Upgrade your account to a Community Supporter account and remove most of the site ads.

Reply to thread

Message: <blockquote data-quote="Sargon the Kassadian" data-source="post: 1732839" data-attributes="member: 14674">I was inspired by the Eberron Writing Contest (whatever it's called) Thread and decided to post some of my writing. Please give me a score from one to ten (ala Olympics <img src="https://cdn.jsdelivr.net/joypixels/assets/8.0/png/unicode/64/1f609.png" class="smilie smilie--emoji" loading="lazy" width="64" height="64" alt=";)" title="Wink    ;)"  data-smilie="2"data-shortname=";)" />). I think its pretty awful from an honest standpoint and you may or will too, but keep in mind that I'm only fifteen years old.Allright, here goes: #1     David Messier, dressed in his usual brown flannel suit, was relaxing at the bar sipping his martini. As he glanced around casually he noticed a brown-haired young man wearing a sweat-stained maroon shirt, who met his stare with cold anger. The man, who David supposed was some sort of street trash, looked to poor for this place.      His wallet hung on a chain and he wore punk band patches all over his pants. While the punk walked slowly towards him, Messier twirled his wine glass between his fingers "I've been waiting all my life for this, dad", said the kid with an accusing glare. "What!?" "What the hell are you talking abou-", spluttered Messier, whose protests met with the sharp end of a heavy crowbar.      The upwards swing carved a bloody path across Dave's face, destroying his chin in a splatter of bone chips and gore. The swing continued, ripping through the left eye, neatly halving it. As the crowbar thrust out of the top of his head like an angry mole, Messier flew over the bartop to land with a sickening crunch against an expensive wine cabinet...     The police found the body ten days later inside a coffin, the lid covered with the ashes of hundreds of fathers' day cards.#2    The door blew off its hinges, flying through the air and pinning a rebel against the far wall. the first government troops were diving through the door and the room lit up. Shredder (needs a better name) rounds, spinning clouds of acid, ripped clean through the terrorists' bodies. The machine guns' noise and power shook the room even as the bullets riddled the enemy with holes. Terrorists in the other rooms ran madly out the back way, only to discover, too late, that it was a trap.      Anti-personnel mines blasted concrete and bodies into the air and mortar fire rained down on those fortunate enough to have escaped the mines. Helicopter gunships circled the building, waiting for the all-clear. Private Kirkpatrick, hearing noise upstairs, requested the helis to level the place. The choppers let loose a salvo of rockets, clothing the building in an inferno as the troops took cover outside. It was all over in just three minutes. The most dangerous insurgents in the American Conglomerate had been eleminated.#3     The lightning flashed, the rain poured down. The soldiers, illuminated for brief moments stuck in time, hacked, slashed, stabbed, hewed and thrust and fell in piles. The blood and mud and water churned with the thrashings of the mad beast of war.      flash Gritted teeth, cloven shields, crippled mounts, and gore-soaked mail. Throwing his head back, Hundal let out a howl as these images burned themselves into his mind. Hefting his axhammer with one hand and taking a large drink of firespirits with the other, he waded into the vortex of soldiers (not sure how to end this sentence). His weapon swung in broad sweeps, with each flinging men and weapons alike out of its path. The enemy fell in twisted piles of limbs and bodies in front of him.      Then Huldar felt it come upon him. The rest of the battle was a whirlwind of pain and death and ruin until the eventual descent into blackness...     His eyes snapped open and he glanced around. His gaze fell upon the wispy clouds and the sun high above, and then on the burnt buildings and stacks of bodies littering the ground, as he thought of the men who had died. It was as if the gods had used them for playthings and being careless, broke them, leaving them behind without so much as a tear. A few moved on the field, groaning or stirring in attempts to stand. An inspection of his own wounds revealed nothing more than a gash along his leg. He pulled a rag out of his backpack, wiped the blood off his thigh, and bound the wound with it.I need more to finish #3 and #2, both of which I need to make into full-fledged stories/books, but right now all I'm looking for is advice and critiques from the fine writing/creative folks here at EN World...</blockquote>

Verification