|
|
Post by Grey on Oct 2, 2012 6:26:38 GMT -6
Hello, everyone.
I have a favour to ask.
In my spare time (not that there's all that much of it at the moment), I'm a bit of a writer. I've entertained the idea of being an author one day, but we'll see about that, ehehehe.
On more than one occasion, I have criticised the writing ability of Erin Hunter and complained about missed potential. I figured it was about time I put my money where my mouth was and tried to see if I could do a better job - or at least one I would have preferred to read.
A few weeks back on Ailuronymy, a joke started up about dropbears being Australian warriors and we laughed about the idea of someone writing that as a fanfiction. I'm not clever enough to write comedy, but the idea stayed with me for a while.
To cut a long story short, I'm writing a fanfiction. It's about four groups of cats, set in Australia and with a typical cosy-style 'whodunnit' sort of mystery plot. There's a couple of different perspectives, a little bit of non-linear narrative thrown in and it's only about seven or so chapters in length. It might take me a while longer to finish it, since my exams are coming up fairly soon.
What I'm wondering is whether or not the good people of Fourtrees Resurrected are able or interested in helping me out. You're all clever, creative people, so I am hoping that - if I posted said story - you could give me honest opinions on positives, negatives and everything in between, so I can make it as good and enjoyable to read as is possible for me.
To be honest with you all, I am ridiculously nervous about this. I am not used to showing anyone my writing, besides a close friend or two. Fingers crossed that I don't embarrass myself too much, ehehehehe.
|
|
|
|
Post by Grey on Oct 2, 2012 10:03:35 GMT -6
Absolutely, Rolo. I'd be delighted and honoured to have you glance at it, when time allows.
The rest of it is where I will probably need the most assistance. I know the setting and such pretty well, and I have a couple of aussie friends in the wings who are 'helping' with dialogue. I say helping in a slightly cautious way because I am not entirely sure if it's actually going to help (or whether I am just going to get mad and throw all slang out the window). I mean, AA suggested I watch Australian dramas to get the slang right.
I'd rather scoop my brain out my ear with a rusty fork.
Thank you very much. That's excellent. The more perspectives I hear from, the better, I think.
You're scaring me now. You're making it sound like it's good or something. Honestly, don't raise your expectations too much. (But thank you).
|
|
|
|
Post by Grey on Oct 6, 2012 1:27:36 GMT -6
Okay, so here we go. I've edited this a few times, so it shouldn't have too many glaring faults (if you see one, let me know. In fact, let me know anything you think, that would be great, cheers). There's a few little things I should probably explain first.
The sections in brackets and italics are supposed to be footnotes. They're in the centre of the works because scrolling to the end is painful; also, this is trying to be user-friendly for the internet format of forums and general posts, et cetera.
The other thing I should probably mention is that I made a language for cats. It seemed like a good idea at the time. It's kind of in this story a fair bit, because reasons.
Also, there is a remnant or two of Australian slang still in this, such as sheila. I don't actually like it being there at all, but a friend does so I am giving it a temporary trial. Personally, I think it can go, but I'll see what everyone here thinks.
We begin.
CHAPTER ONE.
Where are you going, stream?
Far, far away.
Take me with you, stream.
Take me on your dark journey.
- Watership Down, 1978.
It was the season of the wattles and in the late afternoon there was no lovelier sight than the swaying canopies of strong-smelling trees, the smooth rippling sound of the billabong below, the sky changing slowly from pale and cloudless to bruise-purple-blue with streaks of deep orange at the jagged horizon of mountains, and of course, the wattles themselves.
Like tickling clusters of stars, great sprays of the flowers disrupted the grey-brown and green landscape on this side of the road and on the other side, which was called the scrub country, the same bursts of golden could be seen between the various gum trees.
It had been a bountiful season with plenty of rain for a change, and that rain had brought prosperity and peace to both countries. The distant bunyip dam was almost filled with muddy water and the billabong – for which the billabong country was named – flowed strongly for the first time in many moons. Drifting wattle blossoms, downy and bright, were carried on the warm breeze and danced in circles; now and then, one would catch on the water’s surface and be drowned, swallowed by the river.
There was an old stone-and-timber bridge over that same river, so that the road could continue on its way undisturbed. And on that bridge, or rather, on the ledge of that bridge, there sat two cats. They were both tabbies and the brown cat was sitting up, watching the lowlands with a rapt expression.
Cats do not have all that many expressions*, and most of them conveyed through their ears and tails. This cat, for instance, had her ears focused, her eyes unblinking and her whiskers held forward like stiff spiderweb strings testing the slightest movements of air. Her dusky grey companion was far less alert.
He was crouched beside her with his paws tucked underneath himself and his tail wound around his body, and instead of admiring the falling sun, he stared down at the dark river. Leaves carried on the water’s surface collected together at the banks, building up in sodden clumps among the stones. The cat’s reflection looked back up at him.
(*Cats may not have many expressions but that’s hardly unusual among animals. Snakes have only three expressions – fear, anger or neutral, the latter being their most common. Most kinds of birds are, physically speaking, facially expressionless in comparison to most mammals and instead use their calls as their main means of communication.)
“Will you remember me?”
When someone says something quietly and thoughtfully, as the bloke-cat just had, there is usually a certain kind of enchantment put on all those lucky enough to hear it – the sense of being part of something singular and special, being part of a sort of secret for that person (or cat) alone. That was definitely how Brownwhisker felt and, as many do when whispered to, she answered in a hushed voice.
“’Course I will, mate. You know that.”
She forced a purr and moved to bump her head against her companion’s neck in a reassuring, affectionate way, but he leaned away from her. She flattened her ears apologetically. She had forgotten it had been troubling him again and silently cursed her absentmindedness; she was his closest friend, after all.
“Sorry,” she said, sitting up again and washing her face with a paw, hopefully covering her own almost imperceptible sadness. After another pause, she opened her mouth to say something else but a rumbling sound began instead.
A tin-beetle* was trundling along the black road towards the bridge and the two cats stiffened, their pelts bristling as it passed. It didn’t seem to notice them, continuing on its way and into the distance with the rattle of an old engine. Soon it was gone.
(*A tin-beetle is the cat term for a car. All kinds of metal are called “tin” to cats, and all things made of metal are described in a similar way – ‘tin-bramble’ is barbed wire, so on.)
“Tsika! I hate those things,” she hissed as she relaxed again and scratched herself with her hind foot. “One of them threw some tin-whatsit the other day and it hit me square on the head before I even had the chance to look ‘round. Reckon I’ve still got a cut behind my ear from it.”
It was beginning to get dark. A small flock of crested pigeons flew overhead, looking for a place to roost for the evening, and the sound of their whirring wings was pleasant to hear. In another season’s time, it would be the season of the cicadas and the whole world would reverberate with their shrill cries until the next change of season and the world would be left eerily quiet again. Brownwhisker twitched the tip of her tail over the edge of the bridge and her friend, Mulgapelt, sat up, finally looking away from his own reflection to look at the sky and watch the pigeons settle into a rustling gum tree.
“D’you know what I wonder?” he said.
“No-o? What?”
“Well, sometimes I wonder how many ancestors there are – or were? – how many there are now, and how many of them have been forgotten because they weren’t even doing anything interesting enough to be in anyone’s memory for very long. They were just being there in the background, you know, and then they die, and they’re dreaming now but no one remembers them because they weren’t important, they never did anything great, they just lived until they died – and that’s going to be me.”
“Mulgapelt, you don’t know th –“
“Yeah, I really do, Brownwhisker. So does everyone. They just don’t want to say it, like how you don’t.” He gave a sigh. “I just don’t want it to be over, you know – I’m only young. I should have time to do something worthwhile, because otherwise you know who I’m going to be? No one. Dust. I’m going to see everyone ‘til I’m less than dust but no-one’s going to think of me long enough to remember my name even. I don’t want to be gone forever, and I don’t dream enough to know if I’ll be okay, and I’m so afraid, I’m just so scared -”
Brownwhisker’s ears flattened against her skull and she lashed her tail. “Stop it. You’re going to work yourself up into a state saying stupid stuff like that.”
Mulgapelt took no notice of her sharp remark, flexing his claws against the timber of the bridge. He seemed entirely absorbed in his own faraway thoughts, his eyes open but vacant, staring, at some unseen place in the distance. His muzzle moved as though he was speaking, but no sound occurred. Nothing except his own heavy breath, quickening with panic.
Brownwhisker sniffed at him. He still didn’t notice her.
“Mulgapelt, you in there?” She nudged him gently with a paw, turning her head from one side to the other in wary curiosity. She had seen him like this before – possessed by some kind of fearful, enthralled trance – and it no longer frightened her into anything more than bristling her hackles or curling her lip. Like all cats, Brownwhisker was an inquisitive creature with a ready fixation for anything vaguely mysterious, from a small fluttering heartbeat in amongst rustling leaves to an abandoned pipe just wide enough to squeeze through and investigate. Her friend’s odd, though less and less infrequent, behaviour was morbidly transfixing and it was only when he started to mutter to himself, rushed and spitting half-nonsense words, that she blinked and nudged him once more. “Stop. You’re doing it again; you told me to tell you, remember? Well, you’re doing it now.”
She nipped him lightly on the front leg, an attempt to get his attention. “Mulgapelt! Listen to me! I care! I am going to remember you so hard my grandkits’ kits are going to dream of you, whether they like it or not, all right? And they’re going to remember the right you, and not all this... stuff, because this isn’t what you are.”
He made a retching sound and coughed once.
“I’m... okay,” he said, spluttering slightly as a stray fleck of dribble fell from his jaws. He turned his head to look at Brownwhisker with gratitude evident in his eyes. “Thanks. I think... I just need to sit for a while. My head is killing me.”
Brownwhisker chuffed in agreement, watching him with one ear as she glanced at the horizon. The sun was finally gone and the last light of day was fading. The phrase “keeping an ear on someone” is a common one among cats, as they have flexible little ears and often twist them this way and that to keep an eye – or more accurately – an ear on their surroundings, as Brownwhisker was doing. She could hear Mulgapelt’s breathing slowly returning to normal.
“Getting dark. We should probably head back now, don’t you think? Everyone’s going to be waking up. You up to it?”
She glanced at Mulgapelt and he nodded stiffly.
“Just not too fast, all right?”
They hopped down onto the road and padded along the bridge, with Brownwhisker leading and Mulgapelt trailing behind with slightly wonky movements, as though he were disoriented or maybe a little unbalanced. His guide occasionally brushed the tip of her tail against his pink nose, reminding him where she was as they turned off the bridge and began to descend the reasonably steep slope by picking their way between lichen-stained rocks and tree trunks, the air dense with the smell of river water and damp earth and the sweet-bitter-sharp scents of aromatic bark. Mildewed leaves filled the cooling air with a cloying, musty scent and as the two cats approached the water’s edge, the sounds of buzzing insects began to build. Irritatingly shrill though quiet, the mosquitoes hovered and hesitated around the cats' shoulders and Brownwhisker shook her head in annoyance, twitching her ears with sharp, rapid flicks.
There was a fallen log stretched across the narrowest part of the billabong and they two cats carefully crossed it, one after the other, and leaped down onto the other side, pushing their way through the dense clusters of rushes. The familiar scents of their home mingled with the scents of many equally familiar cats and soon they were wandering into the South-mob’s camp, right at the furthest border of billabong country. Under the starry sky and black branches, the mob was going about their usual business – hauling slippery fish into the mangrove tree or tearing at the trunks of the paperbarks to sharpen their claws. Cats lounged between the boughs, stretching and yawning; all except mothers and young kittens slept in the trees, far away from the danger of flooding and the discomfort of wet bedding.
Mulgapelt loped gracelessly across the camp, much to the amusement of some ankle-biters. They stopped their tussling for a moment to watch him pass and copied him as best they could, flicking out their paws at odd angles as they walked or giving up and tumbling over onto the marshy ground. They purred and squeaked in delight, cuffing at each other, but Mulgapelt paid them no attention at all. He just wandered past them, much to Brownwhisker’s surprise. She had seen him snap at ankle-biters before, simply for mentioning his occasionally queasy walk in the morning, and it dismayed her to watch her long-time friend change so much, and so quickly.
Suddenly, she understood. Mulgapelt was heading straight for the karutsi-ka's keeping-place, oblivious to everything around him.
“Hello? Quailheart?” he said, pressing his head against the tree. “Are you there?”
The hollow, surrounded by gnarled and arching mangrove roots, made no reply. Mulgapelt swore and a dark sheila looked at him disdainfully, whispering something to the tabby beside her loudly enough for the nearby cats to hear. “They go mad first, you know.”
“He’s not here,” said a small, ginger sheila, leaning around one of the roots beside Mulgapelt. “I’ve been looking for him since late afternoon. He’s not anywhere on this side of the billabong, and the patrol said they haven’t seen him either. Right puzzle, if you ask me.”
“I didn’t,” said Mulgapelt. He sat down and the ginger sheila purred, waving her tail contentedly. She squeezed under an arching root and sniffed at his fur, inspecting him from all sides with narrow-eyed and unconcerned curiosity, purring all the while.
“Stop being so stroppy. You’ve got to stop trying to bite people that try to help you. What’s the matter anyway?” She sat in front of him, almost nose-to-nose and seemingly amused by his humourlessness.
“Headache.”
“Why didn’t you say so? I’m not training under Quailheart for no reason – even though he’s here, like, hardly ever. I’m sure we’ve got something for you.”
She scrabbled quickly away into the mangrove hollow, rustling around with the stores inside and talking to herself about what it was she needed. Mulgapelt twitched his tail tip and Brownwhisker, who had been talking with another mob-mate, walked over to him. She was about to speak when an ear-splitting yowl broke across the camp.
A sodden, mud-splattered stranger crashed through the reeds a heartbeat after, hurtling blindly towards the South-mob campground as another nipper wailed a second alarm from the high branches of a she-oak. The intruder, a tawny-coloured bloke-cat, came to a skidding halt and paused, dripping with water, as the mob waited, watching. No one moved to attack him. Claws sheathed and unsheathed, flexing against the soft earth.
“What is the meaning of this?” snarled a sheila as she leaped down from her casuarina tree. She was large and imposing, all taut muscle and short, stained white fur. The East-mob cat crouched in deference, as was customary in the presence of a dreamer. “Stand. Explain yourself.”
“It’s Galahfang,” said the bloke-cat at once. He was out of breath but careful to speak loud enough for the entire mob to hear him. “She’s dead!”
Now, the actual term that he used was kapitkathar, which means “killed by another cat”*. Cats have nine different words for describing various ways of dying: death by drowning, death by lack (meaning starvation or thirst), death by fire, death by getting hit by a vehicle, death in one's sleep, death by being killed by another cat, death by being killed by an animal enemy, death by illness and the last one, the mysterious death. The mysterious death, so say cats, is what happens to a cat that is caught by humans and disappears forever. Sometimes cats vanish without a trace and a reason is never found or are found dead in ways unnatural and without explanation – there are many stories about this, often told to young, gullible cats by their elders.
(*There is no exact translation for a murderer in the language of cats.)
Hissing broke out around the trees as tails twitched, agitated and wary. Brownwhisker recognised the tawny cat as a battler from further downstream, the drier half of the billabong country. The East and South mobs, having no reason for animosity in such a wet season, were often amiable with each other – which was a lot more than could be said for the scrub country mobs across the tar-snake. The billabong country cats were friends, for the most part, and the death of Galahfang was a distressing thought for many of them.
Mulgapelt squinted through the star-lit darkness. “Who it is? I can’t see him.”
Another cat shouldered his way into the camp and a skittish nipper sprang away from the reeds in surprise. Brownwhisker and Mulgapelt snapped their heads around to face him in alarm, but it was only Quailheart, carrying a cluster of strong-smelling plants in his jaws. He dropped them and tilted his head, his tail curling. “It’s still as death about here, what’s going on?”
For a tense heartbeat, no one said anything.
“You’ve got that right!” It was Flamepath, the ginger sheila, looking absolutely delighted by the night’s events. She was singularly unaffected by any kind of horror, and seemed to take unrepentant glee in dabbing at festering wounds or telling grisly stories. “Some East-mob cat’s gotten her throat torn out by someone; it’s all very mysterious and –“
The medicine cat snapped at her to shut it. “There’s some screaming going on across the tar-snake at the moment,” he reported, “and it sounds like a battle’s warming up. You’d better be off, I think.” He glanced first to the dreamer, who nodded in agreement, and then to the East-mob messenger.
“Yes,” said the tawny bloke-cat. He faltered. “Thank you,” he added, distinctly awkward.
“Go,” said the white-pelted dreamer. The tawny tom sped away into the night without another moment’s pause.
“Should we follow him?” asked a dark tabby bloke-cat with a rasping voice.
“Leave him. He won’t stay on our side for long – not if his mob’s readying for a fight. The midnight patrol will need to re-mark that edge as well. Make sure it’s done.”
The bloke-cat nodded, trying to look solemn but seeming somewhat pleased with himself. The other cats began to relax again, washing faces or padding eagerly over to the tabby, probably to organize the patrol. The kittens started to tumble about again, kicking with their hind legs as they grappled.
“On second thought, I’ll lead it, Stormstripe,” said the dreamer, prowling over to him. He flattened his ears to his skull in disappointment. “If there’s trouble on the boundaries, I ought to see it for myself. Come with me, we need to discuss...”
“Fancy this!” said the ginger sheila, cheerful and animated. “What I wouldn’t give just to creep over there and have a look, you know?”
“That’s nasty,” said Brownwhisker, wrinkling her nose. Though she said it with a purr, she had never been especially fond of the medicine cat apprentice. Flamepath took far too much interest in diagnosis than the treatment, in her opinion. “She’d be really angry with you if you went disturbing her body like that. Better to leave it alone to, uh, go away in it’s own time.” Just the thought was enough to make her lip curl.
Flamepath’s tail was held high and she waved it in glee at Brownwhisker’s evident repulsion. “It's just for research. Probably full of maggots already,” she said, a little vindictive. “You know what the flies do, don’t you? They lay their little eggs in the soft mouth and tongue and inside the ears, and your skull all fills up with worms.”
Brownwhisker gagged. “That’s disgusting.”
“Can you stop?” snarled Mulgapelt. Both Brownwhisker and Flamepath started in surprise, ears flattening slightly. They had forgotten that he was there. He had been pressing his head to the tree again, tail coiled around his paws. His agitation was almost tangible.
“Sorry,” muttered Brownwhisker.
Flamepath just watched Mulgapelt with a concentrated, clinical stare. “I wonder,” she said, as though balancing along a very fine branch above water. “I always imagined that a death like this would make me curious about who did it. But I’m not.”
Mulgapelt turned his head around to look at her. “If not who, then what?”
“No, not what,” said the sheila as she fluffed up her coat and padded away. “I’d want to know why. There wasn’t anything special about her, after all...”
END OF CHAPTER ONE.
|
|
|
|
Post by Grey on Oct 6, 2012 20:37:28 GMT -6
"Paruhuth" is the cat word for clusters of stars or constellations, with "paruhuthan" meaning an individual star. This is usually changed to "path" for a star, which is then given as a suffix to a specific star - for example, the North star would be Northpath (though, north would be in feline).
So, "path" means -star for cats. However, I didn't want to use -star (because of the ingrained connotations for leader), so it's just -path instead. Either way works, because the stars are the mobs' main form of navigation at night, and -path represents the fact the apprentices are being led towards their future and discovering it along the way, et cetera.
It's just a manufactured coincidence that worked for the story.
|
|
Cobalt
New Member
%\2\%
Posts: 44
|
Post by Cobalt on Oct 6, 2012 21:58:36 GMT -6
This is beautiful. Just. Lovely.
If this were a real book, I would buy it and stay up all night to read it and then read it again and treasure it forever.
And now, proper critique, because as a writer I know that critique is always a good thing. Especially when the writing's already great. Hmm. The slang's incorporated very well, I must say. It feels completely ingrained in the universe, and not at all overdone. So good job on that. I also like the way it gradually lets up on description, instead of just cutting off to make way for the story. Everything seems very good and natural for most of the way. Especially the way we get to know Mulgapelt. We gradually slip into his thoughts until suddenly--something's wrong. And already it's so very obvious that there's so very much more of him than we are seeing. It's beautiful.
The only thing that I can really say I don't like is that sometimes the tidbits you insert on the language of cats or other bits of the world, while interesting, can seem a bit forced. Such as the "keeping an ear on someone". While a lovely little thing that really shows how well you know the world you're writing, it seems a bit awkward just after mentioning how "the last light of day was fading". Same kind of thing later on. While I love this language, it seems to be slipped in at kind of odd places.
Walking around, getting the feel of the land. Love the description, it forms such a clear picture. And there's cats, plenty of cats. We're introduced breifly to the white-pelted dreamer, as well as Quailheart, Flamepath, and the East-mob messenger. Very well done here. Each character's got a lot of depth behind them and a lot to tell us. Oddly enough, I really like Flamepath. She just seems really interesting, and she's got a lot of potential. All of them do, really. Can't wait to hear more about them.
And the chapter comes to a close. Beautifully done, Grey.
And just so you know, you're getting art for this.
|
|
|
|
Post by Grey on Oct 7, 2012 3:01:15 GMT -6
I haven't commented on this so far, because I am suffering from mild shock. Mainly because I was so nervous, and then you all said such nice things, and I didn't know what to do so I did nothing for a while. I figured it was about time to stop hiding under my bed and face the music.
This is reminding me of an old English teacher I had. She called me Darling; actually, she gave everyone nicknames like that. The two girls in my class were Sweetheart and Little Treasure, and the other guy was Precious, ehehehehe. She was such a great teacher.
You are much too kind and generous with your compliments, I think. Thank you. I'm just glad no one has hated it so far.
That's probably the greatest compliment anyone could give me. I don't know how to respond to it, though. Thank you.
To be honest with you, I didn't like that part and it was a last-minute thing as well. I agree with you - I just need to find a way to make it less abrupt and disruptive.
I have a feeling that's mostly because I have no idea how to footnote and the format pretty skitz; I kind of just put the asides anywhere in the general vicinity. Perhaps someone could suggest a better system or way of managing this?
I was bored of canon medicine cats. I wanted to write someone who was a grot and a ghoul about the gross parts of the craft, and was a vindictive little cynic as well. I got the idea from the numerous trips in the car with a pair of physiology-anatomy students.
I would seriously love art for this. Like. So much. If I could have illustrations for this story, it would be nothing short of perfect, ehehehehe.
|
|
