A piece of writing-Everyone look, a chance to criticize me!

This is a rather old piece of writing that I had thought up for a school project. Well here it is. Remember, post any comments, criticisms and suggestions. I'm trying to cash in on this and sell it to a magazine for some quick money. Enjoy!

The sharp golden rays of the beating sun shone brightly off the freshly polished trident, truly showing the weapon in its full glory. But only for a brief second before the trident, piercing a weak gap in the flimsy body armor of its target was dyed a crimson hue. The wielder has skillfully struck him. Blood spurted from his opponent's wounded shoulder. What had amazed him was that his opponent had only slightly staggered. The beast clad in steel armor seemed unbeatable as he gladly took blows and welcomed all pain and injuries. A helmet and visor rose over his eyes, blocking any sign of humanity or intelligence within the muscular mammoth figure. Any human elements that could have been seen through the man's eyes were lost, which also meant that any hope of lessening the other man's fear was also diminished.
Quickly shrugging off the injury with a grunt, the figure begins striking haphazardly at the other man's unprotected chest. The figure wielded an axe and a sword in unison, hastily plunging them into the air striking fear and hatred in the eternal depths of his opponent's heart. In truth his opponent was incomparable to him. A tall, slightly muscular, dark skinned man with noting but a blood strained trident and a fisherman's net to defend his most precious treasure with. His life. A single scrap of armor hung from his scarred right arm, concealing his past through it. His net lying forgotten on the dusty Colloseum floor, and with trident in hand, with speed and finesse he evaded the onslaught of attacks the behemoth had to offer. Not once did he take a gamble and attempt to take blood from the grotesque monster again. Instead, while dodging the stray sword, he plotted, and thought, trying to conceive a plan, a strategy, something, anything.
The immense crowd's constant cheering had drained him of all thought, as if against him, willing him to die. To add to the endless cheers of the watchers, the other man began roaring in anger and frustration. All he needed was one blow. One single blow could end a life, that quickly, that easily, it all seemed so desperately barbaric, Rome being called civilized was an utter contradiction. But there was no time for intelligent thought now. Now was the time to let bloodlust and instincts kick in and to let logic seep through your mind to be used another time. With a compressed smirk, the dark skinned gladiator had formulated a plan. It wasn't much, but whilst constantly evading attacks from a crazed barbarian, it was enough.
It seemed like he had finally accepted his defeat and succumbed, attacking the ogre that stood before him. Metal met metal in a desperate tug-of-war as one of them gave in, one of them was destroyed. Blood poured incoherently through the triad of twin gashes. With a look of surprise the dark skinned figure thought he had won as he brought his opponent to his knees. A depiction of pure unabridged drudgery now spilled aimlessly over his face, trembling as he discovered he had only altered the speed of the beast. Miraculously he had pulled together and merged the remnants of himself that had been scattered from the bewilderment and fear. One chance remained, and he took it. Screaming an inaudible war cry in a foreign tongue the man charged at his downed opponent, right arm forward, ready to accept the blow.
Ice-cold unremorseful steel met one final time; the large axe of the ogre had demolished the other man's armor and left his arm a crippled and bloody mess. If the monster could show emotion, a smile would have most certainly entwined his horrific face as he loomed over the body of the fallen. He discarded his axe, throwing it next to the unconscious body that lay undefended on the hot ground. Raising his sword and placing his enormous foot on his enemy's still beating chest, he looked to the emperor high above in the rafters, waiting somewhat impatiently and unreadily for a reply.
Finally it came, the unmistakable thumbs up could be seen, allowing the man another day, another fight. Before the barbarian could raise his freshly planted leg he saw it hovering strangely past his eyes, blood spluttering out from it like water from a fountain. He spared a glimpse at the body on the floor, a now conscious man with the formerly discarded axe in his hand was there to meet him. The axe sat unsteadily in his sweaty grip. He drew to his feet with the last of his strength as the philistine landed to the floor with a thud and a groan. His plan had been fulfilled, his objective accomplished. Without acknowledging the presence of the emperor he steadied at the axe, preparing himself, then finally unleashing his concealed rage, he swung.

 

I'll just criticize you for now as I don't have time right now to read it.

 

You write well. But the thing is that your article isn't special. All articles - especially the ones you want to see published - must have something that draws the readers in. Try for a unique beginning and ending (possibly one with a twist) for every story that you write.

er- and could you edit the article, putting in the para breaks - easier to read...

 

Yes, paragraphs would be nice touch....

 

Sorry,I'm going to be reworking it so that it captures this "specialness" this uniqueness. I want it to become a good, profitable piece of writing, so keep the suggestions coming.

 

Just one question. How do you plan to make any money from it now that you have posted it on a world-wide accessible internet page?

 

Copyright. No one can steal it from me. Just because it doesn't ahev a copyright notice doesn't mean it's not relaly copyrighted. Either way I'm reworking it.

 

The point isn't the intellectual property rights of the piece. The point is the value of the article to the magazine is lessened because it's been made freely available over the internet. Why would they pay you for something that you give away for free?

I doubt that they read or even know about the House of Lords message board, though. If you don't tell them, I doubt that they'd know it's already been published.

 

Has its merits Vyaas, but tzehoong's right, you need a reason for people to care, that and a little bit of editing and it'd be awesome. Better than I'd expect of you. congrats.

 

Finally read it. There should be some sort of introduction IMO. I also dislike the paragraph about Rome civilized/barbaric - perhaps you could try to rephrase it. Another thing description of the fight, pehaprs you should picture them better to make reader "see" more of the fight itself. Overall it's good though it does require a few tweaks.

 

Read all that?? No way! _

 

Total rubbish. hey you asked me to critisize you.

 

It was pretty good. It stuck to the facts of ancient Roman gladiatorial battles, but you could put a little more into it.

 

Lazy good for nothing wench...

EvilA:I meant something that is constructive, not just a pointless insult..

Gamenut:Well, it was for a school assignment, so I did a half-assed job. Doesn't matter, I'm rewriting it as we speak.

 

To be honest, when I see something long, I just read the first and last paragraphs, and that's what I did, but my comment still stands accurate.

 

Hey I'm opening myself up for criticism as well, Vyaas...here's something I just wrote as a character description for my AD&D persona.


A nameless tavern, a starlit night. Creaky wooden benches, side-by-side, tables in between. Torches on the walls, flames dancing, hypnotizing. The ceiling is high, a stray sparrow perching on the highest beam. The weather-worn doors swing quietly.

The barkeep yawns. He has a prosperous, contented look – the kind all village merchants seem to have. He breaks his yawn short as he hears footsteps outside the door. Two men, robed in black, enter. With an imperceptible nod he signals for the barmaid to see to them. Travellers, he thinks to himself. Few and far between in this town, ever since the new mayor imposed a toll on outsiders who used the bridge connecting the town to the outside. They looked well able to take care of themselves, though: broad shoulders, brawny frames, and a hint of hidden, immense strength that sends shivers down spines.

The strangers seat themselves at an empty table. Glancing around them, they silently take in their surroundings.

A group of men – town guards, by the look of them – are playing a boisterous game of darts two tables away. A tall, rugged elf sits alone at the table next to theirs. He looks lost in his thoughts. A ranger, perhaps. Five grim-looking halflings whisper furtively to each other at the farthest corner of the tavern. The tallest, obviously the leader, looks one of the strangers in the eye in a subtle challenge. Almost immediately he senses that he is out of his league, and quickly turns away, pretending that he was trying to catch the barmaid’s attention. The stranger allows himself a phantom of a smile – these small-town rogues never like to lose face. At the bar, three farmers sip their mugs of ale, deep in conversation. The rest of the patrons are not worthy of notice.

“Well, hel-looo to ye, sirs! Travellers, by the looks of ye. Well, you’ve come to just the right place for a rest,� greets the barmaid cheerily. “May I recommend the roast chicken? Prepared with our very own secret blend of spices, and… �

“Two Dekarran ales and a half of wild boar. No cheese.�

“Got it,� she replies - offended, and struts away, muttering under her breath.

She returns five minutes later. Putting down the food, she is about to walk away in a huff when one of the strangers beckons. She raises an eyebrow, a little surprised.

“Sorry about before. Any news?� says the stranger, gazing her intently.

The barmaid returns the steely gaze. She sighs to herself. “Not another one of those adventuring types- ‘Oh I’m tough and I want an adventure so I’ll go to the nearest tavern and find a wrong to right!’ And so rude, too.�

The stranger’s eyes stay fixed on her.

“Oh well. It’s not like anything big ever happens here…� the barmaid relents, somehow persuaded by the stranger’s gaze.

“Nothing much. There's the harvest festival next week – crops this year have been good so it should be a grand affair. The local temple’s being complaining of a rat problem in their storerooms, some take it as a bad omen, though what of is beside me. Oh, and we have a new mayor now – Rattick Kith, his name is. Not well liked though. Some people even say he had something to do with the disappearance of our previous mayor, Derrick, but they’re just jealous, I guess.�

“Interesting. Any newcomers to this area?�

The barmaid frowns. “Well now, this town has had few visitors lately, what with the new toll on the bridge and all. There’s this elf who appeared about a month ago though. Forgot what he calls himself, but he’s being pretty popular around the townsfolk lately. I don’t trust him myself – he has some kind of strange bond with that mandolin of his – when he starts playing you begin to feel all strange and funny. Recently he’s being harping on the changes the new mayor has made to the town. Some of his opinions hold water, but I think he’s just setting himself up for trouble. The mayor dislikes him – the elf has a smart mouth and a ready answer for anything and he has a way with words. There’s been talk of the mayor hiring certain “assistants� to solve this problem for him, but you didn’t hear that from me.�

“I see. And whereabouts would we be able to find this – elf?�

She starts to enjoy the attention. “Don’t rightly know. With the winter approaching and all only the tavern regulars and the town guards go out in the evening. He does come here twice a week though. In fact,…�

The door suddenly opens. The bartender looks up, surprised. He had not heard any footsteps.

An elf saunters into the tavern. He carries a brown, aged mandolin with him. It looks like it has seen many lands and countless years of use. A dent here and there, but it is clearly well taken care of – dried plaster lines its cracked edges and its scratched body has been polished lovingly.

It is hard to decide if the elf himself is ordinary. He does not look like a casual bard lugging his instrument along everywhere he goes. He wears faded, nondescript clothes – not your typical brightly-attired musician. His frame does not attract attention – he stands about five and a half feet tall, his body slender and wiry. His half-combed hair reaches almost to his shoulders. Parted in the center, a neat braid of hair hangs down from his right ear. His lips curve upwards ever so slightly, exuding both confidence and humour.

He catches the eye of the strangers. This time it is they who have to look away - not because they feel intimidated, but if they had held his gaze a while longer they would have been unable to turn away at all. His eyes are his most striking feature; doe-brown, forever twinkling as if a joke has just been told. They seem capable of persuading anyone to do anything, to tame the most ferocious lion, to charm the ugliest hag.

The elf seats himself at a table right in the center of the room – opposite the strangers.

“Usual, if you please,� he says to the barmaid. The patrons laugh, later realizing they do not know why.

“One bottle of fine wine, one loaf of bread, three slices of cheese – coming right up,� comes the automatic answer. The barmaid leaves the Strangers and hurries to the bar.

The elf is sitting alone. At first glance he appears restless – twiddling his thumbs, running his fingers through his hair, tapping his foot. But an experienced eye would see beyond this and recognize the dormant energy that fills him. He is uncomfortable when doing nothing.

As if prearranged, the wine arrives first, the bread and cheese exactly after the bottle is half empty. The drinking of the wine is a performance in itself: the bottle touches the rim of the glass lightly, the sound of the flowing liquid tinkling into a jaunty tune. With a deft flick of the wrist the bottle is replaced. The wine glass is slowly lifted to the lips. It seems like nothing is happening but slowly, surely the glass is drained; no drop remains.

He smacks his lips after the bottle is empty. He sits absolutely still. Two minutes pass. As if reaching a decision he nimbly jumps on the table and brings out his mandolin in a practiced motion. He strums a single chord; to tune it, but he already knows it is in tune. He sings.

The patrons begin to clap along. It seems like the only thing to do. Even the lone ranger begins to tap his foot. The music is catchy, impudent, mischievous. Every string rings clear, every strum varied but cohesive.

One of the Strangers looks at the other – he is clapping in time as well. He frowns, trying to catch his companion’s eye; he then realizes he is subconsciously humming the tune. He has never heard it, yet it sounds familiar.

The bard sings of many things: love, honour and freedom; why the moon only shines when the sun sets, how dogs became the friend of man. His words are easy to understand, his lyrics light and jovial even when his themes are not.

The Strangers perk up their ears – the Bard is singing of the mayor:


Your Mayor

Of fools and simpletons we have often heard
Of madmen and politicians with plans absurd
But my dear friends you would do well to know
How our best friend the Mayor intends to show
His power, his might, his ample backside
His wealth, his wisdom, his infinite kingdom

Travellers shake their heads in dismay
At what they are charged at the bridge this day
Woe to the family who cannot afford his levies
For he shows no mercy; their house will be seized
The alms you give to the temple in good faith, he uses
Three-tenths of to maintain his wasteful ways.

Have you not stopped to think
Of how Derrick met his demise?
Did our beloved mayor not use his cunning
And lure him with his lies,
A futile struggle, a stifled scream,
A death not entirely unforeseen.


As abruptly as he had begun, the Bard stops his song. His eyes dart around. The tavern is as quiet as a grave. Some of the townspeople scratch their heads, the wiser ones touching their chins thoughtfully. His song has achieved its desired effect.

He strides up to the bar. “Another of my usuals,� he grins.

“Of course, of course,� smiles the bartender. He bends down, reaching into the bar.

“Oh… sorry,� the barkeep exclaims.

The Bard frowns. “Ran out of cheese?� he asked, looking doubtful for the first time.

“No�

“Well, then what’s the problem?�

The barkeep swings his hand up savagely; he is holding a dagger. Poison drips from the razor-sharp tip. He nods urgently to the Strangers. “He’s the one!�

Wicked-looking scimitars, hidden beneath the folds of billowing robes, glint as they are brought into the firelight. With a yell of fury the assassins lunge for the Bard.

Caught by surprise, the Bard narrowly avoids the bartender’s first poisonous thrust. The blade grazes his cheek. He turns towards the assassins. He draws his own weapon: a simple, undecorated longsword. Even in this critical time he cannot ignore his performer’s instinct: he twirls his blade round a few times. It is obvious that he values finesse over brute force.

The first assassin yells as he swings his scimitar in a vertical arc. His blow is parried. The second slashes wildly at the Bard’s chest; he nimbly jumps aside. But he is now surrounded. Reckless he may be, but he knows that he is no match for all of them together.

The Bard executes a series of stances in rapid succession. His opponents watch warily, unsure of what he might attempt. He lifts his sword straight above his head. It begins to glow.

“Wyvern, I summon thee!� he cries.

A loud thud comes from behind; there is a sound of furniture being flung about. Loud crashes and the breaking of glass come from the kitchen.

The attackers turn around anxiously. They had been hired to take care of a nuisance, not to tangle with a wyvern. And how on earth could this infernal Bard have gained the power to summon such a creature? One of the assassins utters a silent prayer.

“Barkeep, you take care of the Bard! We’ll try to stave the creature off!� bellows one of the assassins.

“Ye-ye-yess, sir,� the now-terrified bartender stammers, turning around.

He sees nothing but an open window, curtains flapping in the night wind.


--------------------------------------

A splash of water. A drenched figure drags himself to shore. He manages a private smile. Thank goodness for Light and Ghost Sound.

 

That's just a Description???!?!

 

Mr Smile says: " "

 

It sets the mood for playing .

 

ummmm... yeah. my descriptions are kind of "girl. humanish. and stuff." well, not that bad, but still they're short enough for people to read!!!