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(Hey, everyone! I've been dying to try my hand at creating heroine stories. After really sitting down and reading a few, especially HeroineMark's first Songbird chapters, I decided to just jump in and go for it.
I hope you enjoy this first adventure of the Medal, a heroine endowed with Olympic strength and speed competing a one-woman decathlon against crime and injustice. Here's the first chapter of her debut story, "For the Gold")
"Help!" a short, young woman shrieked through the modestly-lit, concrete tunnel, but the echo of her cries, as if returned to her by the ignorant world unanswered, filled her with a hopelessness that she articulated with a sob. This corner of the campus was almost entirely just scenic walking trails through a forested park. With the hour pushing 1 AM, and on a Saturday no less, no one was in any of the few buildings within earshot, even if the screams weren't stifled by this tunnel. She brushed her blonde bangs out of her panicked eyes and looked back to see if, by some merciful whim of higher powers, her attacker was not behind her. The tunnel's arched entryway in which she had just passed was bare. But only for a blissful split second, before the shadow of her pursuer stretched over the tunnel wall like a long, thin, greedy finger.
She screamed again, backing into the opposite wall. "F-fine!" she shrieked with equal parts anger and terror. She flung her purse, which the man had demanded of her moments ago before she shoved him away, forward where it hit the ground, some of its contents spilling out. "Just take it!"
She expected he would do one of two things: either scramble to the purse like a hungry dog to a fresh bone, or he would continue looming after her. He chose the latter, and she scrambled to get back to a run. She could've kicked herself for even suspecting that he might just take the money and run. Though that had been his M.O. (assuming this was the same mugger that had been stalking the campus since classes started at the beginning of the month), she suspected her shoving him, knocking over his hood and causing the handkerchief over his nose to fall, had changed the game. She'd seen his face, and now, probably almost as scared and pissed as she was, he knew he couldn't simply let her go. But as for what he'd do to her? She fearfully doubted he had much of a plan, so it looked like they would have to find out together.
Her willpower sprung her to life, thrusting her through the tunnel like a bullet out of a gun, but she didn't make it to the exit on the other side. Instead, she tripped herself when one of her eager, high-heeled feet swung forward to early and swept the the other forward, causing her to tumble back before she caught herself on the wall again. But this time, the mugger was there to help catch her. He threw her against the wall, facing her with angry eyes. He had some scruff on his pale face, but it was stringy and patchy. At his age, in his late teens or early twenties, that little bit of facial hair was probably a month in the making. His eyes were memorable, piercing as he glared angrily at her. His teeth, barred angrily, were yellow and crooked. He took a step back and held the same pocket knife pointed toward her that he had when he first demanded her wallet.
"Why'd you have to be a hero? Huh?!" he barked.She simply shook her head rapidly, unsure of how to answer such a surreal question."What's it gonna take to keep you quiet, huh?"She shook her head again."I guess I'll have to give you something to remember me by, won't I?"
"No-no, please..."
"Yeah, something you won't want me to do a second time if you tell anybody-"
A continuous crunching sound made him stop his sentence short and turn his head to the entryway on the opposite end of the tunnel. Just as he did, another silhouette slid into view, as if the figure was stopping themselves after a long dash. Once the figure was at a completely stop, the woman and her attacker could clearly see by the athletic curvature of its abs and legs that the shadow was that of a woman. Though her arms were at her side, her fists were balled. She was not in a fighting stance, but a sturdy and angry one all the same.
This was enough to put the mugger on the move. He kept his knife pointed at his would-be hostage, but his eyes on the new figure to indicate to her that he had a weapon and would use it. And yet, he began to back away. One step, two steps, three, and then he spun around, nabbed the purse, and took off running back the way he came. From behind him, he could hear rapid footsteps on the pavement again, but he dared not stop to look back. If the new interloper intended to run around him, she would have to run all the way around the portion of the trail that sloped up into the bridge that ran over the tunnel, giving him plenty of time to run away. But as he cleared the entrance to the tunnel, he skidded to a halt himself, but his in utter shock that his pursuer was... impossibly... already arriving to meet him at this end of the tunnel.
She remained just out of the glow of the lamps illuminating the path, but now he could make out her form-fitting outfit enough to see that she had a mask, boots that went about halfway up her calf, and gloves that reached about half way up her forearm.
That was all he could see for now, but he would have plenty of time to get a closer look when she was on the ground, bleeding. She drove him to this, and now he had no choice. Adopting a meaner look to hide his surprise and fear, he took a swing toward her with the knife. But she was a blur now, in some vague shape to fast to see. Had she ducked? moved to the side? He couldn't say for sure, but when he followed through with his swing, she was gone. He felt a hand grip his arm from behind and twist it, causing him to grunt in pain and drop the stolen purse. With a strength he'd never seen in a person, even a man bigger than him, he could feel her lifting him up with just this one hand, and now she was pushing him forward.
They began to move faster, and the mugger let out a loud yell. The wind began to beckon out his adrenaline, making him feel like he was on a roller coaster he hadn't strapped in for, or worse, like he was tied to the front of a speeding car. After what seemed like minutes of falling forward at a terrifying velocity, he found himself finally stopping and tumbling onto the concrete floor of a lit porch. He looked up at the glass door towering over him and saw, etched onto the glass, the shield of the city's police department.
From the corner of his eye, he saw something fall onto the floor next to him: a photograph; a grainy photograph of a man in a coat. He recognized the coat as his. This was a security camera still of him that the police gave the media. It was his image, his face concealed in his makeshift mask and hood, and the telltale jacket that he was also wearing tonight. Another, similar photo fell next to it, followed by a generous stack of about half a dozen more.
He looked up to see one of his captor's gloved hands ring the call button next to the door. He could make out now that the glove was a golden yellow. He followed it to a red sleeve, and then to the body of the woman that brought him in. She stood proudly in a muted red, form-fitting material, hands and feet clad in gold gloves and boots respectively. A sky blue utility belt wrapped around her waste with a clunky, square, golden buckle fastening it just under her naval. Two thick blue lines printed onto the red costume ran down her shoulders on either side of her neck, forming a "V" shape, the corner of which converged unseen, obscured by a slightly raised gold pendant sewed onto the suit on her bosom just above her breasts. His eyes made his way to meet hers, which peered back at him through a gold domino mask with corners spanning just beyond her face. She gave him a smirk and a nod, which caused her red, pony-tailed hair to bob a little behind her.
With that, she darted off, a primary-colored blur swallowed by the night as soon as it left the light of the street lamps. The completely boggled mugger continued to stare long after she was gone, even as two patrol came out and began to hoist him up by the arms.
The Medal in "For the Gold"
Twelve days earlier.
The afternoon sunlight was high over Wabash University, but not quite ready to turn the shadows of the campus's old, gray, stone buildings bold or fat or long. While most classes were out for the day, with many of the last only ending a few moments prior, there were a couple of hours of daylight left before the sky went orange and then black until morning. The sand-colored concrete pathways began to flood with students and staff, most of whom heading toward the outskirts and exits of the campus where their dorms, cars, or bus stops awaited them; aside from, of course, the much more meager crowds that were going in and out of the gymnasium's locker room and eventually converging in the campus's northern yard- a grassy clearing littered with soccer goals, a couple of baseball diamonds, all framing the red track and green and white athletic field shared by the footballers (the Wabash U Egrets) and the school's track teams. To the east of the field, a few rooftops of the smaller buildings on campus gave way to a view of Wabash City's busy outline. Though not the largest metropolis in the country (or even the Midwest, for that matter), it was still an impressive, if modest, array of shimmering skyscrapers of steel and glass and concrete, which from the field looked like a sturdy wall of towers testifying to the city's humble but strong prosperity.
Shadwell stood in front of a bench at the side of the track and admired the skyline, not visibly reacting but impressed by the view nonetheless. He turned his gaze back to the eight young women running on the field, dressed in matching muted red, sleeveless jerseys and golden athletic shorts. He payed special attention to the brunette woman leading the pack. Though the placing of the other runners wavered as they kept up with each other in a jumbled crowd of their profiles, the brunette was constantly in first by several meters. Shadwell made a mental note of her, especially her jersey number: 53.
Shadwell was a tall man with a long, Saxon face that, while charming enough, could and had been described as sinister if they were already in a fearful mood when they caught sight of him. His hair was gone on top, but still dark, nearly black, on the sides. He wore a gray suit over a green-and-black plaid shirt and thin, pewter necktie. In one hand he had a clip board, and in the other, a thermos. Though one might presume the stats on clipped papers were a little more important than a beverage, he gripped the thermos tighter.
"Excuse me," a meek voice piped up from behind, and Shadwell turned, darting his head first before his pupils followed. Behind him was a young woman with red hair bouncing in a plucky ponytail, dressed in a uniform matching the others (her jersey read 21), holding a stack of white towels. "Sorry!" she she told him with a nervous, awkward smile, apparently intimidated by his swift turn. "Just need to set these down," she assured, and placed the towels on the free space directly behind where Shadwell was standing, the only space on the bench not already taken up by the water cooler, cups, papers, or duffle bags.
"Shouldn't you be running already?" Shadwell asked, and the redhead stood back upright, revealing her 5'4" height and slender but shapely legs. Her demeanor was still nervous, but her smile widened, spreading her full, potently pink lips a bit further. Her sapphire blue eyes seemed to grow a bit, too, brightening up her entire soft, bubbly face.
"I'm more, uh, moral support," she said with a giggle. A hint of regret tainted her otherwise pleasant tone as she told him, tilting her head to the girls already on the track, "I'm pretty sure I'd be the caboose anyway. I'm... heh, I'm mostly here because the team needed filling out. Are you here to watch?" Her head tilted curiously, suspicion becoming apparent. After all, this was only a practice, and a strange man spectating a women's practice meet is bound to raise a few eyebrows.
"Oh," Shadwell chuckled. "Yes. I'm a friend of Melanie's. She wanted a little help this semester, just to start out."
"Oh," the redhead seemed to understand, another big smile washing the skepticism from her face. "I'm Olivia," she told him, extending a hand which Shadwell shook with his own.
"Terry."
"Nice to meet you, Terry," Olivia nodded, then noticed something behind him. He turned to see Melanie Graves, the track team's coach.
"Melanie," Shadwell greeted her, and shook her hand as well.
"Hi, Terry," Melanie said warmly, then raised her voice to address the team. "Ladies? C'mere a sec." The team's running line dispersed, but met again in a semi-circle around Melanie and her guest. "This is Coach Terry Shadwell, everybody." Shadwell gave a humble wave. "He's in from Ohio to help give me some pointers for this year. In '04, one of his students made it to Athens, so, if he can't help us get to state this year, nobody can."
There was some chatter among the girls, some welcoming the new face, others a little puzzled. Olivia Ringwald was definitely one of them, but without any close buddies on the team, she had no one to chatter with like some of the others. Instead, she pondered it to herself. True, the university's team had never made it far in competitions, but the team had only been formed two weeks ago, not nearly long enough to determine it a completely lost cause, and Melanie had been the coach for nearly a decade. Why now? Why this late in her game, but this early in the team's?
The softer talk was ceased when a tall, dirty-blonde team member spoke up. "Maybe he can carry Ringwald to speed her up." Some of the girls snickered, others stood agape in an amused shock at the remark. Olivia just nodded, teeth clenched and masked by closed lips shaping a half smile. Just sit and take it, she thought, though her heart was sinking. Melanie's husband, Bill Graves, was her journalism professor, and as long as she could survive filling out the track team without dying from embarrassment, she would look that much better in his class, where her real interests lied.
"Hey, enough of that shit, Lisa," barked the brunette in the 53 jersey, looking even less amused than Olivia. Her thick, black brows furrowed above her sharp, brown eyes as she moved in closer to the dirty blonde. "Have faith in your team, or you let yourself down."
"Thanks, Tara," Olivia muttered sheepishly. It was easy for Tara to say something like that, being the fastest girl on the team. Olivia really admired Tara's humility and sense of decency (as well as her athletic prowess), but she felt like winners like the brunette lived in a different world that everybody else.
It was then that Olivia noticed that Shadwell had disappeared, but when the team headed back to the field, there he was again by the cooler. He was still there after the girls did a few sprinting exercises (which Olivia was the slowest in yet again.) Even being last place was tiring, though, and her eyes drifted to the cooler next to him. When she approached, he greeted her with a smile and held up a styrofoam cup, already filled with water.
"Oh, thanks!" she told him with a smile, not thinking twice as she gulped the whole thing at once. "I must look pretty bad out there, huh?" she chuckled, embarrassed that such an evidently distinguished coach had to watch her come in last.
But he shrugged and smiled warmly, "Well, everyone loses sometimes. But hey, the semester's still young. Just keep running and don't let the sidelines tempt you."
"Thanks," she said with a bashful grin. That was not what she was expecting out of an Olympic coach. She pictured him being... well, a little less supportive. Though she knew such a pep talk wasn't going to magically give her the speed of Mercury, there was something reassuring about it, enough so to make her want to run out and try again.
That afternoon, she felt a little better about herself (even if she was still coming in last.) Practice wasn't quite so awful. She was still coming in last, but, she felt, not as last as she usually did. She kept looking to the new, encouraging guest coach to see if he was watching and remind herself of his encouraging words. Usually he wasn't, just reviewing his clipboard notes and fiddling with his thermos. All went pretty well until her last round of sprints, she looked over to Terry one last time. He was fiddling with his thermos again, pouring some water out of it into a styrofoam cup. She found that a little funny, as she'd been expecting a blackish brown stream of coffee to emerge, not the clear glimmer of water. She turned back to her run just in time to finish up and see the tired team trudge over to the cooler to refresh themselves one last time before the showers.
And that's when she saw Terry beckon Tara over, presumably to shower her with compliments about her performance today. But what he did next had Olivia raising her faint, red brow in confusion: He quickly stopped Tara from taking a cup of her own and approaching the cooler, instead giving her the presumably still-full cup of water from his thermos.
The afternoon sunlight was high over Wabash University, but not quite ready to turn the shadows of the campus's old, gray, stone buildings bold or fat or long. While most classes were out for the day, with many of the last only ending a few moments prior, there were a couple of hours of daylight left before the sky went orange and then black until morning. The sand-colored concrete pathways began to flood with students and staff, most of whom heading toward the outskirts and exits of the campus where their dorms, cars, or bus stops awaited them; aside from, of course, the much more meager crowds that were going in and out of the gymnasium's locker room and eventually converging in the campus's northern yard- a grassy clearing littered with soccer goals, a couple of baseball diamonds, all framing the red track and green and white athletic field shared by the footballers (the Wabash U Egrets) and the school's track teams. To the east of the field, a few rooftops of the smaller buildings on campus gave way to a view of Wabash City's busy outline. Though not the largest metropolis in the country (or even the Midwest, for that matter), it was still an impressive, if modest, array of shimmering skyscrapers of steel and glass and concrete, which from the field looked like a sturdy wall of towers testifying to the city's humble but strong prosperity.
Shadwell stood in front of a bench at the side of the track and admired the skyline, not visibly reacting but impressed by the view nonetheless. He turned his gaze back to the eight young women running on the field, dressed in matching muted red, sleeveless jerseys and golden athletic shorts. He payed special attention to the brunette woman leading the pack. Though the placing of the other runners wavered as they kept up with each other in a jumbled crowd of their profiles, the brunette was constantly in first by several meters. Shadwell made a mental note of her, especially her jersey number: 53.
Shadwell was a tall man with a long, Saxon face that, while charming enough, could and had been described as sinister if they were already in a fearful mood when they caught sight of him. His hair was gone on top, but still dark, nearly black, on the sides. He wore a gray suit over a green-and-black plaid shirt and thin, pewter necktie. In one hand he had a clip board, and in the other, a thermos. Though one might presume the stats on clipped papers were a little more important than a beverage, he gripped the thermos tighter.
"Excuse me," a meek voice piped up from behind, and Shadwell turned, darting his head first before his pupils followed. Behind him was a young woman with red hair bouncing in a plucky ponytail, dressed in a uniform matching the others (her jersey read 21), holding a stack of white towels. "Sorry!" she she told him with a nervous, awkward smile, apparently intimidated by his swift turn. "Just need to set these down," she assured, and placed the towels on the free space directly behind where Shadwell was standing, the only space on the bench not already taken up by the water cooler, cups, papers, or duffle bags.
"Shouldn't you be running already?" Shadwell asked, and the redhead stood back upright, revealing her 5'4" height and slender but shapely legs. Her demeanor was still nervous, but her smile widened, spreading her full, potently pink lips a bit further. Her sapphire blue eyes seemed to grow a bit, too, brightening up her entire soft, bubbly face.
"I'm more, uh, moral support," she said with a giggle. A hint of regret tainted her otherwise pleasant tone as she told him, tilting her head to the girls already on the track, "I'm pretty sure I'd be the caboose anyway. I'm... heh, I'm mostly here because the team needed filling out. Are you here to watch?" Her head tilted curiously, suspicion becoming apparent. After all, this was only a practice, and a strange man spectating a women's practice meet is bound to raise a few eyebrows.
"Oh," Shadwell chuckled. "Yes. I'm a friend of Melanie's. She wanted a little help this semester, just to start out."
"Oh," the redhead seemed to understand, another big smile washing the skepticism from her face. "I'm Olivia," she told him, extending a hand which Shadwell shook with his own.
"Terry."
"Nice to meet you, Terry," Olivia nodded, then noticed something behind him. He turned to see Melanie Graves, the track team's coach.
"Melanie," Shadwell greeted her, and shook her hand as well.
"Hi, Terry," Melanie said warmly, then raised her voice to address the team. "Ladies? C'mere a sec." The team's running line dispersed, but met again in a semi-circle around Melanie and her guest. "This is Coach Terry Shadwell, everybody." Shadwell gave a humble wave. "He's in from Ohio to help give me some pointers for this year. In '04, one of his students made it to Athens, so, if he can't help us get to state this year, nobody can."
There was some chatter among the girls, some welcoming the new face, others a little puzzled. Olivia Ringwald was definitely one of them, but without any close buddies on the team, she had no one to chatter with like some of the others. Instead, she pondered it to herself. True, the university's team had never made it far in competitions, but the team had only been formed two weeks ago, not nearly long enough to determine it a completely lost cause, and Melanie had been the coach for nearly a decade. Why now? Why this late in her game, but this early in the team's?
The softer talk was ceased when a tall, dirty-blonde team member spoke up. "Maybe he can carry Ringwald to speed her up." Some of the girls snickered, others stood agape in an amused shock at the remark. Olivia just nodded, teeth clenched and masked by closed lips shaping a half smile. Just sit and take it, she thought, though her heart was sinking. Melanie's husband, Bill Graves, was her journalism professor, and as long as she could survive filling out the track team without dying from embarrassment, she would look that much better in his class, where her real interests lied.
"Hey, enough of that shit, Lisa," barked the brunette in the 53 jersey, looking even less amused than Olivia. Her thick, black brows furrowed above her sharp, brown eyes as she moved in closer to the dirty blonde. "Have faith in your team, or you let yourself down."
"Thanks, Tara," Olivia muttered sheepishly. It was easy for Tara to say something like that, being the fastest girl on the team. Olivia really admired Tara's humility and sense of decency (as well as her athletic prowess), but she felt like winners like the brunette lived in a different world that everybody else.
It was then that Olivia noticed that Shadwell had disappeared, but when the team headed back to the field, there he was again by the cooler. He was still there after the girls did a few sprinting exercises (which Olivia was the slowest in yet again.) Even being last place was tiring, though, and her eyes drifted to the cooler next to him. When she approached, he greeted her with a smile and held up a styrofoam cup, already filled with water.
"Oh, thanks!" she told him with a smile, not thinking twice as she gulped the whole thing at once. "I must look pretty bad out there, huh?" she chuckled, embarrassed that such an evidently distinguished coach had to watch her come in last.
But he shrugged and smiled warmly, "Well, everyone loses sometimes. But hey, the semester's still young. Just keep running and don't let the sidelines tempt you."
"Thanks," she said with a bashful grin. That was not what she was expecting out of an Olympic coach. She pictured him being... well, a little less supportive. Though she knew such a pep talk wasn't going to magically give her the speed of Mercury, there was something reassuring about it, enough so to make her want to run out and try again.
That afternoon, she felt a little better about herself (even if she was still coming in last.) Practice wasn't quite so awful. She was still coming in last, but, she felt, not as last as she usually did. She kept looking to the new, encouraging guest coach to see if he was watching and remind herself of his encouraging words. Usually he wasn't, just reviewing his clipboard notes and fiddling with his thermos. All went pretty well until her last round of sprints, she looked over to Terry one last time. He was fiddling with his thermos again, pouring some water out of it into a styrofoam cup. She found that a little funny, as she'd been expecting a blackish brown stream of coffee to emerge, not the clear glimmer of water. She turned back to her run just in time to finish up and see the tired team trudge over to the cooler to refresh themselves one last time before the showers.
And that's when she saw Terry beckon Tara over, presumably to shower her with compliments about her performance today. But what he did next had Olivia raising her faint, red brow in confusion: He quickly stopped Tara from taking a cup of her own and approaching the cooler, instead giving her the presumably still-full cup of water from his thermos.
Its very good, really well written. I would urge you to space out the posts at least a few days apart as that gives time for reading and any feedback (ha ha, feedback HERE!. Its the way I tell 'em) which in turn might influence your next posted chapter.
Its really good especially for a first stab. One thing I would say though is to try and avoid close repetition of words or phrases.
For example you have-
His eyes were memorable, piercing as he glared angrily at her. His teeth, barred angrily,
Use something else instead of 'angrily'. So you could have
His eyes were memorable, piercing as he glared at her, full of rage. His teeth, bared angrily,
Or
His eyes were memorable, piercing as he glared irately at her. His teeth, bared angrily,
You can see we are saying the same thing but it reads better without the repetition.
Also proof read your work and dont be afraid to edit out any mistakes. Above for example you have BARRED instead of BARED.
Mostly it wont matter but imagine reading it if english is not your first language - it wont make sense. Try and help the reader out as much as you can.
But this really is good work, well paced, nice descriptions, good action scenes , nice quick set up before we are plunged into the story - great job!
I still got part 2 to look forward to!
Its really good especially for a first stab. One thing I would say though is to try and avoid close repetition of words or phrases.
For example you have-
His eyes were memorable, piercing as he glared angrily at her. His teeth, barred angrily,
Use something else instead of 'angrily'. So you could have
His eyes were memorable, piercing as he glared at her, full of rage. His teeth, bared angrily,
Or
His eyes were memorable, piercing as he glared irately at her. His teeth, bared angrily,
You can see we are saying the same thing but it reads better without the repetition.
Also proof read your work and dont be afraid to edit out any mistakes. Above for example you have BARRED instead of BARED.
Mostly it wont matter but imagine reading it if english is not your first language - it wont make sense. Try and help the reader out as much as you can.
But this really is good work, well paced, nice descriptions, good action scenes , nice quick set up before we are plunged into the story - great job!
I still got part 2 to look forward to!
Last edited by tallyho 5 years ago, edited 1 time in total.
How strange are the ways of the gods ...........and how cruel.
I am here to help one and all enjoy this site, so if you have any questions or feel you are being trolled please contact me (Hit the 'CONTACT' little speech bubble below my Avatar).
I am here to help one and all enjoy this site, so if you have any questions or feel you are being trolled please contact me (Hit the 'CONTACT' little speech bubble below my Avatar).
I don't know how important I think spacing posts out is? At least to an extent, not until you get to 'the main event' stuff at least. It's a SHiP site so, if it takes four weeks to get to any peril your readers could get bored?
I like whats here so far though. Typos and 'once overs' aside, you can't fake acceptable writing, and what you've got here is solid stuff, I'm excited to see where it all leads.
I like whats here so far though. Typos and 'once overs' aside, you can't fake acceptable writing, and what you've got here is solid stuff, I'm excited to see where it all leads.
My stories
Origin - http://www.superheroineforum.com/forum/ ... =9&t=26745
Camelot - viewtopic.php?f=9&t=30886
#Canceltwitter
Origin - http://www.superheroineforum.com/forum/ ... =9&t=26745
Camelot - viewtopic.php?f=9&t=30886
#Canceltwitter
Well you can post them altogether and maybe get one comment or you can space them a few days apart and maybe get 4 comments or whatever. I know which way I would prefer is all.
We are each different but if you are writing on the fly, taking time out to think what you are going to do next makes sense rather than rattling off the first thing that comes into your head.
Also any comments may steer you in a direction you werent intending to go. (I had one comment on a minor character that I wasnt intending to use again. After the comment i thought about it and made them an intrinsic part of later chapters/stories.)
Plus spacing them out gives you time to write your next magnum opus and post it hot on the heels of the one you are finishing off and so keep your fan base happy with a sort of production line of offerings.
Its personal preference but there are good and valid reasons for not posting all in one go or over a very few days.
If your readers have got bored waiting a couple days or even a few weeks for the next part in a story then you probably haven't written something very good in the first place if they cant be bothered to tune in next week
Fem, you say you are interested in where this is going - so am I - and surely its better to increase that anticipation and expectancy than boom there it is.?
But its advice I offer not an edict
How strange are the ways of the gods ...........and how cruel.
I am here to help one and all enjoy this site, so if you have any questions or feel you are being trolled please contact me (Hit the 'CONTACT' little speech bubble below my Avatar).
I am here to help one and all enjoy this site, so if you have any questions or feel you are being trolled please contact me (Hit the 'CONTACT' little speech bubble below my Avatar).
To an extent? I mean, I power through novels, I read ten chapters at a time, sleep... read ten more. Obviously its different reading online buuuuut and especially with fetish fuel, while buildup IS important... there's a particular reason the reader is there and I don't know that buildup benefits the same way in fetish writing as say... THE AVENGERS! Over weeks or months the longer it takes to get to your fetish material the more likely it is a reader might go somewhere else and forget about your story?
NOT that I'm saying this is dragging xD It just began! BUT if say this was a long running story that had gone for months, and was on its tenth chapter of buildup I'd be starting to wonder if it was on the right website.
Anyway, I wasn't really criticizing your advice, just offering an aside thought. I think two chapters at a time isn't to bad really, particularly when one was clearly just the prologue. Length of chapters matters to. If you write LONG chapters you only need one, if you write a short chapter... might consider another short chapter?
My stories
Origin - http://www.superheroineforum.com/forum/ ... =9&t=26745
Camelot - viewtopic.php?f=9&t=30886
#Canceltwitter
Origin - http://www.superheroineforum.com/forum/ ... =9&t=26745
Camelot - viewtopic.php?f=9&t=30886
#Canceltwitter
I guess I'm a Saturday morning matinee kinda guy... gimme 23 good days leading to a great last one rather than just the one great time straight off...
One more thing Freon if you haven't done it already, if you go to the bottom of this page and click on the little spanner symbol box drop down (Wrench if you are stateside) you can select 'Subscribe this Topic' and then you will receive a message notifying you whenever someone posts a comment here.
One more thing Freon if you haven't done it already, if you go to the bottom of this page and click on the little spanner symbol box drop down (Wrench if you are stateside) you can select 'Subscribe this Topic' and then you will receive a message notifying you whenever someone posts a comment here.
How strange are the ways of the gods ...........and how cruel.
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Thank you both for the pointers and kind words!
In my defense, I did intend to put those up as only one post, but I was afraid it would be too long. In retrospect, both posts on their own look kind of skimpy. I also can't seem to adopt the attitude that no post is too long on a fiction board, but I am trying.
Femina, your thoughts on buildup got me to thinking that I do have a lot planned for this story, since it is Medal's origin. But I do want to flesh it out and make it seem episodic and genuine, because (and I realize this is my personal hang-up and doesn't really bother everyone as much as me) a big turn-off for me with fetish fiction is when it feels like obvious fetish fiction. I can't dive into shallow waters. I prefer that it feels like an ordinary story that coincidentally caters to my personal kinks. (Truth be told, while this episode will definitely have some peril in the final act, it won't even tap into the stuff I really enjoy.) So while you've given me something to think about in terms of pacing toward the nitty gritty, I do want to give you a heads up that the next chapter won't have much peril in it either.