“I feel you won’t know if this is a good start, until the ending is written.” No kidding. I once wrote what I thought was a good start for a story… It ended up about half a page down in something completely different. For that matter, the wonderful opening paragraph for my sci-fi novel, the paragraph that I can quote from memory from having typed it so often, the paragraph that I swore would never be changed… got moved to a much later part of the story. Just about everything finds a home eventually, if only as an an idea that can be re-written better, but that doesn’t mean it gets the home I planned for it.
Sci Fi & Fantasy / Raven
I slept in someone’s tool shed on a pile of canvas sacking, that first night after I made my escape. I didn’t think I was entirely safe, but… safe enough, surely. They would have no way of knowing which Door I’d gone through, or even that I was missing, until it was too late.
That was what I told myself, anyway.
I was awake well before dawn, anxious to get more miles between myself and the place where a Door opened into that world. Just in case. I left town and road behind and set off across country. Soon, I told myself, soon I’ll find a place to stay for a few years, until they forget or give up.
They caught up with me on the fourth day—my onetime colleagues, sent to take me back to the Hallway.
William Kendall, the man who’d taught me to use a rifle one upon a time as I’d taught him the crossbow, now faced me with my own preferred weapon at ready. Light glinted coldly from the metal-tipped quarrel.
“If I hit you, you die,” he said, as if I didn’t already know. “Don’t try to run, Raven.”
This used to be my friend. We had saved each other’s life a half-dozen times on as many missions. But there was no doubt that he hated me now, that he thought me a traitor because I had dared try to leave the service of the one who’d betrayed us all.
“Then kill me. I won’t go back.”
Pure bravado on my part. I was still hoping to make good my escape. But I had no intention of surrendering. I could never make Kendall understand what was so wrong with what our little band of exiles had been doing for the past several years, could never make him understand why I had to get away. None of them understood—except maybe Susan, and even she thought I was mistaken.
Kendall shook his head. “Orders are to bring you back alive if we can. But don’t think I won’t shoot if I have to.”
“Raven, please.” Susan held out a hand to me, and I was lost in those dark eyes of hers all over again. “This isn’t really what you want. It’s… like that time when that thing got into your mind and made you not trust us. You’re having a relapse, that’s all.”
Her voice was soothing, almost hypnotic, and I found myself thinking that maybe she was right. Something had gotten into my head on that mission—something made me so paranoid that, though badly wounded, I had held my teammates off at gunpoint rather than let them near me to help. If my current state of mind was a recurrence of that…
Bad move, as Alexi would have said, to remind me of that particular mission, when I had realized that we were doing more harm than good and had been sent with that intention.
Then I felt something ice-cold stab me below the shoulder blade, and a moment of extreme pain, before everything went dark.
I was back in the Hallway before the drug wore off and consciousness returned. I thought I already knew what would happen: a trial -- if you could call it that -- and imprisonment. Maybe they thought I would plead for mercy or claim temporary madness. But I told the master of the Hallway that I would serve him no longer, and instead of locking me in some cell, he had me taken and cast through another Door—
—into rain and howling wind. The Door shut the moment I was released.
And so they left me here on this tower of stone with nothing beyond it but a dark and raging sea. I could not escape because there was nowhere to escape to. The only way out was through the Door that brought me here, and I would not choose that even if I could.
I hurried to find shelter, if there was any. Soon I discovered a narrow cleft in the stone that somewhat hid a door—an ordinary door, I was certain, and not a means to leave this place. It was not locked, and I did not stop to consider where it might lead before letting myself inside.
There was a small chamber just beyond the door, with corridors branching off from two sides. I chose one, and began a search for who might live here, or a clue about what this place was, or anything else I could learn. The corridor was long, with more rooms, some large and some small, opening off it, as well as more corridors that I did not explore at this time. No sign of recent habitation in any of them. I went back and began again with the other corridor from the entry room, and it was the same as the first. However long I would be here, it would be spent alone.
I had nothing else to do with my time, though, so I set about searching through the rooms, and the corridors, and the rooms beyond those. It was something to do besides think about what had happened to me, and why I was here, and how long I was likely to remain.
Most of the rooms were empty. I found one that contained a narrow bed and a chair. Another had shelves with a few hundred glass jars: preserved vegetables and fruit, a little meat. That told me something about the nature of my captivity. Either they didn’t intend to keep me here long, or they were just going to let me die when the food ran out. Water, at least, I would never lack.
Although the wind abated from time to time, the rain never ceased entirely. Water crashing from below and water falling from above, and barren stone here between. Everything in shades of steel and iron. If I tired of the endless corridors of my prison keep, I could go outside and watch the waves hurl themselves at the sky and wonder what it would be like to fall into that cold sea.
A few days passed, I think. Whenever there was only moderate rain and no wind, I went outside, no longer looking for an end to sea and sky but only… wondering, maybe, how long it would be until I forgot that I had ever lived anywhere else.
During the worst weather, I explored my prison. There were, it appeared, far more rooms and corridors than my original search revealed. I found a cache of torches, flints and steel. I was oddly pleased at that last. An alternative to drowning, if it came to that. Maybe my jailers would come to check on me years later and find my body, my dead hand still pressing a piece of cold metal to my heart…
There is, at times, a strange comfort to be had in knowing that one can always die as a last act of defiance.
I began losing track of time’s passage. I slept when I was tired. I ate when I was hungry, and tried to count days by how many jars of food were gone now. I stopped talking to myself. Why bother? I already knew what I’d say in reply.
I almost missed it when it first happened: a sound that was not wind or water, was not the hiss of a burning torch or any other sound that belonged as part of my present experience. Soft and even, not quite a tapping sound, it went on for a moment, paused, and then resumed.
It was the sound of someone else’s footsteps.
That sound changed everything. It didn’t occur to me until later that anyone else on this island of stone was likely a prisoner the same as myself. Nor did I consider that I could be imagining it. All that mattered was finding the person whose footsteps I heard.
I grabbed up a torch and ran to the main passage. The acoustics of this place played tricks with direction and distance—the sound came first from near the door to outside, and then a moment later from the chambers beyond the right-hand corridor. I ran, pausing frequently to listen, and torchlight flickered and flowed over stone walls and blind doorways. My leg ached from the never-ending cold and damp; I cursed the old injury that slowed me down now.
After a time, the footsteps ceased and did not return. I listened… Five minutes, fifteen… Finally I had to admit that I had lost the direction. For now. I searched the rooms in that area, though. If there was someone else here -- and I could not let myself think that there was not -- surely I’d find some sign of their presence…
Room after empty room. The fear crept in that this was some cruel deception, that my jailers, having failed to break me -- perhaps -- with despair, were now trying hope instead. A branching in the corridor, and six more rooms…
The next one was different.
I would have sworn this room was empty before, as were most of the chambers that riddled this island. Where had these crates come from? I pried the lid off one -- it was only tacked down -- and looked inside. Metal cans, sacks both heavy paper and rough cloth, plastic bottles and glass jars… Food. I opened another crate, and another. Some contained more food -- a few years’ worth, by my quick estimate -- and some contained other things. Woolen blankets. Oil lanterns. Clothing. A black iron kettle -- I was careful not to touch that -- and a folding tripod to hang it over a fire. I sent a thought of thanks to whatever person or Power had had these things left here.
But I would have sworn this room was empty.
Some time later, well-fed and wearing entirely clean clothing, I thought that maybe I should make this chamber my “residence” now. But it contained nothing but these crates, and the room with the bed and chair was considerably closer to the outside door. I made a pack from a blanket, filled it with food and a couple changes of clothes, picked up a now-lit lantern, and stepped back out into the corridor.
Flicker.
For maybe three seconds, the corridor was… different. Pale walls, dark floor, neither of the familiar rough stone. Dim but steady light with none of the warmth of fire—or sun, for that matter. Polished wooden doors.
Flicker.
The door I reached out to touch turned to cool stone under my hand. I stood unmoving, not knowing if I should weep or scream or laugh. All or none seemed appropriate.
Then I lifted the pack again and went back to my room.
The footsteps did not come back that day, or the next, or the day after that. My feeling of hope was fast deteriorating. I moved more supplies from the room with the crates to the rooms I thought of as mine. I was not surprised to discover that all of the clothing was my size.
I went outside, thinking of doors, and Doors. Another day of storms. Even if other land existed beyond this never-silent sea, how would I get there, or anyone else get here? No ship could survive this weather. Thunder crashed, sharp and immediate as gun fire. I stood with my back to the outside door, listening to the wind. Sometimes it cried a name, but I don’t know whose.
I cannot explain what happened. Several days after I’d found the crates, I was in one of my rooms, trying to set up the kettle’s iron tripod without burning my hands on that metal. Something -- a sound, a sense of presence -- made me turn around.
Two people, across the room, staring at me. For a moment I couldn’t react.
“Are you real?” I asked. My voice sounded rough even to my own ears, it had been so long since I’d spoken aloud. Then, “Please. Don’t leave. Even if… Even if you’re only a hallucination… Don’t leave me here alone.”
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hellbunny reviewed Version 1 -
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The readers didn’t even know Susan was around until she started speaking. That’s a little jolting. Have Raven notice her before she starts talking.
Forced imprisonment can be a soul-sucking existence, especially if alone. It’s also monotonous and fearful. I got the sense of the former quite easily, but not the fear. Don’t just tell us he felt it, let it creep through his body like an insidious opression, weighing down on him as he tries to fight off as he goes from room to room desperately trying to grasp on to hope.
I like how you ended it. That seems like a very real reaction to seeing people for the first time after such a long imprisonment.
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haikudo reviewed Version 1 -
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I found this to be an intriguing science fiction/fantasy/horror/adventure concept. A post-apocalyptic Robinson Carusoe, Steven King style. You could definitely develope this into a novel, if you leave this as the prologue, and allow the reader to forget the “normal world” from which the persona originated until the finale. This has a faint flavor of Stanislaw Lem’s Solaris, in which the things of the mind have minds of their own. I love the story and the way it’s told. I especially like the open-ended question, “Is the protagonist alive, dead, both, or chilingly niether, and how will he learn the shocking truth of that “fact”? As an information officer, I have a pat answer, when someone says,”I have a question,” I say, “I have an answer. Let’s see if they match.”
I feel you won’t know if this is a good start, until the ending is written. If they match, sweet. If not, fiddle with the middle. Leave this tragic beginning to survive on it’s own, while you put the story, as a whole, through it’s paces. If it’s dead when you return, it wasn’t meant to survive. One thing’s for sure; it won’t survive if you give it no future. Keep writing, Writer. Your life as a writer depends on it.
ekarbin reviewed Version 1 -
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I suppose I’m entirely well equipped to be reviewing something in sci-fi: my experiences equal basically the X-Files, but I’m a die hard and I have a discerning palette for taste, so I’m up for the challenge if you are.
Overall, i’d say that for a genre piece this is quite well done, if perhaps a bit over-written. This is usually my qualm and while I am completely for writers using their judgment in style, it is ultimately the reader’s decision as far as what they will stand for and as a reader, overwriting is overrated. Luckily, this wasn’t a huge problem of yours and for the most part your construction was succint enough to keep me moving and interesting enough to make the read easy enough.
I suppose the one thing that threw me off most was the akward, almost German-esque captialization of certain nouns; “hallway” and “door” for two prominent examples. I gathered early on that this was obviously intentional, but it still irked me. Perhaps naming them or using the “The Door” might be a less jarring option.
As I said before, this is quite well done for a genre piece and the writing in and of itself is rather nice too! Good luck finishing the piece.
Harold_P reviewed Version 1 -
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Hey…
Very slick opening which leads into a very punchy and knockabout piece with a very empathetic central character at the helm.
The use of short sentences and repetitions is well done, here to create mystery as well as tension (“flicker”) and the descriptive detail is thorough. There are moments towards the end, however, when I’d like to learn more about the character’s experience and have less of the description of the world around him. I think perhaps we lose touch with him at a crucial moment and just skimming some of the superfluous detail might help to remedy this.
Thanks,
Haolrd_P
magusofchaos reviewed Version 1 -
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Keep the first person perspective. It gives the story immediacy and draws the reader into Raven’s world. I don’t think you’d be able to keep the tension as well with a more objective viewpoint.
I think this is a good starting point. It raises a lot of questions, mostly about what it is Raven had been doing and whether she’s right in abandoning her leader. Those questions can be addressed later, as Raven further explains herself through her narrative or in flashback. The main difficulty will be keeping up the pace set by the highly dramatic moment between Raven, Susan and Kendall.
One thing: drop the marked out parts. Either write them, or don’t, it’s distracting. Who is she editing these lines out for? I didn’t get the impression Raven is writing out a report. If she would retract a statement, like “I was careful not to touch that”, just have her say “scratch that” or something.
I loved the line “Sometimes it cried a name, but I don’t know whose.” It tells you everything you need to know about the setting, and how it makes Raven feel.
I can’t wait to read more of this story. Don’t give up on it.
pdk19 reviewed Version 1 -
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This is a very interesting setting for a story. It’s unclear at times what this island is like, and how these rooms are placed throughout it, maybe you should elaborate on that. But the idea that the narrator is in such an abstract environment, without even the reliability of his own senses definite is cool. I’d like to see where this story would further progress.
What I like about the protagonist is that they’re in an environment that wi definitely test their mettle, psychological and physical, so you have a lot of room for developing your character
xsashaxpatriciax reviewed Version 1 -
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The first set is good. Understandable and I like the way the emotions, except with Susan, is almost completely cut off. It gives the sense that the character has cut himself off from the whole world/s.
“Bad move, as Alexi would have said, . . . sent with that intention.” I don’t understand why this part matters. Maybe its the wording or lack of information. Try both and see how you go is my advice.
The second set is ok. A few good comments like death as an act of defiance etc. The very last paragraph is a good way of grabbing attention.
The third set really inspires the imagination to understand who brought the things and how. That is good. When the character is looking for the footsteps try to use lots of short and sharp sentences to describe the desire and quick pace to find the footsteps. Then some of disappointment before going into the curiosity of the crates and how they got there.
Hope it helps.
Isei_Star reviewed Version 1 -
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I enjoyed this, although this seems more like a rough draft rather than a final copy. It needs a bit of cleaning up and I would like to see you go into more detail about pretty much everything. It seems a little rushed, I suggest that you take your time and let the story blossom instead of pushing it along and going into this kind of “get to the point” writing it seems that you are doing. I believe that there is a great story in this and that it can be brought into a full bloom with a little more time and preparation. This was very enjoyable and caught my attention very effectively, but at times my attention faltered a little bit. As I said though, this can be fixed with more imagery and few more bites or hooks. This is very good and I look forward to reading more in the future. Good job!
groovieknave reviewed Version 1 -
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I enjoy the way you write because you put in what’s important to move the story along. Being held captive is always cool and you wrote it well, I actually felt trapped with the character. I do agree with what others have said about developing your main character more, or at least giving her more opinions on her situation. While she seemed of course disturbed and concerned, it felt like I had to just say she was instead of feeling it.
You write great and I’d say that you should definitely devote time to completing it. I have the same problem though with my writing, I’ll write to a certain point and never go back to continue it. I’ve learned that if I develop my character more, the ideas are limitless.
Overall I have no problems with the grammar because it doesn’t detract from the story. Grammar isn’t important to me, what I would like is to know more about the person, she’s trapped in there so make your readers care about her. You have plenty of options where to place and start her personality. You have a good talent to turn your words into images, my only problem is that if your character died, it wouldn’t make much difference. You could put anyone in there, so what makes her special? What makes her want to stay alive and wake up?
As for how to continue on? I’d say that you should introduce her captors, give us possible solutions to the the problem you’ve presented in the story. I’d even recommend giving her a roommate she doesn’t trust, or make her come up with an amazingly planned escape. Reveal flaws in her trap, weaknesses in her captors. I’m not sure how you would write it of course, just trying to inspire you. I like it so far, I’d like to see more!
ultraviolence reviewed Version 1 -
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Is this the beginning of the story? Because I do feel a bit lost. The writing is nice, you’ve created a nice, dark atmosphere. I would suggest not using ellipsis (...) quite so much. I’m intrigued, even if I am confused. I also don’t feel like I’ve gotten a sense of the main character’s personality quite yet, but I am able to root for Raven. I especially liked the phrases “The acoustics of this place played tricks with direction and distance” and “I stood with my back to the outside door, listening to the wind. Sometimes it cried a name, but I don’t know whose.”
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