Young Writers Society

Hehe, this reminds me of a couple of stories that I've read. Which is good, because this is a genre I actually really like. It's funny (for the most part, more on that later, lol) and I have a soft spot in my heart for first person stories. Unfortunately, it also reminds me of Unicorn Killers since it has some of the same problems. Oops. With that said, let us continue!

The nit picks are in Word, so I hope you can download it. If you can't, bug me so I can show you them.

The main concerns of mine are these: your character has a really clunky rambling way of talking. This isn't a problem most of the time, but sometimes, she'll trip over her words and the dialogue won't ring right. This is particularly disastrous for your comedy. In one part of the story, I put "Not funny" and by that I mean it rambles on and on and doesn't stop for us to laugh. Humor is pithy. Don't make it longer than it should be. Also, if you say something humorous, don't acknowledge that it's humorous. We, the humble readers, will know it. There was this one part where I laughed at and then, directly following, was the character wanting to make the thing sound even funnier by her own narrative.

No.

I don't like this. I laughed at it--what more can you ask for? I don't want to have the main character go on and on about it being humorous--I want the story to go forth and flower up into a real conflict. So basically, as you continue this story, you're going to want to make sure you don't make something more funny by drawing it out longer than necessary.

So how can you stop this? Ask yourself when you're editing, why is this part necessary? If you say, "Because it's funny!" that is an uh-oh sign and you should ask a bunch of people whether it's necessary or not. What I like to do is to IM a bunch of YWS critiquers and say, "Is this part needed or am I going on a tangent?" and then copy and paste the part and see what they say. Typically, if the excerpt isn't long, the critiquers won't mind. Heck, if you add me to your friends list, you can probably bug me. Of course, if you do decide to do this, you'll probably have to suffer through some excerpts of FREAK, but you know... it could be worse.

There is another problem with your narrative... getting on with your story. When I read this, I have no hints that this is going to be a fantasy story, and that is slightly alarming to me. I skimmed the other chapter (emphasis on skimmed) and it looks like you got to the fantasy world somehow, but I will warn you not to fall in love with the character's way of talking. Otherwise, you'll find yourself in rewrite hell. Always remember the story first and make sure Clover doesn't go too crazy about narrating.

Chapter Six

‘Kneel!’

We hastily dropped onto our knees, apart from Raoulin-man’us, who had to be forced down. Lorens kept a restraining hand on Spot’s back.

‘So, these are the trespassers.’

He makes it sound like we’ve been caught stealing apples, I thought, risking a glance up. The Hauptanliegan was tall, grizzled and regal, with a short beard, long hair, hooked nose and very bright eyes. He wore leather and a huge sword hung at his side.

‘We are not trespassers,’ Raoulin-man’us spat. ‘You should learn to control your curs better.’

I winced. Hot he may have been, but he really did need to learn a bit more about tact.

The Hauptanliegan did not look offended. He stroked his beard and surveyed us thoughtfully. Then he pointed to Tsintertz, who stood on the other side of the room. Tsintertz snapped to attention. ‘Yes, my lord?’

‘What did you find out?’

‘They are travelling through our land to go on a Quest to Save The World,’ Tsintertz said, looking rigidly ahead.

‘Who did you find this out from?’

‘The young girl.’

What? I stared at him. I never said that! How did he know?

The Hauptanliegan turned his gaze in my direction.

‘She told you?’ Raoulin-man’us’ voice was icy and he glared at me.

‘I didn’t!’ I protested. Even to my own ears, I sounded ridiculously like the Artful Dodger.

‘You’re a traitor!’

‘My dear boy,’ the Hauptanliegan said, and Laurence Olivier couldn’t have sounded more well bred, ‘the girl told my warrior nothing. He is one of the Gedankenleser, with the ability to read minds. He simply took the information from the girl’s thoughts.’

I goggled at Tsintertz, feeling awe and a considerable amount of envy. That must be so cool… Then I wondered if he could hear that thought as well.

‘A Quest to Save The World,’ the Hauptanliegan mused. ‘How interesting. I suppose in that case I mustn’t impede you in your journey.’

A collective ripple of relief ran through our company.

‘But, Hauptanliegan!’ Tsintertz stepped forward. ‘Their leader, The Hot One - ’

I felt my ears grow crimson.

‘That is not my name!’ Raoulin-man’us almost squawked.

‘He insulted you!’ Tsintertz said, ignoring him. ‘If we let him go, who knows what he could do?’

‘But he’s going to save the world,’ the Hauptanliegan said mildly.

‘That is his ultimate goal, yes, but think what damage he could in passing!’

Gee, I thought, my goggling changing to glaring. Does he want us all to be thrown in prison to rot? Now there’s judging a book by it’s bally cover.

‘I will think on your words, Gedankenleser Tsintertz. In the meantime --’

‘You cannot keep us here!’ Raoulin-man’us declared.

Iolo rolled his eyes and I almost tutted at this fantastic display of arrogance.

‘On the contrary, my dear boy, I can. It only remains to be decided where you shall go. Does prison suit you?’

‘Take one of us hostage!’ Raoulin-man’us said wildly. ‘Let the rest of us go, and keep one as a surety for my cooperation.’

The Hauptanliegan raised an eyebrow. ‘Hostage, you say?’

‘Yes!’ And then it was that I fell completely out of love with the oh so hot Raoulin-man’us. ‘Take the girl!’

‘You what?’ I cried.

‘Oh, Raoulin-man’us,’ Little Miss Priss protested softly, and that put the lid on it.

‘The girl? Not your beloved fiancé, Laratishn’nialyae?’

‘Never her!’ Raoulin-man’us declared, putting a steadying hand on Little Miss Priss’s shoulder; she had quivered all over when the Hauptanliegan mentioned her name.

‘And yet you are willing to leave this girl. Very well.’ He waved a magnanimous hand, as though he were scattering largesse. ‘Take the others to the prison. Don’t forget to cage the faerie.’

The guards moved forward, dragging the others to their feet. Raoulin-man’us began to shout. ‘You can’t do this! I demand - I protest - I insist -’

‘You bore me to death,’ the Hauptanliegan said.

I heartily agreed with him. My head over heels condition was doing a rapid reverse, heels back over head and landing firmly on the ground. ‘Sir,’ I said.

He looked at me. ‘Yes?’

‘What, exactly, does a hostage do?’

He shrugged. ‘What does a hostage normally do? Rot in a dungeon. Entertain. Work.’

I seized on the second option. ‘Sir, if you would allow it, there is another member of our fellowship who is skilled in the arts of entertainment. The bard.’

‘You want to bring someone else in to share your status?’

‘I think,’ I said carefully, ‘that he might find it preferable.’

The Hauptanliegan stared at me for a moment, then laughed. ‘Very good, girl, very good… All right, then! Bring back the bard!’

The guards had paused at the door to hear this new development, and Iolo was released. He came forward and bowed. ‘Lord Hauptanliegan. My thanks.’

‘Give any of your thanks to the girl. She said you could entertain. You’re a bard, I see. That’s good – I enjoy harp music.’

Iolo’s eyes glazed over.

‘Uh, first though, Lord Hauptanliegan,’ I said quickly, ‘Could we --’

The Hauptanliegan put his head on one side and viewed me politely. ‘Hostages do not make demands, girl.’

‘But the rules about the treatment of prisoners of war is clearly laid down in the Geneva Convention!’ I snapped. It wasn’t the most diplomatic of things to say, but Raoulin-man’us’ behaviour (betrayal, a dramatic part of my mind insisted) still rankled. And the way everyone kept on calling me ‘girl’ was getting annoying. ‘Officers are not allowed to do manual labour, and, well, we’re supposed to be treated at least half way decently.’ Just please, don’t anyone point out that we’re not officers or prisoners of war…

‘I have never heard of the Geneva Convention.’ The Hauptanliegan stroked his beard. ‘Is it an agreement that the barbarians agreed to?’

‘Well, the Nazis agreed to it. I think…’

‘The barbarians are not Nazis.’ He waved a hand to the guards. He seemed to have a never ending supply of them, all huge, leather-clad and fierce-looking. ‘Take them to the nursery.’

I blinked. Huh? Nusery?

A guard poked me in the back and began propelling me towards the door.

‘Wait,’ Iolo said, snapping out of his daze. ‘What type of --’

The door slammed behind us.

Watching the video endeared me quickly to your story, although without it I wouldn't have understood the part about cheese and tommy-toes toasties. Also I am a bit confused at the beginning over whether the main character is a dog or a person.

A sound that was a crossbred between a sigh, a snort and a hiccup erupted from the parent’s lips. Recognising Mum’s danger sounds, I amended my previous statement to, ‘Clip from the extended version of the Two Towers. It’s the ent water bit.’


‘Not that old thing.’


‘Yeah, that old thing.’ The clip finished, and, with a regretful sigh, I handed the laptop over.


‘What are you doing?’ Mum asked, opening up her email inbox.


‘Don’t know. Reading.’


‘Have you done your studying?’


I paused in the doorway, experiencing what is commonly described as ‘that sinking feeling’. After half a minute, I said carefully, ‘I’ll go do some now.’


Mum’s sigh filtered through the crack in the doorframe. I offered nothing more, but went to my bedroom. Shutting the door, I sat down at my desk and blew a raspberry at the pad of paper. Dang English. Dang History. And dang, dang, dang Maths. My thoughts continued in this vein for some time, then, with a sigh that matched Mum’s for weariness, I opened Hamlet, took a fresh sheet of paper and began chewing the end of my pen.

So, less for those of you who can grapple with sums of more than one digit and more for those of you who can’t, that makes me sixteen.

Dad came in; I heard the garden door slam, and then he was in the kitchen, washing his hands, saying cheerfully, ‘Hey, Clover. What’ve you been doing?’

I didn’t really like it, but it had been sent to me by a cousin for my birthday and I didn’t like to not use it.

The sun was still shining, but the wind was cold and it blew bits of hair into my mouth.

Just a brief note on chapter five:

This was a good chapter and one of my favourites so far but at the same time, I had trouble remembering which characters are which and associating name with species/ class. It is up to you what you name your characters but it's going to annoy me throughout your story and I'm very good at moaning

Anyway, the comedy is excellent in this piece and the cliche aspect is generally working very well but I think 'We topped the rise of the hill, and an unforgettable sight met our eyes, as badly-written thrillers say.' was a little too far. The reader can see that it's very obviously mocking cliches so there's no need for you to point that out, no matter how subtly. And this wasn't too subtle by the way XD

The other thing I wanted to comment on is that you're losing your characters! Some of them are getting forgotten at the corners of the reader's mind so that when they're name is mentioned again, the reader has to search through to remind themselves if this is the faerie talking or if it's the bard or whatever. And you seem to have lost the dog completely. Remember to stay aware of your characters at all times. Don't flood your novel with every little action and piece of dialogue but don't let us forget anyone!

Keep up the good work,

Heather xx

TwitTwitTwit!

Oh my goodness! I've heard so much about your writing and now I've finally gotten the chance to take a peek myself. All good things, though--and I agree with them. Your style is very fluid and comfortable (er...fluid as in flowy, not moist), and makes for an enjoyable read. Plus, Clover is just amazing.

Since I just digested several chapters, I think I'm going to give you some overall tips to get you through the rest, and to keep in mind when you go back over and revise.

IT'S ALL A MATTER OF PERSPECTIVE

Character comedy usually comes from [you guessed it] a comedy that uses exaggerated characters to get the most laughs. As in Clover's situation, it often comes from a relatively normal person at the mercy of madness. You need that balance so that the audience can retain their sense of right/left up/down in this wacky new world. Without it, the audience doesn't know what's to be expected, and can't use their real-world logic, so most of the opportunity for laughs is left abandoned.

That being said, it's easy when dealing with exaggerated characters to completely write them off or label them--like Clover does with Little Miss Priss and associated characters. You can't forget character development, even if the characters are (overly?) interesting. They still have to have depth, and motivation, even if they're too weird to easily comprehend. Comedic characters with depth will make you even more amazing than you already are.

A COMEDY WITHOUT ERRORS

One of the things about comedy that you have to remember is that it's largely subjective. It's why The Office has both an American and a British version--I love the British version, too, but the American is a lot funnier to me. it would be hilarious, though, if they combined both versions. Why? There'd be something for everyone. When you're the one writing the story, though, you have to remember that not everyone has the same sense of humor, so you have to use several different approaches.

Speaking of the Office--I think it's hysterical, but my parents don't get it. They think it's stupid. Granted, we're different people, but the Office doesn't have a target audience of Nerdy High School Girls. What could the writers have done? Instead of relying on one sense of humor, they could have had a sensitivity to others and reached a larger spectrum of people with their jokes. Here, you've got a really funny story, but there are a lot of people who are going to say, "What?". And, of course, too much ice cream will make you sick. Using a variety of jokes and situations in your writing is what will take it from being funny to being hilarious. Work the spectrum from playground humor to political satire, and you'll have people rolling on the floor.

__

Thanks for the read, Twitter. ^_^ PM me if you have any questions.

Chapter Five

The plains were brown and boring, but even if they weren’t easy on the eyes, they made up for it by being wonderful on the feet. The coarse, tough grasses were like the equivalent of a Persian carpet after concrete floors.

Raoulin-man’us still led the way, and I still lagged at the tail, but at least I could see how far I was, and didn’t have to worry that I was getting left behind. When Lorens was not by Raoulin-man’us’ side, he came and walked with me and Iolo. Lorens was a cheerful man, always ready to tell me that I wasn’t doing too badly, really, and I would get faster the more I walked. He had a slight speech problem, so he pronounced ‘r’ as ‘w’, but after a little while, I forgot to notice it.

Iolo sometimes strummed his harp and hummed as we walked, and even though I can’t pretend to be Mozart, I could tell that he was really, really bad.

‘Why don’t you try something else?’ I asked him. It was the second day on the plains; the sun was warm, but there was a bitter wind. Everything was flat, except for a small clump of hills in the distance. Raoulin-man’us and Laratishn’nialyae were in front, then Domyn’c and Lorens, with Alifvani fluttering around their heads. Spot straggled behind Lorens, dragging at his lead. It seemed that it wasn’t only me that was feeling the strain of walking.

‘Try something else like what?’ Iolo plucked a string and a tortured note shivered into the air.

I winced. ‘Something not quite so demanding. A whistle.’

‘Are you saying that I can’t play?’

‘Oh no. Apart from the fact that whenever you touch your harp you make my nerve ends curl up, you’re perfectly fine. Brilliant, even. Schubert’s corpse is going green with envy.’

Iolo’s eyebrows curved together and upwards. ‘Zounds, girl. Are you being sarcastic?’

‘Yes,’ I said simply.

He grinned. ‘Good.’

I grinned back, but at that moment, Little Miss Priss screamed. I looked up. A group of horsemen were charging towards us from behind the hill; the sun flashed off metal and they raised a huge cloud of dust behind them.

Iolo began to run. ‘The barbarians are upon us!’

‘What?’ I followed him. ‘Literally or metaphorically?’

‘Literally!’

‘Golly, really?’

The others had clustered together into a knot and we joined them – me panting, Iolo frowning. The men had drawn swords, and so, to my surprise, had Little Miss Priss.

Raoulin-man’us pointed to the approaching horses. ‘Barbarians. I knew we shouldn’t have come over the plains!’

I squirmed.

‘We can fight,’ Little Miss Priss said, tossing back her golden curls.

‘Can we?’ I asked.

She looked at me and smiled. Raoulin-man’us nodded proudly. ‘Laratishn –’ The dust cloud had blown towards us, and his words ended in a fit of coughing. Red eyed, he finally managed to croak, ‘My beloved can fight better than…’ He began hacking again before he could finish his beloved’s credentials.

Well, bully for her, I thought. What about me, though?

The warriors came thundering up and reined in their horses. There were about eight men and two women. They were all wearing leather, apart from the women, who didn’t seem to be wearing much at all. Lorens took one look and blushed scarlet. I was looking more at their swords than at their clothes; all of them had huge weapons and huge muscles to match.

One of them with a rough fur cloak urged his horse forward and demanded, ‘Who are you – you that trespass on our lands?’

‘We do not trespass,’ Raoulin-man’us answered. ‘We are passing through peaceably.’

‘And yet you have swords.’ The barbarian’s hand tightened on his own weapon.

Raoulin-man’us looked at him proudly. ‘We have swords, yes, and we know how to use them on people who would stand in our way. Let us pass!’

The barbarian evidently did not like Raoulin-man’us’ tone. ‘Not so fast, stranger. These plains are ours, and we will defend them to the death!’

Oh, brother, I thought. The two men glared at each other.

‘Drop your weapons,’ the barbarian said. ‘Surrender now or die.’

Raoulin-man’us raised his sword. ‘Never! Death is preferable to surrender.’

‘Speak for yourself!’ I raised my hands in the air.

‘Um, technically I have free passage,’ Iolo said. ‘I’m a bard.’

‘Perhaps it would be wise…’ Lorens plucked at Raoulin-man’us’ sleeve, who was by now glowering.

‘Follow your friend's advice,’ the barbarian said. ‘Or we will kill your companions. Except…’ His gaze lingered on Little Miss Priss. ‘I will take your female for myself. She will make a fine addition to my wives.’

‘Brute!’ Raoulin-man’us spat.

‘Hands off, churls!’ Little Miss Priss said. I assumed that was her way of saying, ‘Yeah, right!’

‘Then do as I say.’

‘What if you kill us anyway?’ Raoulin-man’us demanded. ‘You could be tricking us.’

The other man looked offended. ‘Of course we aren’t! We’re barbarians, not savages.’

Raoulin-man’us scowled again, then said to the others, ‘Drop your weapons.’

One of the barbarians dismounted and collected the swords. The leader gestured to the other warriors. ‘Take one each on your horse. Do not let them escape you.’

I was boosted up in front of a man with a huge scar running across his face and only one eye. The others hitched similar lifts; Lorens’ ears looked as though they would start smoking as he shifted uneasily in front of the woman whose charge he was. The barbarian leader waved his arm, almost bonking Laratishn’nialyae, who sat stiffly in front of him. My barbarian shifted on the horse’s back – none of them had saddles – and we started off at a walk towards the hills.

Sitting on the horse was like being in a beanbag chair with a bad attitude. It swayed from side to side and I had to move in opposites to it to stay on.

‘Here,’ my barbarian said suddenly. I looked around at him. His one eye was dark brown, but it looked friendly. ‘Tug on his mane.’

‘Huh? Whose?’

‘The horse’s,’ he said patiently and offered me a handful of coarse black mane.

I took it gingerly. ‘Won’t it hurt if I tug?’

He laughed, a deep rumble like his stomach was gurgling in his throat. ‘Meinspitzbart, no. He has no feelings in his mane. You can yank all you want and it won’t hurt him.’

‘Oh.’ I gave a tentative tug. ‘Thanks.’

‘What is your name?’

I looked around at him again. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong – the whole prisoner-captive thing is still somewhat new… Aren’t you supposed to treat me with cold disdain and scorn?’

He laughed. ‘You are only a girl. I have no quarrel with you, nor you with me.’

‘Your leader said we were trespassing.’

‘That is Castig being Castig.’

‘… And we are your prisoners.’

He shrugged. ‘We’ll take you to our city, our chief will give you a talking to, probably take your horse and valuables, then you’ll be let loose.’

‘Well that’s not too bad.’ Cheered by this news, I smiled. ‘What’s your name, then?’

‘Tsintertz Hrundildef. You?’

How ridiculous is that? You’re talking with a barbarian – a barbarian – and you’re worried that he might watch ‘A Bit of Fry and Laurie’ in his spare time? Has he got sat-nav installed on his horse as well?

‘Clover Neill.’

‘Ah, like the flower. And is your husband called Neill?’

‘No!’ The way everyone thought I was married was very damaging to my dignity. ‘I’m not married!’

‘Oh, I’m sorry.’

I didn’t continue the conversation. Instead I gripped tight handfuls of Dobbin’s mane and stared at the ground moving surprisingly fast beneath us. We topped the rise of the hill, and an unforgettable sight met our eyes, as badly-written thrillers say.

Behind the hills that marred the otherwise flat surface of the plain, was a city. Admittedly rather a small one, but it had a, ‘Ya wanna make somethin’ of it?’ look about it. Like a lot of small things, it seemed to be touchy about its size.

‘Behold!’ Castig waved his arm again, indicating the city and endangering Little Miss Priss’ golden ringlets. ‘The city of Märchenschlog and the home of our leader,’ – he pointed to a huge, light brown stone tower rising up from the other buildings – ‘the Hauptanliegen.’

‘The tower is hewn from living rock,’ Tsintertz murmured in my ear.

‘What does that mean?’

‘It is very old and very special.’

‘Oh. Cool.’

The horses began moving forward again. As the city got closer and closer, I couldn’t help but feel just a tad worried. So far my sang-froid hadn’t deserted me, but that tower looked awfully big. What would the Hauptanliegan be like? Another thought suddenly came to me. This whole mad dream thing – alright, it probably wasn’t a dream – this whole mad experience was clichéd, right? Even in clichés, people get hurt. Sure, people get brought back to life again, like Gandalf and Jack Sparrow and the Fool, but what about the other, less important characters? Boromir, Obi-wan Kenobi, Private Cole, Tay Trefenwyd, Norrington, Uncle Ben… the list went on and on. Heck, even the main character died sometimes.

‘Even in a fairytale, someone has to die,’ I muttered, quoting sourly.

‘Sorry?’ Tsintertz asked.

I moaned. ‘Life is getting too weird.’

He shrugged and the rest of the ride passed in silence.


---

Anything you recognize, not mine.

Hullo again Wooster...

Hopping to chapters two, mostly three. ...I'm afraid I was off, last critique. I hope it was helpful all the same, and not meandering or distracted. o0


Anyhow, some of this is bloody hilarious. Quite a bit.

I would say the beginning paragraphs still seem slightly drawn out--perhaps too many character quirks and sillinesses within such a short span, before any action hits. But then, I'm not sure if there's a briefer way... Somehow, Clover's rhythm is in these flippant, meandering wonderings. ^_^


[ ER, DEAD FISH AND GOING WITH THE FLOW... ]

Though, possibly, paragraph breaks would make some of her points--and the amusement--more keen. As it is...the paragraphs tend to be the same length.

Like so?

I sat up, rubbing the back of my head. Then things started clicking. For a start, I was not in the middle of the road, where I had been. I was sitting on a large, smooth rock, staring out at a big, greenish-brown plain covered with long, withered looking grass. A bird screamed in the sky, and I jumped.

Okay… I did all the things you’re supposed to do: I pinched myself, slapped my face, closed my eyes, opened them again, rubbed them, blinked and pinched myself again. And, as [s]they[/s] always [s]do[/s] [or 'as expected'?] , they didn’t work.

I remained where I was, sitting on the rock.

I waved a hand in front of my face and cleared my throat. It sounded very loud. After a moment’s pause, I rattled off, ‘She sells sea shells on the sea shore. If the shells that she sells are from the sea shore, the shells that she sells are sea shells, I’m sure. So if the shells –’

I don’t know whether you watch or read a lot of those stories where the hero or heroine travels back in time or goes to another world. I have, and one of the things I always thought went on for far too long was the main character’s disbelief in what was happening. Sam Tyler spent practically both series of Life on Mars doubting what was really obvious, I thought. But now that it was actually happening to me, I found I could sympathize with Sam completely. I didn’t believe it, couldn’t believe it, because it just could not be real. Fantasy was fantasy, which was why it was called fantasy. If fantasy wasn’t fantasy, it would be called reality. It wasn’t, so it was fantasy.

A few brief suggestions for chapter one -

‘Clip from the extended version of the Two Towers. It’s the ent [I think you mean end?] water bit.’

I brushed this one away fairly easily, thinking, All [There needs to be a space between the comma and 'All'.] work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.

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This is an interesting beginning with some very unique text formats. I love the stream of conscious writing style, it really helps your reader to get to know the persona, and the plot is currently quite insignificant but interesting. I think you could work a little harder on some of your dialogue, though the conversation between Clover and... well, Clover was well written and quite amusing but the talk with the mother was a little dull and you should add some dialogue tags. At the moment it's just too disembodied voices talking to each other. Add an action or two and the way it's said. Show your reader the setting and the characters. I mean really show. How does the mother look and dress etc.

In general, this was good, but I think that you need to give your reader something more concrete to keep them interested. Maybe the hint of a secret or something extraordinary or eventful about her life.

Chapter two -

The pen bounced off the yellow paint and landed, unharmed, in [I think on or upon would read more smoothly.] the carpet.

He began to bleat about no respect for other people’s property, but I left him and the horrible mess I had made and ran off down the street.

____________________

This had some great action and emotion, as well as some perfect characterization. I half expected the old man to suddenly soften when she started to get teary and when he didn't, I felt something very close to hatred, a reaction I don't usually have towards fictional characters.

What I am starting to notice, however, is that your piece lacks description. It isn't essential and too much wouldn't fit with the tone of the novel but I think it would benefit from just a little more attention to detail, even if it's not visual description; scent and sound work just as well and your character seems more the type to notice those than anything else.

The ending of this chapter was quite a surprise and a welcome one but I'm wondering where you will go from here. I suppose I'll find out in the next chapter...

Chapter three -

Something inside me was twisting up at the sight of Little Miss Priss’ golden curls and making [s]me[/s] my stomach hurt too

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Best chapter so far. You write satirical fantasy ever so much better than petty, domestic scenes I must say. And no, that isn't a criticism of the earlier chapters but rather a praise for this one. I agree that the little white dog may have been taking it just a touch too far but then, it's better than the fluffy white bunny rabbit that I was expecting. And only two females amongst all those hot guys? Well, this could be an interesting story! Lol. I think you could have described their outfits a little more - something I'd expect Clover to be interested in - and do you know how much I hate you for giving them such ridiculous names? But at least your persona is helping a little with her nicknames, haha.

Your characterization is currently just a little shallow for some of these new-comers but it's too early to really judge that and the comedy for this chapter was good and the dialogue well written and amusing in places. The plot is developing well. I always did like a good bit of comedy.

Chapter four -

Ah good, you're starting to show a deeper characterization for some of the other characters. Next on the list is the dog I think or perhaps the faerie XD I like Clover more and more as the story advances. She's a very likeable, realistic girl but at the same time she has that sarcastic edge that keeps her from being a mundane, ordinary person. I don't really have any comments for the dialogue or plot or anything of this chapter. It was good, though it did feel a little like one of those 'in between' chapters where the characters all get to know each other. Not that it's a bad thing; chapters like that are necessary.

Hullo Twitter--or Wooster. I rather like the name Twooster, actually, er, as long as you don't mind. ^_^

Pardon me for beginning on an impertinent note. It's not always the most apt start for getting to any useful critiquing.

More to the point, I love the idea of a Twit-satire. You have the perfect attitude, affect, and variously obscure knowledge--sense of humour naturally included--to pull-off fantasy parody.

CHAPTER ONE [beginning?] (in progress)


Line-by-line seems unnecessary--you have a voice; you have a grasp of grammar's rules, and of snapping them. ^_^ There's nothing terribly broken in the progress of Clover's monloguing sort of narrative--she sticks to her tone, voice, character with no difficulty in the least.

But somehow, the first chapter seems both shy away from too much parody, as well as dodge conflict.

You have got the conflict of her name--which is amusing. ^_^ Oy, but it's also past. It doesn't seem to be a difficulty to her in the present moment; it seems an afterthought, or like her talk about info-dumps, just something that's got to be dropped in. I suppose there's her paper as well--but somehow, that also seems extraneous--a segue, a stopover, waiting for the next train to take it into the story.

Er, it drags somewhat. And Clover monologues quite a bit. The curious thing, is that she is amusing. But rants don't make a tale move; nor asides. She's hilariously eccentric in some ways, and amusingly flippant in an aptly teenage manner.

But as we're stuck inside her head most of the time, and in her remarks, it's less vivid or noticeable.

BEGIN WITH A...BANG?

Off the subject of Clover's character and its exposition, I wonder if you began with her bang bump tumbling into wherever-it-is, and that had her somewhat disgruntled, or somewhat curiously, trying to go back, saying... I got a book that says its best to begin... But that she sort of missed that bit already.

At that point, you'd have the readers wondering who she was, and why. Er, at this point, I'm drawn in by the "Call me Clover" as it's curiously brief, as well as similar to Moby Dick.

Oy, yet then it seems to get caught in Clover's clever head. A bit hard to see out.

...and I'll get on to the other chapters. ^_^ On the light side of things, Clover's got a mad eccentricity. She seems like she herself could be half the laugh, half the parody. But she's not the type of fantasy character--in parody or otherwise--who seems apt simply to be the eyes the audience looks through, to laugh at her surroundings.

At the moment, she seems to be eyes, and a sharp tongue. How could we see her from outside a bit more? Anecdotes from those around her?

No info-dumps though. ^_~

'Tis always a pleasure, da?


IMP

Hullo Twitter--or Wooster. I rather like the name Twooster, actually, er, as long as you don't mind. ^_^

Pardon me for beginning on an impertinent note. It's not always the most apt start for getting to any useful critiquing.

More to the point, I love the idea of a Twit-satire. You have the perfect attitude, affect, and variously obscure knowledge--sense of humour naturally included--to pull-off fantasy parody.

CHAPTER ONE [beginning?]

Hey there!

I'm sensing a friendship/romance/partnership thing developing with Clover and Iolo, and I like it. But for some reason I keep thinking that Iolo is a blind bard. I've probably watched Robin Hood: Men in Tights too much.

Anyway, the only thing I really saw that need fixing was this:

‘Going through the forests and everything, as you say, was the way planned for us by the White Council,’ Raoulin-man’us said. ‘That is the correct way to go about on a Quest.’

and the first day of a term was a nightmare.

This is Cameron/[no space] Rebecca/[no space] Tracey.

‘I [d]Don’t know. Reading.’

After half a minute,[no comma] I said carefully, ‘I’ll go do some now.’

My thoughts continued in this vein for some time, then, with a sigh that matched Mum’s for weariness, I opened Hamlet, took a fresh sheet of paper and began chewing the end of my pen.

An hour later, I muttered, ‘Alas, poor Yorick!’ and stuck the pen in its stand, viewing the doodles on the paper with pardonable pride. A double curlicue wound its sinuous way around a cat’s feet and up its body; where it touched the cat’s ears, it blossomed into a grape vine, and wine dripped from the grape clusters and made a pool on the floor. A very fat and festive-looking Bacchus viewed his reflection with an inebriated grin and patted the head of the donkey standing next to him. The donkey was also grinning, showing a mouthful of slab-like teeth, parted a little to provide an exit for its tongue, which stretched down almost to its knees and showed the tattooed message, ‘In vinum est veritas.’ I touched up the fuzz on the donkey’s ears and decided that it had been an hour well spent, with one eighteenth of the time spent on a character study for Ophelia, and the rest on perfecting the rosy curve of Bacchus’ cheek and nose.

...heck, I thought, as I cut a sizable slab and wrapped it in a fold of wafer-thin ham. Cheese was made to be enjoyed. I don’t want to deny it its function in life, do I? Pleased by this logic, I settled down on the kitchen stool and ate both ham and cheese happily. [Put this next part in another paragraph] The sun was shining outside, and looking through the window into the garden, I could see Dad turning over the compost bin, and Daniel kicking a half-deflated football about on the grass...

I licked my fingers, found a smudge of cheddar trapped under my nail, dug it out and ate it.

...how Jack Sparrow could say ‘This is not good’ and Jake Lloyd couldn’t,[no comma] mixed freely with daydreams...

I brushed this one fairly easily, thinking, [replace comma with period] All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.

Take my word for it,[replace comma with colon] if you want it and consider it worth anything, which I doubt you do...

Chapter Four


I sniffed, rubbed away my tears and asked, ‘What quest is it we’re on?’

‘The Quest to Save the World!’ Lorens exclaimed. ‘We’ve got to travel over these mountains to get to the forests of Hiranna-del’cüth. Then we go through the forests to the wilderness and then over the peaks of Lurentiulssytaei. After the peaks, we --’

‘Erm, do you have a map?’ Geography has never been my strong point.

‘Of course.’ Raoulin-man’us took a folded piece of parchment from his pocket and unfolding it, spread it on the ground. It was a very old map, brown and weathered with frayed edges and dark blots in the border. Oddly enough, it smelt of coffee.

‘We are here.’ Lorens pointed to a spot covered with jagged looking mountains. ‘Then we go over here to the forests here, then through the forests to the --’

‘I do hate to keep on interrupting, but where are we actually going?’

‘Our Ultimate Destination,’ Raoulin-man’us said -- and I could hear the capitals -- ‘is the Unnamed One’s castle.’ He stabbed a finger at a tall, black castle bristling with towers and turrets and surrounded by a cloud of what looked like bats.

‘The Unnamed One’s castle,’ I repeated and began to laugh. ‘No, that is just too much. The Unnamed One? Voldemort doesn’t live in an alternate fantasy universe! He’s dead, anyhow!’

‘Do not be so quick to disregard that which you know nothing about.’ Domyn’c spoke for the first time. His dark, tortured face was stern. ‘Flippancy in this Quest will get us all killed.’

Crushed, I looked at the map again and noticed something. ‘Hey,’ I said. ‘If the baddie’s HQ is over here, then we don’t need to go over the mountains to the forests and everything. We can just cut through here and go over those plains.’ I pointed left to where the brown-green plains could still be seen. ‘If we carry on going over the plains, we’d get there a lot quicker. We’d go straight there, see? Instead of going all over the place through forests and everything.’

‘Going through the forests and everything, as you say, was the way planned for us by the White Council,’ Raoulin-man’us said. ‘That is the correct way to go about on a Quest.’

‘The Council did a lot of research,’ Iolo added.

‘Research? With what?’

‘The records.’ Iolo grinned at me. ‘We have to do everything exactly the way everyone else does it.’

‘But --’

‘We’re wasting time,’ Raoulin-man’us interrupted. ‘We’re going over the mountains, not the plains.’

‘But it would be quicker --’

‘And it would be disobeying my orders from the White Council. We do things my way on this Quest. If I am ever to find myself and the true meaning of who I am, things must go as planned.’ He smiled suddenly. My knees felt weak. ‘Follow your heart, Clover.’

I didn’t care that that was the most clichéd and unrealistic advice ever to leap from the big screen. He smiled at me…

Raoulin-man’us took hold of Wil’ym’s reins and chirruped. With Laratishn’nialyae at his side, he led us up the next hill and onward.

* * *

I started off by trying to keep as close to Raoulin-man’us as possible. I managed to keep it up for the better part of half an hour, but as the afternoon wore on, I got further and further behind.

Stupid Quest, I thought, panting. My feet hurt and I was hot and sweaty and it was getting more and more difficult to breathe. Stupid Quest, stupid heroines with stupid golden curls, stupid lapdogs, stupid sidekicks, stupid tone deaf bards, stupid everything!

I struggled up the hill, my shoe laces catching on protruding sticks and bushes. All the others were far ahead, probably on the next hill by now. I had a sudden panicked thought. What if they left me behind? They could always include something else as the ninth member; one of Spot’s fleas, perhaps. I put on a feeble burst of speed that took me to the top of the hill. As I staggered forwards, I saw someone sitting on a rock a few feet away with their back to me.

Raoulin-man’us! I thought delightedly. He’s waited for me!

I paused for a moment to push my hair back and straighten my jacket. As I neared him, the man looked over his shoulder. The smile that had began to form on my face abruptly vanished. It wasn’t Raoulin-man’us. It was the tone deaf bard, Iolo.

He waggled his eyebrows at me. ‘Hello.’

All my tiredness came flooding back and I looked for a rock to sit down on. Iolo was using the only one near enough, and he didn’t look as though he was going to move. I sat down on the ground, wincing as pebbles dug into the seat of my jeans.

There was a pause. Iolo hummed a few notes, and looked at the sky. I put my sweaty head in my hands and sighed.

‘Do you see that there?’ Iolo pointed. A few hills away, I could see the others making their way steadily onwards.

‘Of course I see it,’ I replied testily. Is this his way of telling me that I need to get moving quicker? Groaning, I hauled myself to my feet. ‘I’m sore.’

‘It’ll get better after the first few days,’ Iolo said philosophically. ‘Not much you can do about it now.’

I said nothing. Halfway down the hill I stopped and unzipped my jacket. ‘I’m so hot.’

‘You’re a whole bundle of misery,’ Iolo observed.

I couldn’t tell whether he was sympathetic or not, so I kept quiet once more. The stones slid under my feet, making it difficult to keep my balance as we went up the next hill. On the utter misery scale of one to ten, this day was rocketing off the scale and bouncing on the walls.

‘What’s that?’

‘What?’ I pushed my ponytail back out over my shoulder.

‘That on your shirt.’ Iolo gestured to my top, which bore a picture of Spongebob Squarepants and the message, ’It’s hip to be square.’

‘Oh, that’s Spongebob. He’s a sponge and he lives in Bikini Bottom.’

Iolo raised his eyebrows.

‘It’s a cartoon from where I come from… I think it’s funny but…’

‘But?’

I sighed. ‘I feel a bit of a idiot wearing a top with him on. People at school think it’s babyish, but… I like it, but other people don’t, so… It’s stupid, really.’

‘You’re still at school?’

‘Well, of course. Why? Is it different here?’

‘Oh, yes. Girls of your age would either be married or a housekeeper by now.’

‘Sexist.’

‘Beg pardon?’

I sighed. ‘Nothing.’

‘What is it like where you come from, then?’ Iolo asked. ‘We’ve heard of people coming on Quests from different worlds before.’

‘Have you?’ I was surprised.

‘Oh, yes. There was the one with those funny little people who all wore waistcoats and smoked pipes, and that boy with the dragon, and the half elf who had to find a special sword… Which one are you?’

‘None, actually. Where I come from, it’s… well, we’ve got lots of machines that do all the hard jobs for us, nearly all the people in power are idiots, and everyone says that the world is going to explode.’

‘Oh, really?’ he commented politely.

‘That’s what they say.’

There was another pause as we topped another hill. The sky was darkening and I couldn’t see the others. ‘Do you know if we’re going the right way?’

Iolo shrugged. ‘Straight ahead seems to be a good enough guess. If we get lost, Raoulin-man’us will send Domyn’c to get us. He can almost see in the dark and can track an ant by its footprint. That’s what his references said, anyway.’

‘He came with a reference?’

‘We all did. You have to have the right qualifications to join a Quest like this.’

Silence again. It was getting more and more difficult to put one foot in front of the other. As it got darker and darker, I had to stop several times for a prolonged breather, Iolo waiting patiently the whole while. At one stop, when Iolo suggested that we move on again, I moaned, ‘I can’t, I just can’t.’

‘No such word as can’t,’ Iolo said briskly.

‘There is, and I just said it. I can’t.’

‘Can’t what?’ asked a voice out of the gloom. It was Lorens. He smiled at me. ‘You doing alright?’

‘I can’t move,’ I moaned. ‘I can’t…’

‘Come on,’ he encouraged. ‘It’s just a little further. Just three more hills.’

‘Three!’ I wailed. ‘Only three! My hat!’

‘You don’t have one,’ Iolo pointed out.

‘Indiana Jones got a hat! Why don’t I? Why am I even here?’

‘Because we need you, Clover.’ Lorens put a hand on my shoulder. ‘Come on. You can do it.’

Slowly, painfully, I got up and staggered on again.

***

When I finally lurched into the camp that the others had set up, I was too tired to care if Raoulin-man’us did think me a wuss, or that Little Miss Priss still looked fresh as a daisy.

I collapsed down before the fire, almost crying with relief. I was so tired, so mind-numbingly weary. Just before I sank down into sleep, I heard Raoulin-man’us and Lorens whispering together. Lorens seemed to be arguing with him.

‘Alright.’ I heard Raoulin-man’us say resignedly. ‘We’ll go over the plains.’

ROTFLOL!!!

oh my gosh...I love how this is so deadly serious and yet its a total spoof off of Lord of the Rings and all the other epic literary fantasies floating around out there....very nice, very nice. The lapdog thing was a little...um...maybe too much. It went beyond effortlessly funny into she's-trying-too-hard funny. Just a suggestion.

I especially love the "comic relief" part. Awesome.

And I finally got to watch the Fry & Laurie skit! I feel so enlightened! haha. I love British comedy. It's so much funnier than American comedy... Britain does randomness so much better than the USA.

Chapter Three


Another bump.

This time, it was me hitting my head on the ground. The ground was hard and seemed to resent my hitting it. ‘Ow!’

I sat up, rubbing the back of my head. Then things started clicking. For a start, I was not in the middle of the road, where I had been. I was sitting on a large, smooth rock, staring out at a big, greenish-brown plain covered with long, withered looking grass. A bird screamed in the sky, and I jumped. Okay… I did all the things you’re supposed to do: I pinched myself, slapped my face, closed my eyes, opened them again, rubbed them, blinked and pinched myself again. And, as they always do, they didn’t work. I remained where I was, sitting on the rock. I waved a hand in front of my face and cleared my throat. It sounded very loud. After a moment’s pause, I rattled off, ‘She sells sea shells on the sea shore. If the shells that she sells are from the sea shore, the shells that she sells are sea shells, I’m sure. So if the shells –’

‘Stop!’

The voice was so loud and so sudden that I jumped about five inches and slipped off the rock, skinning the palms of my hands on the rough ground. My heart seemed to leap up and get stuck in my throat and I squawked in fright. Sucking the side of my right hand, I turned on my knees to see where the voice had come from.

On the rocks above me were two men. The second one was less confident on the rocks than his companion; he often paused and waited for the first to go ahead so he could follow in his path. The first one leapt from rock to rock with the poise and balance of a mountain goat. I goggled at them both as they came down and stood before me. They were both young and dressed in medieval looking clothes; leather trousers, pale shirt and a long cloak secured at the throat by a small, round broach, engraved with circles. The second man was shorter than the first, with shining gold hair slicked back, leaving a little tuft sticking up on his forehead. The little part of my brain that took notice of these things catalogued his blue eyes and passed verdict as, ‘Quite hot.’

Then I saw the first man properly, and the aforementioned little brain circuit spasmed, went into overload, and exploded. Golly. I felt a little shiver run up my spine and an idiotic grin tugged at the corners of mouth. My eyes ran over him, taking in his soft, wavy chestnut-brown hair, his large, soulful green eyes with a slit of blue streaking out from the left iris… His perfect white teeth, his smooth, wide forehead, the way his dark tan was set off by the pure white of his shirt…

‘What are you doing here?’

His voice… It had a delightful American twang that reminded me of Mark Hamill. I simply stared at him, a goofy grin threatening to spread all over my face.

‘What are you doing?’ His voice had hardened, the edges of his accent sharpening the words and drawing them out. I wanted to sigh and pick the petals off a daisy.

The second man glanced at him. ‘Maybe she’s a mute?’

‘No,’ I said, finding my voice now that someone else was talking. ‘No. No, I’m not a mute.’

‘Then answer me!’ The streak of blue in his eye seemed to grow brighter in his irritation.

‘Answer you what?’

‘What are you doing here? What spell were you casting?’

‘Spell?’

‘Spell! The incantation. What was it for?’

‘Spell?’

‘Spell!’

‘Spell?’

The Hot One raised a hand and wiped his forehead. ‘Lorens,’ he said in a strained voice.

‘Yes?’ answered the other.

‘I think I now know. She’s imbecile, not mute.’

‘She’s not, actually,’ I said, a little annoyed.

‘Then answer me!’

‘What?’

The Hot One closed his eyes and took in a deep breath through his nose. Lorens said hastily, ‘What are you doing here? Who are you?’

I blinked. Oh yes. What am I doing here? ‘I don’t know.’

‘How did you get here?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Who are you?’

‘I don’t… no, actually I do know that… My name’s…’ The old hesitation came back, and that feeling, so out of place in this mad daydream – nightmare – coma – whatever it was, suddenly made the whole situation mind-bogglingly absurd. I began to giggle.

‘What are you doing here?’ The Hot One lost patience and grabbing my arm, shook me back and forth. I rocked, snorting and giggling, until he let me go and I collapsed against the rock, wheezing.

‘Whoever you are,’ Lorens knelt down and tried to look into my face. ‘Please, try and speak. Something. Anything. What can you tell us?’

‘Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious!’ I gasped and howled with laughter.

‘Stop it!’ the Hot One snapped and again grabbed my arm, hauling me up onto my feet. I gulped and in a desperate attempt to control myself, sucked down a lungful of air so big that it hurt. That helped and I managed to put the lid on my merriment. I coughed, wiped my eyes and took another breath.

‘Now,’ he said, his perfect dark eyebrows drawing together and making an adorable little pucker at the bridge of his nose, ‘let’s start again. What’s your name?’

‘Clover Neill.’

‘What are you doing here?’

‘Nothing.’

‘What do you mean, nothing?’

‘I…’ The lines of his face were chiseled in such strong, straight lines, like a perfect bronzed statue… ‘I don’t know.’

‘How did you get here?’

‘I was just walking along, and then I wasn’t… and I was here.’

Lorens drew in his breath sharply and said, ‘Oh!’ Turning to the Hot One he said, ‘Raoulin-man’us, do you think – maybe she’s the ninth member!’

Raoulin-man’us?

‘Perhaps.’ Raoulin-man’us hummed, considering. After a moment he said, ‘Yes, perhaps you’re right. After all, we waited long enough. I wonder what she is, though?’

‘I’m what?’ I asked, still blinking over the Raoulin-man’us. Who was called anything like that? Something out of your imagination might be...

‘Come on then. We’ll take her back to the camp.’ Raoulin-man’us turned and began climbing back up the rocky slope.

Lorens said to me, ‘Come on,’ and also began climbing. Dumbly, I followed. The slope went up for a little and when I eventually reached the top, I stopped short and stared.

Below me, the slope went down and ended in a small flat space which spread out in all directions before meeting the base of more small, rocky hills. Between the hills were more of the brown-green plains that I had seen before and after the plains were mountains, mountains that took my breath away. Blue-grey and jagged, they rose high into the bright sky, touching the clouds. Some had snow at their tops and others were shorter, with odd tufts of bare, straggly bushes among the crags. They had harsh, ragged outlines, their sides bulging with masses of rock and stunted plant life. I wasn’t sure what would go best as background music – Jupiter or Baba O’Reily.

‘Come on!’ Raoulin-man’us called. He was already at the bottom of the slope, Lorens halfway down. I could see a group of people further along in the flat space at the bottom and began to hurry down. That was a mistake, I realized in a few minutes. My scraped hands were stinging and my feet managed to get tangled up with each other. A little way from the bottom, I tripped and fell, catching my feet under a rock and coming down hard on my side. I squawked in pain and slid the last few feet, coming to rest in a pile of dust and shingle.

Raoulin-man’us raised an eyebrow incredulously and I felt myself turn red, tears embarrassingly near. ‘Ow,’ I mumbled, getting up and brushing myself down. Biting my lip, I followed them both to the group of people I had seen from the top of the slope.

There were three; two men and a woman. A pale grey horse was standing next to them, its reins dropped over its head. The woman came to Raoulin-man’us’ side and said, ‘Oh Raoulin-man’us, what was it?’

I stared, almost glared at her. She was tall, very slender and radiantly beautiful with tumbling golden curls falling around her oval face. She had blue eyes under perfectly arched eyebrows and these eyes were looking at the Hot One with a loving adoration. Worse still, the look was returned.

‘I think,’ said Raoulin-man’us, after the Look was finished, ‘that I’ve found the ninth member of our Quest.’

‘Who?’ Little Miss Priss looked at me. ‘Her?’

‘What’re you staring at, blondie?’ I snapped.

‘Be quiet!’ Raoulin-man’us scowled at me. ‘Yes, this is the ninth member, I believe.’

‘Ninth member of what?’ I demanded. My hands hurt and my side hurt and my throat hurt. Something inside me was twisting up at the sight of Little Miss Priss’ golden curls and making me stomach hurt too. A hot tear spilled down my cheek and ran to the bottom of my chin.

‘Of the Quest.’

‘What quest?’ I almost shouted it, suddenly full of tumbling feelings, all fighting and scrambling for uppermost place. ‘This isn’t real! None of it’s real! I got hit by a car in the real world and I wake up here? It’s not real, that doesn’t happen!’

‘It must have happened,’ said one of the men. ‘Otherwise you wouldn’t be here.’

I glared at him. He was tall and thin, with bright blue eyes and dark brown hair. He had a bag slung over one shoulder and his long fingers played with the strap of it. ‘Or,’ I snapped. ‘I could be imagining all this. That’s it. I’m imagining it all.’

‘But why do you think that?’ Little Miss Priss asked. Her soft voice grated on my nerves.

‘I’m surrounded by hot guys,’ I said sarcastically. ‘That has got to be my imagination.’

The one with the bag snickered. The other man said nothing, just looked. He was also tall, and very dark, with sorrowful, secretive eyes.

‘If we can get back on topic,’ Raoulin-man’us said, looking annoyed. ‘I suppose as you came in late, you didn’t see who else was chosen. Well, then. I am Raoulin-man’us and this is my beloved, Laratishn’nialyae.’ He put his hand through the crook of Little Miss Priss’ arm.

‘What?’ I gawked. ‘Laratish… that’s got, what, eight syllables in it!’

Little Miss Priss looked hurt, and Raoulin-man’us said sharply, ‘Watch your tongue, girl.’

‘No, it’s all right,’ she said.

I cringed. ‘This is not real,’ I repeated.

‘This,’ Raoulin-man’us continued, ignoring me, ‘is Iolo. He is the tone deaf bard.’ He gestured to the man with the bag who raised his eyebrows and rolled his eyes. ‘This is Domyn’c.’ The dark, silent man gave a small nod. ‘And… where’s Alifvani?’

‘Here,’ chimed a small voice and something flew up into the air. At first I thought it was an enormous butterfly, but after a second glance, I saw that it was a very small thing of about half a foot tall, with gauzy wings and a huge amount of floating auburn hair. It hovered in front of my face and said in a tinkling voice, ‘I am Alifvani, a faerie. That’s faerie with an e and not an i, by the way.’

‘This is definitely not real.’

‘To bring up our numbers to nine,’ Raoulin-man’us said, ‘we had to include my white stallion, Wil’ym and, erm…’ He paused, looking rather embarrassed. Iolo smirked and reaching down among the packs and bundles strewn on the ground at their feet, lifted up something small, white and fluffy.

‘Meet Spot,’ he announced. ‘A most worthy representative of the canine race.’ The small, white and fluffy thing yawned and wriggled in his arms. It was a dog, looking something like a cross between a Pomeranian and Chihuahua. Its white fur stood out around it like a halo and it had a carefully cultivated topknot, tied with a bit of pink ribbon.

‘He’s my sister’s,’ Lorens said, going a little pink about the ears. ‘When we couldn’t find enough members, I… I got a bit desperate.’

‘He kidnapped his sister’s lapdog!’ Iolo crowed. ‘He rose to the heights of infamy and stooped to the depths of treachery!’

‘It was for the Quest!’

‘All right, that’s enough.’ Raoulin-man’us looked at me. ‘So now that just leaves you. What part are you to play in our Quest?’

‘Plucky street urchin?’ Little Miss Priss suggested. ‘Honorable thief?’

‘Maybe she’s comic relief,’ Lorens said hopefully.

‘She doesn’t look very comic,’ Iolo said, looking me up and down.

I don’t know whether you watch or read a lot of those stories where the hero or heroine travels back in time or goes to another world. I have, and one of the things I always thought went on for far too long was the main character’s disbelief in what was happening. Sam Tyler spent practically both series of Life on Mars doubting what was really obvious, I thought. But now that it was actually happening to me, I found I could sympathize with Sam completely. I didn’t believe it, couldn’t believe it, because it just could not be real. Fantasy was fantasy, which was why it was called fantasy. If fantasy wasn’t fantasy, it would be called reality. It wasn’t, so it was fantasy.

But it was so real. My hands still stung from my fall and I could feel the wind and the pale sunshine on my skin. These people – ridiculous though they might be – were so real. So real.

Even if it was all my imagination, there was nothing I could do to escape from it. And besides, an imaginary world with faeries and tone deaf bards and super hot heroes… how bad could it be?



---

that was really good! and funny vid lol

goodluck with the rest of it!

will there be more? *is hopeful*

Kyte wrote:But, being American, I must ask: Who's the Tenth Doctor?

Ok, I enjoyed that. Especially the 'talk with myself'; I do that all the time. But, being American, I must ask: Who's the Tenth Doctor?

what happened?! didi she die? did she just get hit by a car?! AHHHHHHHH! Ya gotta tell me. Please!!

this ws a great story. it kinda reminds me of myself. i am the kind that pushes my mind to do the work, but tehn my body laughs at me. i like the paart about the ham and cheese. it brought me great joy. keep up the awsome work.

Chapter Two

There was an argument. Very heated. It involved a lot of shouting and broken promises and ended up with both parents talking together in the kitchen, and me upstairs in my bedroom, glaring angrily at that bally English paper. Bacchus leered up at me and I took my pen and scribbled all over his smug, fat face, gouging through the paper and into the wood of my desk. ‘Heck,’ I said aloud. ‘Dang. Darn. Dash. Bally heck.’ In a sudden fury of movement, I hurled my pen at the opposite wall, inwardly screaming obscenities to the skies. The pen bounced off the yellow paint and landed, unharmed, in the carpet. I kicked it, stubbed my toes and collapsing on the floor, began to cry.

I cried steadily for about two minutes, then got up and sat back down at my desk. I took a new piece of paper, sniffed, wrote at the top, ‘Character Study For Ophelia,’ wiped my nose on the back of my wrist and began, ‘Ophelia is one of the main characters in William Shakespeare’s play, Hamlet.’ But was she really? Was she main or minor? I groaned aloud. Well, she would have to be a main character for this essay. After a few more sentences, I felt in my jeans pocket for a packet of gum, found nothing and stopped writing to open the small box on my bookcase, next to the desk. It was a smallish, rectangular box made of white china with pink painted flowers on the lid. I didn’t really like it, but it had been sent me by a cousin for my birthday and I didn’t like to not use it. Still, every time I met the pink gaze of those flowers, it made something squirm in embarrassment at the bottom of my stomach. The box’s one redeeming feature was that it happened to be the perfect shape for holding a dozen packets of gum in loco, if that’s the right phrase. My fingers hovered for a second, poised between Wrigley’s peppermint and Hubba Bubba’s atomic apple, then dived upon the latter.

Chewing noisily, I eyed the diminishing stock. When you go through packets of gum at a rate of knots, you need to refresh your banks fairly often. I leaned over from my desk and felt in the pocket of my coat. Left, right pockets - nothing. Inside pocket - three packets of cola flavoured; no specific brand but with the taste left untarnished. I’d last for a few days yet.

‘Clover!’

‘What?’

‘Clover.’

Dang. I went out onto the landing and stuck my head against the banisters. They were cool against my hot face. Mum was in the hall, looking up. ‘Clover?’

‘What?’ Been here, done this…

‘Will you run along to the post office and post this letter for me? Get some fresh air…’

‘All right.’ Olive branch?

I went back and got my shoes. They were canvas, and the weather was still a bit too chilly to wear them, but they reminded me of the Tenth Doctor’s shoes and today I felt that the attractions of that out-weighed the practicalities.

Downstairs when I was zipping up my coat in front of the hall mirror, Daniel came out of the sitting room. He looked at me in the mirror, propping his chin on my shoulder. ‘You’ve been crying.’

‘No I haven’t!’

‘Yes you have. Your face is all red and blotchy.’

‘No it isn’t!’ I shoved him away and grabbed the letter from the hall table, wrenched open the front door, then slammed it behind me. The sun was still shining, but the wind was cold and it blew bits of hair into my mouth. I spat them out and crossed the road, my shoulders slouching as I kicked against the pavement. A lump was knotting itself in my throat again, making me yawn. For some weird reason, I always yawn when I’m going to cry, so I scowled hard at the ground, trying to force the tears back again. My vision blurred, and a tear ran down the side of my nose and hid in the crease where all my blackheads were. I scrubbed at it with one hand. Just post the dang letter and go home again. It’s difficult to cry when chewing gum; my atomic apple almost fell out of my mouth several times on the way, and I only just caught it in time.

I got to the cross roads and went right, saw the bright red box imbedded in the post office’s outside wall and dropped my letter in. Left and around the corner at the cross roads this time. My head hurt and I wasn’t paying much attention to where my feet were going. That was probably why I walked straight into a man who was just coming out of the fish and chip shop, clutching a large, hot and greasy parcel of chips.

‘Ow!’ I said, because the chips were hot, and, ‘Sorry!’ because half the chips were now spread about on the pavement.

‘You clumsy twit!’ The man glared at me, his grey eyebrows beetling together and apart again in anger. ‘Why don’t you watch where you’re going!’

‘Sorry. I was thinking.’

‘Thinking? Thinking of what? Your new video game? Your latest boyfriend?’

‘No, actually. Of my exams.’

‘Don’t you get cheeky with me, young lady. Why don’t you try and help me pick these up, instead of simply shooting your gob off?’

I could feel my face getting hot and desperately wished it wasn’t. Bending down and trying to scoop the spoiled chips together, I could hear the man still waffling on above. ‘Barging around like that - you’ve no respect for any one else, have you?’

‘Yow!’ I burnt my finger on a particularly hot specimen.

‘Don’t be so feeble.’ He bent down; I could smell his aftershave. ‘Try and actually do something useful for once in your lifetime.’

‘I am!’ I glared at him. My ears felt scarlet. ‘I’m helping.’

‘If you can call it that,’ he retorted nastily.

That lump was back in my throat, and I could feel my heart beat quickening. ‘I do call it that…’

‘Well, I don’t!’

‘Here you go…’ My voice cracked in the middle and, blinking furiously, I thrust my handfuls of soggy and dirty chips onto his neat black trousers, leaving greasy smears on the knife-edge creases. He began to bleat about no respect for other people’s property, but I left him and the horrible mess had made and ran off down the street. Stupid, stupid, stupid! Stop blubbing, you're being stupid! My lungs hurt, and only now that it was all over did my mind start throwing up sarcastic witticisms that I could have used. Move with the times, grandad. You want something done, do it yourself, why don't you? Making the most of your freedom before you get locked in a bath chair, are you? None of which I'd ever have the courage to say out loud.

I managed to get to the end of the street, wheezing like a dying donkey and, without looking properly, dashed into the road.

There was a screech; an awful, long, tearing screech that seemed to rip the air and leave it jagged and wounded.

There was a hiss, like a python being deflated.

There was a bang that hurt.

There was a bump.

Then, quite suddenly, I wasn’t there anymore.

---

Make way for the cliches!

Oh! There is a video lol. Unfortunately I cannot watch your video because my computer is ridiculously slow. But anyway, I still loved your story.

This was good, very funny, and Clover was a good character. But the dog thing confused me. At first it seemed like you were talking about... a girl was my guess, but you never said anything to lead me anywhere. Then I thought that it was a dog. Like the Tales from the House of Bunnicula books, which are "written" by a dog. And then you have her talking to humans. It confused me, but at the end I understood that she was a person, but didn't know why you mentioned a dog.

The screenplay-writing scene was awesome. When I scrolled down to see how long the story was, I thought "whoa, that doesn't fit! You shouldn't have screenplay writing in a story...!" and then it fit beautifully. Lol. Anyways, this was a really good story. The only thing that I would edit, besides maybe a few grammar problems, is the confusion about the dog part.

Keep writing!!

Teh Wozzinator

I think this video may help the Clover-dog question. ^_^ Thanks for reading, both!

*sigh*
I love reading your work, twit.

I couldn't find anything really wrong, but I do have a question. Why did you say Clover was a dog?

"See what I mean? Of all the possible names for dogs out there, why did Fry and Laurie, whichever one wrote that sketch, have to pick the name Clover?"

I think I get what you're saying - 'ew, it's a stupid dog name' - but it's not very clear.

A sound that was a crossbreed between a sigh, a snort and a hiccup erupted from the parent’s lips.