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Theodicy
The howling wind. That was the first thing I heard once I reached the dusty top of the mesa. I felt it shoving me back, I felt the sand clawing at my skin and the sound rattling my bones. It was all encompassing, the rest of the world blown away by it.
I was deaf and blind, but I wouldn't stop, not yet, not when I had come so far.
I took a step forward, then another one. Raise a foot, put it down. Do it with the other one.
Time lost meaning. There was only the wind, the sound, and me walking.
An unaccountable amount of time later the sand stopped scratching me and I opened my eyes.
A giant stone head stood in front of me, maybe three or four miles away. Its mouth was open and from the depth of its maw came the wind. Between me and the head, there was only smooth stone, each grain of dust, each pebble and each little imperfection blown away eons before.
What I thought had been a storm was the song forming the world.
I reached into my backpack and pulled out the rock picks. There would be no way for me to walk on the smooth rock and against the song.
I laid down and started to crawl. The last stretch of my travel had to be the epitome of humility.
And then the song ceased. I looked up and saw the rock head at my side. It was a towering monstrosity, its size defying reason.
I also saw the writing flowing over the ground and climbing up to the side of the head till it arrived at the ear and slipped inside.
I stood up, leaving the picks in the ground. I wouldn't need them anymore. I dropped my backpack, as I had no more use for it nor for its content.
I followed the stream of writing, and then I saw him. He sat on the ground, tattered clothes that had long lost their color, long hair and a wild beard falling down in an unkempt cascade. His eyes were glued on the earth in front of him where he frantically wrote in the dirt with a thin wooden stick. Beside him stood a massive, green maul.
Then he stopped writing and looked up to me. The words stopped flowing beneath my feet and I was sure the sun hung unmoving in the heavens too.
He called something out. I didn't understand, it was a language I didn't know, but then I wasn't here to talk. I put my hand on the grip of my rapier and unsheathed it, then I said, "I come from the city of Tala, which is no more for the Red Plague wiped it out. I am here to demand justice, and I shall have it."
The man rose and reached for the maul. When he gripped it, green dust trickled down from the handle. He raised the weapon as if it weighed next to nothing, and then charged.
He was fast, but I was faster. A step, a flourish, and the blade was deep in his throat.
He fell with a gurgling sound.
I took a deep breath, then looked at the unmoving writing on the ground.
I walked to where the man had been sitting, the wooden stick still there. I sat down and put the rapier at my side. I picked the wooden stick up. I passed my hand over the dirt, wiping away the last, incomplete words. And then I felt the world flowing into me. I saw the wide plains, I saw the mountains, I saw the fleets and the armies, I saw the stars behind the blazing sun and I saw the things hiding beneath the earth.
So I started to write.
I wrote and I wrote and I wrote. And each word changed everything and empires rose and fell.
Suddenly, I felt a presence. I looked up and saw somebody standing there. A woman. She was clad in strange garments, her head was shaved and there were lines drawn on her skin. I said, "Who are you and what do you want?"
She answered something in a language I didn't know, then pulled out two devices made of black metal. Pistols, I thought. I had seen them pop up in the world just recently, one or two heartbeats ago.
I sighed and reached out for my rapier. It was covered in rust.
I was deaf and blind, but I wouldn't stop, not yet, not when I had come so far.
I took a step forward, then another one. Raise a foot, put it down. Do it with the other one.
Time lost meaning. There was only the wind, the sound, and me walking.
An unaccountable amount of time later the sand stopped scratching me and I opened my eyes.
A giant stone head stood in front of me, maybe three or four miles away. Its mouth was open and from the depth of its maw came the wind. Between me and the head, there was only smooth stone, each grain of dust, each pebble and each little imperfection blown away eons before.
What I thought had been a storm was the song forming the world.
I reached into my backpack and pulled out the rock picks. There would be no way for me to walk on the smooth rock and against the song.
I laid down and started to crawl. The last stretch of my travel had to be the epitome of humility.
And then the song ceased. I looked up and saw the rock head at my side. It was a towering monstrosity, its size defying reason.
I also saw the writing flowing over the ground and climbing up to the side of the head till it arrived at the ear and slipped inside.
I stood up, leaving the picks in the ground. I wouldn't need them anymore. I dropped my backpack, as I had no more use for it nor for its content.
I followed the stream of writing, and then I saw him. He sat on the ground, tattered clothes that had long lost their color, long hair and a wild beard falling down in an unkempt cascade. His eyes were glued on the earth in front of him where he frantically wrote in the dirt with a thin wooden stick. Beside him stood a massive, green maul.
Then he stopped writing and looked up to me. The words stopped flowing beneath my feet and I was sure the sun hung unmoving in the heavens too.
He called something out. I didn't understand, it was a language I didn't know, but then I wasn't here to talk. I put my hand on the grip of my rapier and unsheathed it, then I said, "I come from the city of Tala, which is no more for the Red Plague wiped it out. I am here to demand justice, and I shall have it."
The man rose and reached for the maul. When he gripped it, green dust trickled down from the handle. He raised the weapon as if it weighed next to nothing, and then charged.
He was fast, but I was faster. A step, a flourish, and the blade was deep in his throat.
He fell with a gurgling sound.
I took a deep breath, then looked at the unmoving writing on the ground.
I walked to where the man had been sitting, the wooden stick still there. I sat down and put the rapier at my side. I picked the wooden stick up. I passed my hand over the dirt, wiping away the last, incomplete words. And then I felt the world flowing into me. I saw the wide plains, I saw the mountains, I saw the fleets and the armies, I saw the stars behind the blazing sun and I saw the things hiding beneath the earth.
So I started to write.
I wrote and I wrote and I wrote. And each word changed everything and empires rose and fell.
Suddenly, I felt a presence. I looked up and saw somebody standing there. A woman. She was clad in strange garments, her head was shaved and there were lines drawn on her skin. I said, "Who are you and what do you want?"
She answered something in a language I didn't know, then pulled out two devices made of black metal. Pistols, I thought. I had seen them pop up in the world just recently, one or two heartbeats ago.
I sighed and reached out for my rapier. It was covered in rust.
I'll have to abstain on this one because of reasons.
However, I think it still deserves a review since it's on my slate.
This is a good story, with a solid writing and a nice worldbuilding. The balance between the world building and the narrator's motivation is enough, well, balanced, but the latter comes a bit late. I don't really know how it could have come sooner though.
Also, I would have prefer to see more of his emotions but that's only me nitpicking.
However, I think it still deserves a review since it's on my slate.
This is a good story, with a solid writing and a nice worldbuilding. The balance between the world building and the narrator's motivation is enough, well, balanced, but the latter comes a bit late. I don't really know how it could have come sooner though.
Also, I would have prefer to see more of his emotions but that's only me nitpicking.
The main problem with this is that there aren't really any real characters in this story, just pieces moving around the board. This reduces the stakes of the piece, because the "people" in the story aren't actually people.
The idea of such recursion/you kill it you bought it is a solid concept, and it is decent enough here, but there's not much body to it.
The idea of such recursion/you kill it you bought it is a solid concept, and it is decent enough here, but there's not much body to it.
I love the idea here. It's not presented perfectly, and I can tell you ran out of space, yet you left in useless lines like "I stood up, leaving the picks in the ground. I wouldn't need them anymore. I dropped my backpack, as I had no more use for it nor for its content." Everything after the word stood was useless -- you could've used those words elsewhere and for greater effect. TD is correct that the characters here are so bare-bones they barely exist, but damn, the idea of a person writing the song that becomes the world is great.
I was out until the very end, at which point I was back in.
Generally agreed with >>TitaniumDragon here. Had this been a bit more of a compelling character piece, I think this would be super awesome. As is, it is a little draggy up to the punchline, at which point it ends quite well.
Generally agreed with >>TitaniumDragon here. Had this been a bit more of a compelling character piece, I think this would be super awesome. As is, it is a little draggy up to the punchline, at which point it ends quite well.
The wheel turns, and some things never change. One of those things is that there's always a Writeoff entry or five in the genre of "mysterious deep epic fantasy worldbuilding; oops, forgot to actually tell a story in the setting." Such it is that we have here. TitaniumDragon has my sentiments: stuff happens, but I never found a hook to care about it.
I initially typed "good worldbuilding" here, but on reflection I just reflexively wanted to say that because the piece is centered around that one world-song-writing-stick concept. Gonna give it to you bluntly as I see it, then: it's not good worldbuilding.
We don't see any of the actual world that is built, or anything that the song does other than "writing the world" in the vaguest of terms. We don't get any sense of the consequences of the world being scribble-sung into existence, or why being a song is significant. We don't see what the songwriters write, or why they would write those things and not other things like maybe "wars and plagues stopped and everyone was happy forever." Nothing sets this apart from being any other setting that hasn't had anyone find its song-cave. (And while we're on that subject, how is it that rapier guy seems to know where he's going, and kind of why, but not exactly what's there, and then nobody else finds the place for millenia?)
As CiG points out, there's an awful lot of purple prose and unnecessary description going on, especially in the first half. It's fun to write such flourishes (just look at my own unnecessarily verbose comments) but in a mini format, that wordcount might be better spent elsewhere.
This answers how and where a world is made. Tell us when the concept does something interesting, what it does, who is doing it and to whom, and most importantly why.
Anyway, thank you for writing, author! Please don't be discouraged by these comments, I don't hate this piece or anything and would be interested in seeing a full fledged story form from it. I'm guessing you came up with what seemed like a cool idea and scene, started writing around that, and then not much else came to mind. That happens a lot in mini rounds, no shame.
I initially typed "good worldbuilding" here, but on reflection I just reflexively wanted to say that because the piece is centered around that one world-song-writing-stick concept. Gonna give it to you bluntly as I see it, then: it's not good worldbuilding.
We don't see any of the actual world that is built, or anything that the song does other than "writing the world" in the vaguest of terms. We don't get any sense of the consequences of the world being scribble-sung into existence, or why being a song is significant. We don't see what the songwriters write, or why they would write those things and not other things like maybe "wars and plagues stopped and everyone was happy forever." Nothing sets this apart from being any other setting that hasn't had anyone find its song-cave. (And while we're on that subject, how is it that rapier guy seems to know where he's going, and kind of why, but not exactly what's there, and then nobody else finds the place for millenia?)
As CiG points out, there's an awful lot of purple prose and unnecessary description going on, especially in the first half. It's fun to write such flourishes (just look at my own unnecessarily verbose comments) but in a mini format, that wordcount might be better spent elsewhere.
This answers how and where a world is made. Tell us when the concept does something interesting, what it does, who is doing it and to whom, and most importantly why.
Anyway, thank you for writing, author! Please don't be discouraged by these comments, I don't hate this piece or anything and would be interested in seeing a full fledged story form from it. I'm guessing you came up with what seemed like a cool idea and scene, started writing around that, and then not much else came to mind. That happens a lot in mini rounds, no shame.
The idea is compelling, if not new. See, e.g., The Pin by Robert Bloch, which tackles the same idea, but on the side of death.
That being said, I love this concept, especially the idea that the creator’s own timeline comes to a halt as he writes the story of the world.
I love the execution somewhat less. Like >>Cold in Gardez I found some descriptions rather lengthy and unwieldy. Examples: It was all encompassing, the rest of the world blown away by it. or Between me and the head, there was only smooth stone, each grain of dust, each pebble and each little imperfection blown away eons before. (Note twice blown away). Also there are a slew of those sentences such as: I walked to where the man had been sitting, the wooden stick still there. where you connect two clauses, sometimes unrelated, by a comma. You should vary your style, because it strikes me as a bit boring at length.
But nevertheless, and despite its flaws, it's a nice metaphor about writers seen as demiurges, and how each literary genre overcomes its predecessor.
That being said, I love this concept, especially the idea that the creator’s own timeline comes to a halt as he writes the story of the world.
I love the execution somewhat less. Like >>Cold in Gardez I found some descriptions rather lengthy and unwieldy. Examples: It was all encompassing, the rest of the world blown away by it. or Between me and the head, there was only smooth stone, each grain of dust, each pebble and each little imperfection blown away eons before. (Note twice blown away). Also there are a slew of those sentences such as: I walked to where the man had been sitting, the wooden stick still there. where you connect two clauses, sometimes unrelated, by a comma. You should vary your style, because it strikes me as a bit boring at length.
But nevertheless, and despite its flaws, it's a nice metaphor about writers seen as demiurges, and how each literary genre overcomes its predecessor.
I felt it shoving me back, I felt the sand clawing at my skin and the sound rattling my bones.
A minor little thing. Write what he felt, not that he felt it. It shoved me back. The sand clawed at my skin.
A thought experiment. What if you cut everything before this line:
I put my hand on the grip of my rapier and unsheathed it, then I said, "I come from the city of Tala, which is no more for the Red Plague wiped it out. I am here to demand justice, and I shall have it."
Honestly, I was sort of bored with this one before here. Dude stumbles around in a sand storm. Climbs a rock. Weather is mean. By no means a necessarily boring concept, but in terms of writing hard not to make monotonous. You can only describe sand in so many ways. But then I got to this line, and then there's conflict! Drama!
Instead of pursuing that drama, you went for a mythic, cyclical, world creation bent, which is very cool, but doesn't ever really get fleshed out. You could take this a lot of different directions, but if you want it to be a story, you're gonna have to go where the theater is. And the only real theatrics in this story come in that one line.