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I've thought and decided to ask for assistance from my fellow Mofoers.
I'm rather nervous asking about this but I trust you people.
I'm a fledgling writer. I doubt though that I would ever reach the level required to publish fiction on a more public and commercial level. I'm just sticking to more practicle writing and getting feedback from onliners on what I have already written. It is by my reckoning no-where good enough, but then again you are your own worst critic.
I need your help. I need a beta-reader. If you don't know what a beta-reader is you may not be able to help me. I will explain though if anyone asks. My gramma and spelling sucks so I really need help there.
I've already linked to a couple of sites to publish my works but the reviews are rather a mish-mash. 9/1 in favour of impersonal and brief ones. Not to mention stories get bogged down by a hundred others and lost in the stream.
I want to post another story there (in the less bogged one) that I'm in the early stages of, and as of yet undecided on where the plot is leading. Of course I will post a link here for when it is eventually finished so all of you can read it.
But that I expect will not be for months, even a year from now, I'm incredibly slow and what I do have planned is incredibly long. Roughly over twenty thousand words of yet and still in the very early stages.
Besides a beta-reader (somewhat like an editor in the online world of fiction) I need help in details. Like about Taoism, atheism and monks. I want my characters to be at least remotely acurrate. My story is however a work of fantasy fiction and does not have to strictly adhere to the information. I've researched some stuff myself but it would be nice to have another perspective on the meanings.
So basically I need someone who would like to volunteer to be a beta-reader (which will only be a hapazard work) and every so often on this thread I will post to ask for help on certain aspects. This is not an overly serious piece of work so I am allowing for some weak points, which I would tweak out eventually in the future, but for now I want a competant story.
....and just for you people here is the prologue and example of my work. I want to know what reactions to expect. Once again though this is not an extremely serious bit of writing, more of a case of having fun.
'Phoenix Rising' is the tentative title................here it is, the
Prologue
Brother Jerome bowed in reverence to the holy relic residing on its podium at the epicenter of the room. An emu egg sized orb, its sides smooth as glass and as dark as a shadow at midnight. No name ever given to it, only a reference like 'orb', relic' or 'artifact'. Any name would be unflattering, unworthy or incapable of truly describing it, a name would be power to curse it from the lips of less honourable men.
It had lain dormant for years, a blackened, lifeless sphere. Dust had gathered since the light had extinguished all that time ago, no one had touched it to clear the webs that clung nor wiped the sheen of age as only Brother Jerome took care of the sanctity and he was banned to touch it. Only the most pious and holy monks were allowed to do so but none had come to this place of worship for a long time, without the spark it was but an empty vessel so held no use for them. It was still sacred though, but as to whether it was merely lying dormant or had discontinued its lifespan no monk could say and none were now left alive who could remember when the orb shone brightly.
Brother Jerome was young, a child in comparison to most of the other ordained monks. His very youth a bitter frustration yet also a free vitality. He had only recently been ordained into the monk-hood and thus had very limited access and privileges, not that there was many for a monk. He was giving the lowest and most menial tasks though not for the lack of respect towards him but for the wonders of learning. Brother Amos, a devout man of many a quote, often spoke of the wonder of meekness, 'Learn to be the humble ant, a hard and fastidious worker. He works for his queen and in reward he is endowed a greater understanding of his place in the world'. Brother Jerome took this to heart, appreciating his purpose within the monastery, despite how menial it seemed. Aiding the monastery even now, with a broom in his hands and a humbleness in his heart
The youthful acolyte had proceeded the previous sanctity protector, a now aged and enfeebled man of ninety, Brother Adlai, seen to all as an honorary grandfather, even to the Abbott himself. He had swept the hallowed room for many a decade, and in all his years in service to that task he had never seen the light of the orb. It's glow fading into the bowels of legend of old. Brother Jerome with his humble heart was still a little reserved at the possibility of spending his entire life with the bristled stick his predecessor had endured. His appreciation of the role he was endowed with still fraught with the doubt of inexperience.
Brother Jerome, orb protector, began his duty sweeping the sanctity's floor. Sweeping with a practiced hand. Slow, easy strokes, gentle, like caressing the smoothness of a fine china doll. Brother Jerome was a master not a pupil of the art.
He knew the place very well. The floor, a dazzling array of spit and polish was an smooth glass of onyx. The monk very familiar with every contour, every mark and scratch embedded into its surface. The walls of ancient marble arising around the central atrium in which the orb rested, curving from the outer edges, reaching overhead to a central point directly above the podium to make the room global in shape. Peculiar markings were written upon them in gold. Gold melted and used like ink while it still dripped with heat. A skill lost also into time. The language was old, not nearly of an age as the relic but old enough to have already been born in the growing age of man's first understanding of language. He only understood the most rudimentary of it. He had no business knowing its full meaning, that was made clear to him when he had first worn the monks cloth. Politely told of course. The meaning to the symbols held by a select few, endowed with mystical property and bringing with them knowledge of an ancient age and distant lands. The wall also contained slides which held burning yellow wax candles in place of the lack of sunlight, for the room contained no windows. The only access and exit was one single archway that breathed further light into the holy place.
He continued sweeping, humming a variation of the days hymn in time to his movement. Voice when not necessary was frowned upon, in particular from the older and more aged members of his order, and especially whilst he was in the sacred sanctity. Though humble and highly respectful of the order he still held a little rebellious streak within him, coming out in small doses that he held close to his person, a little secret of his own. The rebellion of youth, one he was sure the years would wither away.
Unmindful of his surroundings, continuing the strokes of his broom, Brother Jerome did not notice a new hum to his own. A whisper that elevated in volume at a gradual climb. Head down Brother Jerome also did not comprehend the light that slowly revealed itself , an individual light separate from the candles amber glow, a rosy pink shade that gradually began to envelop the wax sticks. The hesitant light grew, rising up the marble walls like a creeping vine, steeping the previously darker room with a new and more brilliant brightness. The humming grew louder too, increasing in volume in time with the dimming sable. Brother Jerome at last realised something was amiss when the floor he had been concentrating his entire attention on, began to shine with delicate patterned stars. He raised his cowled head in utter surprise to try and discover the location of the eminence, and in its shadows his eyes began to bulge with disbelief when his gaze brushed the orb. The pit of black was no more. A Pandora's box of colliding colours unveiled themselves from the orb's iris. The pink shade deepening to red, an incandescence that the sacred relic had not revealed in centuries.
Brother Jerome's broom clattered to the floor when his numbing hand relinquished its hold on it. His mouth had joined his eyes and now sat unhinged, agog in surprise. His body failed him, refusing to move as he witnessed the orbs rebirth. Years of silence and shadows falling away, a blinded eye now with the cataracts removed, seeing once more. The dust and cobwebs that had clung for years, vanishing under that glorious brightness
The room was now filled, utterly and completely with the orbs light. Brother Jerome shocked to stillness was startled even further when the orb ascended from the plinth. Hooked, unable to turn away at his first miracle, the monk watched with growing awe as the marble walls twisted with the colours and the gold writing shone with life. Both giving Brother Jerome the impression that the symbols were rearranging themselves to read differently. Impossible, he thought but then the orb shone like the sudden streak of lightning and the words merged into one golden banner in its flash. Brother Jerome at that sudden moment believed anything was possible.
Distantly he thought he heard the excited and fearful babble of a voice, calling for assistance, calling for something or someone. In the ambiance of the relic he cared little, his mind, body and soul transfixed. The commotion beyond the sanctity walls insignificant under the orb's eye.
The sacred relic began to revolve on it's axis, casting a prism of light and shade within the room. It sinuated slowly at first, gathering momentum with every revolution until it spun beyond the eye's perception. Around and around it went, the rooms design accentuating the rainbow's image on the walls, reflecting back and forth. Brother Jerome in the middle of it, his normally brown habit now more jaunty, as every colour of the rainbow and more passed over him. He closed his eyes, reveling in the light and colour that crossed his vision, penetrating his hooded eyelids. Time was lost to him, so too thought. Only the orb and its luminance crowded his mind.
He blinked under his lids in surprise when sentience returned to him. Suddenly the sanctity held no wonders. Brother Jerome cracked open an eye in surprise and stared where the orb was elevated. It no longer spun where it was, rather it held, seeming of precarious balance, on flimsy invisible string ready to break under its frail design. The glorious plethora of lights no longer being emanated from that source, only the darker shade of grey with an iris of yellow reflected from the orb.
Brother Jerome shook his head in dismay, fearful that the orb was closing back into dormancy. This was further increased to a mild agitated stress when the orb began to ascend back to its cradle. Behind him the out of breathes gasps came to his attention. Someone breathing heavy from a long jog. His awe fading further into disappointment, the wonder apparently closing to an end and his sense of singular witness evaporating. A figure moved to stand by his side, eyes keen on the descending relic which slowly came to rest where it had always been before. A hand came to reside on his shoulder, either offering a comforting touch or clinging for assistance, the weight of being witness too heavy a burden to stand up to.
Suddenly the hand tightened as a blinding light flashed before them. Tears involuntarily dropped from Brother Jerome's eyes as they squinted shut from it. Clouds of illumination flecking across his coveted vision and ribbons of colour crossed his sight beneath his lids. Behind him a cry of surprise rose and suddenly the hand fell from his shoulder. Beside him whilst in the throws of blindness and awe he felt and heard his neighbor drop and in doing so, his neighbor's slump recalled him to his own lack of strength. The bright light seemed to be sapping the energy right out of all those present. The monk wavered before dropping to one knee barely aware the light was now fading to a mere glare as he tried to remain conscious and alert. Once more his senses dimmed from exertion and this time weariness. Spots danced on the periphery of his sight, the foretelling of a deep slumber, his bones feeling like lead.
As his consciousness slowly evaporated Brother Jerome heard voices in the archway, like a dying wind across a vast ravine. His hearing caught a vaguely familiar voice before the darkness consumed him.
"The Orb is reborn! Lord, protect us. May you grant us your everlasting mercy. "
I'm rather nervous asking about this but I trust you people.
I'm a fledgling writer. I doubt though that I would ever reach the level required to publish fiction on a more public and commercial level. I'm just sticking to more practicle writing and getting feedback from onliners on what I have already written. It is by my reckoning no-where good enough, but then again you are your own worst critic.
I need your help. I need a beta-reader. If you don't know what a beta-reader is you may not be able to help me. I will explain though if anyone asks. My gramma and spelling sucks so I really need help there.
I've already linked to a couple of sites to publish my works but the reviews are rather a mish-mash. 9/1 in favour of impersonal and brief ones. Not to mention stories get bogged down by a hundred others and lost in the stream.
I want to post another story there (in the less bogged one) that I'm in the early stages of, and as of yet undecided on where the plot is leading. Of course I will post a link here for when it is eventually finished so all of you can read it.
But that I expect will not be for months, even a year from now, I'm incredibly slow and what I do have planned is incredibly long. Roughly over twenty thousand words of yet and still in the very early stages.Besides a beta-reader (somewhat like an editor in the online world of fiction) I need help in details. Like about Taoism, atheism and monks. I want my characters to be at least remotely acurrate. My story is however a work of fantasy fiction and does not have to strictly adhere to the information. I've researched some stuff myself but it would be nice to have another perspective on the meanings.
So basically I need someone who would like to volunteer to be a beta-reader (which will only be a hapazard work) and every so often on this thread I will post to ask for help on certain aspects. This is not an overly serious piece of work so I am allowing for some weak points, which I would tweak out eventually in the future, but for now I want a competant story.
....and just for you people here is the prologue and example of my work. I want to know what reactions to expect. Once again though this is not an extremely serious bit of writing, more of a case of having fun.
'Phoenix Rising' is the tentative title................here it is, the
Prologue
Brother Jerome bowed in reverence to the holy relic residing on its podium at the epicenter of the room. An emu egg sized orb, its sides smooth as glass and as dark as a shadow at midnight. No name ever given to it, only a reference like 'orb', relic' or 'artifact'. Any name would be unflattering, unworthy or incapable of truly describing it, a name would be power to curse it from the lips of less honourable men.
It had lain dormant for years, a blackened, lifeless sphere. Dust had gathered since the light had extinguished all that time ago, no one had touched it to clear the webs that clung nor wiped the sheen of age as only Brother Jerome took care of the sanctity and he was banned to touch it. Only the most pious and holy monks were allowed to do so but none had come to this place of worship for a long time, without the spark it was but an empty vessel so held no use for them. It was still sacred though, but as to whether it was merely lying dormant or had discontinued its lifespan no monk could say and none were now left alive who could remember when the orb shone brightly.
Brother Jerome was young, a child in comparison to most of the other ordained monks. His very youth a bitter frustration yet also a free vitality. He had only recently been ordained into the monk-hood and thus had very limited access and privileges, not that there was many for a monk. He was giving the lowest and most menial tasks though not for the lack of respect towards him but for the wonders of learning. Brother Amos, a devout man of many a quote, often spoke of the wonder of meekness, 'Learn to be the humble ant, a hard and fastidious worker. He works for his queen and in reward he is endowed a greater understanding of his place in the world'. Brother Jerome took this to heart, appreciating his purpose within the monastery, despite how menial it seemed. Aiding the monastery even now, with a broom in his hands and a humbleness in his heart
The youthful acolyte had proceeded the previous sanctity protector, a now aged and enfeebled man of ninety, Brother Adlai, seen to all as an honorary grandfather, even to the Abbott himself. He had swept the hallowed room for many a decade, and in all his years in service to that task he had never seen the light of the orb. It's glow fading into the bowels of legend of old. Brother Jerome with his humble heart was still a little reserved at the possibility of spending his entire life with the bristled stick his predecessor had endured. His appreciation of the role he was endowed with still fraught with the doubt of inexperience.
Brother Jerome, orb protector, began his duty sweeping the sanctity's floor. Sweeping with a practiced hand. Slow, easy strokes, gentle, like caressing the smoothness of a fine china doll. Brother Jerome was a master not a pupil of the art.
He knew the place very well. The floor, a dazzling array of spit and polish was an smooth glass of onyx. The monk very familiar with every contour, every mark and scratch embedded into its surface. The walls of ancient marble arising around the central atrium in which the orb rested, curving from the outer edges, reaching overhead to a central point directly above the podium to make the room global in shape. Peculiar markings were written upon them in gold. Gold melted and used like ink while it still dripped with heat. A skill lost also into time. The language was old, not nearly of an age as the relic but old enough to have already been born in the growing age of man's first understanding of language. He only understood the most rudimentary of it. He had no business knowing its full meaning, that was made clear to him when he had first worn the monks cloth. Politely told of course. The meaning to the symbols held by a select few, endowed with mystical property and bringing with them knowledge of an ancient age and distant lands. The wall also contained slides which held burning yellow wax candles in place of the lack of sunlight, for the room contained no windows. The only access and exit was one single archway that breathed further light into the holy place.
He continued sweeping, humming a variation of the days hymn in time to his movement. Voice when not necessary was frowned upon, in particular from the older and more aged members of his order, and especially whilst he was in the sacred sanctity. Though humble and highly respectful of the order he still held a little rebellious streak within him, coming out in small doses that he held close to his person, a little secret of his own. The rebellion of youth, one he was sure the years would wither away.
Unmindful of his surroundings, continuing the strokes of his broom, Brother Jerome did not notice a new hum to his own. A whisper that elevated in volume at a gradual climb. Head down Brother Jerome also did not comprehend the light that slowly revealed itself , an individual light separate from the candles amber glow, a rosy pink shade that gradually began to envelop the wax sticks. The hesitant light grew, rising up the marble walls like a creeping vine, steeping the previously darker room with a new and more brilliant brightness. The humming grew louder too, increasing in volume in time with the dimming sable. Brother Jerome at last realised something was amiss when the floor he had been concentrating his entire attention on, began to shine with delicate patterned stars. He raised his cowled head in utter surprise to try and discover the location of the eminence, and in its shadows his eyes began to bulge with disbelief when his gaze brushed the orb. The pit of black was no more. A Pandora's box of colliding colours unveiled themselves from the orb's iris. The pink shade deepening to red, an incandescence that the sacred relic had not revealed in centuries.
Brother Jerome's broom clattered to the floor when his numbing hand relinquished its hold on it. His mouth had joined his eyes and now sat unhinged, agog in surprise. His body failed him, refusing to move as he witnessed the orbs rebirth. Years of silence and shadows falling away, a blinded eye now with the cataracts removed, seeing once more. The dust and cobwebs that had clung for years, vanishing under that glorious brightness
The room was now filled, utterly and completely with the orbs light. Brother Jerome shocked to stillness was startled even further when the orb ascended from the plinth. Hooked, unable to turn away at his first miracle, the monk watched with growing awe as the marble walls twisted with the colours and the gold writing shone with life. Both giving Brother Jerome the impression that the symbols were rearranging themselves to read differently. Impossible, he thought but then the orb shone like the sudden streak of lightning and the words merged into one golden banner in its flash. Brother Jerome at that sudden moment believed anything was possible.
Distantly he thought he heard the excited and fearful babble of a voice, calling for assistance, calling for something or someone. In the ambiance of the relic he cared little, his mind, body and soul transfixed. The commotion beyond the sanctity walls insignificant under the orb's eye.
The sacred relic began to revolve on it's axis, casting a prism of light and shade within the room. It sinuated slowly at first, gathering momentum with every revolution until it spun beyond the eye's perception. Around and around it went, the rooms design accentuating the rainbow's image on the walls, reflecting back and forth. Brother Jerome in the middle of it, his normally brown habit now more jaunty, as every colour of the rainbow and more passed over him. He closed his eyes, reveling in the light and colour that crossed his vision, penetrating his hooded eyelids. Time was lost to him, so too thought. Only the orb and its luminance crowded his mind.
He blinked under his lids in surprise when sentience returned to him. Suddenly the sanctity held no wonders. Brother Jerome cracked open an eye in surprise and stared where the orb was elevated. It no longer spun where it was, rather it held, seeming of precarious balance, on flimsy invisible string ready to break under its frail design. The glorious plethora of lights no longer being emanated from that source, only the darker shade of grey with an iris of yellow reflected from the orb.
Brother Jerome shook his head in dismay, fearful that the orb was closing back into dormancy. This was further increased to a mild agitated stress when the orb began to ascend back to its cradle. Behind him the out of breathes gasps came to his attention. Someone breathing heavy from a long jog. His awe fading further into disappointment, the wonder apparently closing to an end and his sense of singular witness evaporating. A figure moved to stand by his side, eyes keen on the descending relic which slowly came to rest where it had always been before. A hand came to reside on his shoulder, either offering a comforting touch or clinging for assistance, the weight of being witness too heavy a burden to stand up to.
Suddenly the hand tightened as a blinding light flashed before them. Tears involuntarily dropped from Brother Jerome's eyes as they squinted shut from it. Clouds of illumination flecking across his coveted vision and ribbons of colour crossed his sight beneath his lids. Behind him a cry of surprise rose and suddenly the hand fell from his shoulder. Beside him whilst in the throws of blindness and awe he felt and heard his neighbor drop and in doing so, his neighbor's slump recalled him to his own lack of strength. The bright light seemed to be sapping the energy right out of all those present. The monk wavered before dropping to one knee barely aware the light was now fading to a mere glare as he tried to remain conscious and alert. Once more his senses dimmed from exertion and this time weariness. Spots danced on the periphery of his sight, the foretelling of a deep slumber, his bones feeling like lead.
As his consciousness slowly evaporated Brother Jerome heard voices in the archway, like a dying wind across a vast ravine. His hearing caught a vaguely familiar voice before the darkness consumed him.
"The Orb is reborn! Lord, protect us. May you grant us your everlasting mercy. "
__________________
'My mind is full of stars....'
Last edited by Revenant; 02-14-04 at 06:20 PM.
