The Writing Critique Thread


I have scales
Honest Silvers
What's the prompt for the assignment? If you have to keep it to 300-so words, I think what you have now is pretty good. If it's going to be longer, that style is probably going to wear thin.

The way the piece starts is very polarizing. Anyone who shares your opinion is going to be nodding right from the second sentence, anyone who disagrees won't even consider your view. The tone is very conversational. That's good, because it makes it easy to relate to, but it might also be bad if your teacher wants more "academic" writing. Depends on the prompt.

Also, the word "and" comes up about 15 times and is the first word of sentence 3 of those times. Most of the lists are divided with "and" instead of just a comma which -- while it contributes to the conversational tone -- makes the reader (aka made me) feel berated by your point of view.

Lastly, something I struggle with constantly when writing about things that are important to me is over-emphasizing my conclusions. I know my own thought process, and I can't see the assumptions I'm making, so for me, a certain phrase or claim is totally valid and stands entirely on its own. My readers might disagree.

What I see here is basically "I believe X because I have decided Y based on Z, which I know from..." etc. Not a bad thing, and starting at X and working your way back can be a good way to win over recalcitrant readers... when X is something everyone can agree on. Belief in a higher power is about as far from something everyone can agree on as it gets, so I think you'd be better served starting from A (the initial observation/thought/book/whatever that got you started wondering about this) and jumping down to X with a few big, purposeful leaps.


new fish
Ruler of this [CHAT]
Honest Silvers
Thanks! That really helps a lot, especially the last point. I'll keep that in mind when I'm revising.

In response to your question, the prompt is basically to talk about anything you believe in for 300-so words. And, yeah, the tone is supposed to be more conversational as opposed to academic.

thanx to everyone else too you guys are aces
Last edited by a moderator:


Your Friendly Neighbourhood Space Captain
Honest Silvers
If you guys want I can post my Sci-Fi short story I did for my Sci-Fi lit class before I graduated (I'll just have to find it)


Your Friendly Neighbourhood Space Captain
Honest Silvers
I found it! (It is a little long, but it was to be a four page short story when double-spaced) Pretty much based on Warhammer 40k.

"Roger that, Op-Com, Blacklight out." Victor said through the open com to command, relaying the orders to his squad. They made their way to a clearing about 30 metres away and waited in silence. After what seemed like an endless span of time had passed, several Arm forces came into the clearing. Victor yelled "Commence firing, brothers!" to his squad, his voice hard and metallic through his great steel helm speaker. They leapt from the trench they'd been hidden in and charged forward with their weapons blazing. Victor leading them with a power blade, and a large standard mounted on his back. Following his lead were Ibrahim with a large plasma bolter firing scorching fires across the clearing and Priad with a laser pistol and a hefty combat shield.

The Arm forces had hardly realized what had happened when Victor tore through their sergeant's torso, cutting him down where he stood. In quick succession, Ibrahim and Priad felled the other three with quick bursts of their weapons. "There must be more," Victor said, observing the forest. "That cannot be all of them." Priad, attempting to lighten the mood, said "Perhaps they saw their brethren fall and fled like cowards." They all shared a chuckle and moved forward into the forest very cautiously, there had to be more. Suddenly, Victor's tactical map on his visor burst into static. "Get to cover, now!" He shouted at Priad and Ibrahim as he opened a com link to Op-Com, receiving nothing but more static. "They've jammed our communications, I knew it was a trap!" Finishing this, a plasma bolt streaked across the ground and felled a tree, throwing splinters in every direction, after this followed hails of slug fire from gauss rifles.

The squad sat in cover behind rocks and brush as a hellfire of ordinance was brought down on their position. "On my mark, break cover and charge, do not stop for anything but death!" They sat for a few seconds longer, and on the mark, they flew from cover, charging forward firing at any moving thing. A bolt round punctured Priads left shoulder, causing him to faulter only slightly. Ignoring the pain, he continued the charge, now with his combat shield in front of him. Ibrahim's plasma bolts slashed across the forest and through Arm forces like they were paper, tearing them apart and searing flesh.

Victor was in the middle of the fray, cutting men down like they were nothing but small children. Almost at once he was surrounded and advanced upon. He knelt down, making it appear as if he was injured so the enemy would get in closer. His ploy, much to his satisfaction, worked. The Arm soldiers advanced much too close, and he stood, revved his power blade, and spun about in a circle, separating at least seven men from their legs.

The Arm forces, although outnumbering them substantially, could not hold the line for long against only three Blacklight soldiers. They knew they had to neutrallize the leader quickly or all would be lost. Lost in a blind fury, they began spraying every weapon they had at the squad of three, trying with all of their might to bring down just one of these inhuman soldiers.

During the commotion, the right side of Victor's helmet was blown away with part of his face from a sniper round. He fell back from the blow, and felt only a twinge of pain, but he knew what had happened, the end for him was near. Though he knew death's embrace was not far from him, he stood again, yelling "You think you can bring one of us down that easily?" And decapitating three men before stumbling again.

Priad and Ibrahim rushed to his side. "Commander, will you make it?" Asked Ibrahim. "I will not, brother, but you will! Take my place when this is over!" Replied Victor, who was now rushing toward the last few Arm forces. Another sniper round hit near Priad, who wheeled about and fired into a nearby tree, from which a headless body fell to the ground.

Victor cut his way to the Arm commander, and with his dying breath, managed to slash open his stomach, leaving a large puddle of blood and the feet of the astonished and now dying commander. Priad and Ibrahim, now at the side of their squad sergeant, put one last round into the head of the commander.

"Op-Com, mission complete, requesting extraction on our location." Said Ibrahim, now weilding Victor's power blade and affixing the battleworn standard to his back. "Affirmative, Blacklight, extraction is en route."
Ibrahim and Priad stood in the very small clearing, surrounded by bodies. They did not mourn, their brother had been lost, but he did so willingly. The end had merely come for him before Priad and Ibrahim. They live to fight another battle.


Honest Silvers
There's this thing where you can submit a 200 word story for a contest going on. Just now I banged out 200 words exactly (with some snipping :I). It's probably not fit to do much except to boost the amount of received entries, but I might enter it...or something else, I guess.

Anyways I just kind of went at it without much thought past the word count. I'm worried that it's awkwardly worded/too unclear because I had to cut it some.

There was a train that ran at night.

Its whistle woke Clara Larks at midnight, long and low in the darkness. A lonely, haunting sound. The sound of things that will never return. Every night after that Clara woke to a snatch of silence, dreading the piston-pumping noise that preceded that ghastly wail.

Her mother asked why she had circles under her eyes.

“The train wakes me up,” said Clara.

“What train?”

“The night train.”

“There's no train at night, Clara,” scowled her mother. “You're dreaming, maybe.”

Clara was silent. It wasn't a dream.

It was a ghost train.

She'd seen it once, daring to peek out the window from behind a curtain, flinching from the whistle. It lumbered along the tracks outside her window, belching steam. She watched; eyes watched back, blackness set over a rictus grin. The whistle howled. She ducked.

The next night, she waited. At ten to midnight, she heard the chugging of the engines. At six to, she stood by the tracks, watching its approach. “To heaven, or hell?” She wondered as it ground to a halt, and a hand reached for her ticket.

All aboard, thought Clara Larks.

The image I have in my head of trying to learn how to do something well is of somebody throwing themselves against a wall over and over until the damn thing breaks. It is a pretty hard wall. Maybe it's made of titanium.

biggs hoson

ghosts need love too
Honest Silvers
Nap I think you should totally enter it in, I'm gonna be honest there's a low chance you'll win but really you've got nothing else to lose so I say go for it!


Honest Silvers
I will probably write something else if I have time, haha.

Something that I do not produce in 20 minutes at 3am. But thanks!

The contest is s'posed to have a Gothic Literature theme anyways :p


ⓛ̸ⓘ҉̀͝ⓣ̸҉ⓔⓡ͜ⓐ̸ⓛ͞ⓛ͡͏ⓨ ͏͡͠ ̀
Honest Silvers
one of his prompts is like, lemmings dive into the sea because they're from atlantis and they're going home

~master of horror~


Got a spooky feline
Honest Silvers
I wrote a thing. It is longwinded and probably not very funny or interesting, but it is a thing and I wrote it.

It is both curious and unfortunate that even in today's more enlightened times, even with the gracious example of Her Majesty Queen Victoria and the acknowledged blessings and guidance of the five goddesses of the British Empire, there are still certain people who believe a woman's place is to be seen but rarely and heard still less. It is my particular misfortune that two such believers of those antiquated and, quite frankly, foolish notions happen to be my father's sisters; that is to say, they are my aunts. Furthermore, they are vocal in their dislike for any sign a female may show of possessing a brain, or autonomy, or initiative. Alas, my father is genuinely fond of them (for, of course, as a male nothing he does can possibly be wrong and so he does not receive any of the grief I am so often subject to) and so they are frequently a presence at his home.

So it was, after a long and somewhat tiring trip to Cairo (a minor adventure, to do with the theft of the Emerald of Ayaika), with the metaphysical desert still clinging to my heels, I entered said home to find four rather beady eyes staring at me with no small amount of distaste.

"So," said the owner of one pair of the aforementioned eyes, "she finally creeps back in, does she?" She addressed her remarks, not to me, but to the other person busy staring at me rather like a parlourmaid might regard the signs of rats n the pantry; horror and disgust and a certain amount of careful consideration on how best to remove said signs completely.

There is nothing quite so calculated to remove any kind of joy in homecoming as to be met by my aunts in the hallway. Sometimes, I swear there is more than a touch of magic in there, as much as they would never admit to such a shameful notion. A woman, with any kind of ability at all? Preposterous! Etc., Etc. Nonetheless, they seem to know, somehow, exactly when I am due home and arrange themselves precisely at the bottom of the stairs, awaiting my arrival. I took a moment to be grateful I had changed from my sensible but rather scandalous travelling outfit to one rather less daring, in that although the skirts were loose enough to be able to move at some speed, it actually was skirts and not the trousers I had spent a rather large percentage of my travelling time in, and of a sober dove-grey rather than the mid-greens and blues I prefer.

"Aunt Martha," I said, with no great enthusiasm, "how lovely to see you again. And Aunt Agatha, too."

Aunt Agatha, until now (thankfully) silent, sniffed audibly. "Celestine. One wishes one could say the same for you. What kind of outfit do you think you are wearing, girl?"

"A perfectly normal one," I replied, rather more sharply. It is true that my corsets were perhaps a shade looser than fashion called for, and that my neckline dipped ever so slightly below my collarbone, but nothing about my dress was in the slightest bit outlandish by modern standards. Then again, to my aunts, any outfit that is does not start at the chin, end at the floor, and conceal everything in between including one's natural waistline is an abomination.

Aunt Martha exclaimed, with genuine distaste, "Your shoes, girl! Bad enough you wear such atrocities, but do you have to display them to the world?"

"My hemlines are my own business," I said, "and my shoes are perfectly sensible." Both true statements, as it happens; alas, my aunts do not let truth get in the way of opinions, when the truth is inconvenient and the opinions are their own. Thankfully, at that point, everyone was saved further conversation by the arrival of my father.

I suppose, at this point, I should outright admit my father is Anthony Duvarry, of Duvarry Trading, and if you have not heard of him I will be somewhat shocked. Duvarry Trading has stakes in most major forms of transportation of goods and services; my father inherited a successful company from his father, and his grandfather before that, and made it even more successful. Some people say he frequently receives divine intervention, which of course is true, but not to the extent people seem to believe.

Ended up having a brief conversation about Lovecraft pastiche on the internet recently.

This is not Lovecraft pastiche, but I guess it's like fake-Victorian-fantasy-pastiche of any number of authors.

I have a basic outline for like 3 chapters, but this is the bit that wanted to be written.


Honest Silvers
I like it, CG :)

Sorry I can't say more right now, but my brain is kind of fried. I think you should keep writing it, though!

Okay! Your dialog is pretty good, and I like a lot of your dialog tags too. You put enough information in there so that the setting are not confusing, and the perspective character has a clear personality.

It does get a bit long-winded in some places though, haha. Long paragraphs between bits of talking. But it's not overly glaring.

I'm sorry I can't give you a more detailed thing, I need to work on my criticizing ability >.>

Okay! I would have liked to make a separate post for this but hooray for not double-posting I guess.

Yah, I ended up writing another entry, but since this one came to me more naturally I like it better. It's still kind of weird to be writing something so short, but I actually went under by two words this time, so hurr hurr. I suppose if I found the right place for them it might help.

The lights came back on. He wished they wouldn't; brightness glared like a predator, caged within walls.

Lightning flashed, thunder crashed; no noise but rain besides.
And something was hunting him through this house.

It had looked abandoned when he'd arrived, soaking from the downpour, a welcome mat enough of an invitation. But no, there was one, and the lights were on--there was no place to hide.

Thunder crashed. The lights went out. Lightning flashed; there was something there.
He stayed silent, and still. Rain pattered outside. The something left.

He was mobile in the darkness, wore it like a hooded cloak as he made his way to the stairs. He climbed. Rain splashed on the window-frame. Lightning flashed--a silhouette?

He darted into a room upstairs, huddled into a corner. Thunder crashed. Did a door slam somewhere? Lightning flashed. The lights turned on.

He turned. There was a mirror there. Rain pattered. Footsteps?

Lights flashed off. He breathed. Lights flashed on. There was a person in the mirror.

He hoped the lights would turn back off, he wished the lights would turn back off...

Thunder crashed. Rain pattered. There was no blood.

The lights stayed on.

Spoiler: He was a vampire. Ahahahahaha, look at me I make clever plot twists.
Last edited:


Honest Silvers
Hrrrrg I post in here a lot.

Well, this time I decided to brush up on my dialogue skills, because writing people sitting down and talking is surprisingly difficult.
Anyways, I grabbed two of my characters (from wildly different genres, oops) and got them to sit down and chat. Surprisingly, they consented.


April: An emotionally disconnected apocalypse survivor who spent two years living in her abandoned hometown. Now she wanders around different worlds/dimensions with her friend Lapis, while trying to get a handle on her reality-bending abilities. Her power is channeled through her drawings.

Cliff: A sarcastic guy who wishes he could be more skeptical, because he's seen enough supernatural phenomenon to last him a lifetime, literally. He's a zombie. His girlfriend's name is Mayonnaise, and she has faerie blood.



It was nice, being in a world like my own. My own, except whole and unbroken; somewhere the hours didn't stretch like a yawning abyss--a place where time is a thing to be killed, not already dead. Somewhere where I have just enough power to feel it, but not so much as to drown me in it.

I sat and sipped hot chocolate on a red velvet couch in a cafe, waiting for someone to arrive. Waiting was nice too, if you knew what you were waiting for. In the meantime I drew pictures, sprawling works of ink-on-paper, drawings of no object in particular, but more of a feeling. Warmth. Familiarity. Purpose. I sighed into my cup and watched the steam disperse, and behind me, the bells over the door rang as it opened.



I died last week.

It wasn't so bad. Well, okay, I don't really remember the big part.

But there's this feeling--like, you know that feeling when you lose control? That feeling when the roller coaster plummets, or when you jump but on the way down you realize the ground's not where you thought it would be? Sort of like that. It's the second that you realize that to everybody else in the world, you are “everybody else”. You're a statistic, a newspaper obituary that you wrapped dog shit in last week and threw away.

And then you die.

I don't remember what happened after that, because I got hit by a train and my girlfriend made me into a zombie.

Yeah. It's weird.

Cliff found himself sitting awkwardly on a red cafe couch across from the weird girl from before. She was staring somewhere to the side with an expression that conveyed absolutely nothing except maybe--maybe--mild intrest.

“Uh....hey?” He tried.

The girl's eyes flickered briefly over to him. “Hello,” she said simply, and lapsed back into her stare-a-thon.

Cliff glanced around, trying desperately to find something to talk about, because the awkwardness of the situation was punching his social sensibilities in the face. He opened his mouth to say something, but when he re-focused on the girl she was already looking his way with her super creepy vacant gaze.

“My friend thinks you're a zombie,” she said conversationally.

Cliff took a moment to reflect that the most unfortunate part about that sentence was that it was true. “Yup,” he said, because why not? Why not.

“Oh.” She fell silent, staring speculatively into the middle distance.

Oh indeed, Cliff thought. Who the hell is this chick? He cleared his throat. “So, uh, my name's Cliff,” he said, extending a hand and silently praying he would get it back.

She smiled faintly at him, clasping his hand. “I'm April,” she replied.

“What are you doing here in town?” Asked Cliff, withdrawing his hand from her surprisingly normal grip. She didn't feel dead, or scaly, or...not human. Way to be paranoid, he chastised himself.

“Hmm...” she hummed, scowling at the wall in thought. “I might as well be honest.”

“Honesty is the best policy,” Cliff quipped weakly. He had been looking forward to some semblance of normality, but the way this was going....

“I'm visiting from another world,” she said, still staring intently at the wall.

I fucking knew it, Cliff thought. “What, you're an alien?” He couldn't stop himself from asking.

The girl's eyebrows rose and she locked her unblinking gaze on him with an expression of absolute seriousness. “Yes,” she said, completely deadpan.

Cliff could have cried.

Her gaze slid away from him again, face settling into neutral. “I was kidding,” she said, after a pause.

He settled for letting his soul weep somewhere deep inside. “I couldn't tell,” he said, wishing that it was slightly less true.

She gave a tiny frown, lips barely twitching. “Sorry.”

“Uh, no, it's fine.”

She looked at him again, just a brief glance. “I'm telling the truth, though. I'm not from this world.”

Cliff sighed. “Okay, okay. Man, I've seen enough unbelievable crap from this place. Just give it to me straight here: are we next in line on Dimensional Conquest Weekly or something? Just...what's the deal?”

April watched his impassioned little outburst with a faint smile. “No, don't worry. Lapis and I are the only ones you have to worry about.”

“What, is that your friend? The one with the stupid green hair?”

April nodded thoughtfully. “Hmm, yeah. It it pretty green.”

That was the understatement of the year. It looked like a neon sign in Technicolor. “So?” he said. “What are you doing here?”

April tipped her head to the side, bird-like. “We took the Red Ship,” she said.

“I have no sweet clue what that is even trying to mean,” said Cliff.

“It's complicated,” April told him.

Naturally, Cliff thought sarcastically, but waved a hand for her to go on.

“Well, basically we sail between worlds on boats,” said April. “The Red Ship takes us to where there's conflict.” She glanced over at Cliff somewhat apprehensively, who didn't quite have the heart to tell her what a woefully inadequate explanation that was. Inter-dimensional boats. Wow.

Eventually his vocabulary managed to vomit up the word “interesting”, but that really didn't even begin to describe the situation.

April's eyebrows drew together. “It's too big to explain easily,” she said. “Sorry.”

“That's the second time you apologized for no reason,” Cliff pointed out.

To his surprise, April's eyes met his eyes with a spark of laughter in them. “Well, I am Canadian,” she said.

Cliff couldn't help it. He snorted. “Seriously? We're having a King of all Cosmosdamn Canadian invasion from another dimention?”

She smiled, with her whole face this time. “Well, it's just me. But I am pretty powerful.”

Cliff gave her an extremely skeptical once-over. She was skinny-slender with a baggy sweater and no curves to fill it, and she looked like she might barely clear 5''5 standing up. Wispy black hair and doll-face combined to paint a picture of an average, on the small side girl. Aside from the vaguely unsettling stare and vacant expressions, she didn't look like much. “Really,” he said.

“Yeah,” she said, matter-of-fact.

“Oh,” he said, snapping his fingers. Oops, he might have to get Mayonnaise to re-sew that later. “Is it magic or something? You're a witch, right?”

She got that thoughtful expression again, tinged with faint approval. “Something like that,” she said.

Cool. Magical Canadian Extra-Dimensional Girls. This is totally plausible, Cliff thought.

Ehh, maybe I'll finish that conversation sometime.

But yeah. I aim to make readable stuff, so am I succeeding? I would greatly appreciate it if you told me what I was doing right/wrong.

Creative essay procrastination, wooo


Honest Silvers
Okay so I said I would post this so this is me posting this

Character names (except one) were decided by other people who had no idea of the context of the story. Can you find the one name I came up with myself? Winners get a brand new nothing!

I never would have expected this from her.

Millicent had moved in with us about a week before the blackout. Another girl had just moved out and we needed her spot filled--we couldn't afford the bills for the old house when they were split just three ways. Millicent showed up less than an hour after we made the post on Craigslist. We all tried to get to know her, but she seemed pretty distant and gloomy. It was weird for her to wear a color that wasn't black.

The night the lights went out we were in the middle of watching a movie (Millicent had wandered in about twenty minutes in and sat down without saying hello). I would never have expected that she would be the one who would try to keep our spirits up in the dark.

"Everyone OK?" she said as she flicked on a flashlight.

"Yeah we're fine," said Donna.

"Sucks about the movie though," I said.

"Grandma needs to watch her stories!" said Heather.

"I have an idea," said Millicent as she shone the light upwards over her face. "Who wants to hear a ghost story?"

Well, of course we all wanted to hear a ghost story. So she began to tell one.

"Okay," she said, "once there was this library--"

"A haunted library?"

"No, Heather, just a normal library, be patient. Anyway, it was at this library that I came across this book of old spooky stories. And after looking one of them up on the internet, I found it took place in this very house."

It was becoming clear why Millicent had wanted to move in with us.

"What was the story?"

"A long time ago, a guy named Mark Dusseldorf--"


"Ahem. A guy named Mark Dusseldorf found a mask. Just lying on the ground. It didn't look like anything special, just a plain white thing with dark circles for eyes and a creepy toothy smile painted on. For something just lying on the ground, it wasn't too banged up, and he thought his daughter might like to play with it. So he put it in his briefcase. By the time he got home--to this house--he had forgotten all about it.

"The next morning he woke up for work. He looked through the kitchen window and saw his daughter, Penny, playing in the yard. Her back was to him, so he couldn't see what she was doing. It was odd for her to be up so early, but he didn't think anything of it. Until he noticed the largest knife was missing from the knife block. He stared out the window again to try to see what she was doing. From what he could see, she had used up almost an entire roll of tape to bind something to her hand. He grew worried. He was about to step outside when he heard a voice.

"'No. Don't go.'

"It was coming from his briefcase. He slowly approached it and, with his hands trembling, he opened it. Inside was a mask. But it wasn't the one he had picked up. This one looked exactly like his daughter's face. Suddenly, the lips began to move.

"'Daddy,' it said.

"Mark ran outside to the yard where Penny was playing. She was holding a knife in her right hand and had made sure it stayed there with layers of tape. She turned around and he saw--"


Millicent's story was interrupted by a bumping noise from upstairs. The timing almost made me pee a little. Heather began to laugh.

"Nice trick, Millicent," she said, "with the noise and everything. You almost got me."

"Haha," I laughed, relieved. "Great trick, Millicent."

"Yeah," said Millicent thoughtfully, pointing the flashlight at the stairs. "Great trick."

Millicent stood up and began to climb the stairs. "Hang on," she said, "I need to check on something."

After she was gone, we sat in the darkness for a while before Donna broke the silence.

"She's so creepy," she whispered.

"Yeah," Heather agreed, "but kind of in a good way."

"How can you be creepy in a good way?"

"I said kind of."

Then something occurred to me.

"Hey guys," I said. "Do either of you have a flashlight?"

They didn't. It appeared Millicent had the only one. I sighed.

"I'll go get it," I said, and I stumbled up the dark stairway after my new housemate.

You should know that Heather is wearing legwarmers. There is no reason that you should know this.


Honest Silvers
So I decided to start writing a script for a comic I thought of, because I'm sure not gonna draw it, so I might as well write it. turned out not to be a script so much as a rough summary of what happens, with little notes to myself peppered here and there.

What I'd like to know is, if by some miracle the thing were actually to get made, would people read it?

Here's what I have for what I think would be the prologue and first chapter. Would this be the kind of thing you would want to keep reading?

So here's how it goes down.

Devin comes into town via the train, which he's heard about from this guy...let's call him Strawman. Strawman sits opposite Devin on the ride, with a big smile on his face, leaning on a steel barrel. (Do we need the barrel? Is it that important to the story?) Let's use this time to give some exposition via first person narration—present tense, of course, because for all you know, Devin dies later. Let's also make a point to show Devin looking introspectively at the envelope, which is torn open at one end, but still has the letter inside. What letter? What envelope? It's a mystery for now.

The train arrives at the town's central station. (Okay, we need to come up with a name for this town, seriously.) Devin gets off, tries to talk to Strawman—trying to get directions or something—but is rebuffed. Strawman says he “doesn't like to get attached”. Devin disembarks and the train continues with Strawman and the barrel still on it.

Oh hey, maybe this is where the prologue should end.

Devin conveniently finds a taxi. He hops in and tells the cabbie to take him to the address on the envelope (the return address). They make small talk, during which the driver calls Devin a drifter, or that he's drifting through, something with “drift” because that is the title of this story. As they go along, Devin slowly realizes the driver is insane. He eventually decides to bail from the moving vehicle as the driver attempts a suicidal maneuver. As Devin regains his bearings, he finds that not only did he forget his pack in the cab, he is also hopelessly lost.

As soon as he begins to wander around, an egg traveling at a high velocity flies inches in front of his face. He turns to find a gang of tough-looking individuals carrying a whole bunch of eggs. They begin to throw as many as they can at Devin. Devin runs.

He is able to outrun them far enough to try to lose them as he turns a corner into an alley. Here, he meets...Malcolm? Gavin? Zep? Sure, Zep, why not.

Zep pays little attention to Devin, but Devin is naturally surprised to find someone else already in this alley. Zep has a basket.

Actually, do they have to meet in an alley? Why is Zep hiding in an alley? Well, whatever. Anyway.

Zep confronts the Eggs with his basket and a whistle. Tells them to each put an egg in the basket or he'll blow the whistle. They comply and run.

Devin gets Zep's attention and asks if he can help. Zep asks why. Devin doesn't really understand the question, and he starts asking about where to find--

Zep hears a sssssp noise which is supposed to be an onomatopoeia for someone controlling their drooling--you know, like sucking their saliva back into their mouth. At this sound, Zep turns and runs. Devin has no clue what just happened.

Devin walks around for a bit, trying to find somewhere to spend the night. He finds a makeshift shelter in an alleyway, thanks his lucky stars that it's a clear warm night, and gets some shuteye.

During the night, we see someone approach Devin's unconscious body. Only the person's legs are in frame. The legs are either bare or wearing very tattered clothing, I haven't decided yet. The person whose legs they are goes sssssssp.

There's a whistleblow heard from a distance; loud enough to hear, quiet enough not to wake up Devin. The leg person goes ssssssp again and leaves Devin for the whistle noise. Devin remains undisturbed for the rest of the night.
Last edited by a moderator: