Genre: Science Fiction
Word Count: 2745
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I was down on the bayou when I found him, the little blue man. He was hurt real bad, and I could hear him screaming from up on the hill. His screams sounded more like fingernails against a blackboard than like a voice. At the time, I didn’t know what it was making that horrible noise, but I had to find out, so I walked down the hill into the swamp. It was in a grove of cattails that I found him.
His body was light blue, almost gray, and around his neck, he wore a chain holding a topaz crystal inside a glass amulet of some kind. I couldn’t tell his height at first because he was sitting in a foot of water and leaning his head against a clump of cattails. He turned his head to look at me, and the blackboard screeching stopped. Each one of his big eyes looked like the dome light in my truck. They were shiny like that. He had a little mouth and two tiny slits where his nose should be. He just looked at me and slowly blinked those big dome lights, but he didn’t say anything.
[This message has been edited by Spaceman (edited June 29, 2005).]
Sadly, I don't have time to read the whole thing because I'm behind with my crit group, (shouldn't even be here) but I saw your name and wanted to poke my head in.You've got one instance of passive voice which you might want to take a look at.
quote:
It was in a grove of cattails that I found him.
Also as I read I was waiting to find out how he/it was hurt...maybe it comes later. Maybe he's not hurt at all...
Anyway, I'll read but I warn you I'm a picky bugger!
quote:
You've got one instance of passive voice
That was intentional, as I'm trying to give a feel for how someone from Louisiana might think it, rather than going for correct grammer...without going full-blown cajun.
[This message has been edited by Spaceman (edited June 29, 2005).]
I was down on the bayou when I found him, the little blue man. He was hurt real I think you should put the full word - really in here. I know you used the cut down 'real' because we're in his POV, but I think the full word works better bad, and I could hear him screaming from up on the hill who was on the hill, the alien or the MC? . His screams sounded more like fingernails against a blackboard than like remove the 2nd occurance of like a voice. At the time, I didn’t know what it remove the it was making that horrible noise, but I had to find out, so I walked down the hill into the swamp okay i just found out that the MC was on the hill . It was in a grove of cattails that I found him.
His body was light blue, almost gray, and around his neck, he wore a chain holding a topaz crystal inside a glass amulet of some kind. I couldn’t tell his height at first because he was sitting in a foot of water and leaning his head against a clump of cattails think up a different word to use here. we've heard cattails already . He turned his head to look at me, and the blackboard screeching stopped. Each one of his big eyes looked like the dome light in my truck. They were shiny like that i dont think this last sentence fits very well. maybe its not required . He had a little mouth and two tiny slits where his nose should be. He just looked at me and slowly blinked those big dome lights, but he didn’t say anything.
These comments are just my humble opinion though.
It's hooked me in. I'd really like to know more about what happens in the story. I'm fascinated to find out what happens with the alien. Unfortunately, I dont think I have the time to offer to crit the whole thing for you though (even though I would love to as an excuse to find out what happens).
I did feel a hint of E.T. in this though. But I suppose its hard to do an alien story without being reminded of E.T. I think its that there's a scene in E.T. where he gets poorly and is found in a desperate state in a kind of swamp somewhere.
I expect someone in the UK is going to get tripped up by the language I selected to make this sound like the POV character is from the deep south, unless you've been there. (Same as if you wrote a story that takes place on the Isle of Man. I would have to take the dialect on faith.) Most of what you pointed out was inserted intentionally for that reason. Is it incorrect usage? Yes. Is it right for this story? I believe it is.
But I am pleased that I have a reason for everything you would do differently. I would be very worried if you found things that were a surprise to me.
Thanks again.
[This message has been edited by Spaceman (edited June 29, 2005).]
Ahh great. I'm glad that's all cool.
I dont really get with the different regional dialects you foreigners have, so some of it just sounded a bit weird to me.
That's great though if it all fits with your intentions.
Cheers.
I didn't really get the deep-south flavor from what you posted, unfortunately. Quasi-Midwestern, maybe. But certainly not deep south. Dialects are rough to do in fiction. It's really hard to balance between "over the top" and "not enough".
Do you have anyone around you with a real down-home way of speaking that you could get to talk your story at you? If so, tape record them telling you about your story (not reading it, but telling it in their own words), and listen to it a couple of times. Write with that voice in your head. It might help you a little with the regional flavor.
[This message has been edited by Jeraliey (edited June 29, 2005).]
Henri Dupre was expecting an ordinary day today. He woke up at the normal time, showered at the normal time, ate breakfast at the normal time, and slipped out the door for his morning walk at the normal time, just like he’d been doing almost every day for the past five years. Everything was as normal as it could be, right up to the time he met the little blue guy. That was not normal.
Henri walked the same five-mile path through the bayou every morning, and counted himself lucky to be able to enjoy the simple pleasures in life. Not everyone was fortunate enough to be able to step out the back door into the Louisiana bayou, and Henri savored every step of his morning walk, so when he heard a strange screeching sound from around the bend, he knew something was wrong. It wasn’t a normal bayou sound at all. It wasn’t even a normal sound in New Orleans!
A large clump of cattails and reeds blocked his view of the swamp ahead. Not knowing what to make of the strange screeching, Henri stopped short of...