City of IF

[NeverNeverGirl]

The steam was rising off the dry baked ground. Tilma watched it disappate as he poured the remainder of his tea out onto the bare earth. It sat momentarily on the surface before it spilled away into the cracks made by the shifting of the soil, victim to the draught that was prevalent through most of the land.

Sunvar had suffered terribly over the last decade, the crops wilting and the people too, as the rain refused to pour down. Looking around him at the barren landscape that had once been verdant pastures he ruminated that it could be the surface of the moon Ashlan upon which he stood. The landscape was lunar in its appearance, red dirt stretching away for miles in any direction. He had once walked for two days and still had not reached its outer rim before he had to turn and return home to the dust bowl of his village.

It would have been easier to accept if he wasn’t aware that the city of Casrel was a veritable Eden of flora and fauna despite the lack of rain. The twisting towers and nestled houses were as opulent as ever, interlaced with parklands and watercourses, they shone as brightly as the stars in the sky. Unlike the small Sunvar villages which seemed to smear more and more into the landscape as the red dust settled itself onto the eaves of the houses.

Of course it had been his older brother Drayva that he had heard this from, having never been to the capital himself. Drayva - who travelled with the merchant’s fleet and spoke of vast seas, bountiful lands and salacious women. His friend had led the life of adventure and was almost bored by it, speaking idly of paradises unknown to most, yawning and changing the subject whenever Tilma gave him the chance -which was seldom indeed. Tilma himself had spent most of his lifetime dreaming about such adventures and studying every picture and script written on the virile Casrel city. Casrel – home to the promised children of Arhabe. What other place on their planet could compare?

Tilma broke free from his reverie and ate the last of his morning meal, it was the one thing that broke up the long morning and he looked forward to it. After helping his mother to maintain their small garden of failing vegetables he brought his father breakfast. Together they hunched on the hard ground, munching away at the sweet honey loaves that were their staple meal. Tilma glanced over at the hulking figure of his father, the mans skin hardened and brown his hat pulled low over his dark features, with a slow grunt his father stood and began to load the cart for their long trip to the state capital.

He had taken his first day off in a decade to take Tilma to see the effects of the one trade that any man of working age could perform in the arid Sunvar.
Grashin harvesting.

The long purple pod of the Grashin seemed to thrive in the scorching sun, its dark brown vines twisting, like the gnarled hands of an Elder, ever outwards. The stem was covered in large fat thorns that if not handled correctly could scratch the skin and cause blistering infections which often resulted in the necessity of amputation. This was the only chance they had if it was caught in the first mere seconds of infection as soon after the blisters faded away and the body began its frightening change. Little could be done for these men after the infection had taken hold, the poison spreading slowly throughout their bodies, freezing each limb into place until the men were turned into living statues - their hearts continuing to beat and their eyes to move. Immortalised forever in living rock.

The Grashin itself was roasted and powdered into a snuff that the cities couldn’t get enough of. Inducing an almost out of body sensation that allowed those of the court that could afford it to gain terrible insight into those around them. Few in the Var had ever tasted it despite where it was made; the price paid for it was beyond reach to even the wealthiest landholder.

Not long after the Grashin Infection broke out for the first time, while searching for a cure, it had been discovered that chewing on the vine of the Grashin could halt the seizure of the limbs. This remedy was almost futile as it harboured an illness of its own. Known only as Mavinweed, the vine, along with being highly addictive, caused the user to be unable to stop moving, never sleep and to develop a hunger for their own flesh that was never satiated.

The choice was made by each victim alone - become a living statue or gnaw away at their own limbs in their insane hunger. Many were the men sitting in the streets with their penny plates, begging for the alms that few could spare. Some with stiff, and others gnawed away, limbs.

It had been decided at the Sunvar's last strongholders gathering that each village would assign a party to the care and maintenance of these victims. Tilma's older sister Helamee was a member of one of these groups and the haunted look in her eyes, as he watched her over the dinner table, was enough to make him glad it wasn't him. Though the perils of his own future were about to be laid bare.

Now he was 13, he too would start working the vines and his father was taking him to learn the reality of the Kiss of Grashin. He climbed aboard his fathers cart and they set off in silence, his mother waving tearily from the gate, watching her youngest son begin his journey to manhood.

After a day long cart journey they had arrived at the Sunvar capital Dreyel. Holding his shoulder and pushing him slightly, his father led him along the twisting alleyways that ran through the industrial area of Dreyel. It seemed as though they walked for hours, the sun moving across the sky in its solitary path, neither of them speaking a word. Unlike the rest of the capital there were no bustling crowds here, no gossiping neighbours or even the beggars that were prevalent on every street in Dreyel.

Rounding a corner Tilma found himself face to face with a high stone wall, set into which was a small gate. The gate was open, admitting anyone who desired to visit. Tilma and his father left the dusty dark alleyways behind and made their way through the small arch. Beyond was a garden the like of which Tilma had never seen .

Verdant green grass grew with flowers springing from it at every point, trees flourished and there were even small animals squeaking, sqwuaking and chittering amongst the foliage. Fountains bubbled from the hands and mouths of cherubim and a yet a feeling of dread permeated the air around them.

After a moment of drinking in this vista Tilma began to notice that there were figures standing amongst the trees, statues with grey pallor’s that were so lifelike they looked as though they would spring into movement at any time. Breaking free from his father he ran towards the nearest of these and reached out to touch it. Feeling the firm yet somehow soft texture of the statue Tilma was amazed, it was only when his gaze travelled to the face that he noticed the eyes were moving! Unable to break contact with them he stood staring, trying in his young mind to comprehend what was before him.

Feeling his fathers hand upon his shoulder, a gentle yet firm presence, Tilma turned to face him as Old Brayvan squatted before his son.

'These are the Grashini, the men who live forever in their body tombs. They hear us, they understand they never grow hungry or tired - they simply exist.' Brayvan searched his sons face for a sign of recognition. 'Do you understand me Tilma? These are the men who suffered the kiss of Grashin. Their families put them here so that they may be in more pleasant surroundings, they come to visit and when the immediate family passes on they exist forever - alone. Husks of men trapped with naught but their own thoughts - imagine the screams in their heads that they cannot voice.'

Walking with his father around the garden Tilma learnt his lesson, he took in the expressions on the faces of the men, twisted features forming grotesque parodies of the humans they had once been. As if each eyebrow, nose and mouth had frozen at separate points and now resembled nothing so much as a child’s attempt at drawing. Their eyes followed him as they advanced further into the gardens, the sky darkened and Tilma was suddenly aware of an overwhelming feeling of oppression. The birds and animals had grown quickly quiet and the silence was deafening.

Tilma and his father grew still, in instinctual response to the environment around them. Stepping back into the darker shadows of a large tree they had waited for what they sensed was approaching. Neither knowing why but feeling it was imperative to remain silent they stood as still as the sentinels surrounding them.

A dark figure emerged from out of thin air, its stooped and hooded shape almost forming out of the shadows of the garden. Taking several steps forward it approached a statue that Tilma had not yet seen, and throwing back its hood had revealed itself to be a crone. The hideously deformed woman stripped naked before the statue and licked her thin pink lips, undulating wildly to a harsh litany she took up a knife and sliced at her own wrists over and over before smearing the blood upon its face.

All the while the eyes watched her, flicking back and forth, following her movements until suddenly a dark voice cut through the air uttering syllables that Tilma had never before heard. It seemed to reach inside his skull and pull him open, tearing him inside out. A diatribe of voices filled his mind and he felt his essence flowing away from his body in a stream of amber light.

The crone’s attention was drawn to where his body stood beside his fathers and she raced towards them. Tilma realised with fright that his father was not moving at all, he had frozen in his place, panic on his strong features as the crone advanced.

Tilma caught the sensations of what happened next yet he would never remember the images. The screams of pain, the fear permeating from his father and the crones insane laughter, Tilma felt it all up here in his amber bubble yet none of it touched him, he cried out as the Crone turned towards his own body and the world went black.

Waking many hours later, the moon high in the sky, Tilma found his father dead. His form flayed of skin, the eye sockets picked clean and his nose hacked off yet Tilma knew it was him. His hat had been placed back on his head. Tilma's body ached with grief and he fell to his knees. He sat silently by his fathers’ side until, with the setting of the sun the following day, his oldest brother Trayal had found them.

Having first cried out in joy at seeing the two shapes under the tree his cries were silenced by the sight before him. The flayed bodies were surrounded by flies, every inch of them covered with the writhing creatures. Trayal fell to his knees and wretched, his hands clutching his stomach as he collapsed to the ground. It was only when he felt the touch on his shoulder of his other brother Drayva that he was able to look up, taking large gulps of air in an effort to regain his senses.

Trayal pulled himself to his feet and turned to look at his now only brother. Drayva stood away to his left, shock written all over his features and it took Trayal mere moments to work out that the sensation of touch was still on his arm. Glancing down in disbelief Trayal felt the world spin away from him again as the face of Tilma looked back at him

'Brother, our father is dead.' The look of innocence and pain upon the flayed features tore a cry from Drayva's throat and Trayal himself winced.

Drayva uttered a mighty curse and turned to his older brother.

'What are we to do?'

[Guest]

NENE this is the best story i have ever read even better then Harry Potter 7. i hope to see way more chapters keep up the good work

-Dragonite

[Gallant]

Very interesting. I love the Grashin, very imaginitive. However who is this women? What are her motives? I must know! For now the brothers are going to need to inform someone of there fathers death. One of the brothers can take the boy home and tell the mother. The other can stay and do the offical thing.

[Crunchyfrog]

Okay - I had to give this a couple of attempts to read before getting to the end.

First up some technicalities -

Quote: Tilma watched it disappate - dissipate

Quote: spilled away into the cracks made by the shifting of the soil, victim to the draught - drought

Quote: Drayva - who travelled with the merchant’s fleet - traveled (this spelling mistake repeats itself a couple of times)

Quote: there were even small animals squeaking, sqwuaking - squawking

Quote: He had taken his first day off in a decade to take Tilma to see the effects of the one trade that any man of working age could perform in the arid Sunvar.
Grashin harvesting

Quote: - their hearts continuing to beat and their eyes to move. Immortalised forever in living rock.

I realise that the phrases highlighted in red have been made into sentences to add emphasis, but to me the bad grammar of it screams louder than the emphasis...

Consider trying something like this - ...the one trade that any man of working age could perform in the arid Sunvar - Grashin harvesting.

and - ...their hearts continuing to beat and their eyes to move, their plight immortalised forever in living rock.

Quote: Walking with his father around the garden Tilma learnt his lesson, he took in the expressions on the faces of the men, twisted features forming grotesque parodies of the humans they had once been. As if each eyebrow, nose and mouth had frozen at separate points and now resembled nothing so much as a child’s attempt at drawing. - not a good sentence.

Try - Walking with his father around the garden Tilma learnt his lesson. He took in the expressions on the faces of the men, twisted features forming grotesque parodies of the humans they had once been. Each eyebrow, nose and mouth had frozen at separate points and now resembled nothing so much as a child’s attempt at drawing.
Quote:
Taking several steps forward it approached a statue that Tilma had not yet seen, Is there a significance to this statue and why Tilma had not yet seen it? It seems clumsy that they're standing amongst these statues, but he hadn't seen this particular one.

If there is nothing different about it, perhaps we don't need to know that he hadn't noticed it before. 'had not yet seen' seems a bit clumsy to me.

Moving on to structure -

For me at least, I found there to be too much description up front, and little action.

The story could have started with Tilma and his father going straight out to the Grashin harvesting, and have us experiencing the terrain, drought and moon with them as they moved.

We don't really get to feel Tilma's horror at seeing the victims of Grashin up close, nor does it have as much impact as it deserves, because we have already had the rules of the disease and its consequences laid out for us up front.

This is a truly horrific disease, choice between a living death or a self destructive existance. What psychological turmoil must these living statues be going through, and how addictive is this snuff that people will be willing to risk this fate in order to harvest and make the stuff!

The explanation of the disease could have been conveyed in a conversation between Tilma and his father. The impact of his father's death is also lost because no time has been taken to develop their relationship.

All of a sudden this old crone appears, and Tilma's father is suddenly dead. This is also clumsily conveyed. I feel that you were trying to explain how his father died but Tilma is not supposed to know - or remember.

I am also very confused as to what happened next.

Quote: Waking many hours later, the moon high in the sky, Tilma found his father dead. His form flayed of skin, the eye sockets picked clean and his nose hacked off yet Tilma knew it was him. His hat had been placed back on his head. Tilma's body ached with grief and he fell to his knees. He sat silently by his fathers’ side until, with the setting of the sun the following day, his oldest brother Trayal had found them.

Having first cried out in joy at seeing the two shapes under the tree his cries were silenced by the sight before him. The flayed bodies were surrounded by flies,

Hang on a minute - so Tilma wakes up a few hours later, discovers his father has been flayed, and he falls to his knees. Yet, when Trayal finds him, Tilma himself has been flayed. So Tilma is still alive? At what point does he die?

The POV also suddenly switches to Trayal and Dravva without warning, and suddenly we have a DP on what they're supposed to do!


I'm afraid I couldn't think of anything at all, and the reason for this was because so far I feel nothing for either of these two characters. Trayal hasn't even been mentioned in the chapter before this... I don't know what they are most likely to do.


It seems that the piece with Tilma and his father should really be a prologue of some sort, and the story actually starting with Trayal and Dravva discovering them. But you need to develop their characters really before going on to a DP, and a good way to do this, as already mentioned, is to convey the landscape, the disease and the general background to the reader through their eyes and feelings rather than listing it up front.

Just my 2cents...

Cheers
CF

[LordoftheNight]

Crunchyfrog wrote: Quote: Drayva - who travelled with the merchant’s fleet - traveled (this spelling mistake repeats itself a couple of times)


Crunchy...travelled is the correct spelling - in England, and other places.
Being English (and seeing how it's the English language) I thought you'd pick up on that.

[NeverNeverGirl]

hmm points duly noted and consider a re-write in the works.

my MS word didnt pick up those mistakes - could it be a dictionary thing (aus to english to us?) - as mistakes...

i deliberatly wrote it so that Tilma doesnt know he is flayed too.

*considers thoroughly*

I think that some things you pointed out can be attributed to my writing style but i agree with you and am going to split this up into a prologue and chapter ... somehow..

:D

Thanks Crunchy.

[Flaw]

Find the crone. Try and figure out what the heck just happened. A name for this? "Lost?" "Woken?" "Drought" I'm just tossing random ideas like graduation caps.

[Chinaren]

How about

Flayed

I think that's pretty suitable.

[LordoftheNight]

Oh, I like that. Flayed is a good name.

[Aponi]

Pain's Harvest

There's a nice dichotomy b/t rich and poor, working and privileged, the desert and the gardens. Also, if someone is scratched by the Grashin, they either turn into statues or are forced to move and eat constantly. There's a saying it reminds me of, but I can't think of it right now...

After great pain, a formal feeling comes. The Nerves sit ceremonious, like tombs.

Emily Dickinson

Nope, that's not it. I'll be back with some research.

[Guest]

How about 'Fire in heaven'? That be good aswell. Not 'n bad story here Nene. I like how you started it off.

[DeadManWalking]

eh.

A phrase that jumped out at me, for not much reason at all, was

The Scorching Sun

It has alliteration and it generates an idea of hardships that are part of nature.

[Chinaren]

I was also thinking:

Cracked.

~shrugs~

[NeverNeverGirl]

Ohh - I neglecatatgedtatedd to rememberise this story... Naughty Ne - Go to Your Room!!

So the titles suggested so far are Flayed (I like it ;) ), Cracked, The Scorching Sun, Pain's Harvest (another awesome one) and Fire In Heaven.

All of these totally brilliant names!

Any others? 24 hours till the thingy closes and the dodad goes up!

YAY.

[TruePurple]

. . . "Harvest of pain" to give a variation on a existing good suggestion. Or "Cost of addiction" Plain "Addiction" could work too. But I personally find such single word titles should only be used if there are multiple meanings to how you can take that word. Which doesn't seem to be the case here. Addictive harvest could possible work.

. . . I prefer your sentence phrasing to to the ones offered by CF, but then I sometimes use the same "improper grammar" or what ever. But no reason not to put a comma after nose in "As if each eyebrow, nose and..." Even technical CF missed that one.

. . . But yeah I hadn't even realized Tilma had died till I read CF's comments. I had noticed the plural use of bodies though. Strangely they comment on the death of their father, but not of their bother. Was this the brother they never knew or had no feelings at all for or something that his death goes without comment? :dead:

. . . I do empathize with their death, and I find your description of love and sorrow well written otherwise. But like CF find that these brothers just popping into the story like this without any background at all one one of them- where you leave us with these two we don't even know, a bit disconcerting. No clue even how they got there or what they were doing there before this happened.

. . . At the start, I understand you have him dumping out tea to emphasize the dryness of the ground. But it seems extremely wasteful to dump out any water with such extreme drought. For that matter, buying (I can't imagine tea would be cheap) and boiling tea (your going to lose some to evaporation due to the heat) and drinking hot liquid in hot weather plus lack of water, even wood would probably be in short supply. It just doesn't work for me. I mean it must not be that bad of a drought then. (which kind of takes away from your emphasis of the drought)

. . . How would Tilma have a clue what the surface of their moon would look like? By looking up at the sky at it? I mean I like how you structure that in as one of his thoughts. A decent segue. But I still feel like you might provide the same description minus it being his thoughts due to lack of knowledge of the surface of their moon in some way. You might even leave the moon out if it altogether, instead giving the impression of a barren lunar landscape by description alone.

. . . Just a personal preference, but I don't like the use of the word crone, just like I don't like - bitch, hag, whore, old maid or any other number of women specific derogatories. Old lady along with the description of her malformaties would have sufficed. Please don't depend on stereotypes to get images across.

[NeverNeverGirl]

Rereading it last night I noticed that the last section wasnt clear so i will be working that through...

Here are the major points of the last passages that need some clearing up..

Tilma didn't die - the brothers thought he must have been dead because his body was alongside his fathers, his brother falls to his knees (retching?) turning away, it is then that he mistakes the hand on his shoulder as belonging to his other brother.

He looks up and discovers the brother standing in front of him, pale and shocked and notices the hand on his shoulder is still there... he turns and finds himself face to face with Tilma.

Tilma has been flayed and is still alive - apparently unaware that he has been hurt this way, only grieving for his father...



I consider CF to be a great reviewer but my fragmentary sentences are part of my style and are used in most of my work as a means of expression - how boring would it be if we all wrote the same way? Hallelujah for individual expression. :D I won't be changing those parts though i certainly will be editing my post for corrections etc.

Harvest of Pain has a nice ring to it.. :)