# Ara - Book 1.    draft 1



## ArcThomas (Jul 31, 2010)

This will we written all in one post, to avoid user post interference. In other words I'll edit it all in, and feedback is more than welcomed.Help is appreciated and accepted as well as duly noted, but I may not utilize any of it.
This is a story that takes place in the far distant future. and the world is not as different as you might hope to think.. Yet

*Ara*
Book 1​
Prologue
.   Tossing and Turning in Her bed the Sea put ashore a love child: Bathing the streets and homes of Central Australia in calamity. 
.   In His distress Humanity frowned upon the waters. Instead taking to the Rubble of the once proud and strong metropolis that is Northern Oceis.
.   Amid the crashing waves that severed the lives of countless numbers was laid three waters. Two blades of the West that cut even to and through Alice Heights, and the River Amthys of the South East.
.  From pillar to stone everything before the rash queen was taken from the sky as she laid out her garden amongst the the concrete deserts. Sparing ever scant _His_ crown upon her close; Oceanus.

1Chapter one

1Entry 1

.     _Where si she? Samara! Kib.._ The waters had nearly burst from the ether and into the second story residence of the Formith Parts Apartment when Owen and his family was struck asunder. Breathing heavily, having spat and gulped in the contaminated salt waters his strained voice was lost amongst the splatter. "Samar-!" 
.     Raising his hands to the ceiling to prevent the heave from bashing him against it with each consecutive rush of the flow he begged his heart to not fail him. _She lives. .. He lives.._ As he resurfaced from an unsuspecting gush he somehow doubted himself. But no fear could detour his efforts as he struggled to find his bearings, along with the Kitchen port hole.
.    As the waters broke through the the windows with a shattering howl and boom, tearing down the walls after it Owen was so struck with panic he could not react to save his new born child. The last thing he saw before the water smashed the couch into the wall and carried away his wife into the dinning courters was his boy unwittingly smile at him with block and cube in hand. Before long Owen had became acquainted with the yellow green walls, which creaked and whined for help louder than he.
.   Holding his breath he took a dive, painstakingly reveling his eyes to the sour waters that now filled his home. As he screamed from the pains of his retina He cried out even louder for his child whom was yet to be seen amongst the mess. The surge was so strong apart from the cove formed by his living room that he was witness to full buildings carried off like maidens of war. All hope was lost with his tears in the sea that had astonished his family on distant coasts months before, now invading his desert home.
.    Pulling at the wall he wept even deeper for his wife. Her ghostly white face shrouded his mind as he swam for the kitchen: Her black and tangled hair dancing in her face to couple her browned yet asper eyes. Owens own eyes began to leak profusely at the thought of her, aiding him against the salts. Even in such disastrous peril she was his salvation.
.     Resurfacing in the Kitchen he gasped, kissing the roof with a blunt blow. Had the waters risen higher yet? Were he to find that each chamber of his home was more so capped than the last. "SAMARA!" He whimpered with all the voice he could muster. And he took to the depths once more.
.     As he tremored from the shocking chill of his wives demise the ocean could have warmed his skin. _Will she be..?_ he wondered, pleaded with chance that he should find the right port. His hands could have been clawing against death itself, knowing every second could be a second soon enough.
.     Held tight in his grip the wall whispered Owen a secret. _She's gone_, He knew in his heart. _No!_ he refused aching in his chest, pulling himself into the the entrance hall. 
.     He almost had time to reminisce over the times they had shared in the bedrooms on the right: His Sons crib and Samara's paint shop. The carpet had been pushed up against the door, where trash had filled his home, And there kicking against the storm Samara. Her beloved legs, and prime physique stole Owen from strife and aches as he brought himself to the surface.
.     "Samara!" He bellowed. His noise upturned, but away from her so that he could see the longing in her eyes as she called back to him.
.     "Owen! Where is Kibbosh?" she cried, full knowing the regretted answer to her ply. Her delicate, yet artistically refined hands took hold of the wall to steady herself before her love. To show him she endured, and secretly to prevent him from doing anything to rash as he had been known to do.
.     Owen didn't answer her, but gave her the most grave look he would ever muster. "I'm-" The waters over took them both in a gush that slammed the surface tide into the ceiling tile of the greeting hall. "I'm coming fro you!" He cried out. Time was short he knew. With each wave the water had risen no less then several inches, and there were but few remainder.
.     "Wait!" Samara shouted just as he began to dive. Owen resurfaced at the wink of an eye, shaking the water from is eyes. "I love you."
.     Never had the words hurt him so much. never had the words meant to so much. 
.     "I love you too." He told her, hardly loud, but with enough emphasis to project his heart and soul. "Now. I'm coming fro you! Just wait there. I'm coming."
.     Smiling through her tears, Samara trapped in a corner was the last thing he saw before dunking his head. Her hair was dashed upon her face in the most terrifying display he could bare. He would save her._ I will save you!_

1Entry 2

.     The shock of the water hit him like ice. His love for Samara endeared her tragedy as the sucking stream bit into his side. The doorway opened up not in the gate by the dismantled wall that sucked and licked at the hallway. _No_! he struggled. 
.     “No!.” he cried in a bubbled gag.
.     With the tanils of a sting ray Owen felt himself ripped from the hall. His closed eyes grimaced rather for his leg out of shock than the purn of his body. There was no way out, no pocket. Nothing around him even seemed solid anymore, as he passed structure after structure, some even that were not afoot.
.     Encombassed by the wet, Owen screamed upwards in a rappid fight against his foe. 
Each press seeming ever so slight to the Horn of the Sea. But without Demise the sky came up to him apart from the waters.
.     Owen was at Awe, as the world tore by him, fleeing from the armies of rain. The darkened green sky shot with reds as the lightening continued to crack.  The horizon, broken up by the fallen towers and Halls, could have burned of fire with less/*more* refuse.
.    The members of forth and fifth story apartments and roads were draped in calamity and sea salt. Upon the horizon in the storm Oceanus continued to shine in the gloom, defying defeat. A testament to the remainder of hope.
.    _How_.. The question churned his gut as he paddled to the banks where another man in a green shirt had just shouldered a man getting onto a slab upon a wall. His vigor addressed by demand.
.    “Wai- Hel-!” The man began to shout as the current cut him apart from his hold. His voice went short by Owen’s grip taking him by the wrist. His gaping eyes denied relief homage. Driven by Her tide he had barely arrived to catch him.
.     Owen winced as the thick tides pulled the man from his grasp: hurling him towards an out climb of layers fallen into the water to form a shore. Barely taking witness, he too pulled up on land to shudder next to the surfaced fellow in green. The screams of children, mothers and  fathers took second or third to the catastrophic dilemma. His hands scraped the land, pinned and poked in dismay. 
.     Looking up he cried out in a wane that crushed his hopes. With each murmured glimpse at the world around him he saw rebar, rubble of steels and concrete, cliffs of polyester sidings and tins. The turned dull paints of ceilings and walls blackened by the storm padded the crumbling abodes. Even the people found or heard were sprawling in fear.
.     Getting to his feet, his head dragging up behind him, favoring the denial beheld by his shoes. He gazed upon the water. The River was dark and painted rich. Nothing had defied _her_ course. Mere outcrops of piles burdened the jet stream. From ear to ear.
.     Alice Heights, once as far from the coast as Australia provided was draining houses to the ocean floor. Had the lands *shifted? Were the waters *dispersed?  The gully of towerous homes from upstream seemed so distant in his sight from where he strafed about heedlessly. The canyon walls and Urban Mounts no longer within days stride.
.     Owen found himself about a crowd that shifted like scorned monkeys upon a ruin when he finally understood the catastrophe. He had marooned on a peninsula: Between three waters. Of Alice Heights the water was rash. Swift, crashing and hulling the landscape with it to the reunions. Draped in the graying Ires of the North sky- casting tremors upon the Metropolis - the snakelike body was black. 
.     Cracking the Sky before him another River broken loose upon the streets of the Oceid states. Abreath at least twice/double that of His gully snake.  It’s yawning maw sucking back the rooftops and rafters of the desert regions in the west. 
.     Painstakingly excited Owen spun to the left: Leading with a heavy gaze to the draining pipe. Turned upside by a Rail and bow of the Land the waters licked at the dirt before Oceanus. Dispersing onward beyond the Horizon and the Capital Region to the South.
.     The words of many had faded from screams and pleas to mumbles, feints and sobbing.

1Entry 3 

.     Taking Point amongst the survivors who had muddled to the tops of what ruins remained Owen descended to the sweeping shores. On the other side of the mounds where the water flowing in took much deeper and prolonged breaths an abundance of survivors dragged themselves and others onto the land. Owen struggled to know against the pain as he realized those aiding others often were only the ones shouting for a resounding loved one, or embraced in the arms of a known companion.
.     The crowd behind him stalled coming to the conclusion there was no where left to go under all the clouds of the sky where disaster had not struck. Holding their grounds like statues of grief and doubt on the horizon to those bellow. Their cloths drenched and cold, darkening their figure to the luminated heavens which dazzled the surface with a hazeled display
.     Slipping on the rain Owen stumbled and tripped to the ground. Tumbling down the side turned remnance of the avenue which had collapsed in the storm, Owen found himself lying on the concrete left to mourn. His shoulder numbed by the memories of his loss. His moments of heroic intent crashed to the ground next to him and dispersed as a horde of cats, alone.
.     Samara.. he whimpered again, through indistinct groaning. His face complexed and distorted. Overlooked by the passerby’s, Owen gave them no head in return: Left to his anguish. Australia was a desert through and through.. why were the oceans at his doorstep. A country who’s pride road with sails, bellow in marines, abroad on the tides.
.     “Why?”
.     IN a crashing heap a large wave stole a crowd coming ashore. They screamed and hollered for assistance as the waters brought them down stream. The loud crack and grinding of instrumentations and architecture surrendering to the might of the sea lifted Owens tearful stair. He watched in horror as peoples disappeared from sight: only few managing to cling back to the rocks some distance down. Ships of ghost ridden towns descending upon them.
.     Gulping Owen rightened himself and again made way for the banks. He could see that the water had seemed to recede after the last gush, dropping a deceitful meter or so. It revealed more wreckage yet as the underlying city came into view, still clashed with the streams, trapping more people under newly opened death chambers.
.     Rushing, Owen slid to his chest and plunged his arm into the water, catching a whirling and grasping woman under the arm. 
.     “Hold on. I got you!” He told her, pulling her up with all his might as she tried for herself. Clawing at the ground like a wet kitten with the glare of a theatrical zombie.
.     Peering upstream Owens eyes lit up before a more sudden wave. “Hurry!” He exclaimed tugging on her shirt until she was out of the water. “Hurry!”
.     Owen dragged her to her feet and together they ran for the high ground. The wave though not large enough to steal them of safety snatched them by the knees and brought them back to the bank. The woman clung to Owen in tears, before splattering in another direction upon the rock, only to resurface yards away in the same distress.
.     Owen was over come with panic, hounded by shock, and alone. Quickly checking his rear he staggered away from the port to where the rivers converged/met. Will and directive second to chaos. He arrived to discover his worst fear had told no lies; There was no escape; There was no rescue.
.     Seeing no other people drifting in the waters, or clinging to land, Owen left to comb farther around the outcrop of distorted cityscape. Carried by the dull sensation of remaining, and kicked on by the elephant of the room, fear. His cloths clung to him like shackles, hitched with ice cold doubt, whose only relief could be found in the arms of another, a loved one.
.     Coming to an overhang that jutted and sprung with iron rods, his path reached a roadblock. Owen agreed that the water had indeed been dropping. Confusion began to rail at his mind standing before the expanse of the river that had taken from him both wife and child. His home and city un-regrettably lost in the super metropolis. 
.     He somehow stood without logic as another statue in the Ruins. His average, healthy build, and reasonably dashing looks paled and were small amongst the Debris. His hands hung lose and unnervingly attentive to his nightmares.  
.     In a next moment He was saved from his own plight as a woman came riding upon the current before him, to weak even to cry. Jumping into action he reached out for her grabbing in his hand a fistful of fabric. Her own hand, lifting for his shoulder fell short as she began to sink in his grasp.
.     Owen found himself once again waste high in the water as he hoisted the woman to safety. Immune to the frosts, he stood trenched up to his armpits at her side, laying her on the nearest clear surface. As his eyes swept over her she smiled up at him meekly, unmoving head to toe. Her garments were so long and layered she must have had no chance in the fray Owen considered. Even now they chained her to the ground, with tailings pulling her towards the grave.
.     “It’s okay now. you’ll be fine.” Owen tried to promise her. His heart betrayed him, muttering in the shadows words of uncertainty. _As okay as could be.  If you survive. If we survive_..
.     The woman gave no reply, peering at him with a sympathetic awe. Her eyes shared with Owen his own strife and that brought him comforted. He brushed back her hair so that her lips were clear with a passionate stroke. His heart filled with a longing for his Samara, the mother of his child, the host of his day and night.
.     As the tingling sensations of love, and love’s lost ran along his skin and into his soul a wave rolled out from behind the overhang and pulled him back into the water. He was set rightened by the calm love that filled his being as he felt the torrents bring him away. The thick of the blue surrounded him right up to the glossy shimmer of the skies that called to the bubbles of the deep. Carried to the surface by the lift of his lung, and the guidance of touch, Owen resurfaced. The waters carried away with him his ache, the sorrows, his past.
.     As he searched to the woman he’d driven himself in for, he found no one. She too was gone. At rest. To peace. And suddenly the billowing of the clouds didn’t seem so ugly: so cruel. 
.     The water was so vast and swift only the aquatic blues and green of the salt painted the surface of the flow: The mud and rubble to ensue drowned bellow. 
.     Pulled from the land, eased into acceptance, bearing witness to ruin and power, Owen sailed down to the draining waters. His watch was in the stars, beyond the thick of the storm, where no struggle should exist. Closing his eyes the current took him into his dreams.

.     With a knock and a splash Owen shook to consciousness. His face washed with another spray that impounded against a support beam where he had run adrift. His arms and legs flailed wildly in panic as he strained to take hold of anything solid. His eyes again burned by the sudden exposure to the salts.
.     Peering out over the river he saw that he had not flown far, but had docked somewhere mildly downstream from where the wave had crashed down over him. The water level unmeasured like the destruction that smoked and crumbled above it. The sky too had parted, bringing daylight through the persistent smog: shining reds and golds on the horizon and the peninsula. 
.     Rolling over Owen reached out for something new to hold on to.. and this is when he heard it: the peculiar squawk of an infant. Melodic , and blissfully overjoyed. His ears perked up despite the water splashing up in his nostrils as he pulled himself against a fractured wall. His head veered from right to left, up and down, back and forth. Had he hallucinated in his delirium? 
.     Then just above his head on an outcomb across the water from himself a small baby. Her gaze was upon him. Her mouth agape as she broke into a cheerful chorus. Like a day of celebratory mothers affection. She shuffled closer to the edge to peer upon Owen.
.     Owen was struck with fear for the child, rushing with all his gusto to where the baby should fall into the rush and be taken like the rest. But the child did not go much further, instead bouncing on her hands with a giddish chirp. “Don’t move. I’m coming.”
.     With dexterity and unmasked strength he restored himself to the security of the land, and hurled himself at the child. Blocking the distance between her and the lip. He was ashamed to have made contact in such drenched attire, but even through his struggle could find no suitable resolution. With worry and regret he looked into the little girls eyes.
.     Naked, and warm to the touch, she smiled back at him. Stuffing an awkwardly turned digit into her mouth as she foamed. Her blue and green iris sparkled like the waters. Owen carefully adjusted himself and held her tight, crawling from the ledge to the inner wall which made up the remainder of the floor. 
.     His hand tucked under her back to hold her firm like his Kibbosh. He gazed back into her eyes and she in his, continuing to chum and laugh. His tears had run dry, but his memories continued echo with laughter and play.. 
.     “My Salvation.”

2Chapter 2

2Entry 1

.     It had been no shorter than a century since the continent of Oceania had at long last been declared The Sovereign State throughout the four corners of Earth. Having refused the function and oppressions of the Hemis rule, war was brought upon them on many fronts. For centuries the skies were filled with ash, the streets with militia, and the corners with tears. The ocean blue was the front line, the deserts their barracks.
.     By the year 3 128 the war had raged for so long Hemis lost it’s political foothold on the governed states inland from Raos abroad to Rapish. The wealth of the world diminished and dried up like livestock. Few people were determined by the end of the centuries of war to possess the “free land” of Australia, whom in their resistance expanded to the islands of Papua, New Zealand and even the Philippians. 
.     Forming peace, the clause was signed in celebration from both sides, and thus began “Regeneration”. Free, the people of Oceanus thrive. Cut from Al’Hemis, in a world South of the world.

.     It has been no shorter than a decade since the streets of Alice became river beds, and Victoria split the Oceids in equal shares with the Gibson. The tragedy had yet to be forgotten, unlike the pain that healed like a splinter, forgotten. Well, almost forgotten.
.     Owen was about to roll over in his still-sleep to welcome the morning in steps, when like the door his eyes popped open. Still on his side, disturbed yet anxiously aware, the slop painted wall before him only stared back. As the bed quaked, beneath rampant knees, Isabel’s warm touch, grasped his forearm with a squeeze.
.     “Fadda, Fadda!” she exclaimed in high tones. Her accent fluent oceidic: prominent from coastal Oceanus, or even more so Ruddish. “The Pony his here!”
.     Owen was hardly awake. His dreams had been clinging to him like the arms of his wife around his waste. Though, as he peered up at Isabel he seemed to have only woken to a fine day. “Quick! There might be none left.” He was as excited as she was, pleasure riding on his tongue.
.     Her lips passed from gaping awe struck joy, to the glee of accord. The green of her iris lit up between the blue sky that encompassed as her eyes lifted in unison with her smile. The bounce in her crimpled and untamed golden red hair continued to rock on her shoulders as she leaped backwards off the bed to dash for the funds compartment.
.     Owen sprawled out to watch in enchantment as his daughter lifted the sun to bring him day. Her slender youthful form hunched over as she pulled from a mantle shell a box of bills, coin, jewelry, cards, and memorabilia. Be blessed his eyes as they reopened from a content blink that exposed his dream, a filled life of love. 
.     “I got it.”
.     “No take more.” Owen suggested watching as she took a modest five coin with his accustomed 12 bit. He didn’t allow himself to show admire but instead stared with open persistence: aware the next smallest coin were a 3 bit. “Now go! Hurry.”
.     Isabel slid the box in with precision, yelped a thank you, and turned over herself running for the door. With her arms in the air, her stained but white blouse up to her ribs, her light beige chastity garment smothering her navel, and her long string tied shorts lost in confusion of her step, she found the door. Isabel glanced back once more before swinging about the doorframe and into the street shouting “Let’s go!”.
.     “Hurry” Jasmine persisted as she was doing while Isabel ran home.
.     Since Isabel could remember, and that was quite some time, Jasmine was her best friend: second only to Owen. She and her mother were the only ones of her family to survive the flood, having lived east of Oceis in a city once called Avnt. It is told the city was being rebuilt north, in the Gibson along the still unnamed river, but not as far as they were aware. 
.     As they hopped barefoot along the beaten paths on the hill bank they laughed at each other with short teasing movements and jousting passing. It had become a fruitful game of theirs to step over and pass each of the green weeds that took root in the rubble and dirt that the storm had left behind over the buried cities. The buildings were lined with tall grass and splendid little yellow flowers: “_Gotsta ‘ave Yellow_” Isabel often repeated in association whilst picking of them.
.     Jasmine had long, dark hair that spoiled down her back to her buttock, neatly beaded by her mam. Her favorite bead was the large purple one that kept to her chin. Blue and white specks about the brims often made Isabel agree. Today her teal short shorts seemed to extend to her ‘bosom’ in the mix of her chastity garment, alike in colour. _She was skinny too_ Isabel laughed at heart, oblivious to her own unmeasured form. 
.     Beyond the rows of houses and Jasmines sheepish expression the Pony was arriving by river, and together they rushed down to the docks.

2Entry 2

*Revising entry 2* Postponed. do to other interestsPlease implore of a sneak peak at Chapter _X3X_ 



focus on scenary, history, government, lifestyle, and  aforeshadowing[/COLOR]

number of 'proofs' and/or 'grammatical edits' 1.      spell check - continuous

Finishing moments Chapter 1 revised.

*Please share your input or interests*


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## garza (Jul 31, 2010)

You say it will be offered all in one post, so are we to assume this one post is all there is, a prologue?

I'm confused by the geography. Perhaps The Backward Ox can help sort it out.


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## The Backward OX (Jul 31, 2010)

It's meaningless rubbish. 

In my opinion, that is.


There is a Spencer Gulf, however, fwiw.


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## Olly Buckle (Aug 1, 2010)

garza said:


> You say it will be offered all in one post, so are we to assume this one post is all there is, a prologue?
> 
> I'm confused by the geography. Perhaps The Backward Ox can help sort it out.



I think he means that this thread will be expanded by editing the original post bit by bit to contain more material garza, not that this is all of it


.





> Tossing and Turning in Her bed the Sea put ashore a love child


 I like this very much, good starter.


> was laid three waters.


 with waters as a plural shouldn't this be 'were laid'


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## The Backward OX (Aug 1, 2010)

WTF is user post interference?


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## William_Goffspeare (Aug 1, 2010)

The Backward OX said:


> WTF is user post interference?


 
I'm guessing that means that since he's posting the story bits at a time, he doesn't want other peoples' comments between each part so he's editing it all into the first post.

As for your prologue, ArcThomas, not sure what to say as there's not a whole lot to go on right now. All I can say is that I hope the sentences that follow these first ones provide some clarification.


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## ArcThomas (Aug 1, 2010)

Lol. user post interference breaks up the story.
lol, and I was forced off the computer before I finished the first paragraph..  srry.
And I know the geography was incomlpete as well.   
.  here it is.       Western Austrailia Now consists of North West (the largest chunk), West (which divides right through Alice Springs[heights]), and South West Australia (everything in and south of the Victoria Desert.).  The Amthys River connects Alice Heights to The Australian Bite, via The Spencer Gulf.
  Lol, my intro was broken up by mild delusions..


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## garza (Aug 1, 2010)

Ox - That's your geography lesson for today. Quiz Wednesday.

Thomas - Are 'mild delusions' sort of like mild detergents? They only get about half the job done, but they're not harsh.


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## Foxee (Aug 1, 2010)

So far it's not coming together for me, Arc. But you have one beautiful line that I really like:


> Tossing and Turning in Her bed the Sea put ashore a love child


I'm not sure why you're randomly capitalizing things but putting that aside this was a strong beautiful line. I would advise you to stop trying to revolutionize language with errors and just write like this.


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## The Backward OX (Aug 1, 2010)

A bite is a measurement of computer capacity.

The geographic term is bight.


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## ArcThomas (Aug 1, 2010)

Now if u look ay that map. Alice Heights is on the later end of Australia.
Victoria (Desert) is the south west. Gibson (desert si the middle west), and Sandy (Desert) is the North. 

Thank you fro the map. And the Bight bit. I wasn't thinking. 
Also my delusions are more related to the topic of my Lyrics "_Struggle Within_"


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## Balistic (Aug 1, 2010)

huh, this story actually caught me as very interesting at first. I like the imagery of all the water flooding the home and the man searching for his baby...


Then at after this line "Pulling at the wall he wept even deeper for his wife. Her ghostly white  face shrouded his mind as he swam for the kitchen: Her black and tangled  hair dancing in her face to couple her browned yet asper eyes". It got very confusing for me and i could no longer make out what exactly was going on.

Clarify a little? The language is lovely but the pictures painted here aren't as strong as they were in the first few paragraphs.


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## ArcThomas (Aug 2, 2010)

Thank you for that. i do need to edit and change stuff. that will be a first. Her face in his mind... I tried. I can't figure it out. Maybes I'll get someone to proof it for me later and we can work it out. 

Throughout the story you may find '*'s and '/'s.
In this case it either means I haven't decided between two words, or that I haven't decided any.
In addition '*' are often references to a need to removed the entire sentence, or at the minimum reword the thought.

The third entry should currently be the longest. most significant. As it is the foundation of my story: at least a corner stone.


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## garza (Aug 2, 2010)

Thomas - I've just gone back through it, and while many of the images are excellent the cumulative effect is a train wreck.

By that I mean that the descriptions totally overwhelm what is being described. As an antidote to that read Hemingway. See how the simplest language can convey the most powerful images. Hemingway was not a prolific writer. You can read the complete canon of his published works in a few days. Don't get me wrong. I'm not saying imitate Hemingway. Just read his stories to see how the language can stay in the background and strong images can be created without the use of the purple phrase. In fact the purple phrase blocks the reader's view. He can't see the action of the story because the writing is calling attention to itself.

When the writing starts drawing attention to itself instead of painting a picture for us to see then there is a problem. The reader will become confused, uncertain about what is happening, and close the book.


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## Balistic (Aug 3, 2010)

garza said:


> Thomas - I've just gone back through it, and while many of the images are excellent the cumulative effect is a train wreck.
> 
> By that I mean that the descriptions totally overwhelm what is being described. As an antidote to that read Hemingway. See how the simplest language can convey the most powerful images. Hemingway was not a prolific writer. You can read the complete canon of his published works in a few days. Don't get me wrong. I'm not saying imitate Hemingway. Just read his stories to see how the language can stay in the background and strong images can be created without the use of the purple phrase. In fact the purple phrase blocks the reader's view. He can't see the action of the story because the writing is calling attention to itself.
> 
> When the writing starts drawing attention to itself instead of painting a picture for us to see then there is a problem. The reader will become confused, uncertain about what is happening, and close the book.



Wow, this was a fantastic critique.

I don't mean to critique the critiques, but this one was fabulous! :mrgreen:


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## SilverMoon (Aug 3, 2010)

Over at AA (Ambiance for Artists) a very talented and organized writer posted Chapter One (they were short chapters). We gave feedback, he responded. Then Chapter Two and so forth along the same way. He broke his work up into smaller parts. I think this is the best way to present your work. You want orderly feedback. Even if it's a short story (of length) or a novella, I would suggest this approach. You'll get the most this way from people

garza gave you excellent advice, so there's no point in repeating. But if you cannot tolerate Hemingway, I would suggest reading a writer you happen to like, preferably a writer of the classics.

You have some excellent turns of phrases in your story. I can't list them all but couple to give an idea where I think you went very well!

Here, you drew me in with detail.


> With each (murmured) glimpse at the world around him he saw rebar, rubble of steels and concrete, cliffs of polyester sidings and tins, the turned dull paints of ceilings and walls blackened by the storm. Cut the rest.


Note: you don't want to use "murrmered" here. The mouth murrmers not the eyes. I made some punctuation changes. Then perfecto! I really took to this description.

I love the alliteration here. And the similie is outstanding!


> His cloths clung to him like shackles, hitched with ice cold doubt, whose only relief could be found in the arms of another, a loved one


 
Arc, overall, I think you will do very well. We are all here to help each other to improve our writing and relvel in the making of a fine piece. Laurie


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## ArcThomas (Aug 3, 2010)

I do agree with the logic of Garza's assistance. However I am quite fond of my piece. I am more worried about the script running dry and becoming infected with writers block.

I regards to your suggestion, perhaps I can assist you prior to my efforts resulting in a different tapestry of literature.
 True... murmered lol. Ooops.
But You see the 'turned dull paint' is what is padding _the_ abode. The storm is the ill effect on the paint which turned it dull. The walls and ceilings make up the surface of the painted regions.
you see?
however, now that I revise murmured. I could not come up with a more fitting *word* for a short, indistinct, effort impaired moment. As a wall could not murmur a secret.

Silvermoon
I agree now.  Indeed abode is the wrong choice of word. perhaps you ahvea  suggestion. I'll return to it immediately, as chapter 2 is int eh works.


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## SilverMoon (Aug 3, 2010)

Arc, in lue of what you said I'm going to suggest a cut in first quote box. If you want to keep "abode" you might have to do a bit of tinkering...


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## ArcThomas (Aug 19, 2010)

Ara
Book 1

Clearance
Thus far Australia has cleaned up. The cities are running efficiently coast to well, coasts. The Government successfully repelled all Hemis attempts of 'aiding' in the times of stress, and even strengthened their fleets and ground partols.
At these times _Bel_ has become acquainted with many friends in her new home Oceanus, the Capita City.
Jasmine as well as Coline are at her sides like her own wings, while Stephan shields her from his own left hand. Said hand is Jeriah, the spoof, the 'spinch', the pocket of gold.
Owen long since lost ties with Isabel but not inspiration working as a steel worker in the Big Harbore.. and so it continues

3Chapter one

3Entry 1
internet kicked at the end post...


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