Well, I figured since you guys critiqued my art, you wouldn't mind critiquing my writing as well. This is only the first two pages of my novel, which is tentitively named "Demowalker." I know I prolly have some grammer in there, but I'm mostly looking for a few beta readers to crit. it on the style and content rather then technicalities. Anyways, enjoy. No real rating on this yet, but later installments will be a hard Mature. Currently it's only General Audiances. Enjoy.
It’s the same dream again.
I am floating somewhere between the boundaries of reality and fiction. I can feel it brush over my bare breasts, and touch the skin between my shoulder blades. There’s darkness here in this cold place. I breathe in, feeling that sting of ice fill my lungs. That human part of me wants to gag in reflex and empty the flushed feeling of doubt from my stomach, but that conscious reminder keeps it in. I open my eyes slowly and find myself against a horizon of stars.
How cliché.
I tilt my head back and breathe out, watching tiny tendrils of white smoke wisp past my face and disappear into the darkness. One of the little things that remind me it’s a dream. There is no air in space, so there is no cold to make it visual. It’s brighter then it would normally be as well. I tell myself that it’s just the firelight dancing on the front of my eyelids; that it’s just my mind playing tricks on me. I’ve had this dream so many times; I can almost recount it with enough clarity to make people think it was a real experience.
I glance beneath me, craning my neck back as far as it can go. Those wings again as well. Great pastel iridescent wings that are soft and gossamer.
Glancing through them makes the stars look brilliantly brighter and the world beneath me seem almost inviting. But beyond the rose-tinted glass shade of the wings the world was all but inhabitable.
It was deep and red. The land was submerged in the vast crimson ocean that seemed to swallow the concave horizon. Even from miles above it I could see the oceans and rivers flow like great veins of blood. That gagging feeling returned to the top of my stomach, and I involuntarily choked on my own bile. It tasted just as bitter as any real body fluid, and it stung the back of my throat like acid. I moved my hands to my mouth to hold it in. The last thing I wanted in space was to throw up, and watch the contents of my stomach float in front of my face.
I felt my real-self twitch in my half-sleep.
Again I remembered that I was dreaming. It was so easy to get lost inside your own head, especially when reliving this vivid unreality. Twisting in the lack of gravity around me was easy. Although, in some far reach of my subconscious self, I was terrified of this planet and wanted to run from it, the curiosity of my controlling consciousness was far more powerful then a throw-back emotion. The heat of the atmosphere stung my face more then the bile that took residence in my throat. I pulled my hands slowly from my mouth and pressed them to my chest. It was then I realized that I was completely naked.
This is a part of the dream I no longer was surprised at. I think it is some subconscious symbolism of being venerable. For now, I ignore it, and breath out again. Had I been holding it in this entire time? The return air was bitterly cold and tasted horrible—like bile and stomach acid. It was even more cream colored then the previous virgin white of the first breath. I watched the cloud disappear into the stars again. I grew bored with floating in orbit around this gorish planet. I twisted and moved to explore the rest of this dotted blackness.
There was a violent tug at my wings. I gasped as they were nearly ripped from my back, still not use to this pain after so many repeat re-livings. There were shots of pure torture at my wrists, my temples, my thighs, and my neck. I shook my head to try and force off that feeling of being drug away from reality, but I couldn’t. I reached for something to grab onto, my conscious mind frantic, finally giving in to the dream as if it were real.
Everything inside me was bleeding, every pore and opening. Pink, sweat-soaked blood. My lungs collapsed and I burned into atmospheric entry. The tips of my wings flared apart, ripping along the veined streams of pastel. I watched the after-burn of my entry with that throw-back feeling of horror.
Everything spun and twisted and fell into a blood soaked sky with pink clouds. The impact of back to water wrenched my spine into my stomach and my uterus, ripping my diaphragm through my womb. Then, the translucent crimson of watered-down blood clouded my vision.
I gagged again, but this time, on my own tongue.
Mirage blinked open her eyes and slowly let the firelight come into focus. Her legs were drawn up to her chest. She had fallen asleep with her arms wrapped around her knees and her face buried in the space between her legs and her chest. She had the imprint of her jeans against her cheeks. Her expression was panicked for a moment, but she quickly regained her stolid demeanor and sighed with annoyance. She sat up, running her fingers through her messy bangs and staring into the dying fire.
good morning, she thought bitterly to the horizon. The bluish-green light of dawn was fighting the inky-blackness of night for dominance over the forested landscape. Stars were slowly dying in the oncoming light and the moon had far reached beyond her view.
She turned to her companions. Poe was a mangled heap of lanky limbs and twisted sleeping blankets. His sister, Aya, was a much smaller bundle of cloth, turned into a small ball to gather any warmth her tiny body could muster. The two slept nearly soundlessly, save for the few noises of discontent Poe made in his dreams. Mirage moved to her feet and stood over him for a moment, her mind comparing him in likeness to a dog chasing a rabbit in his sleep. As if in response to her thoughts, Poe’s leg jerked.
The corner of Mirage’s mouth twitched a bit, nearly breaking the boring contours of her stolid expression. She made a small, snorting humph before turning back to the escaping night. She pressed her hand to her throat, still able to taste the bile from her dream. She shuttered involuntarily, trying to tear herself way from that memory.
Aya made a small mew in her sleep and she shifted to a tighter ball. Mirage recovered from the gasp caught in her throat and moved to kneel next to Aya. Taking a hold of a shoulder obscured by thick blankets, Mirage shook Aya slowly.
“time to wake up, little chrysanthemum.” Mirage whispered quietly.
[b] all done! I'll update with a few more pages once I get to writing them.
It’s the same dream again.
I am floating somewhere between the boundaries of reality and fiction. I can feel it brush over my bare breasts, and touch the skin between my shoulder blades. There’s darkness here in this cold place. I breathe in, feeling that sting of ice fill my lungs. That human part of me wants to gag in reflex and empty the flushed feeling of doubt from my stomach, but that conscious reminder keeps it in. I open my eyes slowly and find myself against a horizon of stars.
How cliché.
I tilt my head back and breathe out, watching tiny tendrils of white smoke wisp past my face and disappear into the darkness. One of the little things that remind me it’s a dream. There is no air in space, so there is no cold to make it visual. It’s brighter then it would normally be as well. I tell myself that it’s just the firelight dancing on the front of my eyelids; that it’s just my mind playing tricks on me. I’ve had this dream so many times; I can almost recount it with enough clarity to make people think it was a real experience.
I glance beneath me, craning my neck back as far as it can go. Those wings again as well. Great pastel iridescent wings that are soft and gossamer.
Glancing through them makes the stars look brilliantly brighter and the world beneath me seem almost inviting. But beyond the rose-tinted glass shade of the wings the world was all but inhabitable.
It was deep and red. The land was submerged in the vast crimson ocean that seemed to swallow the concave horizon. Even from miles above it I could see the oceans and rivers flow like great veins of blood. That gagging feeling returned to the top of my stomach, and I involuntarily choked on my own bile. It tasted just as bitter as any real body fluid, and it stung the back of my throat like acid. I moved my hands to my mouth to hold it in. The last thing I wanted in space was to throw up, and watch the contents of my stomach float in front of my face.
I felt my real-self twitch in my half-sleep.
Again I remembered that I was dreaming. It was so easy to get lost inside your own head, especially when reliving this vivid unreality. Twisting in the lack of gravity around me was easy. Although, in some far reach of my subconscious self, I was terrified of this planet and wanted to run from it, the curiosity of my controlling consciousness was far more powerful then a throw-back emotion. The heat of the atmosphere stung my face more then the bile that took residence in my throat. I pulled my hands slowly from my mouth and pressed them to my chest. It was then I realized that I was completely naked.
This is a part of the dream I no longer was surprised at. I think it is some subconscious symbolism of being venerable. For now, I ignore it, and breath out again. Had I been holding it in this entire time? The return air was bitterly cold and tasted horrible—like bile and stomach acid. It was even more cream colored then the previous virgin white of the first breath. I watched the cloud disappear into the stars again. I grew bored with floating in orbit around this gorish planet. I twisted and moved to explore the rest of this dotted blackness.
There was a violent tug at my wings. I gasped as they were nearly ripped from my back, still not use to this pain after so many repeat re-livings. There were shots of pure torture at my wrists, my temples, my thighs, and my neck. I shook my head to try and force off that feeling of being drug away from reality, but I couldn’t. I reached for something to grab onto, my conscious mind frantic, finally giving in to the dream as if it were real.
Everything inside me was bleeding, every pore and opening. Pink, sweat-soaked blood. My lungs collapsed and I burned into atmospheric entry. The tips of my wings flared apart, ripping along the veined streams of pastel. I watched the after-burn of my entry with that throw-back feeling of horror.
Everything spun and twisted and fell into a blood soaked sky with pink clouds. The impact of back to water wrenched my spine into my stomach and my uterus, ripping my diaphragm through my womb. Then, the translucent crimson of watered-down blood clouded my vision.
I gagged again, but this time, on my own tongue.
Mirage blinked open her eyes and slowly let the firelight come into focus. Her legs were drawn up to her chest. She had fallen asleep with her arms wrapped around her knees and her face buried in the space between her legs and her chest. She had the imprint of her jeans against her cheeks. Her expression was panicked for a moment, but she quickly regained her stolid demeanor and sighed with annoyance. She sat up, running her fingers through her messy bangs and staring into the dying fire.
good morning, she thought bitterly to the horizon. The bluish-green light of dawn was fighting the inky-blackness of night for dominance over the forested landscape. Stars were slowly dying in the oncoming light and the moon had far reached beyond her view.
She turned to her companions. Poe was a mangled heap of lanky limbs and twisted sleeping blankets. His sister, Aya, was a much smaller bundle of cloth, turned into a small ball to gather any warmth her tiny body could muster. The two slept nearly soundlessly, save for the few noises of discontent Poe made in his dreams. Mirage moved to her feet and stood over him for a moment, her mind comparing him in likeness to a dog chasing a rabbit in his sleep. As if in response to her thoughts, Poe’s leg jerked.
The corner of Mirage’s mouth twitched a bit, nearly breaking the boring contours of her stolid expression. She made a small, snorting humph before turning back to the escaping night. She pressed her hand to her throat, still able to taste the bile from her dream. She shuttered involuntarily, trying to tear herself way from that memory.
Aya made a small mew in her sleep and she shifted to a tighter ball. Mirage recovered from the gasp caught in her throat and moved to kneel next to Aya. Taking a hold of a shoulder obscured by thick blankets, Mirage shook Aya slowly.
“time to wake up, little chrysanthemum.” Mirage whispered quietly.
[b] all done! I'll update with a few more pages once I get to writing them.