May Challenge #2

Hey guys!

I hope this next challenge is helpful for you. 

Outline the first act of your story, keep it simple, and 500 words max.

The first act should have four points:

The Hook

“What Is It? Your story begins with the hook. This is your first opportunity for catching your readers’ attention and convincing them to read on. The Hook will always be a question (perhaps explicit, but probably implicit), piquing your readers’ curiosity and urging them to find out, “What happens next?”

“Where Does It Belong? The Hook must show up in your first chapter, preferably on the first page, and even more preferably in the first line.”

Excerpt From: K.M. Weiland. “5 Secrets of Story Structure.” iBooks.

The inciting incident

“What Is It? The Inciting Event is the turning point in the First Act when your character first brushes the story’s main conflict. To identify your Inciting Event, ask yourself, “What event starts the ball rolling in my story’s plot? Where does the conflict begin? What sets the story’s action in motion?”

Where Does It Belong? The Inciting Event is the turning point halfway through the First Act (one of the secret pieces of story structure!). This timing allows for the story’s Normal World to be properly established. Don’t confuse the Inciting Event with the Hook. The Hook will be the first in the line of causal dominoes, bumping one scene into “What Is It? If the Inciting Event is where your protagonist first encounters the main conflict, the Key Event is what irrevocably engages your protagonist with that conflict. Even if you have a great big Inciting Event (like, say, the beginning of a war), it can’t affect your character until the Key Event drags him into the mess (as would happen if he were drafted into the Army).

The key event

“What Is It? If the Inciting Event is where your protagonist first encounters the main conflict, the Key Event is what irrevocably engages your protagonist with that conflict. Even if you have a great big Inciting Event (like, say, the beginning of a war), it can’t affect your character until the Key Event drags him into the mess (as would happen if he were drafted into the Army).

Where Does It Belong? The Key Event occurs toward the end of the First Act. Often, it will be so closely linked to the following First Plot Point as to be almost inextricable. Other times, the Key Event and the First Plot Point will be two distinct moments. More on the Key Event in Chapter 3.

Excerpt From: K.M. Weiland. “5 Secrets of Story Structure.” iBooks.

The first plot point

“What Is It? The First Plot Point marks the end of the First Act and the beginning of the Second. This is where everything changes for your character. Up to now, the First Act has mostly concerned itself with setting up your character’s Normal World and introducing the supporting characters, the settings, and, most importantly, the stakes. But now, the First Plot Point rocks that Normal World. Everything changes, and your protagonist will be forced to start reacting to the new status quo.

Where Does It Belong? The First Plot Point will occur roundabout the 25% mark in your book. This placement doesn’t have to be absolutely precise, since a book is long enough to allow a less than exact structural timeline. But aim to have your major plot points dividing your book into rough quarters.”

Excerpt From: K.M. Weiland. “5 Secrets of Story Structure.” iBooks.

The Hook

The reader won't want to leave. When they see the comrades in the shabby frigate they won't want to go back to the dull world. They'll hear the jokes of sailors. They'll see the starlit night outside the porthole, stretched above the city these men love more than themselves. The ambiance that surrounds this place has a magical quality, one which you can't experience in the world outside.

While sitting in that Danish defence frigate, the reader will notice the ironmonger, the fisherman, the contract soldier, the umbrella maker from Paris, and they won't want to leave them. They've already become like friends to these people.

The Inciting Incident

When the first cannon fires, that is when the story has started. Diplomats stare out of palaces at the watery battlefield they caused. War is on. Every soldier screams valiantly for fatherland and patriotism. Britain has mustered a mightier fleet than that of the poor Danish Navy. The old ships destined for the junkyard were hastily restored for this purpose, and now the day of battle has begun in a sudden early-morning moment. Two worlds of action and suspense unfold; one of war and soldiers, the other of governments and diplomacy.

The Key Event

The key event is when Fritjof leaps off the vessel, when his feet crash into the smokey harbor, when the icy waters nip at his skin, when everything is shrouded in gun smoke, when he realizes the magnitude of his decision, when he unconsciously tips the first domino, and when nothing but battle cries and bullets can be heard.

The real battle began in the heart and mind of that one man.

The First Plot Point

In my story, I had a hard time discerning the first plot point from the key event. It's probably since they're closely linked. The key event is when Fritjof decides to stop the war, and the first plot point is when he does so. 

Fritjof knows that the Danebrog is the flagship, meaning she is the one to hoist the white flag should the Danish commander choose to do so. What he didn't account for was where the flagship was. His vantage point gives him no indication as to its whereabouts. Also, he can't tell an English ship from a Danish one. Nevertheless, he doggedly persists in his mission 

Signing off, Johny A. Crow.             

Excerpt from Peace Unattainable.

May Challenge #1

Your mission, if you chose to except it, is to:

Write a short scene (500 words max) set in a place that will be in the story. It doesn’t really matter what character(s) are in the scene, but they of course will affect what is noticed and described.

So chose a location that will be featured in the story, and bring a character there to get us acquainted with it. Try to use as many of the 5 senses as you can, and as much as possible show and don’t tell. Don’t say straight out that you’re in a market in ancient Rome, give your readers a description that will lead them to that conclusion.

     The morning air was a little more chilly than I and the residents of Vicksburg were used to, with it being summer and all, and the sunlight was nearly parallel with the ground, casting long shadows everywhere and coating the little city in a soft, warm, orangish yellow glow. I would even go so far as to say that it was beautiful, that is, if I used words like beautiful, which I don’t. It did however, cause me to catch my breath. It was an odd feeling, with the air and breeze battling to steal my body heat, while the sun fought back and tried to replenish what was lost, giving me the sensation of being both cold and hot at the exact same time, and my nerves just couldn’t decide which it was, hot or cold.

However, that wasn’t the only odd feeling I had that morning. Although I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, something just didn't feel right. Despite my uneasy feelings, everything looked normal, peaceful even. The bottom of the sun was now slightly above the horizon, framed perfectly by the buildings that ran up and down main street. And the clouds, oh man, the clouds! The were so brilliantly lit, the edges sparkling with bright colors of pink and orange and yellow. They all looked like sheep who had missed their sheering for the hundredth time, and then fell into buckets of brightly colored paint, and then lost their heads and legs, leaving behind a soft, pillowy mass that just caught and held your attention, sort of like this very odd and slightly deranged and creepy simile did just now. 

But as much as I would have loved to stay and stare at the headless legless sheep way up there in the sky, I was late for my morning cup of coffee at the cafe. I loved to sit and chat with all the old men who had so many interesting stories, some of which got told multiple times in the same sitting, but nobody cared because they where great stories, and everyone had forgotten that the story had been told just a few seconds after the laughter subsided, including the the man who told it. It was great fun. That was when I realized what was wrong. On any given morning at this time, the sounds of laughter, and coughing and wheezing from the attempt of laughter, could be heard coming from the cafe. But not today. I hurried quickly to the faded and chipped blue door of that wonderful old place, expecting to find it locked, and maybe to see a closed sign, but instead, it was slightly ajar, and there were no lights on in the place. There were several paint peelings on the ground outside the door, and all the curtains were drawn shut. There was no movement coming from the other side. I gently and slowly opened the door, but it had only made it a few inches when it bumped into something, something squishy. Something that if I pushed hard enough I could probably move, but I was afraid to. I sucked in my stomach and squeezed through the door, blue paint chips fluttering to the ground as I wiggled my way inside to take a look.

-Gaal Warbeck

      As much as Domnius loved the weekly meetings, with every bench filled with people and their songs of praise echoing off the stone walls, this was his favorite time to come.

       Morning light streamed through the arched windows, open to the cool breeze that brought along the scent of the sea, and flowering cherry trees. Here in the quiet sanctuary he could talk to his God and be completely alone with his Creator.  Somehow the small, unassuming structure could feel spacious, yet intimate at the same time. This place of worship was so different from the colonnaded temples of the empire’s numerous gods and goddesses. Domnius looked up at the vaulted ceiling, and his eyes traveled down to the cross carved in granite wall facing the door. There was no grand statues, no places to burn incense. God wasn’t pleased with meager attempts at trying to impress Him, He wanted peoples’ hearts, because He had done everything to bring them to Himself. If only they would see…

       His head fell into his hands as he prayed for the people in the city. They told themselves they were serving deities from the heavens, but they were really only serving themselves. Please, Lord above, open their eyes and help them see Your truth! What You have sacrificed for them, far beyond the blood of animals or gold and jewels.

     He heard the heavy double doors swing open on their hinges, and the tread of multiple pairs of boots on the tiled floor.

     “Domnius Antios, bishop of the church of Salonae?” a voice barked.

     “Yes?”

      His peaceful morning was over. He turned to see three soldiers standing in the back of the church.

      “By the order of Emperor Diocletian, you are under arrest.”

-Beatrice Ravencroft, "Mithras & Myrrh"

They arrived long after sunset. The asphalt and concrete gave way to grassy lawns and well kept shrubs. Skyscrapers towered over the evergreens and peered down at the cozy community. The night clamor from the city penetrated through the trees, polluting the peace and quiet.

            They walked through silent streets, a streetlight posted on each block. Three shadows stretched behind the group, shrinking until they vanished under an amber spotlight. Then they sprung up before them and grew with each step.

            All of the houses huddled close under the heavy indigo sky. An odd lit window was the only sign of life. Each house was different from the next; an arched doorway, a dormer window, a porch swing that creaked in the breeze. Everything was neat and precise, from the fresh cut grass to the perfectly positioned houses. Young trees, each staked and tied stood like guards at Buckingham Palace. The air carried the bright, earthy, smell of lumber, tinged with new vinyl.

            Felix glanced around suspiciously, "This is wrong..." His voice was low, yet in the quiet it was startling. "I can't say why, but there's something wrong."

            Rory shivered and pulled her arms inside her sweatshirt. Keeping close to Felix, she had the same uneasiness. It was a perfect neighborhood.... too perfect, too new. Somehow it didn't seem real, like it all sprung up overnight, or it was a set for a movie.

As they walked past another house, he scanned the front yard and elbowed Rory.

            "I don't like the way that gnome is smiling at me."

            "Shhhhh." Gilead's whisper came from ahead of them. He motioned to a smaller home, one of six in a little cluster; a candle flickered on the porch railing. The sidewalk made a loop to the half dozen homes, branching off to each front stoop. The group walked to the little house, passing close by three other front doors.  A window lit up as they walked by and the gingham curtain moved.

            Gilead blew out the candle when they stood on the porch. He knocked softly three times, paused, then knocked four more. Felix turned to face the street, looking at the neighbors. All the windows where dark again... But he could still feel the eyes on them. This was too risky.

            "Gil, I think we should get out of here-" He stopped and whirled around as the door opened slowly. With shy smile at Gilead and a hushed greeting, a teenaged girl hurried them inside. She pushed the door shut and turned the lock.

            "I'm glad you're here, we were starting to worry you wouldn't make it. Did anyone see you?"

            " No one out on the street. I'm sure a few insomniacs spied us through their blinds. What about the cameras?"

            "They started malfunctioning this afternoon, it's got the maintenance baffled. Papa said God was getting ready for you. Don't worry about the neighbors; we've mentioned that some friends were coming to visit. They shouldn't be much trouble."

            A shaky exhale betrayed Gilead's stoic attitude.

            "The Lord is faithful." He breathed.

     -Rosewood, "In The Present Age"

The city had forgotten this place long ago, and would in the years to come. It used to be that this area was full of people, and standing in the center was the jewel of its community. But after a devastating fire everyone fled and didn't return, leaving it forgotten. Now the old jewel stood, looking out at the city which ignored it.
The surrounding silent streets suffocated the city's sounds before they arrived. Only the meadowlark's chirping was to be heard.
When the street he was walking on widened into a square his common haunt loomed impressively. Stepping through the grey atmosphere he began to relax, finally the pressures of his life receded, ephemerally. To him this was a place of thought. Like a non-physical place set in a physical world. It was the entrance to his mind. He had retreated to this place in times of mental need so often it felt as though it was linked with his conscience. When the thoughts crowded in and he had to step back from life he came here. Even the sight of the place evoked philosophical clarity.
He circled around the back and climbed in through a window, catching a sliver on the rotten windowsill. The aging stairs beneath his feet spiralled dreamily upward as if they never ended. He began the uneasy climb, grasping onto the iron railing and leaping over holes in the floor. After every step up the stairs he began to think faster, after every glance at the cobbled walls things became clearer. Whenever he reached the top it was then his thinking become preciously clear and precise.
After he finished trekking the endless mountain of stairs he went and sat by the window. He liked this window very much, it had a clear view of the city. Mainly because there was no window pane.
The leaky roof made for puddles, which sat like liquid mirrors on the floor. His whole being had one selfless mission which consumed him like a virus, and he couldn't step back from it all until he was here. If a mind could experience joy, then for him it was obtained here. His dusty thoughts received a spring cleaning as he gazed out the window, looking down at the city which he kept from falling into doom. Here he had planned many of the Danish government's actions, as was evident from the schematics and writing etched haphazardly on the wall.
He slumped down contentedly, breathing in the salty air which drifted in from the sea.

Signing off, Johny A. Crow
Excerpt from Peace Unattainable.

The quiet humming of the starship as it sped through space was a soothing sound for Variina. The planets and stars blurred into a tunnel of light.  Her brothers were sleeping peacefully in their cabins, so she was free to sit and enjoy the calm of the ship.

  She bent down over the ships main control panel to examine the map. It wouldn’t be too long before they reached Tatooine.  Variina got up and walked out of the cockpit down a hallway.  She paused in front of Shazar’s room when she heard Dual’s soft “who, who.” Variina waited a moment until she heard the faint sound of ruffling feathers.  She grinned a little and then walked on to the end of the hall and into a small, well organized room filled with weapons.  She had managed to collect them over the years from friends, bounties, and scrap heaps. Removing a bow-caster, her latest find,  from the wall, she sat down at the small desk toward the back of the room.  She ran her hands over the cold metal of the weapon and then fiddled with it for a little while, trying to find ways to improve it. Variina heard the creaking sound of a door opening, a low whistle, and then the creak of the door again, and a few foot steps.  Variina turned to see Shazar, who seemed to be always accompanied by a barn like smell, standing at the door with Dual perched regally on his shoulder.

- Dido

 Looking up from her Bible, Florence breathed deeply of the  spring air. Sparrows flew to and fro, singing their sweet melody throughout the Aspen trees that bowed and bent with the breeze.
     Florence rose from the fallen tree trunk on which she had been reading, and walked beneath the verdant canopy. She dodged soggy puddles where rain had gathered, holding her skirt higher to avoid the inevitable splashes that were caused by rain dripping from the leaves. She joined the birds in their song which echoed around her, as of an hundred woodland beings praising their creator.
     This was why she loved being here. Nothing questioned its existence or its reason for being. Here the Creator could not be denied.
     "Why can't it be like this all time?" Florence asked aloud. "Why can't everybody acknowledge the Creator as they should?"
     Of course nobody answered, as she was alone, with nothing to hear her except the inquisitive squirrels and gentle breeze, who could not answer her even if they wanted to.
     Florence turned her head as a rustling sound cut short her monologue. From the rustling bush emerged a soft velvet muzzle, then two black eyes, then a tiny prickly body.
     "Culley!" Florence greeted. The little hedgehog scuttled toward Florence with joy.
     "How are you, my little one?" She asked the creature. Culley squeaked with pleasure as she picked him up.
-Evilas Cuson