Bullet When I was a kid, I wanted to be Superman.Bullet by MetalMagpie
They said he was faster than a speeding bullet. Not just any old bullet, moseying home after a long day at the office. A speeding one, tearing up the atmosphere like nothing in the world could stop it. I wanted to punch through the sound barrier and carry on and on, away from everything.
I started running a year after my mom died. I was nine years old, but already fast enough to beat my army dad to the corner of the street. There was a local cop with a big brewster moustache who was always dragging me back home. I forget his name. His sedan could run faster than my legs, and his hand was quick enough to grab my collar. When he was still fetching me back two years later, he stopped by to have a word with my dad.
"He's pretty quick on those legs of his," he said. "You thought about getting him to do sports? Might burn up some energy
WaxwingLet me lend you wings of wax.Waxwing by MetalMagpie
Wax for feather and glue.
On ledge we stand,
so take my hand.
Step into worlds of blue.
Terror-taken, tumbling fall.
The ocean winks an eye.
When wings do beat,
these breadcrumbed feet,
shall tread the new-born sky.
A heartbeat's flutter stalling.
A wingbeat stokes the fire.
With passion's flame,
we rise again.
Wax wings take us higher,
The sun above us watches.
See her admire the view.
Great goddess high,
sweet lady sky,
we'll climb as far as you.
The world up here is different.
This air too thin to breathe.
In space you'll drown,
so don't look down.
Keep hanging on my sleeve,
The fan-flames beat our faces.
You feel sweat slick your back.
Come hold me tight,
and feel no fright,
to hear our wax wings crack.
Blue sky now fills with laughter.
Up here we seem so small.
No fear my love,
there's birds above.
On broken wings we fall.
Great ocean mother beckons.
Cool water wraps around.
Too much to drink,
so down we sink.
The sun may keep her crown.
On stony ledg
10 Quick Tips: StorytellingFor those with high-powered jobs, demanding pets, or other drains on your valuable time: here is a quick, ten-point tutorial for better storytelling.10 Quick Tips: Storytelling by MetalMagpie
The points are drawn from books, articles, casually-offered-advice and my own experience. Much like the Ten Commandments, they aren't all concrete rules. Just things to strongly keep in mind.
1. Show, don't tell.
-> Don't tell us that elves are disliked. Show us the disgust on people's faces when one appears.
-> But sometimes it is quicker just to tell. Watch out for those times.
2. Dramatise more.
-> Don't give the reader overviews. Pick out scenes and dramatise them.
-> Narrators explaining things is boring. Characters doing things is exciting.
3. The protagonist drives the story.
-> They're the decision-maker, not a parcel to be carried around.
-> Stories are about the hero doing things, not just having things done to them.
4. Every scene has a purpose.
5 Ways to Get Fantasy WrongYes, you're writing a fantasy story. Yes, that means many of the normal "rules" of reality are suspended. It doesn't mean you can just write whatever you like and expect your readers to swallow it. The existence of dragons they'll probably accept. Moscow being the capital of France they probably won't.5 Ways to Get Fantasy Wrong by MetalMagpie
The key to "selling" weird, fantasy stuff to your reader (like dragons and half-elves) is making the world at large believable. This means getting the simple things right. So on that note:
1. Factual Errors
There are things in the wide-world of fiction that are fantasy elements; things like dragons, unicorns, and women who find beards sexy. There are other things in the wide-world of fiction that are factual elements; things like the speed of an average horse, the boiling point of water, and the observation that iron rusts.
Clearly, these are not two distinct categories that can have a line neatly drawn between them. You may have creat
AberdareIn dragon country,Aberdare by MetalMagpie
Quiet and proud,
In the valleys and river mouths,
Tucked-in terraced little towns,
Not nestled, but hunkered down.
Above them, the tips,
Once ash and slag,
With charcoal trees on rocky crags,
Turned speckled green like forests old,
Now pit is quiet and furnace cold.
And left behind,
The men who dug,
Drink liquid fire in smokeless pubs,
And in voices that almost sing,
Tell dragon tales til last bell rings.
And I to London,
Must turn my feet,
Trade green valleys for city streets.
Through concrete castles I will roam,
Til dragon country calls me home.