Presque Vu
Note: It's a bloody mess. And of course, written because I have so much time on my hands with NaNoWrimo and Vetren'iy. Thoughts? Very first draft, very confused?
--
Recollection didn’t come easy to him. Like déjà vu, it came capricious. But he didn’t have déjà vu--and never had.
What he recalled came more often in dreams.
“What can you see?” A feeble voice asked, “Can you see me there?”
He closed his eyes. The narrow alley, dim, dwindled into smog-laden streets. What would happen always seemed nearer than what had come before. Sometimes he thought he’d lived backwards, and there was something he was always forgetting, something he’d already done.
“Am I alive? Am I alive, Fletch?”
With a startled jerk, he woke, slumped against read-out screen, bridge grey-lit. Scrolling numbers blurred under his gaze. Eighteen-hundred hours. And perhaps just a dream. This wasn’t Earth, afterall--no Earth dreams on sleek Avdotya, no dreams at light speed darting into eternity.
Fletcher didn’t have déjà vu. The cool dim of space, star-shot and void, recalled nothing. He’d never travelled interplanetary, never seen night but from the dull-domed sky on Earth, never thought that night could be so long, so light. Nadezhda lay ahead, hopeful colony for a hopeful straggle of Earth-weary.
Struggling with stinging eyes and creeping shadows, Fletcher rose, shoulders cramped, face felt thick.
He sometimes forgot. Inept habit for a 2nd class liutenant, escorting colonials to the unknown. But he preferred it that way. Nadezhda and Capt. Waverly’s crew and colonials, lightyears into past and a moment’s ping from Earth--that stood ahead. No past. He tried not to look at it too closely. His memory pulled tricks on him, light-illusions--it tried to say he’d seen what hadn’t happened.
“Am I alive, Fletch?”
He cursed thickly.
For an hour, he paced, halting every now and then to glance over read-outs, halting to be certain things were still there.
“Are you going to tell now, Fletcher? Are you going to tell me before I tell…”
Boots broke space-thick still, clanged up service-steps. Startled, Fletcher wheeled.
“Hey Fletch.” Kolya peered in, round-faced sleep crumpled. “My turn, I think?”
“Sure…sure, Kolya,” he nodded towards the port glass. “Still dead-black, still on course.”
With a distrait smile, Kolya took his place, blinking owlishly at the scattered numbers, bewildered over computation. “’Night,” he murmured.
But Fletcher was down steps and gone before the sound left Kolya’s lips. Hours he slept. And hours he watched, taking Kolya’s place on narrow bridge, slouched over dim-lit screens and scrolling computations. It was easy to forget--déjà vu couldn’t recall what he didn’t know.
It was more difficult to forget what came ahead.
“Are you going to tell now, Fletcher? Are you going to tell me before I tell…”
It was Damian that caught him sleeping--only once, slumped sideways over hard-backed seat. Damian, senior liutenant--jet-browed, features faltering on the ironic, he had that dispassionate personality that bled through feeling and came out the other side unchanged.
It only left its stain.
“Awake there, Fletcher?”
“Drifted,” murmured Fletcher, scattered, words still running through his mind that no one had said. “Sorry.”
“Hey, if you could see ahead, right?”
For a moment, Fletcher wavered, response caught on doubt. See ahead meant a dozens things. If…
“If,” he said, “Hey, if I wouldn’t be here, would I?”
“If,” smiled Damian--something more than flippant nonchalance in his voice. “Don’t fall asleep. I don’t want to worry Waverly.”
He loitered, off-duty and curiously blasé while talkative. Another month, Waverly had said. A month and we make land, so to speak.
“A month,” said Damian, “Can you believe--a whole month, and Earth a month behind? They’ll know if we make it alive by now.”
“How?” Fletcher asked dully.
“Seeing ahead.” Damian leaned languid into hatch, flipped-up. “They’ve got to have managed the precog. crisis by now.”
“…How?” Fletcher found himself repeating stiffly.
“Consolidated, you know. Last contact said they’d found the sort; Presque vu, isn’t it? see ahead, not back. Caught them before they jumped planet…continents were lining up…”
Fletcher stopped listening.
“I’m off in two,” he broke in finally, “Andrei’s got the next watch.”
He slept again, all dark, no dreams. He woke and forgot he missed the dawn.
“If?…” Damian began catching him off-duty, always the half-winked taunt.
None too soon for Fletcher, Nadezhda loomed, its violet-cast sun at nadir from planet-side.
Nadezhda turned out to be more ironic in truth than report. Hope, said its name--hope for Earth-weary colonials, for fools. A spit of land on a spit of a planet surrounded by an ocean that might just as well have been spit for all the good it did anyone. Fletcher watched it, wider, nearer through port-glass until the hiss of water reverberated through the hull, and screeching atmosphere’s pressure let them through.
No one turned out to meet them. Nothing but water and rock lit eerie by phosphorous.
Waverly was a steady, honest-hearted man, common sense edged with thoughtless loyalty. He might have been blind to some things; he might have refused to doubt for a foolish honor’s sake. But he knew his crew for what they were worth, and he knew and cared for the bleak band of cols. from Earth’s layered, smog-traced cities.
In another month, the jagged-rock coast of Nadezhda’s only continent held a base. Half-enclosed for colonials, guarded against vaporous air and wind trailing choking phosphorous, the thing perched, white and lucid over black-top waves and glimmering stone.
“No one,” remarked Damian, “Forsaken sort of place. Hopeful. Saw this coming?”
“Waverly must have--who wouldn’t?”
Damian shrugged. “Just us.”
Schedules changed. Fletcher slept less. But an odd, bitter taste lingered in his mouth; and more odd, he seemed to meet Damian around every corner. If, was still the hail.
Careless flippancy--did he think it meant more?
Pointedly diligent, Fletcher avoided day shift and worked hard into the night. The sky turned bloody with dusk…and never quite faded into black, bruised all 14 hours of Nadezhda’s night and the oceans looked as much like a desert through the observatory as they did from sealed-off shore. Captain Waverly let him be--he did his job, kept his watches, stood nights no other officer from the Avdotya would have taken even for a free ride home.
“No word from home,” Kolya muttered, every wan, bruised morning. “No word, Fletch. D’you think it’s good?”
Fletcher shrugged with vaguest reassurance. His sleep-deprived thoughts ran circles; easily walked tracks of unchanging routine. Dulled, he needn’t worry over memories, over lack, over the shifting shadows just beyond thought, and a voice.
“Are you going to tell now, Fletcher? Are you going to tell me before I tell…”
He woke after a week dodging sleep and contact, head against observatory glass, slumped to the side of the tapered telescope. Damian stood over him.
“Tired, I guess? ‘Tried to tell you.”
Fletcher shifted and slipped, face half-numbed. Light through observational glass reflected violet off the ocean, blurred his sight.
“God…” He twisted stiff arms, neck tight, aching-- “What the Hell do you want? I…”
“Captain Waverly noticed you missed breakfast.” With a shrug, Damian offered a hand, flippant grin barely a falter at the edge of his mouth. “He said to get some damn sleep because he’s got twenty-five other half-alert men in need of some work. His words, not mine.”
“But hey,” he ignored Fletcher’s refusal to accept assistance, pulled his hand, “You have now, right? sleep on duty again.”
“I’m going to bed,” Fletcher said thickly.
He didn’t like his subconscious any more than he liked Damian, memories tangling up with dreams and bleeding through alien sunsets. Fatigue - it was only fatigue, he insisted violently.
“I hope so.” Damian slipped into his seat. “Be back in 10 hours, right?”
He didn’t answer. Damian couldn’t resist.
“And if you could?” he called, flippant.
Fletcher jerked ‘round, clarity snapping through his reason.
“If--” he snapped, “I’d damn well be locked tight as the ship’s hull. Locked and looking when I couldn’t see. Fighting bloody wars before they happen…fighting with arms pinned down and my head cut open for idiots to-to-- ” he broke off.
“Hell,” said Damian blithely--but deeper wariness eddied in his gaze. “Not that serious, is it?”
Three seconds, and he’d staggered around the corner, running. I’m tired. Fatigue. Can’t think.
He told himself there was a reason he’d said anything. Tired. He just needed his bunk--a few hours…
Dreams had drowned his sleep on Earth, always a shadow waiting in the room for his eyes to close and his reason to flip its switch for the night. Earth dreams, he’d thought. Earth with its sky-stacked cities and patchwork green; Earth with its spaceports now and its fallow plains. Earth knew him--too much power to anything or anyone, knowing.
Let God know, if he lived somewhere up in space or out of it. Fletcher ran. Let God know. Space was void.
“I’m running away,” whispered the small voice, “I know it’s a long way. I only wanted to ask.”
“Ask?” he’d said--ask to know if it would work, ask to know if life lingered at the other end.
“Ask because you care. Is it a good idea, Fletch?”
And other words, mingling, pulling up past and present and…
“Am I alive, Fletch?”
It wasn’t Earth maybe. His dreams followed…flickering in and out of light-flecked blackness, haunting silence on Waverly’s Avdotya shuttle…and now--
Fatigue slid apprehension aside; drowned reason. Again, light blurring vision, voices asking anxious what he couldn’t say--tell! It was going to happen again--hearbeat in his head pounding--again and again. And he couldn’t remember. They couldn’t know it. God please…they couldn’t know. I’ve forgotten.
“Am I alive, Fletch?”
Still, voices asking, always asking. His throat burned. I forgot. God. I forgot.
When he woke it was grey, steel walls sheened with ashen sunrise. Split-second panic lanced his reason, throat constricted, perspiration down his brow stinging sight.
But the sun was wan, washed-out rim lined violet. This was Nadezhda, not Earth.
“I can’t,” he said aloud to hear it, voice hoarse. “I can’t. I can‘t.”
Stiff-backed, neck aching, he stumbled into the mess hall. Morning on Nadezhda quivered on the edge of dusk ‘til noon, grey light and bruised sun a watery disk over ocean’s vapor. The sleep-crumpled colonials wove in and out of narrow-tabled hall desultory, mingling with Waverly’s crew, whispers, laughter a hollow buzz dancing off steel supports and glass windows.
Something vague hovered at the edge of his mind--conveniently, he dismissed it. Bad intuition. Not déjà vu--nothing behind but dreams.
But the buzz hovered on a shrill note, shrill for urgency, maybe, shrill in his nervous ears.
“Oy! Fletch--” someone called from across the hall, “Fletch! Hell--been dead?”
“Night watch.” He didn’t look up.
“Ouch. ‘Didn’t hear then, I guess?”
Andrei, wiry-framed and animated, slipped into line ahead of him, flicked a hand in his face. “Hey--been out of the loop, right?”
“Bloody--” Fletcher jerked back, “Yes. What--”
“Oy, you need some sleep. Hell. Comunique, you know, from home?”
Points:
Time spent:
Canary word: Present
Possible AI signals:
Original Text:
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125,021 Literary Works • 672,740 Reviews
Myth - thanks so much; really - you're divinely helpful. ^_^
...And with this critique (and the others I've gotten) I've got to stop delaying my rewrite/revision. !_!
By the end, I realised I was doing it - and it became a sort of experiment. But no, not intentional at first. I think it's in my head, the Russian lack of articles that was seeping through. I'm not entirely sure. ^_^'' It ought to be clarified - thansk for pointing it out.
That bit was intentional. I'm not sure I carried it off...
Anyhow, I'll head off to rewrite now - with a little time. Thanks again - 'thanks' doesn't say it enough. Your critiques are always worth the time. Sharp eyes, you've got. ^_~
IMP
Green = Comment/Correction
Blue = Suggestion
Black = Review
*
Is Avdotya a ship? I wasn’t sure what that sentence meant so you might want to have it in italics.
You leave off and I don’t know if there was meant to be anything after ‘Earth-weary’, maybe ‘men’ or ‘humans’, etc?
Shouldn’t it be lieutenant or is it an alternative spelling?
I didn’t understand that. Did you mean there was silence and it was broken by the sound of boots?
^^^ See quote
You often seen to leave a few words out, is that part of the piece’s style?
I loved that part, it reminds me of thoughts that run through my head when I’m having a bad down at home.
Did he fall off his chair/bed?
Maybe ‘blurring’ rather than ‘blurred’.
‘anxious’ = anxiously
The door slid to [close] behind him... ?
Fletcher
^^^ See quote
Or: ... reminding him of dawn ...
‘past’ ought to be ‘passed’ if two days had gone by.
*
Oh, the all important piece of dialogue came in the end.
The beginning was a little hard to understand, especially when Damian was on the scene—I thought he was in Fletcher’s dreams or maybe a hallucination. He, Damian, seems to say ‘If’ a lot, just to bother Fletch.
There were some parts when I was not sure whether it was happening or not or if it was Fletcher dreaming and waking up.
I noticed few spelling mistakes, I think there are two or three towards the end, but apart from that I have nothing to add to the above comments, suggestions, etc.
One thing you could work a little more on is time. Quite difficult to know what happened when, to me it seems to have been within a few days (even though you mentioned him not sleeping for a few days, etc).
The only downside was picturing the characters, I could not really see them in my mind’s eye and Fletcher had no description where the others did.
Fletcher is so troubled, sometimes he makes no sense and I think you could do without some of the ellipses—they were annoying and some were unnecessary.
-- Myth
Thanks DD. Oy, I hate writing tired--it makes it difficult to catch your own mistakes. #_ # That, of course, is why I'm fortunate to have you and others around. ^_^
Quite good, as might have been expected. ^_~ Very nice. You're a wonderful writer, Imp.
Just a few things here...
In part one you've already established Damian as dispassonate. Twice in one chapter for the same character with something of an uncommon description, and it sticks out. Maybe something to look at. ^_~
And here again:
And here again it sticks out - back to Damian... and still dispassionate. The reader won't forget his personality in the space of a few pages. ^_~
The ending was exemplary. I'm looking forward to more of this, really don't know why you doubted it so much. Wonderful way to wrap up Chapter 1. Fletcher, I think, needs a vacation. Maybe to St. Petersburg. He's got things worse than Shan. ^_~
second half, chp. 1
Note: It was meant to be together with the first--but it was too terribly mixed up to post. It still is. Both pieces being fit with the second half now, and edited. Still mixed up.
---
"Oy, you need some sleep. Hell. Communiqué, you know, from home?”
“From?--”
“Home, Earth.” The slight cadet, concern tangled in perplexity, waved his hand again. “I said news--comm. from home.”
Focusing, Fletcher found Andrei immobile, stopping the line--one eyebrow quirked quizzical.
“Hell--something from?…”
“See, now you heard me. Can I have half?… didn’t get mine, late duty--early here… But Waverly’s called a something-or-other, meeting--thing about all this. Quasar, c’rade. All this precognition thing, remember? Sort of crazy…before we shot off here ‘course… good timing--”
“A--what?” Fletcher felt his hands jerk, involuntary--he was standing a yard back before the words broke his lips. A sealed container tumbled off his tray.
“You know--precog?” Andrei rocked back on his heels, ignorantly convivial, open features falling as he spoke-- “Presque vu, they’re saying now. Or preski vuz? D’unno, Russian or French…”
“French,” said Fletcher faintly.
“Yeah, that--never could in French…”
“What, what was it it said?” Panic, still sleep-vague and hollow was threading his thoughts, drip down his back. He stared, closed-expression and damned himself for whatever reason--damning came easier than recognition, easier than memory and more pleasantly.
“Oh, um…usual…” Andrei trailed off, “Precog. worked out for interplanetary, or something; whole new program. You’re not all right, are you?”
“Fine,” said Fletcher, “--Don’t say it, all right?”
Andrei opened his mouth, soundless and closed it, anxiety finally cracking offhand tactlessness. “Say…I didn’t. Wait.”
And Fletcher began laughing, halting humourlessness catching his breath on the edge of a sob. “I’m…sorry. Sorry. God. Damian’ll explain, anyhow--listen, in just a minute.” He glanced down at his disordered tray. “I’m not hungry.”
“You haven’t eaten anything.”
Hands quivering, Fletcher shoved the tray into Andrei’s arms, ignored the fleeting shock, and hoped seconds were enough to reach the far side of the hall.
“Are you going to tell now, Fletcher? Are you going to tell me before I tell…”
“I can’t,” he muttered.
Bewildered cols. stumbled back from his frantic line across the hall. “I can’t.”
He hit the slide-steel doors the same moment sound crackled over the intercom. It hissed. He fumbled for the touch-control.
“Five-sixty, ten-twenty… Lt. Damian speaking. Non-personnel dismissed to colony until 2100 hours.”
“Oy! Fletch!” Andrei’s voice, bewildered, rose over the scattered bulletin-- “I only wanted half, you know?”
The door slid to behind him as Damian went on, as cols. congregated with trays, half-full and began to follow his way out, as his thoughts seemed finished far ahead.
“Crew to be in observatory floor room by 0800 hours; Captain’s directive. That does mean 0800--not a suggestion. And that‘s a note to Cadet Vytorsky. You‘re permitted to skip breakfast. You‘re not permitted to miss a debriefing, especially one you deserve.”
He closed his eyes, dulled the announcement to a scattered dissonance, and walked. For a moment, uncertain, he forgot he couldn’t see. His feet found the corridors faultlessly. “…comm.--crisis on precog. …” Starts and stops, Damian’s voice still rattled through his consciousness, sometimes from outside.
“You can look ahead, Fletch--look ahead!”
“I can’t.”
With a sickening sense of falling forward, Flethcer drew up short. His feet hadn’t known the way, not the present. He stood before the observatory door.
---
“Sit down, Fletcher.” Waverly leaned, distracted, into the back of his chair, gaze wandering.
Fletcher’s inclination wandered with it, thoughts in distinct disorder. Disorder intentional. Flickered scenes, brief words slid between; they were things he didn’t know.
“I don’t know,”
Waverly glanced up. He was a broad-faced man, fair-haired with the faint creases of care near thoughtful eyes and faint creases of humor near his mouth.
“Oh? That is, I hadn’t thought I’d asked yet.”
“No,” Fletcher shook his head, “No, nothing, sir. I’m all right standing.”
“Sit.”
He waited until Fletcher sank down.
“I know this has been difficult for you,” he began finally with measured doubt and weariness. “That is, the scare with Earth. I know you’ve been running yourself bloody ragged watching.”
“I…”
“Ah,” Waverly gestured, dismissive-- “Don’t worry now. Don’t apologise, for God’s sakes,” he smiled faintly, “I know the comm. leaked early…and I know the crew’s been muttering about precog. here.”
“Here,” Fletcher echoed, throat dry.
“Damian’s been particularly break-neck, jumps like hell when you come up next to him--worried about you too, doubtless… He’s asked to take your place a dozen times.”
Hand on chair-rim, Fletcher tried to stand and caught himself.
“It’s been tense, sir.”
“Understatement, that,” said Waverly, “And it’s driving the colony mad. Even the cols. have got wind.”
“…sorry about that, sir.”
“I’m sorry about it,” Waverly muttered, “You--you, Fletcher, have got orders to sleep and to stop worrying about the whole bloody thing. I don’t want to be the first colony marshall to send back accidental death report for a man dead of over-conscientious anxiety.”
A moment later than he meant, Fletcher nodded, relief too startling to make it to his face.
“That was half-a-joke,” remarked Waverly.
“Y-yes.” He could still smile. “Half funny.”
“Dismissed then. You can skip that meeting--likely give you a fever, if anything would. Go to bed,” Waverly sat at last, distracted again, tapping desk-top to bring up his comp. screen. “You’ve the watch, 30 hours from now.”
“Yes sir.”
---
He followed his eyes this time to his bunk, fatigue-fallow instinct a stain on ill-woven thoughts; a familiar stain. Night settled beneath his eyelids as it settled over Nadezhda’s ocean, a quivering, uneven shadow that recalled daylight without warmth, reminded of dawn without a sun.
Determined not to dream, he couldn’t sleep for 24 hours, let alone fourteen.
“Your duty now?“ Kolya mumbled, knocking on the bunk above him.
“I’m awake,” said Fletcher.
“Did you hear the trouble from home?” Now Kolya’s drowsy murmur became plaintive. “They say future’s changing wrong.”
“I didn’t make the briefing. Captain sent me to sleep.”
“Oh.”
On four hours’ dozing, Fletcher stumbled off to the observatory. One day, finished--two more hours half-sleeping above dreams. Two days, past; he watched waves wear stone and a wan sun waver over water and fall again. Three days, done; anxiety too sunk in sleeplessness to sting, he began to stumble into Damian.
The senior lieutenant, dispassionate, nonchalant, waited behind him at supper. In the meter-width quirking corridor around the perimeter, he passed him. If, he said more seldom.
“Missed briefing on the news?” he asked. “’Must have missed hearing about home.”
Fletcher shrugged.
And “if?” Damian interjected thoughtlessly--”If you could, would have known it all ahead.”
“Bloody well if,” snapped Fletcher; “I’m late to relieve Vytorsky.”
“You probably know he’s not one to be left waiting.” Damian shrugged offhand--but his gaze flicked over Fletcher’s shoulder, wariness a fleeting eddy. “Will he dodge out?”
“He’s--Hell,” Fletcher pushed past, “How would I know?”
“We all know Vytorsky,” said Damian.
Fatigue grew heavier on his reason; his mind played tricks--not the light, illusive on Nadezhda. If caught his memory, memories he couldn’t have.
And Damian turned up, took his shift ahead or after, met him at doorways and in between meals.
“…worried about you…” Waverly had said.
The fifth day--Fletcher ignored the mess entirely. His head was too full, sleepless stuffed with Earth, with knowing--too stuffed to let a hollow stomach bother him. Damian would be waiting.
The service corridor half-ringed the mess, always dim in artificial light, wire-crossed and uneven. Tools and spare pieces for Avdotya tumbled into its length. The far end, unused, was stacked high in crates, crates with unneeded weapons that leaned over the narrow door and cast crooked shadow. Stumbling, Fletcher slid in behind the half-jammed door.
“Hey, Fletcher.”
“Good God,” Fletcher jerked back, dim blurred in his stinging eyes.
Crouched over a cracked crate, Damian fumbled lazily with a palm-held Kalashnikov.
“I thought you might come this way,” he went on, languid as his thoughtless hands, “I meant to eat first, I admit. First idea. Not until the last second, thought I’d duck in here. Waverly’s got an unidentified signal--wanted weapon’s check.
“Not hungry?” He glanced up.
Fletcher faltered. On the rim of consciousness, something nettled, stricken voice or falling tide or--
“Just--tired. Bloody hell, you startled me.”
“Really? Hell.” He slid the crate closed, stood. “I wanted to talk, honestly. Some things, you know, you probably missed, missing the meeting.”
“’Didn’t need to know,” said Fletcher, “Look, I’ve got to--”
“You have 30 mintues 'til duty. Andrei can wait until his shift is over, you know.
“And you know,” he smiled, irony harsher in his impassive diregard, “You probably missed some pretty important stuff, sleeping; it being in the past. Precognitives jumped planet, right? And they got to colonies, or something--and come on, Fletcher, don’t run on me. Where’s there to go?”
Feet tangled in free wires, Damian’s fist in his sleeve, Fletcher stiffened--and fell back.
“Waverly’d never guess,” went on Damian, “Don’t worry too much, right?”
“What the Hell are you talking about?” Fletcher felt his voice break, hoarse.
Dispassionate again, fiddling idly with the slender gun, Damian raised an eyebrow. “We ought to talk, you know. Are you going to tell now, Fletcher? Are you going to tell me before I--”
“Don’t,” said Fletcher.
“Before I tell Waverly,” Damian finished, immovable; “Before I make a bloody mess of everything? I’d rather not. I want to know something. It hasn’t happened yet.”
I think you pointed out most of the ones you found misused; and I agree with most. ^_^ Thanks Snoink.
Yeah, not all of them were crappy, but some of them were fit to be tied, beaten with a stick, and then killed in some horrible way, preferably by being stewed alive and then eaten. Yum... ellipse stew.
Anyway, I think I pointed out the crappy ellipse sentences?
Oy no--not Tov again. o.O' He will insert himself where he's not wanted. ^_~ (Though Fletcher's much too serious; even Damian is...for Tov.)
But Snoink has a point about the eliptical interludes--not all of them, of course--but a few places, doubtless, I might be inclined to use them lazily. ^_^''
With revising in process--and a dozen other things--Presque Vu will got something new added to it with luck before the end of November.
--
And Incan, Luna, Trident, and Bubbles: A formal thanks for all the assistance. I'd be grateful for half the help--with all this now, I can't go wrong. ^_~
Snoink: But! But! I love ellipses!
*shoots Snoink* XD
But in any event, Imp, you've got to post more of this before I start chewing off my own arm. I want to see what happens to Fletcher (who seems remarkably like a reincarnate Tov - Damian as Piers maybe?) ^_~
What is going on? I have no idea.
I love the detached sentence format-- fragments, the omittance of some smaller words, short sentences. I use this technique myself sometimes.
It seems you left out some important words though, such as some articles that made the story awkward and hard to read.
The characters confused me a bit, they were developed little, which isn't really a problem because the whole piece is a bit obscure, but I don't really have a picture of them in my mind. To me, you didn't give me enough to work with, not necessarily with their appearance, but with their characterization. If I were to ask "what would this character do in this situation?" I would probably not know for the majority of them. Perhaps this is because it is just a beginning of a story, so there is time for character development in the future.
I can't really think of much else except maybe to make what is actually going on a little clearer. Like I said before, I liked the detached, obscure style, it's just when you have to read something over and over to understand what is going on that you have a problem between the author and reader that shouldn't be there.
I liked it no matter how disjoined it seemed. I love how Fletch seems a tad off his rocker and I'm curious has to why Earth is off creating colonies on planets that suck with purple suns.
Perhaps that'll be answered in the next installment? Either way, I eagerly await for the next installment just so I can be pleasantly bewildered.
LUNA
Haha... okay.
Ellipses
First of all, YOU'RE USING THE ELLIPSES WRONG.
*dies*
Okay. Delete the two ellipses here:
Yes... delete all of them. And why? Because frankly, my dear, they suck. Completely. The ellipses give us a feeling of hanging that can be really good in certain cases, but certainly not if they overused. I can understand the allure mind you, but let's go into when you use them, shall we?
When ellipses are used, they are used when words CANNOT express the emptiness and the hanging sensation that punctuation can show us. So if I said, "Perhaps..." this gives us a feeling of finality. This fragment is the last word, the conclusion to the conflict, which throws us into ambiguity. If it's done well, your mouth will drop open in wonder and amazement.
The problem is that many writers see this used in great ways, and then they OVERUSE it. Now really, why are you bothering to use it? It's because you're too lazy to describe the inflections of the character's voice. Not because of anything vital the story.
Let's look in the second line that I pointed out (the first and third lines are simply misused).
Instead of leaving us on cliffhangers within the dialogue, which is corny and you should grow out of it immediately, try describing what he does. Does he stop and start again? And lest you start saying, "But how can I saw this without making the story awkward?" then I have something rather brutal to say :
Find a way.
There are too many sloppy writers who use this all the time, and you don't need to be one of them. Drop it now before it becomes too much of a habit.
Use Symbolism: Round One
I noticed a lot of colors here. The problem? They seemed randomly placed, as if you wanted an adjective or extra word to describe.
...
Don't do this. Please. I beg you. You're too good of a writer to just write anything that comes to mind without any thought whatsoever.
Whenever you use an adjective, think about why you're using it. There's gotta be a reason. Now, I know that, yeah, it probably inadvertantly symbolizes something anyway, but you have to refine that. Right now, you're trying to BS your way through... not good.
So think. What does this adjective mean to you?
So basically, make a list of adjetives that you use commonly in the story. What do those adjectives remind you of? So basically, you're going to see why you used that word in particular. Why didn't you use any synonyms for it? Why did you use THAT WORD?
And I know that you're probably thinking that this lecture relates to poetry only, and why should you bother it? SImple. Poetry is just a weaving of words in a pretty way. You're still going to incorporate it in your story as well.
And yes... this takes a lot of thought and dedication, etc. But guess what? After a while, this will come to you automatically.
Symbolism: Round Two
After you do that, you're going to have to choose why you're repeating it. Repetition is a wonderful tool, BUT ONLY IF YOU DO IT WELL. Lots of hacks use repetition as a way for symbolism, but it quickly turns into suckiness because that writer is just repeating the same thing OVER AND OVER AGAIN. This sucks, and yet you're trying to do it here. Which I might be kinder about, but DAMMIT, you're a good writer! Don't do this!
So yeah. You have the sky, right? So why are you repeating it.
...haha. Maybe you didn't realize you were repeating it?
At the moment, it seems like you wanted to describe something to break up the inner thoughts and dialogue, so you just threw in the sky several times to break it up.
DON'T DO THIS.
Why is the sky there? What does it symbolize to you? Why do you have to repeat it over and over again? Because, if there's no good reason, you should just delete it. Your job? To MAKE it important to us. Tie it into the story and characters better.
Description
Your description is interesting, to say in the least, but I don't think it's good enough for me. What I like to see is solid and abstract imagery combined in a pretty poetic form. Yes... I'm talking about stories here. The problem with this? You're barely even touched the solid part. So all you have is the abstract.
Unfortunately, even in abstract paintings, there is still the solid, and even in solid paintings, there is the abstract. It's a matter of balance. If you have too much of anything, it lacks realism. And this is what you're doing. By making it too abstract with barely any solid things for the reader to hang onto, it isn't pretty anymore. Make use look deeper in the abstract to find the solid instead of making it totally abstract. ^_^
So yes. Show us the scenery. This is sci fi, and we want to know what's going on, not just what the character is thinking. We love good settings.
Tell us what happens. Or, no... show us what happens. What do the characters do as they say all of this? And give us a better picture... right now, it just seems like stage cues. Nice, but not poetic. Make it sparkle.
...I could go on and on, but I think I better stop. Hope this helps! ^_^
Recollection didn’t come easy to him. Like déjà vu, it came capricious. But he didn’t have déjà vu--and never had.
OK, first off. I like this opening sentence, but – “it came capricious”? Either say, “it came capriciously” or “it was capricious.” You’re torturing me here! Also, I think “What he recalled...” would be better off in the same place as the first “paragraph” – it fits better. Um. Formatting, lol. Love the next para. also. Very awesome.
This wasn’t Earth, afterall
“After all” = two words.
“never traveled interplanetary” sounds somehow…wrong. Fix it! LOL. Also, “Nadezhda lay ahead, a hopeful colony for the hopeful [determined? ambitious? idealistic?] straggle of Earth-weary [what?]”.
“...Fletcher rose, his shoulders cramped, his face feeling thick.”
“Inept habit for a 2nd class liutenant, escorting colonials to the unknown. But he preferred it that way.”
OK. “AN inept [awkward, cumbersome, unprofessional...?] habit...” Lieutenant?
Nadezhda and Capt. Waverly’s crew and colonials, lightyears into THE past and a moment’s ping from Earth--that stood ahead. NoT past. He tried not to look at it too closely. His memory PLAYED tricks on him, light-illusions--it tried to say he’d seen what hadn’t happened.
I like this.
“Am I alive, Fletch?”
He cursed thickly. Is this the right word here? Seems off.
“Are you going to tell [me?] now, Fletcher? Are you going to tell me before I tell…”
“déjà vu couldn’t recall what he didn’t know.” --- um. Sounds wrong somewhere.
It was Damian that caught him sleeping--only once, slumped sideways over hard-backed seat. Damian, senior liutenant--jet-browed, features faltering [um? Bordering?] on the ironic, he had that dispassionate personality that bled through feeling and came out the other side unchanged, leaving only its stain.
Love that description.
Also, nice way to intro the “seeing ahead” concept. Very mysterious. I’m hooked!
Waverly was a steady, honest-hearted man, common sense edged with thoughtless loyalty. He might have been blind to some things; he might have refused to doubt for [the sake of honour.] But he knew his crew for what they were worth, and he knew and cared for the bleak band of cols. from Earth’s layered, smog-traced cities.
Fletcher shrugged with vaguest reassurance. His sleep-deprived thoughts ran circles; easily walked tracks of unchanging routine. Dulled, he needn’t worry over memories, over lack [thereof, nor] over the shifting shadows just beyond thought, and a voice.
Well, aside from a tendency to finish sentences too soon and skip small words, I’d say you’re onto a winner here, Imp. Impressive. A lovely prose style, direct, clear, and refreshing. I loved your descriptions, although you need to work on the dialogue a little maybe. Mostly with punctuation, to be honest [glares forbiddingly]. I like it. I have no idea what is going on, but I’m beginning to get an inkling. It does jump about a bit – maybe you could work on smoothing out the transitions between scenes as well. Otherwise, I think it reads well. Very 1984. Will look forward to reading more. Haha, I rhyme.
Pimp--
This has lots of possibilities. I had a feeling of satisfaction after reading it the first time. As if I had been some place real, run up against some real people, and had begun to care about what happens to them.
It needs polish. Not the kind of polish that makes it less real, but rather the kind that makes it more real as a piece of fiction.
The opening needs to be stronger and clearer. Drop the self-conscious and -contradictory tone--it comes off as a gimmick.
For this reader, your ending needs to be different. Too predictable. You could conceivably keep the ending if you made your dialogue sharper (as one might, in poetry, pare down his or her words to concentrate meaning and effect). That he needs sleep is obvious, but it isn't very rewarding to reach that point at the end.
So, basic thought: good start, lots of potential, can be better.
How?
Best,
Brad
Now that I'm awake and seeing somewhat clearly: Thanks very much, DD and green_river. ^_^ I'm an inept judge, half the time, of what I've written--or I suppose so it seems. And the comments made my day.
Now I've got to finish it.
IMP
I really liked this too. Like Dream Deep I think you have a very distinct voice and style.
The story itself was also really good - the plot is interesting and it keeps the reader well hooked. I didn't see any real big problems to fix, either. You say it's a bloody mess? I don't think so.
Great job, Imp. I would also like to see more of this.
Much better than you assumed, then, if you thought it ah... arterially miserable. ^_^ I look forward to the continuation.
Thanks, DD. 'Flippant' did bleed over from Vetren'iy. ^_^''
And so I assume it's not as bloody miserable as I thought? ^_~ Oy...more will be posted.
Oh, this I love, Imp. This truly is wonderful. You have a very distince voice when you write and it moves right along. ^_~
I count flippancy or it's variations four times. No Pa'kah's though, which I took to be a good sign on a ship that felt decidedly Russian. ^_~ Damian's voice struck me as very similar to that of Tov, and all the characters were very well drawn.
Not so confusing or vague as some of the other pieces you've posted, Imp, but better, if anything. This, I really enjoyed. This was wonderful.
You have all my congratulations and admiration. ^_^
Well done, Imp.
DD
I look forward to reading more of this, should more of this follow. ^_~