this is the first time anyone has gone to the surface in the last three hundred months."

"Maybe there wasn't much to say," I said.

"Or maybe he didn't want to talk about it. I don't suppose I can blame him. To know that someone could have built these machines without leaving more of a trace than the mountain reservoirs..."

"...and all those are good for is the fish," I said, chuckling.

My companion appreciated the joke, and we were quick to discover mutual interest in grotto fishing. The conversation quickly steered to a discussion of whether Mount Vorbhodsen or Mount Svirkaide yielded the most sizable catch.



The warmth of the nearby lava stream kept him safe from the cold hands of the wasteland. Its bubbling granted a relief from the monotonous, homogeneous din of the ashen wind. He had seen it happen before: people went deaf from hearing nothing but ash, and blind from seeing nothing but ash. They turned into senseless, mindless husks clinging to a dying seed of life. Fitting, he thought, for people to waste away just like the cities they once built to shelter themselves.

A sound came from the wasteland behind him - the faint but unmistakable crash of a Walking Thing's three-fingered foot, followed by other, advancing crashes. The Thing will be here shortly. Maybe it will crack open another building, like it did some time ago. Maybe it will just pass through without incident, like every day after that time. The dead structures built by forgotten hands crumbled away as inevitably as anything else - it was just a matter of waiting long enough.

Of course, as soon as the metal legs of the Walking Thing came close enough for others to hear, the zealots woke up. Just one voice, then two, then three, then more. "All hail the walking god!" People screaming, howling like animals, throwing rocks at the Thing's legs. He wondered sometimes if that kind of adoration was appreciated by any self-respecting god. "Give unto us, Walking Thing!"

He could hear the crashing as if it was right above his head. No point in looking up; the Walking Thing was thus named for a reason - the ash prevented seeing any of its part, except the three pairs of rusted metallic legs with three fingers on each. Then came the new sound that truly caught his interest, warranting him to raise his head - an abrasive squeal, and the dull thunks of falling concrete.

The Thing stepped on an ancient collapsed building, previously sealed by its own rubble. A large part of its front wall shattered into a hail of airborne stone. The Walking Thing paused, its leg standing on its self-made altar, as if saying, "Look at me! Look at me! I gave unto you, as you asked!" Some zealots writhed on the ground in ecstasy, while others tried to climb the Thing's leg to be thrown off later or to reach whatever zealot heaven there is - either way, never to be seen again.

The starved hermits and the mad zealots charged the building like rabid dogs. As the Thing walked away, he waited for the others to finish ravaging the supplies within - there was no rush for him, he knew of a hidden basement vault with much well-preserved food - and then came to gather his own. Furniture, dishes, strange things whose name and function were unknown to him - some barely disturbed, some broken apart by the jealous and the hungry. Some things sparkled with the glow of the nearby lava river, but he held no interest for those. His wonder was much more humble.

And there they were - two brown rectangular objects, the top one of which crumbled to dust as he touched it. He instinctively drew his hand back in a flinch, but the one beneath it looked sturdier. Hiding it underneath his dust-cloak, he quickly left the building and returned to his hideaway before the lava river.

This one was much different from the rest - instead of the neat black symbols he was so used to, these were hastily scrawled and poorly understandable. Still - his father taught him how to read the neat ones, so maybe he will learn how to read these, as well. Maybe they, too, will speak to him of a world with so many colours.

First, what's a shambler? Can you describe it a bit more. All I get is that it's a machine, that has a propeller and three legs. What type of machine is it? Does it look like a car, a train or a cable car? Can you describe the person who's talking, please and can you give us some more background information? I feel a little lost. Also, I don't understand the second half at all. It does't seem to relate to the first half, although I'm assuming that the " walking thing" is the shambler. What do the characters in the second half look like? Does it take place at the same time as the first part? Your piece is leaving me with more questions than answers. I liked the tone of the piece and it seemed to flow well. I think that if you answer these questions, you'll have a stronger piece. I like it though.

idraax wrote:First, what's a shambler? Can you describe it a bit more. All I get is that it's a machine, that has a propeller and three legs. What type of machine is it? Does it look like a car, a train or a cable car?

The piece is meant to be a minimalistic one-shot, meant mostly to excite the imagination with a strange world. Describing a shambler in detail would be a waste; I provided just enough information so you have a rough idea of what it looks like, and so your mind would fill in the rest. It is tall, very tall, because lava rivers are said to look "bleak" when looking down from it, and no part of it can be seen from the ground other than the legs; it has three pairs of legs (that's six); it is rusty and therefore metallic; it is automatic (no pilot and no guidance) and fully mechanical (as you never see any evidence of electricity being used anywhere on board, just rattling of gears and some kind of flywheel and a turbine). If you absolutely must know more, I used this painting (slightly NSFW) as inspiration for the machines in the story.

Can you describe the person who's talking, please and can you give us some more background information? I feel a little lost.

What do you think they look like, considering the tone of the piece? They are walking around on a tall machine and there's ash everywhere, so they probably have some big heavy coats on. Their appearances are not really a plot point.

Also, I don't understand the second half at all. It does't seem to relate to the first half, although I'm assuming that the " walking thing" is the shambler.

That it is. I was hoping to demonstrate this conclusively by mentioning "insectoid legs" in the first part. The two parts are related to each other, the first part takes place on the shambler and the second part takes place on the ground below the shambler.

What do the characters in the second half look like? Does it take place at the same time as the first part?

Again, all this is implied with the tone of the story. These are people squatting next to a lava river to keep them warm in the middle of a ruined, collapsed city. They pounce on supplies like "rabid dogs", and the viewpoint character is mentioned having a "dust cloak". This does not conjure up any imagery for you? And yes, this does all take place at the same time. Remember the shambler in the first half of the story suddenly stopping, and then in the second part it stepped on the building? That's the reason why it stopped in the first part...

Your piece is leaving me with more questions than answers. I liked the tone of the piece and it seemed to flow well. I think that if you answer these questions, you'll have a stronger piece. I like it though.

Thank you for your comment, and I hope to have answered at least a couple of your questions with this post. Again though, the whole point of the piece is not to ask questions but to answer them yourself, to imagine what the world looks like using the information provided.

Oh, ok. I must have missed that part. I guess I shouldn't read and review an hour before class starts. The painting looks like something my Art Theory class would critique. Thank you for answering those questions and being patient about it. I haven't really reviewed anything except non-fiction papers before, so I'm still figuring out the process.

carbonCore wrote:

Spoiler! :

Hi all. This is your chance to get back at me if I've recently destroyed one of your pieces with my criticism. An older work of mine, but still one of my favourites. Enjoy!

The shambler gently rocked, almost lulling me to sleep, but the knowledge of my arrival to the cliff town of Spondekai kept me stark awake. Besides, I would hate to miss passing over the flaming rivers of Gwely's resident volcano, although most folk say that a web of orange-red streaks is only interesting to see once. But something else attracted me to these flows; the knowledge of how far away they are, perhaps, or the barely perceptible pulse they give off, as if veins on a living creature. A shambler is a earthquake. I don't really think that an earthquake would lull you to sleep. I don't really think you have a strong begining here. It is really simple, and it didn't really shout at me to read the rest. I hope you prove me wrong.

The whine of a badly-oiled hatch behind me heralded a visitor. Seems that I was not alone in my fancy to see Gwely's lava streams, after all.

"It's a good day to spend outside," I started the conversation. "Isn't it? I think it was yesterday's Edna VI eruption that stirred the ash the other way."

"Don't remind me," my guest said. The safety rails groaned in undeserved protest as he propped his small frame against them, taking position beside me. "I made the mistake of going out up-wind once. Even though it was just for a minute, it took me a week to get the smell of sulphur out of my hair." You tell things about the volcano and such and such, but it isn't really description. I wan't to know what I am seeing, where I am at, things like that.

We stood in silence for a few minutes, watching the insectoid legs of the shambler dive in and out of the bleak ocean of volcanic ash. And there they were - faint, but definitely occurring pulses in the lava's flow. I was just wondering why the main character wanted to see this volcano so bad. You don't really say. I think giving that information might help the story along. You also havn't really let us connect to the main character. We know nothing about him/her not a name, nothing.

After a sudden woeful groan from one of the legs, a violent tremor shook the shambler. Hearing the rattling of the machine's gears disengaging themselves from the main flywheel, I fastened my grip on the railing to brace for the upcoming stop. The shambler came to a halt, and rested in contemplative silence for a few seconds before resuming its course.

"Similar problems occurred the last time I travelled through here," I said. "The land below is irregular. Considering what's down there, it really is a wonder that they don't do that more often. Did you read what--"

The distant roar of a horn momentarily drowned my voice and the mechanical clashing of the driving apparatus beneath. The dark form emerging from the impenetrable wall of ash ahead soon adopted the shape of another shambler from Spondekai. I could not discern the black circle of its generator turbine on the front; the tame winds appeared to lack the strength that the great propeller needed, leaving the machine to depend on its flywheel alone. After catching the sound of the fog horn, our shambler drifted to the side, allowing the larger one to pass by. For the millionth time I found myself reflecting on how they could do this without a pilot or any sort of guidance at all.

"Did you read," I continued, "what the expedition to the surface found down there, beneath the ash?"

"Nothing," he said. "An acquaintance of mine was on the team, he told me before it was even in the papers. Just rocks, fissures, and plains. We've tried looking for them everywhere, and all we have are the shamblers and the hollowed out mountains."

He paused.

"He didn't say very much, which, if you knew my acquaintance, is rather odd of him - especially since this is the first time anyone has gone to the surface in the last three hundred months." You give some details about his companion here, and yet you still know nothing about him/her.

"Maybe there wasn't much to say," I said.

"Or maybe he didn't want to talk about it. I don't suppose I can blame him. To know that someone could have built these machines without leaving more of a trace than the mountain reservoirs..."

"...and all those are good for is the fish," I said, chuckling.

My companion appreciated the joke, and we were quick to make the discovery of mutual interest in grotto fishing. The conversation quickly steered to a discussion of whether Mount Vorbhodsen or Mount Svirkaide yielded the most sizable catch.

--- --- ---

The warmth of the nearby lava stream kept him safe from the cold hands of the wasteland. Its bubbling granted a relief from the monotonous, homogeneous din of the ashen wind. He had seen it happen before: people went deaf from hearing nothing but ash, and blind from seeing nothing but ash. They turned into senseless, mindless husks clinging to a dying seed of life. Fitting, he thought, for people to waste away just like the cities they once built to shelter themselves. How do you hear ash?

A sound came from the wasteland behind him - the faint but unmistakable crash of a Walking Thing's three-fingered foot, followed by other, advancing crashes. The Thing will be here shortly. Maybe it will crack open another building, like it did some time ago. Maybe it will just pass through without incident, like every day after that time. The dead structures built by forgotten hands crumbled away as inevitably as anything else - it was just a matter of waiting long enough.

Of course, as soon as the metal legs of the Walking Thing came close enough for others to hear, the zealots woke up. Just one voice, then two, then three, then more. "All hail the walking god!" People screaming, howling like animals, throwing rocks at the Thing's legs. He wondered sometimes if that kind of adoration was appreciated by any self-respecting god. "Give unto us, Walking Thing!"

He could hear the crashing as if it was right above his head. No point in looking up; the Walking Thing was thus named for a reason - the ash prevented seeing any of its part, except the three pairs of rusted metallic legs with three fingers on each. Then came the new sound that truly caught his interest, warranting him to raise his head - an abrasive squeal, and the dull thunks of falling concrete.

The Thing stepped on an ancient collapsed building, previously sealed by its own rubble. A large part of its front wall shattered into a hail of airborne stone. The Walking Thing paused, its leg standing on its self-made altar, as if saying, "Look at me! Look at me! I gave unto you, as you asked!" Some zealots writhed on the ground in ecstasy, while others tried to climb the Thing's leg to be thrown off later or to reach whatever zealot heaven there is - either way, never to be seen again.

The starved hermits and the mad zealots charged the building like rabid dogs. As the Thing walked away, he waited for the others to finish ravaging the supplies within - there was no rush for him, he knew of a hidden basement vault with much well-preserved food - and then came to gather his own. Furniture, dishes, strange things whose name and function were unknown to him - some barely disturbed, some broken apart by the jealous and the hungry. Some things sparkled with the glow of the nearby lava river, but he held no interest for those. His wonder was much more humble.

And there they were - two brown rectangular objects, the top one of which crumbled to dust as he touched it. He instinctively drew his hand back in a flinch, but the one beneath it looked sturdier. Hiding it underneath his dust-cloak, he quickly left the building and returned to his hideaway before the lava river.

This one was much different from the rest - instead of the neat black symbols he was so used to, these were hastily scrawled and poorly understandable. Still - his father taught him how to read the neat ones, so maybe he will learn how to read these, as well. Maybe they, too, will speak to him of a world with so many colours.

Ok. Well all I can say about this story, is that it is ok. I am not trying to be critical, but it doesn't capture attention. There is nothing there that screams, READ ME! You didn't give any details about the main character, or why he was there. You just talked about the volcano errupting. I would have spent more time telling about why he was there, little details make the whole story.

You have very nice vocabulary, the only thing I didn't like was the shambler or whatever it was called. That is an earthquake, so it makes little sense here. It messes with the scenery, I never knew where you were. I think that would be easily fixed if you said, oh this is what that is.

I didn't really notice anything else that jumped out saying fix me or don't. It is a good story, you just need a strong hook.

I hope I helped, and I hope your opinion of my reivews is still high.

-Flow-

Hey, Carbon. Here to review
My apologizes for being late, I've been busy lately.

Also, may I take a second to compliment you?
I think your writing skill is great. Also, your actions and words are always varied and non-repetitive which makes reading the piece fun. You've got yourself a fan.
However! I noticed a slightly excessive use of "I said" in your piece. I know how dialogue tags roll but it would have been nice to see some more variations with this. Plus, it'd give your characters a bit more life. Right now it's a bit boring to read. Nothing compared to your previous piece, "The law of Moses", which I found to be quite exciting.

As I have read previously, you stated that you wanted to excite the imagination, therefore you didn't go deep into the descriptions, yadda-yadda. Although, I do think that are some points where you could have expanded your descriptions and meaning a bit more. Shambler is a good place to start. I honestly had no idea what you meant by that, was it an earthquake, a yeti? (blame google)
So, I actually had to go back and read this twice to understand where you were getting at. What I'm trying to say is, maybe you should have paid a little more attention to the bigger things. We need to know what kind of mechanism it is. Possibly give us more descriptions to play with our imaginations instead of stating what it is. Work more around the edges, I suppose. I think this could have worked out if you expanded this more and made it slightly easier to understand.
The thing that tangled my mind into a knot was not only the vague descriptions but the exotic names you used in the beginning. They kind of made me confused since I didn't know what they were talking about. The nice thing is, the more I read this again and again, the easier and more exciting it becomes to picture. Although, I still think you could have done much better. Maybe...I haven't read anything of this sort before so my review is a bit opinionated.

For me, it seemed like the second part of this piece was easier to understand and read than the first. Not quite sure why, though. Nonetheless, I think this is an interesting piece and I did enjoy reading this and trying to imagine this world with your neat descriptions. While reading it, I actually pictured a very 'epic' like movie scene. CGI and all, I have no idea why but it was interesting.
I'm sorry if I wasn't much help here. If you ever need me again, you know where to go!
All the best,

-Shear

Hey, excellent point of view spin from the high-tech inheritors to the crazed survivors!
I think the descriptions are quite enough, maybe about 15% of people's faces and clothes missing, but it's quite as it is now. Richer descriptions qould be warranted if this was ever to grow into a novella or a novel. Ever to grow into a novella or a novel. Ever to grow into a novella or a novel. Is there an echo in here? Ever to grow into a novella or a novel. Ahem.
A good short story in the venerable tradition of Clarke and Asimov and youngsters with undried milk on their lips like David Brin and such. But really, the second part of the story introduces a protagonist begging to be given another 10-20K for developement And obviously meet up with the first protagonist and stuff.
Anyway, consider this an official invitation: when, fired up by a concept or an image, you start feeling your way around a story arc for something the size of the things in the edvanced critiques section, share. I'll give my input. I may be tragically missing some major grammar glands, but as compensation I can plot a novel or a novella at the drop of a hat. Ever yours, count Naplmerski-Machetovich

The shambler gently rocked, almost lulling me to sleep, but the knowledge of my arrival to the cliff town of Spondekai I'll admit this has nothing to do with the grammar, but the moment I read that town name I immediately thought of pigs. Anyway, ignore this first comment. kept me stark awake. Besides, I would hate to miss passing over the flaming rivers of Gwely's resident volcano, although most folk say that a web of orange-red streaks is only interesting to see once. But something else attracted me to these flows instead of 'these flows', just put 'it'; the knowledge of how far away they are were, perhaps, or the barely perceptible pulse they give off, as if veins on a living creature like the veins of a living creature.

The whine of a badly-oiled hatch behind me heralded a visitor. Seems that I was not alone in my fancy to see Gwely's lava streams, comma is unnecessaryafter all.

"It's a good day to spend outside," I started the conversation I said starting a conversation. "Isn't it? I think it was yesterday's Edna VI eruption that stirred the ash the other way."

"Don't remind me," my guest said 'the stranger said.' The narrator wasn't exactly expecting him. The safety rails groaned in undeserved protest as he propped his small frame I'm assuming the safety rails are very old, because they wouldn't normally creak if a 'small' person leant against them against them, taking position beside me. "I made the mistake of going out up-wind once. Even though it was just for a minute, it took me a week to get the smell of sulphur out of my hair."

We stood in silence for a few minutes, watching the insectoid legs of the shambler dive in and out of the bleak ocean of volcanic ash. And there they were - faint, but definitely occurring pulses in the lava's flow.

After a sudden woeful groan from one of the legs, a violent tremor shook the shambler. Hearing the rattling of the machine's gears disengaging themselves from the main flywheel, I fastened my grip on the railing to brace myself for the upcoming stop. The shambler came to a halt, and rested in contemplative silence for a few seconds before resuming its course.

"Similar problems occurred the last time I travelled through here," I said. "The land below is irregular. Considering what's down there, it really is a wonder that they don't do that more often. Did you read what--"

The distant roar of a horn momentarily drowned my voice and the mechanical clashing of the driving apparatus beneath. The dark form emerging from the impenetrable wall of ash ahead soon adopted the shape of another shambler from Spondekai. I could not discern the black circle of its generator turbine on the front; the tame winds appeared to lack the strength that the great propeller needed, leaving the machine to depend on its flywheel alone. After catching the sound of the fog horn, our shambler drifted to the side, allowing the larger one to pass by. For the millionth time Maybe it's just me, but saying 'for the millionth time' makes it sound as if the narrator thought this before in the course of the story. I personally think 'not for the first time' would sound better, it doesn't suggest the same. I found myself reflecting on how they could do this without a pilot or any sort of guidance at all.

"Did you read," I continued, "what the expedition to the surface found down there, beneath the ash?"

"Nothing," he said. "An acquaintance of mine was on the team, he told me before it was even in the papers. Just rocks, fissures, and plains. We've tried looking for them them? everywhere, and all we have are the shamblers and the hollowed out mountains."

He paused.

"He didn't say very much, which, if you knew my acquaintance, is rather odd of him - especially since this is the first time anyone has gone to the surface in the last three hundred months." Three hundred months? Do they not have years in this world which the stranger could use in his speech instead?

"Maybe there wasn't much to say," I said.

"Or maybe he didn't want to talk about it. I don't suppose I can blame him. To know that someone could have built these machines without leaving more of a trace than the mountain reservoirs..."

"...and all those are good for is the fish," I said, chuckling.

My companion appreciated the joke, and we were quick to make the discovery of discover mutual interest in grotto fishing. The conversation quickly steered to a discussion of whether Mount Vorbhodsen or Mount Svirkaide yielded the most sizable catch.

--- --- ---

The warmth of the nearby lava stream kept him safe from the cold hands of the wasteland. Its bubbling granted a relief from the monotonous, homogeneous din of the ashen wind. He had seen it happen before: people went deaf from hearing nothing but ash, and blind from seeing nothing but ash. They turned into senseless, mindless husks clinging to a dying seed of life. Fitting, he thought, for people to waste away just like the cities they once built to shelter themselves.

A sound came from the wasteland behind him - the faint but unmistakable crash of a Walking Thing's three-fingered foot, followed by other, advancing crashes. The Thing will be here shortly. Maybe it will crack open another building, like it did some time ago. Maybe it will just pass through without incident, like every day after that time. The dead structures built by forgotten hands crumbled away as inevitably as anything else - it was just a matter of waiting long enough.

Of course, as soon as the metal legs of the Walking Thing came close enough for others to hear, the zealots woke up. Just one voice, then two, then three, then more. "All hail the walking god!" People screaming, howling like animals, throwing rocks at the Thing's legs. He wondered sometimes if that kind of adoration was appreciated by any self-respecting god. "Give unto us, Walking Thing!"

He could hear the crashing as if it was right above his head. No point in looking up; the Walking Thing was thus named for a reason - the ash prevented seeing any of its part, except the three pairs of rusted metallic legs with three fingers on each. Then came the new sound that truly caught his interest, warranting him to raise his head - an abrasive squeal, and the dull thunks of falling concrete.

The Thing stepped on an ancient collapsed building, previously sealed by its own rubble. A large part of its front wall shattered into a hail of airborne stone. The Walking Thing paused, its leg standing on its self-made altar, as if saying, "Look at me! Look at me! I gave unto you, as you asked!" Some zealots writhed on the ground in ecstasy, while others tried to climb the Thing's leg to be thrown off later or to reach whatever zealot heaven there is - either way, never to be seen again.

The starved hermits where did the hermits come from? and the mad zealots charged the building like rabid dogs. As the Thing walked away, he waited for the others to finish ravaging the supplies within - there was no rush for him, he knew of a hidden basement vault with much well-preserved food - and then came to gather his own. Furniture, dishes, strange things whose name and function were unknown to him - some barely disturbed, some broken apart by the jealous and the hungry. Some things sparkled with the glow of the nearby lava river, but he held no interest for those. His wonder was much more humble.

And there they were - two brown rectangular objects, the top one of which crumbled to dust as he touched it. He instinctively drew his hand back in a flinch, but the one beneath it looked sturdier. Hiding it underneath his dust-cloak, he quickly left the building and returned to his hideaway before the lava river.

This one was much different from the rest - instead of the neat black symbols he was so used to, these were hastily scrawled and poorly understandable. Still - his father taught him how to read the neat ones, so maybe he will learn how to read these, as well. Maybe they, too, will speak to him of a world with so many colours.

Other than what I've pointed out, the story is quite fine. It's fairly interesting, however, it bothers me that I don't know the names of either of the three characters you've introduced. Aren't they central to the story?

Are you going to post another chapter of this? I'd read it. I'm a bit confused with all the shambler talk; I know nothing about boats so I can't tell if it is an actual boat or something of your creation. But this seems promising. Great job, and KEEP WRITING!

TIGERSPRITE

A little confusing but that might just be me... It took me a while to get what a Shambler was and whatnot

Loved the story, Carbon!
First, I'll start off with saying: I liked that you described everything with minimal details. I love writers who do that, because it leaves so much to the imagination, so every interpretation is different (who wants to see things the same static way as everyone else?). It's the way I try to write, though I'm not very good at it yet.
I thought it was interesting that the two parts of the story were taking place at the same time, like both people were MCs. To me, it implies that they will meet at some future time, which I think would be cool (two different people, with two different lifestyles, how do they react to each other?). I thought it was kind of funny that the people who lived outside of the shamblers were actually worshipping them in their strange way. It reminded me of a story I heard (can't remember where); some tribe on an island worshipped American airforce planes because they made a base their, and dropped off food and supplies in return, so they built wooden replicas of the planes in hopes of the "gods" gifting them again.
I would like to know what happens to the zealots that make it to the top of the shamblers' legs. Are they taken in or what? You could probably mention that they are in the first part if so, and if not...I guess we can just assume they dropped to their deaths...though I sincerly hope not.
It was kind of cool that people went blind and deaf from only listening to and seeing ash so constantly, in the way that it seemed like a new medical thing...kind of like snow blindness. It kind of seems like the blind part was based off that.
Great idea with the one-word title, too. I clicked on the story because I wanted to find out why it was called "Ash." After that, it just captured my attention with the loose, imagination-encouraging, creative, original story-ness. I could picture everything, and considering the setting everyone was in, the characters started out really believable.
Great job.

First off, I think this was really good.
1) what is a shmabler?
2)maybe the Walking thing should have a cooler name.lol.
Well that's it! I think you should keep writing!

Hola:) Review as requested!

My first impression of this was cool. As a writer that likes to attack my readers with unnecessary amounts of description, I've come to really appreciate the minimalist style, so this piece really struck a good chord with me. I was hooked the moment I started reading, and up until the last sentence was entranced. Despite how other reviewers have responded to the lack of information, I felt that you gave just enough detail to set the tone, and that's really all a reader needs. I felt immersed in this world from the first few lines; I could've sworn the lighting in my room got a little more gray and hazy. An entire color palate of charcoals set off by vivid oranges and reds instantly came to mind, and then with your hints at the technology of this world, I felt that I had all the needed elements to create your world inside my head.

I will say that the transition from the pair atop the shambler to the citizens below was a little awkward. I felt that the final paragraph of the first half could've ended with something a little more...haunting? I liked the casual feel of the conversation between the two people and how they were talking about something so mundane (in my opinion) as fishing while surrounded by such a bleak and hellish world, but that last sentence didn't do much for me. I thought that it could've easily ended with

My companion appreciated the joke, and we were quick to discover mutual interest in grotto fishing.

and still have had the desired effect.

Weirdly, my only other complaint is in the second line.

Besides, I would hate to miss passing over the flaming rivers of Gwely's resident volcano, although most folk say that a web of orange-red streaks is only interesting to see once.

The image that was immediately formed in my head by "orange-red streaks" was a sunset for some reason. I know that at the beginning of the sentence you're talking about the lava flows, but with such a strong image drawn up by "web" I felt that you could've accompanied it with a more descriptive word. Yeah, that's ridiculously picky, but whatever.

So yeah, again, I really enjoyed this. I love reading your little clips like this and Alice. Even with a low word count you're still able to create such intriguing worlds, and I find that I'm still thinking about this piece a while after I first read it. :] Very nice work.

Much loves,
Bunny

The different perspectives are interesting. On the one hand there are the surface-dwellers who scavenge in the dust and ash and somehow manage to survive, then you essentially have cloud-dwellers. Thinking about it, this is sort of a contrast between the rich and the poor, with neither really knowing the other. Or it could be people taking their surroundings for granted. Either way, the tone is eerie and it almost sounds hopeless. Very good.

Once again did I find myself reflecting on how they could do this without a pilot or any sort of guidance at all.

I don't think that sounds right. I think it should be like this:

Once again I found myself reflecting on how they could do this without a pilot or any sort of guidance at all.

But it was good. I bet that Walking Thing is the shambler that those other two are on.

Hiyaz =)
Im Aly and I'll review =)
I like color so any mistakes i find will be in color


The shambler gently rocked, almost lulling me to sleep, but the knowledge of my arrival to the cliff town of Spondekai kept me stark awake. Besides, I would hate to miss passing over the flaming rivers of Gwely's resident volcano, although most folk say that a web of orange-red streaks is only interesting to see once. But something else attracted me here; the knowledge of how far away the flows were, perhaps, or the barely perceptible pulse they give off, like the veins of a living creature.

The whine of a badly-oiled hatch behind me heralded a visitor. Seems that I was not alone in my fancy to see Gwely's lava streams after all.

"It's a good day to spend outside," I said, starting the conversation.(Now I'm very confused, who is talking? And if it is the same person put a comma before isn't) "Isn't it? I think it was yesterday's Edna VI eruption that stirred the ash the other way."

"Don't remind me," the stranger said. The safety rails groaned in undeserved protest as he propped his small frame against them, taking position beside me. "I made the mistake of going out up-wind once. Even though it was just for a minute, it took me a week to get the smell of sulphur(sulfur) out of my hair."

We stood in silence for a few minutes, watching the insectoid legs of the shambler dive in and out of the bleak ocean of volcanic ash. And there they were - faint, but definitely occurring pulses in the lava's flow.

After a sudden woeful groan from one of the legs, a violent tremor shook the shambler. Hearing the rattling of the machine's gears disengaging themselves from the main flywheel, I fastened my grip on the railing to brace for the upcoming stop. The shambler came to a halt, and rested in contemplative silence for a few seconds before resuming its course.

"Similar problems occurred the last time I travelled through here," I said. "The land below is irregular. Considering what's down there, it really is a wonder that they don't do that more often. Did you read what--"

The distant roar of a horn momentarily drowned my voice and the mechanical clashing of the driving apparatus beneath. The dark form emerging from the impenetrable wall of ash ahead soon adopted the shape of another shambler from Spondekai. I could not discern the black circle of its generator turbine on the front; the tame winds appeared to lack the strength that the great propeller needed, leaving the machine to depend on its flywheel alone. After catching the sound of the fog horn, our shambler drifted to the side, allowing the larger one to pass by. Once again did I find myself reflecting on how they could do this without a pilot or any sort of guidance at all.

"Did you read," I continued, "what the expedition to the surface found down there, beneath the ash?"

"Nothing," he said. "An acquaintance of mine was on the team(Quotation missing!!), he told me before it was even in the papers.(Quotation?) Just rocks, fissures, and plains. We've tried looking for them everywhere, and all we have are the shamblers and the hollowed out mountains."

He paused.

"He didn't say very much, which, if you knew my acquaintance, is rather odd of him - especially since this is the first time anyone has gone to the surface in the last three hundred months."

"Maybe there wasn't much to say," I said.

"Or maybe he didn't want to talk about it. I don't suppose I can blame him. To know that someone could have built these machines without leaving more of a trace than the mountain reservoirs..."

"...and all those are good for is the fish," I said, chuckling.

My companion appreciated the joke, and we were quick to discover mutual interest in grotto fishing. The conversation quickly steered to a discussion of whether Mount Vorbhodsen or Mount Svirkaide yielded the most sizable catch.

--- --- ---


The warmth of the nearby lava stream kept him safe from the cold hands of the wasteland. Its bubbling granted a relief from the monotonous, homogeneous din of the ashen wind.(New paragraph) He had seen it happen before: people went deaf from hearing nothing but ash, and blind from seeing nothing but ash. They turned into senseless, mindless husks clinging to a dying seed of life. Fitting, he thought, for people to waste away just like the cities they once built to shelter themselves.

A sound came from the wasteland behind him - the faint but unmistakable crash of a Walking Thing's three-fingered foot, followed by other, advancing crashes. The Thing will be here shortly. Maybe it will crack open another building, like it did some time ago. Maybe it will just pass through without incident, like every day after that time. The dead structures built by forgotten hands crumbled away as inevitably as anything else - it was just a matter of waiting long enough.

Of course, as soon as the metal legs of the Walking Thing came close enough for others to hear, the zealots woke up. Just one voice, then two, then three, then more. "All hail the walking god!" People screaming, howling like animals, throwing rocks at the Thing's legs. He wondered sometimes if that kind of adoration was appreciated by any self-respecting god. "Give unto us, Walking Thing!"

He could hear the crashing as if it was right above his head. No point in looking up; the Walking Thing was thus named for a reason - the ash prevented seeing any of its part, except the three pairs of rusted metallic legs with three fingers on each. Then came the new sound that truly caught his interest, warranting him to raise his head - an abrasive squeal, and the dull thunks of falling concrete.

The Thing stepped on an ancient collapsed building, previously sealed by its own rubble. A large part of its front wall shattered into a hail of airborne stone. The Walking Thing paused, its leg standing on its self-made altar, as if saying, "Look at me! Look at me! I gave unto you, as you asked!" Some zealots writhed on the ground in ecstasy, while others tried to climb the Thing's leg to be thrown off later or to reach whatever zealot heaven there is - either way, never to be seen again.

The starved hermits and the mad zealots charged the building like rabid dogs. As the Thing walked away, he waited for the others to finish ravaging the supplies within - there was no rush for him, he knew of a hidden basement vault with much well-preserved food - and then came to gather his own. Furniture, dishes, strange things whose name and function were unknown to him - some barely disturbed, some broken apart by the jealous and the hungry. Some things sparkled with the glow of the nearby lava river, but he held no interest for those. His wonder was much more humble.

And there they were - two brown rectangular objects, the top one of which crumbled to dust as he touched it. He instinctively drew his hand back in a flinch, but the one beneath it looked sturdier. Hiding it underneath his dust-cloak, he quickly left the building and returned to his hideaway before the lava river.

This one was much different from the rest - instead of the neat black symbols he was so used to, these were hastily scrawled and poorly understandable. Still - his father taught him how to read the neat ones, so maybe he will learn how to read these, as well. Maybe they, too, will speak to him of a world with so many colours.


I flipping love your story line!!! Keep writing!!!!!! =D