Aces High Bulletin Board
General Forums => The O' Club => Topic started by: Major Biggles on November 02, 2006, 04:09:43 PM
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I'm quite interested in writing a few short stories here and there, when i'm bored. I was just wondering if anyone here is a writer or someone who's dabbled in writing. I was kind of wondering where to start with it all, any tips from any enthusiasts would be great :) ty guys
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Hi Major Biggles, I'm only a voracious reader, but have a look at what this guy has acomplished by posting his writing online....
http://www.brokentype.com/monster/000263.html
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I write now and then for pleasure and the college newspaper... I'm by no means an expert but what are your questions?
Also - try asking Widewing - he's very good.
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i was just kind of fishing for tips on how to plan and develop a story, as well as some basic writing techniques and things along those lines
ty for the link and the heads up though guys :)
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The standard for planning writing (since I was in middle school and throughout standardized high school testing) is to do a "spider line" or whatever it's called. Basically put your main topic in the middle and have your facts come off that to the side. Then add details to your facts etc.
If it's fiction I'd tell you to just go for it. If it's nonfiction then you'd probably be better off sorting out your ideas first. Also remember that some artists might have upwards of 20 drafts before they like what they have. I am personally more of a political type writer and I tend to ramble more then make a good argument.
Anyway, good luck and let us know how it goes.
This isn't the greatest example but it illustrates my point http://www.strategictransitions.com/images/brainstorm.gif
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Originally posted by nirvana
The standard for planning writing (since I was in middle school and throughout standardized high school testing) is to do a "spider line" or whatever it's called. Basically put your main topic in the middle and have your facts come off that to the side. Then add details to your facts etc.
If it's fiction I'd tell you to just go for it. If it's nonfiction then you'd probably be better off sorting out your ideas first. Also remember that some artists might have upwards of 20 drafts before they like what they have. I am personally more of a political type writer and I tend to ramble more then make a good argument.
Anyway, good luck and let us know how it goes.
yup, i was thinking back to school english classes :lol can't remember some stuff, and was seeing if there were any kind of tips for planning it, but you're probably right, i think it's best to take a shot in the dark and manipulate it from there :)
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Kinda funny that you brought up this thread... I've spent most of my day at work pretending to be busy by actually plotting out a new "book" I intend to write/draw...
Basically I've just broken it down into sections, wrote a little description of what I hope to accomplish with each section, and then wrote little bullets of specific events in that section.
This is non-fiction though, so it might not help you out....
If you're going for fiction, maybe Bill Watterson of Calvin and Hobbes could help you out... Very, very, very loosely paraphrased:
"I very rarely know how the story will end when I start writing it... I just let the characters take it."
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Yes, Widewing is a precise writer of clear thinking in a clear voice.
The cycle of fiction writing is simple:
Writers write, then editors brutally beat the living crap out of them and dump their bodies in dark alleys of doubt, or scatter the torn pieces of flesh and bone across fields of shattered hope and confidence.
Writers write again.
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These will date me, but they're timeless and invaluable resources for the craft of writing:
On Writing Well by William Zinsser
111 Don'ts for Writers by Marian Elwood
Danse Macabre by Stephen King
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Writing short stories can be great fun. One of the best at short stories is Stephen King.
Find a copy of his book, "On Writing: A Memoir Of the Craft". King provides a neat blueprint on organizing and structuring a short story. He spends time discussing style as well. It is a valuable tool for budding writers.
It's also available as an audio book.
My regards,
Widewing
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(http://buy.overstock.com/images/products/muze/books/0345442725.jpg)
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Short Story Group (http://www.shortstorygroup.com/storytips.htm)
Provides some good ideas, and examples.
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Originally posted by Widewing
Writing short stories can be great fun. One of the best at short stories is Stephen King.
Find a copy of his book, "On Writing: A Memoir Of the Craft". King provides a neat blueprint on organizing and structuring a short story. He spends time discussing style as well. It is a valuable tool for budding writers.
It's also available as an audio book.
My regards,
Widewing
second that. i was pleasantly surprised by king's book.
not far on technique. it mostly regards the writers spirit.
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Well, let's write some short stories and post them here. I think the word limit for a post is 10,000, so there's one rule.
The only other rule being that it be new, not an old story you pull out and dust off.
Anyone?
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by all means gentlemen, start your word processors.... I always enjoy reading new writing
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Maybe there is useful info here:
http://www.wikihow.com/Category:Writing
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Originally posted by Rolex
Well, let's write some short stories and post them here. I think the word limit for a post is 10,000, so there's one rule.
The only other rule being that it be new, not an old story you pull out and dust off.
Anyone?
hey, if you're up for it... :)
i've been thinking about what i'd like to write, something less ordinary, perhaps some kind of near future sci-fi or something. i guess it might be fun to try and do something about it this weekend, i'll post it here :)
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Here's something I just submitted for my comp class-
(please be gentle)
Just an Old Set of Headphones
Bob Hooper
Comp I
On first inspection they don't look like much, but look closer. The plug is not aluminum and plastic like you would see today; this plug has a copper conductor and a ceramic insulator. The cord is not covered with vinyl insulation but woven fabric. The padded headrest is not plastic but actual leather. The hoop is made from real steel. The ear cups are not synthetic but real natural rubber.
I remember the first time I saw them. I was five or six years old and in my grandfather's workshop in his basement. They weren’t much to look at; just an old pair of headphones in a cardboard box on a shelf under the workbench. I asked him what they were and he chuckled a little and told me they were very old and probably didn't work and someday he'd tell me about them.
My grandfather was a member of what has come to be known as "The Greatest Generation." These were the people who lived through the Great Depression and went on to conquer fascism and stop tyranny from spreading around the world.
In January of 1942, Pop volunteered for the army, and because of his good mechanical skills, tested into the Army Air Corp. The army taught him everything they thought he needed to know about the B17f Flying Fortress, and sent him to England to keep them flying.
When he got to Great Britain, he was assigned to a plane called "Tain't a Bird." This plane was just starting its second tour of duty with a brand new crew. His job, as crew chief, was to keep the plane mechanically capable of completing twenty-four more missions so the crew could rotate back to the States. This was a job that he took very seriously; no crew chief ever wanted to lose a plane, and they surely didn’t want to lose one because of a mechanical problem that was overlooked by maintenance. Eleven men in each plane counted on the fact that their ground crew caught everything on the ground. Every time the planes would leave on a mission the ground crews would impatiently wait for their return, frantically counting planes as they passed overhead, hoping and praying that their plane was among them.
When "Tain't a Bird" completed her missions, and her crew rotated back to the states, she was stripped of all non-essential parts, loaded with high explosives and a remote control unit, and flown across the English Channel into a V2 launch site in France. This was a top secret project known as "Operation Aphrodite." She was selected for this mission because she had completed two tours of duty and it wasn’t felt she was structurally sound enough to complete another. A pilot and co-pilot guided the plane into the air at which time flight was taken over by remote control from a chase plane and the pilots bailed out. This was considered a brilliant way to dispose of used-up aircraft except for the fact that remote control radios were very primitive at the time and "Tain't a Bird" met her end at the bottom of the channel - which brings me back to the headphones.
I have very little of my grandfather's belongings now that he's gone. I have a watch and a hat of his. The watch is an inexpensive Timex that I will never wear partly because I’m afraid I will break it and partly because I just don’t like to wear a watch. The hat sits on a table near my front door and reminds everyone who enters and knows, of a cherished memory. But every now and then I'll get those headphones out. The headphones that my grandfather pulled off a mortally wounded friend, in the ball turret of a B17f named "Tain't a Bird," and think about the sacrifices and the courage of a man and a generation that did nothing less than save the world.
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Wow. That is a great read, Bob. I your grandpa, and you should get an A+ on that paper. :aok
Gunthr
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i am hoping more people will show something they've written. Hopefully there are a few who can show their real life angst, or real life actual experience, and express it to people who want to listen. Please have at it, and don't be shy...
Gunthr
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Originally posted by Gunthr
i am hoping more people will show something they've written. Hopefully there are a few who can show their real life angst, or real life actual experience, and express it to people who want to listen. Please have at it, and don't be shy...
Gunthr
Well I'd post scans of a "book" I made regarding growing up basically, but it'd surely get me edited, and possibly permabanned, on account of language and depictions.
Too bad, I thought it was a good story :)
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Paul snapped open his eyes, his heart racing, and stared at the ceiling. It slowly dawned on him that dawn had awakened him from a dream. It was only a dream. One of those rare, vivid dreams that we think about and remember in the first groggy minutes, only to have it fade away as the world starts pushing us around to get on with it. Get on with the day, another day in the real world.
He wasn't inside the cockpit of his F4U in his dream, he was outside, looking at himself from a third-person view in black and white like a movie reel. He saw himself turning, climbing, rolling. He was in a fierce, one-on-one battle with a MkV Zero and the pilot was good. Too good. They flew hard to try to gain some edge, a small advantage over the other. Just when each thought they were a split second away from getting a gun solution, the other would turn away in some oblique and unpredictable angle.
It was a game of sky chess and roulette where the loser dies and the winner lives with sweaty shirts, terrified in dreams that the next opponent will be smarter or faster. A deadly game of smarts and anticipation with aggressive, experienced men moving stick, rudder and throttle. A game for young men, not for someone his age.
Paul's pillow was soaking wet from the sweat running around the back of his ears and down the side of his head, making a matted mess of his hair. His olive drab T-shirt was drenched in sweat from the collar to the middle of his chest. He knew it wasn't malaria, it was just the dream again. The dream that wakes him up at that moment of terror when he knows he's made a tiniest mistake and he is about to be the pip in someone else's gunsight. He never hears the bullets hitting in the dream, but he knows.
His mattress was soaked again. He threw off the sweaty T-shirt and threw on an identical one that had the sweat washed out of it yesterday. Off he went to get a mug of black coffee. A Saturday morning cup of joe to clear the cobwebs because he was going to fly later in the day.
A million miles away, Tetsuya splashed water on his face and was rubbing as hard as he could to slap himself awake. He would be flying his MkV Zero soon. His shirt was on the floor beside the futon, both soaked in sweat. The dream.
His dream is different because it's always him against two or three opponents. One of the great ironies of the air war was that the Japanese way of group concensus and teamwork went all by the wayside when engaging an enemy. It was each man for himself. And the supposedly independent and individual US pilots worked as teams. Tetsuya was the lone wolf, surviving against the odds on wits alone.
He'll hang the futon outside later to dry it out, but first, he'll get something to eat and do the same as Paul - think.
They both think about their past air battles and are endlessly flying in their minds. They visualize angles, maneuvers, counter-maneuvers and aircraft strengths and weaknesses in three dimensions from both offensive and defensive perspectives.
Both men are modern day, three-dimensional jousters with horsepower, but no horses, and bullets that reached farther than any jousting pole could. They didn't mount a saddle. They strapped themselves into metal and glass steeds with pulleys and pistons, cables and chains, and oil, gas and hydraulic fluid pumping through their arteries. Ungainly beasts that lumbered along on land, but when they took wing, they were magically transformed into graceful, soaring knights of the air.
Paul sat at his desk and went through his pre-flight routine, as Tetsuya did also. Pilots are a superstitious lot who like things to be just right, meaning it is just right for them. Their way. It can be a little thing or a big thing, but it is always some thing. A thing they carry, do, say, think, or some small ritual they go through without fail because that's what superstitious people do. They don't want to jinx anything or stop using the tiger repellent, because they haven't seen a tiger since they started using it. It must be working.
Both men were ready and anxious to fly. They clicked the icon on their PC desktops and put their joysticks in the right position on their desks. Exactly where they like to have them, since real and internet pilots are equally superstitious.
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I write on occasion for Baen, they have "slush" submissions (un-solicited manuscripts) on line, here, http://bar.baen.com/WB/default.asp?boardid=2. There are 3 slush areas, slush for general publication, (mostly novels) Baens Universe slush an online magazine, (shorts and articles) and 1632 slush, Stories set in Eric Filnt's 1632 universe. (novels, novellas, shorts, and fact articles) 1632 slush pays 2 to 2.5 cents a word for "E" publication and another 2.5 to 3 cents a word when it hits paper. Universe pays 50 cents a word. And General slush depends on the contract with the publisher. (John Ringo started writing out of the baens slush area as did a number of other authors) I have one article that should come out in Mar 07, and 2 short stories submited, with 3 more articles blocked out and in proccess, my wife has 2 stories submitted, 3 novels blocked out, and a novella ready to go.
Hope this helps,
Gunns
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Merry was a gentle soul, funny she never really made much of an impression on me until she had her accident. She never was much of one for wanting attention. All she really seemed to want is just her basic needs. A quiet place to sit close to her friends. Food on the table and once in a while a chance to get out and spread her wings. She was quiet, what we'd call a wall flower in a older perhaps gentler age.
Merry's time of trial started about a month ago , about 10:00 am, as I was cleaning up the living room. I looked saw her sitting in one of her favorite spots. I'm busy running the vacuum cleaner and didn't see exactly what happened. All I know is that one minute she was fine, the next minute she was in a fight for her life.
She was laying still on the carpet, head back, mouth open, in a kind of soundless scream of agony.
I scooped her up, thinking she'd fallen, and that she'd pop right back up. Then I thought she was dead. But no, I was wrong on both counts. I saw an eye blink & could tell she was trying, but she still wasn't moving. Finally after a couple of intense minutes she picked herself up and looked up at me.
Now I know a lot of you are die hard Christians, and some of you know that I have had to search somewhat farther afield for my faith. I believe in willpower, and Magick, that a person who wants to badly enough can change things. I firmly believe had I not been right there that she would have died. I do know that I was doing some mighty hard thinking & asking in that couple of minutes. I was pulling down every kind of love, energy, and magic that I had ever heard of, trying to heal her, trying desperately to help.
Within a few moments it was clear that this was one girl in big trouble. Every minute or so her eyes would close, she'd kind of wobble slightly on her legs, fighting for balance & control. Then after a couple of minutes eyes would pop open again. She seemed ind of in shock, a bit dozy, like she'd gotten smacked really hard in the head. By mid afternoon she was climbing the walls wanting out with the rest of her friends. So partly against my own better judgment I let her go. She took off and found a place with the group and I thought it was going to be ok. But it was not meant to be that easy.
Half an hour later the group of friends went to leave and merry went to leave with them. She wasn't halfway across the living room when she dropped like a stone. Again I saw, and again I came to her rescue. Again I thought she was dead or dieing. In a minute she snapped out of it but this time when she came too, she had no control over her feet.
I need to explain something here, Merry is a young parakeet. Yep a bird, sits on your finger and cheeps. (We have several, how many varies from week to week.)
Merry's feet lay there curled up like seal flippers. Parakeets have 2 toes forward, 2 back, like a double scissors. So they have a pretty good grip, and a lot of control with those toes. But Merry's toes were doing nothing, even when you could tell she was trying desperately to get them under her. Now a Bird that spends 80 % of its life on perch is in big trouble with no feet.
Again she acted like she was in concussion, probably with some brain swelling. I think that when she flew, her blood pressure spiked up, and that along with the first whack she got was too much, possibly causing a small stroke or bleeding/swelling in the brain.
At any rate, her feet from the ankles down nothing moved, they just sat there. So I put her into a little cage, tried to set everything up for her. The next morning she was still with us, surprisingly enough, and was hungry. So I hand fed her, got her to drink some water and sat back to watch.
Relentlessly she'd pull herself across the cage floor with her beak. When she reached the bars she'd throw herself up, grab a vertical bar, and chin herself up. Propping herself mostly with her tail, she'd then let go and try to get HIGHER!. Talk about stubborn, this little Parakeet wrote the book on not quiting. At one point I looked up and she was actually most of the way to the top of the cage!
Well after watching a couple of hours of this interspersed with rest breaks I couldn't take it. I walked over opened the cage to pick her up. She suddenly realized that she was close to a door, throws herself into the air, out the door. And up on top of the big cage with the rest of the birds she goes. But just as she reaches the top, BAM.
Once more crumpled up in a tiny pile on the floor. Once more laying there with wings at strange angles. Head thrown back & beak open in a soundless scream. You can tell she's in agony. Once more I pick her up, and love her, pray for her, wish for her, WILL her to live, to heal, to recover. This time she lost all use of her legs from above the knee down. They actually felt "locked" or stiff, knee joints bent only under protest.
Wed morning after watching her throw herself at the bars again and again I gave up. Called my wife and said, well this is not working. I'm going to set her up on our high bookcase. Give her a flat surface to work on, close to where the other birds hang out all day. And just put it all in Gods hands, live or die, heal or not. I can't stand to watch her suffer locked away from the flock.
So I set her up with a little bird house & a hole just above floor level. With a ramp up into a big shallow bowl filled with the choicest of birdseeds. A lamp shining on the box to keep her warm. And settled in to see what would happen.
Well she quickly learned how to get in & out of her house. Grabbing the perch by her beak she'd slip in & out of the box easily in no time. When she was in the box, she'd sit with her head in the hole, so she could see what was happening. The ramp into the food bowl was the next challenge. But in a half hour she was happily munching away surrounded by the rest of the flock drawn to the feast. When she was done a quick flutter put her back in front of her box. Water was mostly hand given by syringe as she simply couldn't hold her body up enough to get her head down to drink.
At times the rest of the flock would come gather around her. Gentle chirps & greetings, you could tell that they knew she was not doing well. They tended to keep visits short, but seldom did she go 5 minutes without some member of the flock sitting close to her. Keeping a watch on her, supporting and encouraging her.
Thursday passed with no more episodes, much warming under the lamp and a very guarded prognosis.
Friday continued with her making a couple of short hops to visit the neighbors. But not much change otherwise. Saturday I sat with her and started working her legs & toes, loosening them up gently. Then letting her pull herself up off the ground by pulling on my finger, then pushing her legs into position so she could stay there.
Sunday morning she came out of her box and propped her self up right off the bat. By Sunday night she was walking, well sort of. Kind of a penguin waddle, her feet out in front of her, she was walking on her hocks. BUT SHE WALKED! Today I started seeing movement of her left toes for the first time in a week.
She's been flying around, playing, visiting the neighbors, eating better, and more often.
In short, for the first time in a LONG long week of hell. You could say maybe she can come back. Maybe she's going to lick this. I have NO idea where she found the strength, the courage, the iron will. I only know that whatever happened she just wanted 3 things. She wanted to be up high with the rest of her flock, with a quiet perch to sit on, and a bit of food from time to time.
(She has a particular preference for sunflower seeds)
Since then Merry's recovery has been a slow steady climb. She has slowly managed to get use of 2 toes on her left foot. The right foot seems to have no sensation or control at all. Toes just kind of lay there like a seal's flipper.
Most every day she puts herself through the most rigorous physical therapy you can imagine. With just her beak and 2 toes she climbs the cage walls. Up 2 inches, slide back one, then up again, and again and again until she has climbed up about a foot. She has gotten so good at slow speed flight she can hover while she sets her feet exactly right. While she is not ever going to be able to walk or perch as easily as the rest of the flock. She is managing to live an incredibly normal life for a parakeet considering her handicap.
I can not know completely how deep & black was the valley that she's traversed these last few days. Nor can I ever know how much difference I made in her healing and recovery. I only know that she is a living inspiration to me. That if a little bird that can't move her toes can keep on trying. Never giving up, never complaining, happy to be with her flock, and constantly trying to climb ever upward where the birds belong. Constantly working to come back after crippling damage, where anyone else would just give up and die or just lay there. Well what do I have to complain about. My life compared to hers is a dream.
So the next time you hear yourself complaining, or wishing that things were better. Or feel yourself down, depressed, & discouraged. When you think you have it tough, remember what Merry has gone through. Just remember, like Merry you too have your flock around you. All you need to do is let out a cheep. We maybe can't help you walk, or pay your bills, or fix whats wrong.
But we are here, and we do care, we are part of the brotherhood of the sky.
Like merry & her flock we have more in common than we have differences.
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ITBS Report
By Kevin and Karen Evans
The report lay on his desk, and Gunnar was loathe to touch it. He tried to get other work done, without having to read the dry wording of an official investigation. Besides, he already knew what was in the report. He had trained all the crews personally, and had predicted over a year ago which ones would be the first to ignore the regulations, and suffer the consequences.
Gunnar had been educated by the wizards in the USE about the benefits and hazards of the Isenbahn. As a scholar and scientist, he had been chosen to go and find out for the Emperor just what this new form of transportation entailed, how to make it run, and how to make money with it. The war was taking its toll on the coffers, to be sure, and something that could not only benefit the troops, but bring in money without taxation was a blessing indeed.
Shaking his grizzled head, he reached across the table, and picked up the report from the Imperial Transportation Safety Board, and started reading through the required paragraphs naming the inspectors, their qualifications, and their family affiliations. He put the report down again, and considered what could be done to keep the locomotives on the rails, and not have his surviving engineers hauled away by a witch-hating mob to be burned at the stake.
****
In a dark cavern, lit only by the blazing hearth beneath, Ssoreschs the demon slowly awoke. He shook his head, letting his long grey tangles stream back from his shoulders. Raising up on a elbow and stretching, he tried to sit up. Not again! They had summoned him into a room too confined and oppressive. He could not rise above a crouch. He could not stand, he could not lie down comfortably, and he certainly could not wander in this plane of existence. He was trapped in a small steel cylinder. True that the heat underneath him was comforting and reminded him of home, but he knew that as he grew in size and strength, these wizards were not going to allow him to escape. They would keep feeding him and watching his expansion, but not allow his egress until he completed the task for which he had been summoned, and then he would be sent back where he had come from. It had all happened too many times, now.
Perhaps he could talk his way out. Maybe that is how his brother, Zulzarath , had escaped in the West of this place. Oh, how he had rampaged before he died. He had killed people and destroyed their cruel metal boxes that they built to restrain demons. It had not happened for Ssoreschs yet, but he had not given up hope. His evil black eyes glittered at the thought of these soft humans suddenly vulnerable to his great powers. And as he thought these thoughts, he laughter could be heard far and wide, hissing through small openings in the chamber. His captors would soon know his rage and suffer his revenge.
****
Jens and Olaf had trained together as firemen. Their mother had been so relieved at first that they could find this kind of career, and not be drafted as foot soldiers for the army. But now, 8 month after training, she was not as happy. Jens and Olaf were not ever home, and she had to do all the farm chores by herself. Well, that was not exactly true, The twins had other brothers and a couple of cousins that lived near to Muti, and it was certain that she had already intimidated anyone she thought she needed into helping her with the pigs and chickens. Muti was not one to sit back and feel sorry for herself.
Two days ago, when they had left for this run, Muti had followed them down to the station, ranting and raving about he and his brother shirking their duties, and not providing for her in the way their father would have wanted. She had even waved her cane at them, whacking them across their rumps when she felt they were not listening. Now they were on their homeward leg of the circuit, and the truth was that he was not looking forward to confronting her again. She seemed to feel that every time they left, they should bring home gold and food, and that is not how the pay from the Imperial Railroad worked. One received his pay at regular intervals, every two weeks, and not before. And it had been made clear in all the training classes that looting in any of the towns they stopped at was frowned upon. How could they come home with things for Muti if she never let them have any of their gold?
The train had been traveling down a slope, and that meant that only one fireman needed to tend the firebox. It was Jens' turn to shovel the coal, and Olaf got a moment to stand back, wipe his sweating face on his kerchief, and lean on his shovel. Soon they would come to the rising road that lead through the pass, and that would take all the strength and effort of these two Swedish giants to keep the locomotive fed, and raging up over the mountain.
The German engineer looked over his shoulder, and saw Olaf leaning on his shovel, and whipped around in a boiling rage. “What do you think you are doing, you lazy oaf? We are on a schedule, and I am not going to let a couple of blond idiots cheat me out of the bonus I have been promised if I can bring this load in early. Now get to work.” Jurgen would never understand why these idiots had been certified as firemen, they had no understanding of bringing the train in on time.
Olaf shook his head knowing that it was not wise to anger the engineer, any more than it was wise to deal unfairly with the demon they had trapped in this contraption. While he had not listened to the lectures by the scholars and scientists about how the Isenbahn worked, he and Jens had talked about it many times, and they knew that the train ran because of the demon summoned by the Conductor, and tortured by the Engineer. He also knew that demons need to be fed on a regular basis, and that this demon consumed coal. And he had a feeling that if the engineer was not careful, the demon would escape and exact his revenge on the locomotive crew first, and then on anyone or anything else he could find.
The IR had designated this engine the Graf Leopold for one of the great heroes that the nobility seemed to remember, and nobody else did. That is not what the crew called it. To them, this locomotive was the Iron Duck because of the way she waddled down the track. She was a 4-4-0 dual purpose engine, and although the wheelsets had been inspected several times, Ducky seemed to enjoy waddling back and forth down the track at a brisk 20 miles in an hour. This trip, they were hauling iron pigs to a factory. Olaf was not sure what the factory made because it was another place that dealt with demons. But, as a matter of fact, Olaf liked the idea of his small black duck waddling across central Europe, oblivious of wars and intrigues that abounded through the cities and countryside. She did not seem to mind the name, and Jens and Olaf loved her all the more for it.
Now as they left the flat plain, and started up the grade. Olaf stepped to the front, and started to shovel. He had been known to shovel 1400 pounds of coal per hour, but that was only at the competition at the end of their firemen training. Many engineers wanted to travel with only one fireman, but Jurgen insisted on two, and the twins were just about the only firemen that would work together in the crowded cab of a locomotive. Jurgen was hard to work with because of his nasty personality, and his demand for speed and perfection. Jens and Olaf didn’t really worry what Jurgen wanted, they just shoveled coal and kept the demon fed. This is what one did to take care of the Iron Duck.
****
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Ssoreschs had grown considerably since he awoke. Now he could not even crouch, he could only remain lying on the black surface of the cavern. He huffed and fumed as he contemplated all the ways he would terrorize his jailors if he got his hands on them. He pictured boiling them alive, or ripping their living skins off. The grin on his ugly face showed an overabundance of teeth. He especially wanted to destroy someone right now. While they had been feeding him at least adequately, he was becoming increasingly thirsty. The floor under him became more and more uncomfortable, and he felt drier and drier. And that was when he realized that he could escape. He reached up to the top of the cavern, and felt the three small depressions where his voice hissed through to his jailors. And taking sludge from the depths of the cavern, he shoved as much of the rusty muck into the depressions as he could. Soon, he would be able to burst from his solitary confinement, and wreak havoc on everything he surveyed!
****
Jurgen was not a happy man. Trudy, his wife at the west end of the railroad had demanded that he get rid of Maria, his wife at the east end. And he was afraid that Trudy would find a way to do it. The trick would be to keep Maria from ever knowing about Trudy. He was not at all sure how Trudy found out about Maria, but he wasn’t going to worry about that now. What he had to do is keep Maria happy by keeping her ignorant. He stared out at the countryside without seeing the green hills or the cavalrymen training in the field. He had ceased to notice them, as every time the train came into their valley, they hooted and hollered, and tried to race the train across the meadow to where it dropped off, and the track continued on a trestle. Sometimes they even beat the Iron Duck. Jurgen shook himself awake, and shouted, “Hurry up, you dolts! I don’t want those horses to beat us again. More speed!”
Olaf and Jens were shoveling, keeping the heat up on the boiler, but it was not enough for Jurgen. He had been promised by a certain low character that if he got back before sunset today, he would get an extra 5 gold pieces. He did not ask what was in the small pouch that he kept under his shirt. He wanted the money. A man with two wives found that he needed all the gold pieces he could get.
As they left the trestle, and started up another grade, he started shouting again. “You two lazy oafs have let the pressure falter. We need more steam. I must be back by sundown, and that is only 2 hours from now. More coal, I want this train moving faster than it has ever gone.”
Olaf shook his head again. Jurgen must have gambling debts or something to need that bonus so badly. And although he knew that most of the work getting the train into town before sundown would be his and his brothers, he also knew that Jurgen would not share any of his profits with them.
“Jurgen, you are an arrogant ass! We can not put more coal in this beast, the demon is angry as it is. We must not anger him further.”
“Just shut up and shovel. I am the engineer, and I will decide when we have enough coal. We are behind schedule, and I want the fire hotter.”
When Jurgen’s back was turned, Jens whispered to his brother, “I know how to make this fire hotter. All we have to do is put in less water in. You know that every time he puts in more water, it cools his precious fire, and we have to shovel faster.”
So while Jurgen leaned out his window, checking the track ahead for cattle or obstructions, Jens surreptitiously turned the water feed handle to the left three notches. Jurgen noticed nothing, he just kept staring back at the sunset behind them, and wishing he could go faster. He did not notice that some of the hissing had stopped, and that one of the water gauges was broken. He just wanted to get home more quickly.
****
The demon’s thirst became a thundering pain all through his body. He could stand this torture no more, and screamed from the torment. As he did, he found a weakness in the wall by his foot. He placed both feet on the weakening wall, and his hands on the other wall, and pushed with all his might. Suddenly, the wall burst free, and Ssoreschs rushed out with a tremendous shout. He grabbed the three men who had been torturing him, and squeezed them in his arms until they stopped struggling, then dropped them to the floor. Then he grasped the end of the hated cylindrical cavern and tore it from its legs and threw it hundreds of feet into the air. He rushed down the train looking for other victims. The brakeman near the back of the train choked to death as he was enveloped by the demon. And Ssoreschs proceeded to tear the tracks from the ground, mangle them into tangled balls, and throw them away.
Unfortunately, the atmosphere of this plane is not supportive of Steam Demons. Ssoreschs finally died gasping and cold, having not found another person to kill.
****
Gunnar Allard, Imperial director of the railroad put the report into his outbox and sighed. The investigators found that the accident at Nueisenbannburg was due to a crown sheet failure. Further both the feedwater injector and the feedwater pump were in the closed position denying water from entering the boiler. Investigation showed that when the crown sheet was uncovered, the heat from the coal burning in the firebox caused a melt-through and the resulting pressure release ripped the crown sheet free from all the stays supporting it. A finding of operator error is temporarily reached, but no cab crew survived to confirm this conclusion.
As he put on his coat and shut off the lights to go home, Gunnar shook his head. He
looked yet another time at the plaque on the wall /The Deamon Will Kill You, If You Let
It/.
My other Ride weighs 500 tons
http://www.nmrhs.org/
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Love these stories Gents
Rolex, ya got me with that twist, thought I had it figured but ya got me
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Very, very enjoyable stuff, and inspiring. Hopefully Scuzzy will overlook any subsequent additions to the writings posted over time in this thread.
Gunthr
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Writersco - my page there (http://www.writersco.com/member.html?membernr=311)
It mostly silly angst ridden teenagers, but there are actually a few good things going on there.
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Originally posted by Major Biggles
I'm quite interested in writing a few short stories here and there, when i'm bored. I was just wondering if anyone here is a writer or someone who's dabbled in writing. I was kind of wondering where to start with it all, any tips from any enthusiasts would be great :) ty guys
I write on my spare time. But no don't choose me cause im 13 :(
Edit: btw im fairly good at writing stories.
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Back in my Warbirds days, myself and fellow writer Wabbit put together a group of short stories and published them with Burbank's Books out of Austrailia (BB's is not defunct, and the owner and proprieter died a couple of years ago...RIP, Burbank). The book was just a bit over 200 pages long, with a dozen stories in it. All were fiction, taken from our experiences playing Warbirds (with my old Squadron, the Buccaneers, and in scenarios). I wrote six, Wabbit wrote 4, and two other authors each contributed a story.
Title: "Echoes: An Anthology of Warbirds Fiction" by Jernejcic and Eager, Burbank's Books, Copyright 1999, ISBN 1-876675-00-4
As I recall, total print run was around 200 copies. While not exactly a NYT best seller, at least I can truthfully claim to be published, with my very own ISBN. :aok