Bump, I encourage obi and atom and others to post here instead of in other threads

What about music? I've been working on a Diplomacy-themed song...

I know I've already posted this, but it might look a little better (or worse) when compared next to yours. Oh, and obi said he was giving up with posting about writings on this site.


I walked from my school with sore limbs and a bad headache. I remember thinking that I needed some rest. I then dismissed the thought and pressed onwards. (For it was in those days when I thought too highly of myself to think that I might be seen as weak.) Usually it took my mom long enough to arrive, but today she seemed preoccupied. My estimate was that it would take her a bit longer than usual. Minutes passed, hours, days… I was one of the last kids left. The rest were gone and were now sitting in their homes laughing at the thought of someone waiting this long. My mother never did come. Instead, I received a replacement.

“Hey, how’s it going?” my dad asked as I hopped into his car. I gave no answer. It was a quiet car ride, and that was to be expected. When we pulled into our neighborhood, my dad finally said, “I got you a little something for your birthday; I was hoping you might like it.”

Of this, I had no answer to. I had forgotten about my birthday. Of all the things that I had been forced to think about throughout the school day, this eluded me. I wondered what they could have gotten me for a while, but I was soon back to my grip of apathy. It gave me no surprise when my dad asked me, “why don’t you check the mail, take out the trash and shut the garage for me?” And so, my apathy turned to bitterness.

My present was given to me as I walked in. It was a simple notebook.

I suppose that anyone reading what I have said would remark on the significance of it. That is completely understood, for I do see little in what role is being played by what has been said. Nevertheless, what is to come is of the greatest significance, for it was fifteen years after the day of my birth that I found something terrible.

My venture home the next day was the result of my impatience. I rode the bus home, letting my parents wait unnecessarily for once. Upon my arrival home, I noticed that there was a notebook very similar to mine sitting in the trash can. Closer inspection revealed my brother’s name imprinted on it. Wonderful. Not only did I receive a mere notebook for my birthday, but my brother was given one as well. My feelings of bitterness grew stronger.

“Are mom and dad home?” I asked.

“How should I know?” My older brother replied. He had a way of feigning ignorance, while giving the obvious suspicion that he knew of what he spoke. My brother was moderately tall and relatively good looking. It was by this that he had any level of self-respect, for he had dropped out of college and had been fired from several types of work in the past year. At the age of twenty-two, he presented himself as a bit of a drunk. (Although it was not the nature of our family members to do so, he had lost all respect for traditional values.) In my opinion, he was too much of a coward to face the world on his own. Every time he had gone down, he brought his benefactor with him. And too many times had that benefactor been our family.

“Is Rick home?” At the very least, perhaps my uncle could notify my parents of my early arrival home. However, I did not expect an answer and so I left the room. I walked upstairs and noticed two more notebooks. One on each of my little brothers’ beds. I confiscated them and scratched out the imprint of their names on the cover. I then tore out the first couple of pages which held pathetic drawings of various things around the house. I remarked on whether or not they would become upset by the loss of their journals, but I took them nevertheless. I would have checked my sister’s room for a notebook, but she ran off a few days ago. My parents seemed to care about her the least. (Which was much to say due to the level of treatment I had received.)

But what disturbed me the most that day was not that my birthday had gone practically unheeded, but that I had discovered a strange note lying in my parents’ bedroom. Normally entering my parents’ room would be the cause of punishment, but the aspirin was held in their medical cabinet and I needed something to relieve the stress of the week. My eyes caught sight of the letter, primarily because it came from the U.S. military. I knew then, that I should not have read the letter, but I knew then that something terrible was about to happen. Reading the letter only revealed the worst of my suspicions, war had been declared. My father, my uncle, and my brother were all called into the draft.

First line from my new song. Criticism welcome

You're a crazy uncle fucker, uncle fucker!

That's not how it works, Draugnar...

Wait why... obi if you're reading this, I think you should keep trying.

For myself my mantra is that it doesn't matter how bad you are at something, there is no harm in doing it if you enjoy it.

This thread is designed for you and me and other amateurs so post away.

Atom - I will read it in a bit and give you some feedback... assuming you want it. You chewed me out last time lol.

TWA - sure that would be cool, do you use soundcloud?

Being a writer myself, I hope you all don't mind a little input from me. The primary spot that I see as being an 'issue' is the frequent use of the word 'said' as in 'Frank said', 'said Cecelia', etc. The person speaking should usually be seen by the reader without such tags added on or if they are needed, it should be quite sparingly throughout the story. Also, redundancy in naming places should always be avoided.

small example from KA's writing
"My venture home the next day was the result of my impatience, riding the bus so as to let my parents wait on me for once. Upon my arrival I noticed that there was a notebook awkwardly similar to my own sitting in the trash can, a closer inspection revealing my brother’s name imprinted on it. Just fucking wonderful. Not only did they shortsale me with a mere notebook for my birthday, but they had the audacity to give my brother one as well.

“Are mom and dad home?” My feelings of bitterness grew with every passing moment.

“How should I know?” My older brother had a way of feigning ignorance, while simultaneously giving suspicion that he knew otherwise. He was moderately tall and had a relatively handsome appeal which was his only source of self-respect as he had dropped out of college and been fired from several places of employment over the past year...."

This is just an example of what I'm talking about. I hope I didn't overstep my boundaries in doing so, just wanted to give some advice from someone who's been writing and working for over a decade. Keep writing and enjoy guys!

@FirstApple: Never edit my writings without my permission. However, I have recieved the same advice from professional writers, yet I have heard conflicting advice from others. I really don't care what anyone has to say, but I appreciate that you gave your input. As a writer, I have an obvious urge to kill anyone else who thinks that they know better, but I have learned that you can't kill more than one person and get away with it. I'm saving my kill for later. But it's that same style of writing, by using phrases that are common to certain people, that really annoys me. For one, I hate profanity, and I especially hate hearing phrases that I would never use, like 'shortsale me' or 'with every passing moment.' Some people just don't understand...

@KA I only meant to use your writing to illustrate what I was talking about. By no means did I desire to insult you or any other writer. Personally I think it's absolutely wonderful that you guys are writing and, in fact, I think you are doing a wonderful job overall and I enjoyed reading your work as well as looking forward to reading more.

As a writer it is difficult to know how much input from others to take but it is also essential to take all the input given, weigh it for its possible enhancements and consider its possibilities. Then continue on with your own style. Obviously, my style is different from yours as it is one that has been cultivated over a very long period of time. I wouldn't expect you to use the same phrases as me... I was just illustrating how you can emphasize feelings through the choice of words that you make versus 'telling' the reader how you feel. The phrase 'shortsale me' for example, demonstrates that you felt cheated by what you received without saying 'I felt cheated'. Again, take what helps, toss what you don't like. I'm just trying to be friendly and helpful by passing on some of the knowledge and experience I've gained over the years.

Lol don't mind. KA thank you First Apple, I am actually already very conscious of the "said" problem.

I tried to avoid it every time I thought I could but I can go back through. The problem is that sometimes, most of the time in my story, the four of them are together, so you sort of have to unless you add an appositive in the quote or have some other external marker.

Any thoughts on that?

Also when you say excessively naming places do you mean the repetition of "Pods" and "Projects" becomes too much? Do you think I should use "there" more often or what?

Also out of curiosity what sort of writer are you?

Anyway thanks

Also, Apple, a question on methods - do you usually edit as you go or write it all then edit later?

I am not done with this story - should I finish, then edit, or make an edit now and continue? I know you'll probably say "whatever works" but what is your recommendation lol.

Folks:

I wrote the poem below a few years ago while sitting in a brand-new park in the suburbs of a mid-sized Chinese city. It helped me fulfill a vow to myself to submit a poem for publication at some point in my life. (It was rejected, but submission was the point for me.) No real need to workshop it, just enjoy.

How much of the world

Have I already gained?

More than enough to imperil my soul

And to enrich it

Quotidian joys are deep joys

The curve of a child’s leg

Acquiescent on a changing table

Or in sumo stance

Challenging the world to be new and interesting and familiar

An air-conditioned room

Is a gift from fall to summer

But from it I cannot see the willows sway in a warm breeze

Trees must sweat

They spend too much time outside not to

To the right of the willows is a view of the Six Butts

Brown base, white top

Multistory castoff Marlboros to house China’s newest dreams

Powerful dreams

That planted the willows by the lake

And used a crane to lower with precision

Slowly, carefully

The rock on which I sit

I have gained too much of the world

At too little expense

I fear

Also - when does your story take place KA? The draft? Not questioning the premise, just curious.

Also "Of this, I had no answer to" strikes me as funny. Maybe "I had no answer to this" instead.

@Thucydides - I write fantasy, science fiction and romance for the most part though I've also done drama. The best way to illustrate who's speaking is through the use of physical actions breaking up the statements. For example, If I write ("What are you looking at?" George yelled at Sam.) Yes, you get the point but its dull and lifeless and you really don't get a feeling of what George feels. Furthermore, it will get really redundant if that gets used multiple times. On the other hand, if I write ("What are you looking at?" George glared Sam down with vengeance in his eyes.) you get a better feeling of how George feels AND you've stated who's talking without actually saying it.

In regards to the places, many verbs describe the action involved with a place without naming the place outright. If you say ("We are going to the Pods. Once we arrived there, we did... whatever) the word 'there' is actually being reduntant. You've already stated you're going to the Pods and the verb 'arrived' inherits the place that you've previously described as going so it is not needed. That's what I was meaning. I'm going to go back and read you're entire writing again and look for specifics that I can point out to you since I see that you are open to suggestions.

It takes place in the near future. I was thinking around 2030 or something.

And part of the reason why you all tear it apart is because I haven't had time to edit. I'm on the last chapter, but it's very sloppy and unorganized.

@Thucydides - The 'edit' question is of personal preference but I'll tell you from experience it will end up being all-of-the-above. I write a bit, go back and edit once or twice, then continue writing, go back and edit that part, then write some more, go back and edit that third part and then go back to the beginning to make sure each part lends itself to the next as I want. Usually, I work in groups of three parts but then once I hit a large portion (i.e. an entire chapter) I'll go back and reread from scratch to look at the big picture, seeking errors in logic or bouncing heads, etc.

@Ges - very interesting poem. Personally never could get into poetry much (which is strange since my father is a professional poet) but it is an interesting read for sure.

@Thucydides - Here is a particular case "The People lived out their lives in the virtual paradise of the Pods, and the Projects continued to supply the Pods with puvorium in exchange for food grown in the high-tech nurseries of the Pods."

Here is the suggested edit though you know more about your story than I do of course. Nevertheless, you see here that I've omitted repeated statements of location yet gave the same understanding of the mutual assistance between the two groups.

"The People lived out their lives in a virtual paradise within the confines of the Pods, their supply of puvorium, which maintained their rich carefree lives, provided by the Projects in exchange for their own high-tech nursery grown food."

@Thucydides - My other suggestion for you is the manner of speech. I notice each one seems to be 'too' proper. There should be a little more give and take between the people. Think about how you talk with a friend and then compare that to how your characters are talking. I think you will find it to be a little squarish though easily remedied with just a shave of the corners.

Here's two pages from the novel I've been writing lately. I purposefully chose a part in the middle of the first chapter so you could see how I incorporated actions into the speech and thoughts and avoided the 'he said/she replied' statements. Basically, Jason has accepted a job in Milan, Italy from Los Angeles and he's arriving.


“Welcome to Milan Malpensa Airport in beautiful Lombardia, Italy,” the captain announced over the plane’s speaker. “Local time is 19:54 and the temperature a chilly three degrees Celsius. I would like to thank you for choosing Alitalia Airlines and look forward to serving your travel needs again in the near future.” Jason assumed the Italian garble which had preceded that announcement was just the same information in the local tongue.

‘Three degrees Celsius? I wonder what that is in American degrees?’

The plane came to a halt and the weary passengers scrambled to their feet before the ‘fasten seatbelt’ sign even had a chance to turn off. Jason grabbed his small carry-on and joined the deplaning mob.

A bright spotlight illuminated the exit to the plane and the tarmac below. Some passengers headed for a nearby bus stop to be driven to the gate while others started the 100-meter hike right away; Jason joined the latter group.

‘I’ve already waited long enough to arrive. Besides, the walk will keep me from freezing in this dreadful weather.’ He had already regretted not bringing a coat during the layover in JFK, this was even worse. Attempting in vain to block the cold, he crossed his bare arms across his chest as tightly as he could manage and jogged toward the door. A little over halfway there, a bus carrying those who had waited passed on the left.

Finally arriving at the door, frozen thoroughly to the bone, he followed the mob inside and down a hallway then up a staircase. After a few twists and turns, he arrived at the end of a long queue. The sign over the sole officer at the head said IMMIGRAZIONE.

The line’s progress proved murderously slow, the minute hand on Jason’s watch lazily strolling from the two to the ten before he was finally next in line. Passport in hand, he thankfully approached the desk. The officer said nothing, just warily reviewed his documents, scrutinizing the passport photo to Jason’s weary face, then entered a few bits of data in his computer and stamped the date of entrance into the passport.

Jason broke into a brisk stride down the corridor he had seen so many before him take. By the time he arrived to retrieve his luggage though, the conveyor was empty and shut down, his bag and a handful of others resting in a pile on the floor, a little worn from the trip. At least it was there though.

Customs proved to be equally exciting. A young gentleman with the inviting smile of a crocodile requested the customs document that was handed out on the plane. With a harsh Italian accent, the officer asked in English where Jason had come from and about his final destination and purpose in Italy. Upon mention of the new job, the official asked to see the passport and visa once more and then waved him on through.

Just beyond the Customs’ doorway, Jason found a seating area dotted with people waiting for their loved ones and associates still making their way through line. A few others were standing, holding signs with a variety of names on them. Someone was supposed to meet him there as well, but none of the names looked even remotely like his. One even looked like Japanese writing.

Perturbed and unsure what to do next, Jason laid down his luggage and rested in one of the waiting area chairs. Several minutes later, a young woman holding a large sign in her right hand came walking up as fast as her high heels would allow.
Her dark blonde hair had fallen to partially cover her brow and a flush had crept into her sun-kissed cheeks, most probably due to her rushing state. A strapless white cotton dress hugged her slender midsection and draped to her knees, the bodice clinging feebly to her modest bust. The pressure of her brusque movements shifted the garment, threatening to expose a little too much with each hurried step.
Breathing heavily, she walked straight past Jason and joined the line of name bearers, bringing her own sign up in front of her chest. She whisked her shoulder-length hair aside that had fallen in front of her face and adjusted the dress, attempting to hide behind the sign as she did. Perhaps it was just wishful thinking, but Jason decided to get up and check the name on her sign. ‘It would definitely be nice to be picked up at the airport by such a beautiful woman.’

Casually strolling by as if heading in another direction, he glanced over at the sign; Jeson Starks – Enterprise Advertising Agency. He chuckled seeing his name misspelled. It wasn’t exactly a difficult name to begin with but he decided not to comment on the error when he approached.

“Excuse me, miss. Is it safe to assume that you speak English?”

Her accent was a soft melodic Italian-English. “Yes, sir. I can help you with something?”

Jason pointed at the sign. “I do believe I’m the one you are waiting for.” He put out his hand to shake hers. “Jason Starks.”

“Oh, Signor Starks,” she took his hand and flashed him a sweet if not embarrassed smile. “I am very happy to meet you. Very sorry to keep you waiting though; you were here long?”

Jason shook his head to the negative, instantly letting go of any distress he had previously felt by her tardiness. “Just a moment or so before you came along.” She was just too cute to be upset with.

“Okay, good. I think perhaps I would miss you. You are hungry I believe after your trip?”

If a person could call that dinner, he had actually eaten quite recently on the plane. Still, a chance for dinner with a beautiful woman doesn’t come along every day, even if it was in an airport. “Sure! Sounds good to me.”

Wow! FirstApple is quite a good writer and his commentary on other's work is spot on. Makes me wish I wrote more non-technical material.

@Draugner - thank you very much. It's something that I have a passion for and I truly enjoy reading other people's work as well.

Okay check this out it's the first two chapters with your suggestions hopefully in mind.

Also this is going to get really long maybe we can look into linking google docs or some such though i have had issues with that in the past. also i know what you mean about the dialogue but... i dunno... it feels like what they would say. see what you think:

----------


“The Projects”

Prologue

August 3, 2492
The Projects of Western China

The building burned. Embers flew and the structure buckled with a sickening lurch. Oumou felt that sinking feeling of dread felt when something is clearly beyond hope of salvage. The building – Oumou's tenement – would surely be completely destroyed, along with the rest of the block.

In a final act of desperation, her mind raced for possible last-minute solutions. She couldn't simply watch idly as her home burned. Suddenly an idea came to her and she took off running down the street at a sprint. Her last hope lay at the People's Aid Staging Center.

Among the run-down tenements of the Projects, the Aid Staging Center stuck out like a sore thumb. Whitewashed and always well-lit, the Staging Center had the appearance of a lost fragment of the impeccable Pods, deposited unceremoniously in the midst of what appeared, by comparison, to be utter filth and destitution. The contrast was staggering. The contrast was, perhaps, intentional.

As Oumou approached the Center, out of breath, she noticed some of the People getting into a transport parked outside. Running up to them, she called out:

“People, where are you going?”

“Back to the Pods. Our mission is finished here.”

“But we need your help! My whole block is burning to the ground! Can't you put the fire out?”

“Maybe if you'd come here earlier today we could, but Hernando is hurt and needs medical attention. We're leaving immediately.”

Oumou was shocked. “But didn't you say when you came you would stay for the year?”

“That was contingent on the health and safety of our team, which is our first priority. I'm sorry about your block, Project. Good luck.”

With that, he got in the transport with the other People and flew away, leaving Oumou standing alone in the street. The feeling of dread had returned.

Chapter 1

“You can stay here as long as you need to.” The Curator moved back toward the entrance to the Pods. “The lobby will stay online until you leave, and you can find the rest of the team and your
transport outside when you're ready.”

“Thank you.” Christopher watched the Curator walk back into the Pods. One year outside the Pods would be exactly three hundred sixty-five times longer than the longest time he'd ever spent outside the Pods. But he knew he was doing the right thing. The Projects had to be aided – it was a moral imperative.

Christopher Cortez, born 2468, had what any impartial observer would describe as a look of permanent guilt etched onto his face, like that of a dog caught red-handed by his master in the pantry. Such a disposition was unbecoming of his well-built frame. Tall, strong, blonde and handsome, he had never had need of the cosmetic enhancers everyone loved so much to use and overuse.

“Why not add red eyes, or two-tone skin? It's not a big deal, it's just for fun!” a friend had once asked him. He had replied that he took pride in telling people he met, especially women, that his appearance was totally unaltered. “You mean unaltered like a Project,” his friend had shot back.

“An irresistible Project, though.”

“But a Project all the same.”

“Whatever you say, Drake.” Drake's purple-silver hair shimmered in the wind, under the moonlight of the three moons. “Can we turn it down to two moons? Three is just tacky.”

“You're so boring sometimes, Chris.”

The Pods already seemed a long way away. He had undergone a lot of training for being outside, but there was nothing like the real thing. Putting your surroundings in “Project Mode” is better than nothing, he thought, but at the end of the day you still have on-demand food and sleep aids. Outside the Pods you can only eat what food you bring with you.

Christopher had been told the Aid Staging Center would be well stocked for their stay, but he knew he could only imagine living there once he had actually begun to do it. It would be hard, of that he was sure. It would also be worth it, of that he was more sure. Ever since his adolescence, he had taken an interest in the Projects. How unimaginable, how cruel, he thought, that the People lived in such largesse even as the Projects suffered. Whereas most of his friends wanted to ignore the reports about the latest aid works, Christopher was drawn to them. Essentially all the People of the Pods would have agreed that the aid was the right to do, though.

For as long as anyone could remember (since about 2300 if someone had bothered to look it up, though no one did – despite having information literally at their fingertips the People cared nothing for history), the Projects had been a veritable disaster. To the People, whose contact with the Projects came solely through the reports of aid workers, the Projects were an unchanging, monolithic morass of continuous famine, disease, crime and general danger.

When the People wondered aloud how such atrocities could be allowed to exist by the Cabinet, they were told the government was doing all it could to alleviate the problems by sending aid teams. In fact, little had changed in 200 years. The People lived out their lives in the virtual paradise of the Pods, and the Projects continued to supply the Pods with puvorium in exchange for food grown in the high-tech nurseries of the Pods.

After a bit more soul-searching, Christopher resolved it was time to leave the Pods behind. Getting up, he looked for a long time at the door to the Pods. “East Asian Pods Entrance 2417. Admittance to People Only,” read the sign.

Turning around towards the exit, he felt he was on an inspired mission – a mission so important it was impossible to fail. He resolved to hold on to his optimism for the duration of his stay. He pressed the release button on the exit door and inhaled deeply as outside air and light rushed in the lobby. He stepped outside.

**************************************

Looking around, he was struck by how dirty everything suddenly seemed to be. It was as if every surface, every building, was covered in a thin film of brown dust. Looking ahead he noticed a transport and some People standing around it. One waved at him and he headed towards them.

“Hey you must be Christopher. You're a bit late, friend,” said one, a short, brown-haired man with a hint of irritation in his voice. “I'm Henry Stanley.”

“Pleased to meet you.”

“And I'm Frank Columbus, team leader,” the other man said. A bit older than the others, Frank had hints of gray in his dark hair and beard. His lanky frame and stress wrinkles on his forehead made him seem older and frailer than he really was.

“So you must be Cecilia then. I read in the briefing we have the same birthday.”

“You're right! Us being twenty-four years old makes Frank seem like a retiree.” Cecilia was the only one to shake Christopher's hand. Short and pretty, she seemed always to be glancing around from person to person with a half-smile on her face no matter the context. She was clearly excited to be going on an aid expedition.

Frank said, “I'm only forty-five, for your information. Let's get going shall we? I want to get properly settled into the Center before the end of the day and it's already past noon.”

Everyone filed into the transport, an oblong flyer with a gleaming, polished surface. Inside, behind the four seats, was box after box of brightly color-coded supplies. Unused to seeing so much space devoted to storage, Christopher realized, literally rather than just intellectually, that outside the Pods everything had to be physically stored. It couldn't just be filed away in some unseen annal of virtual storage until it was needed again.

Weighed down by so much materiel, the transport was slow to rise into the air. Christopher didn't mind. He was busy staring out the front window at block after block of brownish-gray, miserable housing units. “How many Projects live in the Western China zone?”

“About 200 million, but the section where the Center is located houses only 500,000 Projects.” Frank wasn't looking out the window, rather, down at his lap.

“Only 500,000? Jesus. They're a dime a dozen aren't they? And I suppose they're all going to be dropping by asking for something, no?” Henry had a look of disgust in his eyes.

Frank said, “No, you'd be surprised at how many Projects want nothing to do with the People. I actually think some of them are afraid of us. That doesn't mean there aren't those who will seem as nice as could be all in the hopes of earning a favor or two. Not every Project is the same, Henry.”

“Oh, I know that. I was just saying, four People to half a million Projects is a difficult ratio.”

“Frank, it said in the report you'd been outside the Pods several times before?”

“Yeah that's right, Chris, and let me tell you, it's nothing like 'Project Mode.'”

“Haha... great.”

“I don't know about you, but I can't wait!” Cecilia was so enthusiastic that Christopher wondered if she was being sarcastic. From Henry Christopher detected a barely audible groan.

Ahead in the window they noticed something remarkable in the dejected landscape: the color white. It could only be the Aid Staging Center – this was no Project's building. The transport began to slow and descend towards the Center. From the air, Christopher could see figures moving through the streets – the first time, he noted, he had seen Projects in person. The transport finished landing on the roof of the Center – a tall building with rounded edges and a smooth surface. Frank exited and immediately began unloading the colorful storage boxes. “It's 3:00 already,” Christopher heard him mutter to himself.

Everyone began helping unload, but Christopher, staring down from the roof at Projects in the street staring back at him, was transfixed by the reality of the situation around him. Perceptually, there was no appreciable difference between this and what he had already simulated. But in his gut it felt different. If he fell from the roof, he would be hurt. If a Project spoke to him, it would be a real human, not a simulation. It was visceral.

“Chris, come on and give us a hand. Frank seemed permanently impatient.

“Right of course, sorry.”

“It's really something, isn't it?” Cecilia came up alongside him, boxes in tow. “I mean, the utter filth they live in. I really just wonder how they manage not to lose their minds. Seeing it in person makes me want to start helping them right away.”

“Yeah,” was all Christopher could say.

Chapter 2

That night, Frank showed the team around the Center. It was equipped with the latest technology in every respect but one – they could not connect to the Pods. They lacked sufficient energy and the proper equipment.

“Now I know a lot of you – hell, most of you have never gone so much as a week without connecting. It can be tough to adapt – but you get there. It was only after a few moths at it that I finally began to understand what it means to be a Project – totally disconnected.” Frank was showing them images of their surrounding neighborhood while they took dinner in the dining room. “The part of the Projects of Western China we're in is relatively safe compared to other places. The area technically under our mandate is considered ideal to implement the new development plan the last team had begun.” The image shifted to a white oval, around the size of a person's head. “This is the focus of our mission. On our transport we've brought 5,000 of these: Energy-Saving Food Preparation Devices or ESFOPs. The aim is to determine the most appropriate method of distribution and get one of these on at least every block in the area within the year.”

“Excuse me, but I thought we were going to be actually doing something?”

“Let me assure you, Henry, and everyone, this task will not be easy and will take a lot of work on our parts. The Projects can be very resistant to changes of any kind and may be most unhelpful. But I can also assure you that this is well worth it. If every Project cooks his food with one of these instead of with the traditional methods, that's an energy savings of 50% for the Projects as a whole. With that extra capacity, puvorium refining goes up 25%, the Projects get 25% wealthier, and we get more puvorium. It's a win-win. So if there are no questions let's all be ready by nine tomorrow to get out there and try to organize a community information meeting to educate them about the ESFOPs. Until tomorrow.”

As everyone was walking back to their rooms, Christopher was wondering if he'd be able to get to sleep at all without sleep aids. Henry said to him, “I can't believe that's our entire mission. Not exactly going to impress anybody back home, is it?”

“So what? As long as it actually helps, right?”

“Well sure, that's great and everything. Recognition would be nice, too, though,”

Again, all Christopher could say was, “Yeah.” Henry paused at his door as if to say something else, but went inside instead. Christopher, thankfully, felt tired and went to sleep too.

*********************************

The next day Cecilia didn't come to the common room until 9:30 – Frank was disappointed, Henry was irritated, and Christopher was indifferent. When she did finally arrive she seemed flustered and made apology after apology. “Someone's adjusting poorly to natural sleep, it seems.” Frank checked his watch. “Okay everyone, as soon as we step outside you're going to notice three things: one, the dirt, two, the Projects who swarm you vying to be your best friend, and three, the ones that stand back and give you a disapproving look. Just keep calm, and let me do the talking, and everything will be fine. Okay. Let's go.”

Frank opened the front door, and sure enough, it was just as he said. The dirtiness and indeed the stench pervaded everything. At the sound of the opening door several Projects nearby looked up – all at Christopher and the team at once. He felt a hundred eyes on him. Tepidly, he met their stares. On their faces he saw what he took to be fascination – they were certainly not smiling, anyway. Each wore what seemed to be the same outfit of brown, rough looking clothes. Christopher was suddenly self-conscious of his deep violet clothes, as if his height did not already highlight him. The Projects all seemed below average in height.

“People! People! How are you? Tell us about the Pods!”

“Would you like to come visit me at my home? You're invited for dinner!”

“Do you bring any news form my friend Hernando and the people who came before you? He promised me he would send news.”

The questions and calls came in rapid-fire. The din was tremendous, making the air feel close, the more so since the Projects had converged around the four People, leaving very little personal space.

Raising his voice, Frank shouted, “Who can take us to the stadium? We're having a meeting there this evening.” The crowd erupted with volunteers, and Frank chose one seemingly at random. Christopher looked over at his fellow People. Cecilia was smiling, but in such a way that it was clear she did so only because she could thin of no other reaction. Henry had an intense, serious look, and looked back at Christopher.

He gestured with his head. “Look over there.” Christopher followed his gaze. He had been looking at a group of Projects on the other side of the street, watching the People with as much interest, but none of the excitement, as the surrounding animated group. “They're watching us... they don't look pleased we're here.”

“I'm sure they just don't know what to make of us.”

“I wouldn't be so sure – they live right next to the Staging Center. You can bet they've seen People before.”

They walked a ways down the road, and the crowd slowly thinned out, though Projects in the street always looked up to watch them pass. Ahead, they saw a large round building, the stadium, and in front of it, a blackened mass of ruined buildings extending over one block.

“My God, what happened here?” Cecilia's smile became a ridiculous frown.

Their guide answered, “A fire, a few months ago. It happened the day the last People left.”

“Oh no, I'm so sorry! Did many people live there?”

“Yes – many died. Dozens.”

Cecilia fell silent, unsure how to respond. She realized then that she had never had to respond to being informed of deaths. There were no mass tragedies among the People. Their guide mercifully change the subject, saving her traumatized psyche from further discomfort.

“The stadium is just ahead, you can see. I'll leave you here.”

“Thank you.”

“Can I get...?”

Confused, they looked at each other. Get what? Frank stepped in: “Here you go,” handing him some shiny circular objects. Turning to the others, Frank explained, “They're made of gold. They have what you might call a cultural fixation on gold. They value it very highly.”

“How bizarre!” Cecilia's smile had returned.

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Weird... it preserved the indentation that time...?

Yeah I see what you mean I think Apple, and I like your excerpt too.

I think I have problems with descriptions and dialogue.

Especially descriptions - I just hate doing them and don't really like reading them either.

I dunno.

Thanks all the same you're already helping a lot.

I', not a writer and I'me sure Firstapple will have much more to say, but at first glance, I would abbreviate People's Aid Staging Center in all future referfences to PASC. And there is still a lot of repition of Pods and People and Projects, especially as both the locale and the residents are called Projects (I do get that is intentional as they are second class subcitizens).

Sure, yeah I can see that.

I don't tend to like acronyms so I think I'm going with Center from now on, or just avoiding the word totally.

I know what you mean about People Pods Projects, and tried to wean some. I think it might partly be because a lot of this first part was exposition. Do you have a suggestion how I might tone it down some more? I dunno really.

I'm working on 're-writing' a part so you can better see what I'm talking about. Still, you are improving with each re-write. I will soon put up an excerpt of comparison.

When one of the People refers to the Pods, let them say something like "back at home" or something. Maybe add a slang name (something degrading) for the Projects or a slang name used by the residents of the Projects for their home or themselves. Kind of like 24th century "street". And distinguish them with language. For all of history, the folks from the masses have had a different language from the priviledged class. Whether it be 17th century England or 21st century America, there is a difference in the language of the classes.