Challenge One: Product

[Medesha]

Greetings! I hope you're all ready to get published. If only it were that easy: wake up one day, think "I want to get published," write a story and let the rewards roll in.

Well the last part is debatable, but all publishing starts the same way: by writing something.

People ask me questions all the time about how to get published, and step one is always the one they don't want to hear. You have to write something. Have to have to have to.

Don't worry about formatting just yet. Don't worry about where you're going to send it or how to fix your margins or what rights you're going to retain or if you can put Captain Kirk in your story (don't do it). Write something and finish it and then we'll go from there.

So my first challenge to you is this: write a short story. If you're more interested in roleplaying stuff, then the challenge is to write a query letter to Dungeon or Dragon magazine. Complete this step and you've crossed one of the biggest hurdles to getting published.

Short Story

Short stories generally range from 2000 to 10,000 words (publishers care about words, not pages. For reference, if you're interested, a page in a game book or magazine is about 750 words; a page in a paperback novel is about 300 words).

So here's what I want you to do. Write a short story between 2000 and 10,000 words. The first paragraph should contain the following: a character in a context facing a conflict. All this should be self-explanatory, but for reference: a character is the main person in your story, who is going to face a challenge and overcome it (or not) by the end. A context is the setting of your story; let us know in the first paragraph whether this is medieval fantasy, hard sci-fi, or modern San Francisco. A conflict is something threatening your character, whether it be an orc with a sword or a wife announcing that she's going to leave.

"But I already have a story," you say. That's great! Write another one. Really. It doesn't have to be long, and it definitely doesn't have to be good. First drafts are rarely good. Just close your eyes, plug your nose, and dive in. If you can do this, it means a great deal.

Dragon Proposal

Come up with 3 article ideas for Dragon. It helps if you can read an issue and their submission guidelines first. Then craft a letter. This is the easiest market to break into, particularly if you query Class Acts.

Dear Dragon,

I'd like the opportunity to write the following articles for your magazine.

1. Idea One. A sentence giving an overview of the article. Another sentence or two expanding on the idea. Three or four sentences giving a specific example of what you'll write about in the article.

2. Idea Two. A sentence giving an overview of the article. Another sentence or two expanding on the idea. Three or four sentences giving a specific example of what you'll write about in the article.

3. Idea Three. A sentence giving an overview of the article. Another sentence or two expanding on the idea. Three or four sentences giving a specific example of what you'll write about in the article.

Please let me know if any of these ideas work for you. Thank you for your time and attention.

Sincerely,

Writer X
email address

Dungeon Proposal

Come up with an adventure idea. Write a summary of the idea covering all the things the PCs do in the adventure. Include a few lines describing the major villians, the major rewards, and the setting. The summary shouldn't be more than two pages.

Don't:
-have the characters rescue a kidnapped daughter
-fight an insane wizard who does evil things just cause he's insane
-repel a simple humanoid infestation
-go on a quest to destroy an evil artifact
-do other cliches I'm forgetting ( )
-use the word "will"
-use a lot of passive voice


Once we finish this challenge, we can move on! And yes, I'll be doing the challenge too.

[SlurpeeMoney]

This is probably the wrong place to put this, but the note about word counts stuck out. While publishers are more worried about word count than page count, three pages of dialogue don't have the same amount of words as three pages of description. To calculate your word count in a way that is best suited to short story publication, multiply the number of printed pages by 250 (the average words that will fit on a manuscript page). That will give the editor a good idea of how many pages of his magazine you'll be taking up.

[Medesha]

Editors used to calculate word count that way, and a few places still do, but a lot of publishers (and most agents) have gone digital. They don't use the old printing presses and typesetters that required the type of word count you describe (also, for it to work, you must use 1" margins and Courier 12 font). When in doubt, ask, but a lot of places use the word count counter built into your computer. For instance, Dungeon, Dragon, and WotC all use the Word word counter. Good point!

Also something was wrong with my brain last night and I did the instructions for a Dungeon query completely wrong. I'll edit that post.

[Meatball]

Wrote this sci-fi story that is only 1200 words. I know the guidelines say at least 2000, but it's my first draft. I can always flesh it out more. Just thought I'd get it posted.

Hope you enjoy!

- MB

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Pacification Drop
-------------------------

The Placoon rocked and bucked as it screamed downward in its decent. Slamming hard into the planet's atmosphere the steel alloy beast streaked towards its target engulfed in flame. The trace amounts of methane found in this planets upper level atmosphere ignited from the flaming streak in small explosions that buffeted the landing craft as the stabilizers ignited attempting to correct the slight rotational skew they had acquired upon launch.

Velsteel restraining straps clattered in their mounts on the hull as they fought valiantly to keep Malor locked in place. Winched tightly to socket points on his ceramite Crusadersuit, the straps were the only thing keeping him from being tossed about the Placoon like a rag doll. He had seen someone come lose during a descent once. The dumb ass greener must not have paid attention during landing training and the strap burst free from his suit's socket point in the middle of a particularly rough insertion. Malor had to clean blood, bone and ceramite fragments from the joints in his armor for weeks.

Dull amber numbers ticking down in his HUD informed him they were less than a minute from touchdown. Malor particularly enjoyed these pacification missions. They were usually high in combat, low in risk. Occasionally they would run up against an organized resistance outfitted with slug throwers, but with the ban on them over the last decade it was generally little more than a mob of targets with makeshift clubs and staves. Either way, it was certainly nothing a platoon could not handle within a short window after insertion.

He never really understood the politics of why any of these rebellious individuals wanted out of the Tercom Hegemony, but truth be told, he could care less why they were doing whatever they were doing. He was trained to follow orders, not analyze them, period. That was one of the few things that kept most Tercom Space Marines on the straight and narrow. Jumping from system to system and landing on planet after planet forced anything in the past to blur. Without the discipline they would relatively quickly lose their effectiveness. All that mattered to a Marine was the here and now. Their only job was to kill or destroy whatever they were ordered to, and Malor did his job well.

A quick glance over the status lights on the left side of his HUD showed all the Crusadersuit systems were running fine. Enviro compression was normal, bio sensors checked out, com and IFF system operational, and all the other readings were normal. The countdown on his HUD ticked down a digit and the numbers flared red as they began the final ten seconds of their decent. Malor glanced around to the other soldiers in his platoon, who were hidden in their own Crusadersuits, his HUD flashed their name and health status across the top as it read their IFF signature. Master Sarge Crowly was also looking about in the final seconds before touchdown, his darkened visor pausing on Malor.

"Try not to get yourself fecking killed Malor." Came the voice over his helmcom.

Malor did not have time to respond as he jerked forward against the restraints, his head snapping downward and breaking his eye contact with Master Sarge when the decent thrusters kicked in a second before touchdown. A loud crunching sound of concrete was followed by the hissing sound of outgassing impact absorbers. What always gave Malor a moment for pause was the brief moment of silence after a landing. The second before the restraining straps released and the Placoon ramp dropped was always unnatural, the overwhelming sound of silence a stark contrast to the chaos moments before and moments after the ramp yawned open.

A soothing computer generated voice whispered over his helmcom, "Prepare for release in three, two, one…"

With a slight pop, the restraining straps dropped free from the sockets on the Crusadersuit and retracted back to their holding coils on the wall with a resounding clank. Reaching down, Malor released the latches that held his Emission rifle snugly in place during the buffeting descent. As he picked it up he looked onto its dull grey surface with pleasure.

The Mark 11 Emission Rifle was one of the finest designs of handheld bloodshed ever created. The arms length rifle weighed half as much as the previous Mark 10 model, giving it just the right feel of sturdiness yet light enough to make it easy to maneuver with. The assembly was completely sealed against any liquid or gaseous intrusion, with only the slightest pinhole opening in the muzzle. Assuming there was any charge in the rifle, even that opening to the inner workings of the rifle was sealed by a minor static charge across the opening. The rifle itself fired an emitted stream of depleted uranium intermingled with a wave of concentrated laser energy in pulses about an inch long. While the uranium needed to be manually recharged after a few months of use, the laser could fire with or without the uranium enrichment indefinitely. The rifle was coated in atomic sized photoelectric cells that kept the laser cells charged by the absorption of any surrounding light, visible, ultra-violet or even infra-red.

Most targets were killed outright by the concentrated beam of laser light that, with the assistance of the depleted uranium, could penetrate up to six inches of steel per pulse. If an individual somehow managed to survive the laser blast, they would generally die from rad poisoning within a few hours as the depleted uranium ripped through their cells voraciously consuming them from the inside out.

Thankfully the Space Marines were the only ones that had access to such firepower as the Mark 11. Even their otherwise secure Crusadersuits were vulnerable to direct hits from the Mark 11. To combat their use against the Marines, the rifle would only operate using the unique EMF signature of a single individual that was channeled through the Crusadersuit. This made the weapon next to useless to anyone other than the Space Marine that was actually assigned to it. Malor always found it amusing how Space Marines were assigned to rifles and not the other way around, but considering that a single rifle itself cost more than all the equipment required for the full platoon combined, it was understandable.

"Alright Marines, get ready. We are expecting moderate resistance here." As if to prove the helmcom voice of the Master Sarge, the unmistakable staccato rhythm of slugs began to slam against the outer armor of the Placoon with increasing frequency.

"You all know your objectives. Take them and hold them until further orders arrive from orbit." As an afterthought the voice concluded, "And don't get yourself killed, I am not in the mood for the paperwork."

With that, Master Sarge Crowly punched the glowing red button next to the ramp, his ceramite armored glove nearly crushing it. The inrush of atmosphere into the vacuum of the Placoon roared in Malor's ears and dulled out the sound of the ramp slamming down and crushing the concrete below. Master Sarge Crowly disappeared from Malor's sight and he quickly bounded down the ramp himself, wading into the chaos below.

------------------------

[Medesha]

Wow! Some great writing here, Meatball! I'm really impressed; this was a good read. Had a bit of a "HALO meets Starship Troopers."

A very few small criticisms:

-There's a lot of exposition in the first few paragraphs. You start out with a (literal) bang and then the action slows down a bit while you explain about the missions and everything. You could make the story more compelling by switching the exposition into dialogue. Like instead of:

Originally Posted by Meatball

Malor particularly enjoyed these pacification missions. They were usually high in combat, low in risk. Occasionally they would run up against an organized resistance outfitted with slug throwers, but with the ban on them over the last decade it was generally little more than a mob of targets with makeshift clubs and staves. Either way, it was certainly nothing a platoon could not handle within a short window after insertion.

What if there were a newbie with him he explains this to? I know it's a bit of an overused device. Or what about a journalist? Then Melor could berate the journalist's clumsy safety measures: "Watch those restraining straps! Tighten up the left one! I saw someone come lose during a descent once. The dumb ass greener must not have paid attention during landing training and the strap burst free from his suit's socket point in the middle of a particularly rough insertion. I had to clean blood, bone and ceramite fragments from the joints in my armor for weeks."

Then the journalist could ask why Melor volunteers for such dangerous missions, and he could explain how they're "high in combat, low in risk." Perhaps the journalist even speculates as to what kind of psychology a man has to have to enjoy killing at little risk to his own life, and spark some kind of confrontation.

My second comment is that there isn't really a conflict or resolution. It's more like a slice of life from a Marine's point of view. I wouldn't mind an expanded version where we see Melor in crisis (and, as always, reference that crisis in the opening of your story).

Third, there are a few minor grammatical errors you'll want to correct.

The trace amounts of methane found in this planets upper level atmosphere ignited from the flaming streak in small explosions that buffeted the landing craft as the stabilizers ignited attempting to correct the slight rotational skew they had acquired upon launch.

Planet's needs an apostrophe and the sentence itself is run-on. Consider: "The flaming streak ignited the trace amounts of methane found in this planet's upper level atmosphere. Small explosions buffeted the landing craft as..." etc.

"Try not to get yourself fecking killed Malor." Came the voice over his helmcom.

Should be: "Try not to get yoruself fecking killed, Malor," came the voice over his helmcom.

You also use a lot of qualifiers: "fought valiantly" "winched tightly" "bounded quickly." Consider carefully if the structure is stronger than just saying "fought," "winched" or "bounded."

All in all, well done! I look forward to a second draft.

[Meatball]

Thanks I do like your idea with the newbie or journalist along for the ride. That will definitely allow for easier explanation of background material. As for more conflict/resolution, I'll probably expand the story into the fight as they land.

I have to admit, a lot of my short stories are written like this one. Very short, and usually ending without any resolution. I don't know why, but I like leaving the ending open to the imagination of the reader, plus it leaves things open for expansion later. I need to get out of that mode though and make sure my stories come to a conclusion.

Thanks for the feedback!

MB

[Meatball]

Alright, started cleaning up a second draft. It's more like draft version 1.1 than version 2 I took your advice and cleaned up the grammar errors and qualifiers. Also added a "Newzie" with the platoon to get rid of some of the Exposition.

I also plan on actually describing the fight once they get off the Placoon.

One unrelated thought, should I keep posting the revisions in this thread or is there a way to attach a file or should I post somewhere else so I don't clog up the thread with a ton of text?

Here's v1.1

-------------------------------
Pacification Drop v1.1
-------------------------------

The Placoon rocked and bucked as it screamed downward in its decent. Slamming hard into the planet's atmosphere the steel alloy beast streaked towards its target engulfed in flame. The white hot streaks flaring from the corners of the Placoon ignited the trace amounts of methane found in the planet's upper level atmosphere in a dazzling fireworks display. Small explosions buffeted the landing craft as the stabilizers ignited and attempted to correct the slight rotational skew they had acquired upon launch.

Velsteel restraining straps clattered in their mounts on the hull as they fought to keep Malor locked in place. Winched to socket points on his ceramite Crusadersuit, the straps would be the only thing keeping him from being tossed about the Placoon like a rag doll in a rough decent. Dull amber numbers ticking down in his HUD informed him they were less than two minutes from touchdown.

A tinny voice echoed through the interior of the Placoon, “Live in three…two…one…”

“This is Granj Lokite with TeeCee newz, live and on location with the forty-second Tercom Marines Divisions on a hostile insertion to pacify the rebels on Halden.”

Malor swiveled his head towards the voice and saw the Newzie standing in front of his seat, hand clamped overhead on a bar in a vain attempt to stabilize himself. Hovering just in front of him was the Auto-Tri-D beaming the man’s image and voice to the nearest TeeCee news aggregator station.

From the front speaker embedded in the newzies lightly armored CivvieSuit his report continued, “The men and woman of the Fort-Deuce, as they like to call themselves, are just one of many TerCom Marine units fighting across the galaxy to put down the Jendrist rebellion.”

Malor never really understood the politics of why any of these Jendrists wanted out of the Tercom Hegemony, but truth be told, he could care less why they were doing whatever they were doing. He was trained to follow orders, not analyze them, period. That was one of the few things that kept most Tercom Space Marines from cracking and stepping out the nearest airlock. Jumping from system to system and landing on planet after planet forced anything in the past to blur. Without the discipline they would relatively quickly lose their effectiveness. All that mattered to a Marine was the here and now. Their only job was to kill or destroy whatever they were ordered to, and Malor did his job well.

The newzie motioned to the armor clad marine strapped in to his left as the Auto-Tri-D swung to take both the newzie and the marine into view, “So, Marine, you ready to take the fight to the rebels?”

The amplified voice of the marine responded, “This ain’t gonna be no fight! They might have a couple of slugthrowers, but it’s most likely just another mob of easy targets waving clubs and sticks at us.”

Malor glanced at the other marine. Even though the man was hidden in his own Crusadersuit, Malor’s HUD flashed the marine’s name, Private Dornack, across the top of his field of view as it read the suit’s IFF signature. Simple symbols flickered next to the name showing the marine’s health and suit power status.

The Auto-Tri-D hovered backwards, managing to maintain a stable shot even while the Placoon bucked and rocked around it as the newzie turned to his opposite side, “And how about you Marine, are you nervous?”

A female voice came from the new marine, “Nervous? Hell no. These Jendrists drops are usually high in combat, but low in risk.” She turned to the other marines, “Unless you trip on the way out the door.”

A low chuckle came from the rest of the platoon before it was cut short by the bellowing of Master Sarge Crowly, “Alright newzie, sit yer ass down and get clamped in, I don’t want to be cleaning your brains outta the joints of my suit after we land.”

The countdown on Malor’s HUD ticked down a digit and the numbers flared red as they began the final ten seconds of their decent. The newzie quickly dropped into his seat, and bobbled with one of his restraining straps before finally clicking it into place. The strap immediately retracted and pulled him snug up against his seat. The newzie then turned towards the Auto-Tri-D and gave a thumbs-up sign.

For some reason in the middle of the chaos of the landing, the fact that anyone could seem happy as they were dropping into battle set Malor snickering.

“Shut the hell up Corporal,” came the voice of the Master Sarge over his helmcom.

Fighting down another bout of snickering about to start, Malor responded, “Yes Sarge.”

"Try not to get yourself fecking killed Malor," came the voice over his helmcom.

Malor did not have time to respond as he jerked forward against the restraints, his head snapping downward and breaking his eye contact with Master Sarge when the decent thrusters kicked in a second before touchdown. A loud crunching sound of concrete was followed by the hissing sound of outgassing impact absorbers. What always gave Malor a moment for pause was the brief moment of silence after a landing. The second before the restraining straps released and the Placoon ramp dropped was always unnatural, the overwhelming sound of silence a stark contrast to the chaos moments before and moments after the ramp yawned open.

A soothing computer generated voice whispered over his helmcom, "Prepare for release in three, two, one…"

With a slight pop, the restraining straps dropped free from the sockets on the Crusadersuit and retracted back to their holding coils on the wall with a resounding clank. Reaching down, Malor released the latches that held his Emission rifle snugly in place during the buffeting descent. As he picked it up he looked onto its dull grey surface with pleasure.

The Mark 11 Emission Rifle was one of the finest designs of handheld bloodshed ever created. The arms length rifle weighed half as much as the previous Mark 10 model, giving it just the right feel of sturdiness yet light enough to make it easy to maneuver with. The assembly was completely sealed against any liquid or gaseous intrusion, with only the slightest pinhole opening in the muzzle. Assuming there was any charge in the rifle, even that opening to the inner workings of the rifle was sealed by a minor static charge across the opening. The rifle itself fired an emitted stream of depleted uranium intermingled with a wave of concentrated laser energy in pulses about an inch long. While the uranium needed to be manually recharged after a few months of use, the laser could fire with or without the uranium enrichment indefinitely. The rifle was coated in atomic sized photoelectric cells that kept the laser cells charged by the absorption of any surrounding light, visible, ultra-violet or even infra-red.

Most targets were killed outright by the concentrated beam of laser light that, with the assistance of the depleted uranium, could penetrate up to six inches of steel per pulse. If an individual somehow managed to survive the laser blast, they would generally die from rad poisoning within a few hours as the depleted uranium ripped through their cells voraciously consuming them from the inside out.

Thankfully the Space Marines were the only ones that had access to such firepower as the Mark 11. Even their otherwise secure Crusadersuits were vulnerable to direct hits from the Mark 11. To combat their use against the Marines, the rifle would only operate using the unique EMF signature of a single individual that was channeled through the Crusadersuit. This made the weapon next to useless to anyone other than the Space Marine that was actually assigned to it. Malor always found it amusing how Space Marines were assigned to rifles and not the other way around, but considering that a single rifle itself cost more than all the equipment required for the full platoon combined, it was understandable.

Malor glanced quickly over the status lights on the left side of his HUD as he stood up and clambered in line behind the marine in front of him. His HUD showed all the Crusadersuit systems were running fine. Enviro compression was normal, bio sensors checked out, com and IFF system operational, and all the other readings were normal.

"Alright Marines, get ready. We are expecting moderate resistance here." As if to prove the helmcom voice of the Master Sarge, the unmistakable staccato rhythm of slugs began to slam against the outer armor of the Placoon with increasing frequency.

"You all know your objectives. Take them and hold them until further orders arrive from orbit." As an afterthought the voice concluded, "And don't get yourself killed, I am not in the mood for the paperwork."

With that, Master Sarge Crowly punched the glowing red button next to the ramp, his ceramite armored glove nearly crushing it. The inrush of atmosphere into the vacuum of the Placoon roared in Malor's ears and dulled out the sound of the ramp slamming down and crushing the concrete below. Master Sarge Crowly disappeared from Malor's sight and he quickly bounded down the ramp himself.

[Medesha]

Yay! I like it. I like it a lot. The Newzie makes the exposition a lot more palatable and adds a bit of humor to the scene. This is very cool.

[Meatball]

Hehe, thanks. Don't get too attached though, I'm planning on killing him during the assault :P

[Medesha]

Ooooh, angsty!

[sikdragon]

Charles had been wandering through his own mind for weeks. There had been no sign of life on the side of reality, but within his sleeping body, there lay a land made of horror and fantasy. The likes of which had barely passed before his open eye lids. There was such a warping taking place from retina to the frontal lobe that there was not even the slightest resemblance. Here is where Charles finds himself.

His power of attorney was just a few short days from pulling the plug. If Charles didn't wake before then, he would be taken off of life support and there would be an entirely new struggle laid before him.

At first it was a little hazy. Then his eyes cleared and the black faded into the first scene. He looked ahead of him and saw an old woman standing at a black board. Writing in some language, he was unfamiliar with. Her eyes bugged out and retracted as she spoke. It wasn't until a second later did her words become audible, "I want you to study, study, STUDY!" she turned to Charles and yelled for him to stop talking.

"Yes, Ma'am." was his humble reply.

She went back to rambling and Charles' interest was caught by a voice that whispered behind him.

"When he cracks his neck, it's like he's dancing."

Charles did not turn, but merely focused more intently. He knew the voice was that of one of his more feminine classmates. The excited whisper grew a little louder with each syllable, but quiet enough to remain off of the teacher's radar. She continued writing out mathematical jargon and theory on the board as if every word were a burden to her tongue, "Pythagoras was a wise old man indeed."

"I wonder if he even notices me," came a hushed whisper followed by a gauging silence.

"I'm sure he has. You’re only the most beautiful girl in class."

"I know.."

The whispers grew inaudible as a squabble ensued. Charles couldn't make out the words, but the noise was painfully loud.

"Charlie Wintermire, since you volunteered, why don't you show us how Pythagoras would solve this problem." the old woman held out a fresh piece of white impatience, as she tapped her foot.

"That's not my name."

"What?! Your name is whatever I call you. Get your failing face up here and show your incompetency and the folly of your disruption."

With a sigh, he trudged toward the board and took the chalk from her hand. He looked at the shape and numbers on the board and began a silent calculation. Laughter soon followed. The old woman began goading him and the children chided viciously at his inadequacy.

Charles began writing out Greek letters and memorized calculations. He was just on the verge of a silent break through when the teacher squawked a disheartening, "Times up."

She took the chalk from his unwilling hand and was commanded to head back to his seat. Charles stood his ground and said, "I don't want to be here any more."

He took the eraser and erased all she had written during her lectured. The look on her face turned from outrage to a queer smile. Without missing a beat, she took him by his ear and dragged him back to his seat.

"I'll be having company after class. Charlie has elected to help me clean the gutters. Wasn't that kind of him?"

Charles had no reply, but simply sat in silent obedience. The girls behind him had no more to say, than he did. The rest of the class was a sea of riotous laughter. It continued until the bell rang. Everyone gathered their things and left, except Charles. He finally caught a glimpse of those girls as they left and he recognized one of them as the freshman who had tested out of all of the regular math classes and ended up in his trigonometry class. She certainly didn't look the part. She could have easily been a cheerleader.

His attention was snapped away from her and back to the teacher. She slammed the door after the last of the other students had left.

"Come finish what you started. Finish erasing this board, or else find yourself in a wary predicament."

Charles got up remembering the equipment she kept in the closet next to her desk. Corkscrews and scalpels of wicked fashion. He began erasing the board. Just as he finished putting the eraser back on the little ledge at the bottom of the board, there came a muffled version of her voice, "Come here."

Sweat dripped from his brow as he realized the voice had come from the closet. He looked around and had a fleeting thought of running. He edged closer as the familiar tapping of her foot told him that she was becoming irritated with waiting. He took a breath and swung the door open, hoping to find something pleasant. Instead, he found something strange. The old woman had changed and she was now wearing an old dress and a dull gray apron. Her gray hair was bundled into a bun beneath a bonnet.

Charles looked around, but no tools were to be found. It was only a hall with cobble stone floor and piles of sand seeming to originate from the door across from him.

"This floor is simply dirty. I want you to sweep this up before my next class begins."

He stood for a moment and her foot began to tap once again. He took the broom from her and began sweeping. She left to prepare for her next class. Charles looked at the door. There seemed to be a white light coming from around all of its edges. He couldn't resist its call and reached for the handle. He turned the knob and pulled the door wide.

He stood there blinded by the bright light. He blinked wildly as it became quite clear that the piles of sand had come from the sand dune on this side of the door. He turned to finish sweeping the sand out here and found nothing but blue sky and an ocean of red sand.

-----

She sits beside him, holding his hand. She looks around this bleak hospital room and all the machines connected to her husband's body. She closes her eyes determined to push them from her sight. She tries to remember his always ruffled dark hair and his sweet smile. She tries to remember how it felt when he held her and everything seemed under his control.

"How could he leave me?" she thought, "I'm not ready. I can't do this on my own."

She felt that burning at the back of her throat that only recently had become so familiar. A line of betrayal traced the contour of her face as it fell from the end of her chin.

She stands abruptly as she sees the nurse's aid about to enter. She wipes the stray tear from her cheek and puts on her strongest face. She makes as if she was about to leave and tries not acknowledge the young man, as he enters. He reaches out to hug her, breaking her bubble of space. She feels a swarming discomfort fill her. Her hands fill the gap between them as she pushes away his offered comfort. She continues walking, trying to remain as emotionless as possible. Her mind was filled with torrents of unpleasant thoughts. She wouldn't trade a single one for the world. "Each tear makes him more real."

-----

Back in the mind of Charles, he found himself in the middle of a desert. He chose a direction and started walking. The cloudless sky gave no clue as to the nearest pool of liquid hope. Charles' became afraid that he might die of thirst, his throat had already begun to dry.

He heard the subtle roar of something man-made coming over the dunes. Just as he crowned one of them, he saw what looked like a woman coming into view. A figure with dark hair riding a buggy among the never-ending line of sand dunes. A few moments later the buggy had come close enough to make out the features of its rider. She had long blonde hair and a shapely figure. She pulled to a stop right beside him, "Hop on." was all she said, before Charles jumped at the opportunity. He clearly thought she was beautiful. She reminded him of a more grown-up version of the girl he had met in school.

It seems they rode for hours. In the distance, there came up smoke rising to the sky in different shapes from a fire just beyond his sight. It wasn't until a moment later did a gathering of people come into view.

There were men and women from all walks of life. Some wore suits and others wore animal skins. The multitudes were gathered around a giant fire, where a man was waving a blanket over the fire, while others blew on the fire using strangely shaped horns. There were tribal drums playing in the background and many of the people were dancing. The buggy stopped just short of the crowd and the girl hopped off the buggy. The crowd split instinctively as she walked toward the blanket man, who had just finished his final smokey shape. Charles silently followed her, but melted into the crowd.

"We Feast!" came the voice of the woman, followed by the cheers of the crowd.

Charles, did not understand what this meant, but the thought of a prospective meal was appealing. The woman said something in a tongue he could not comprehend, but those around him acted as if they understood well enough. They started chanting, "Feast! Feast, Feast, Feast."

They began pushing him toward the center of the circle. Charles fought, pushing himself back, but he was overwhelmed by the mass of hands pushing him forward. He became desperate, violently shoving all he could. Before reaching the center, he saw someone holding a bat, about to strike him.

He awoke at a table inside of some sort of makeshift building. The blonde woman entered the hut through a flap made of an animal hide of an animal he didn't recognize. There didn't seem to be any fur on it, but it was well tanned. She carried in a plate with strips of meat on it and set it before him. The smell of cooked flesh was enough to make his mouth water. Without waiting for any formality, he reached toward the greasy strips with his fingers and began stuffing his mouth full of them. The woman stood silently smiling as he enjoyed his meal.

"We made that especially from you." she said, breaking the silence.

He was sure from her accent that she meant for him.

"You fed a nation of peoples. You’re a great man."

"How did I feed them?"

"Your legs."

Charles felt a terrible sense of foreboding as his stomach began to turn. He looked beneath the table and saw that his legs were scorched and burnt, with chunks missing here and there. The largest chunks being everything below his mid-thigh. He suddenly felt the heat of the fire and throbbing of his head. Letting out a desperate scream, he howled for dear life. They became so much, that he could no longer utter a sound. His muscles locked up as his teeth began to grate and chipping.

Charles was caught in a swirl of pain and anguish. The scene faded from the background and he began falling into a vortex of black and red clouds. Just as quickly as he felt the rush of pain, it flowed back to where it came from. A was put at ease as the syringe filled his existence with serenity.

He was on a bright white beach and the sun was high in the sky. There was a slight breeze and the relaxing sounds of the ocean's tide. Behind where he lay, there were bodies piked on what appeared to be giant fangs coming from the ground. All of those who had dined on his flesh were now resting as an example for all those who would dare feast on him again. Beside him was a different woman, as she had blue eyes. Everything else about her was the same as the girl he had met on the buggy. Charles broke the silence, "What fine weather."

"It's great weather, but for what? It seems we used to do something on days like this, but I don't remember what." she said.

"I couldn't imagine anything greater than just sitting here with you, enjoying this fine weather."

"Don't you wish there was something more?"

His gaze turned to that of dissatisfaction. It seems even in his dreams, he wasn't good enough for her.

"I see the weather's starting to turn."

In the distance, a storm began brewing.

"We had better get inside, or actually, I should get inside. You stay out here and watch the children."

Charles ran inside as the first spots of rain speckled the hot sand. The blonde woman just lay out watching the ocean as if nothing had happened. There in his beach house, he shut the sliding glass door. The beach grew larger as the water disappeared from its shore. A massive wave gathered all it could muster before descending upon his quiet beach. In an instant, the blonde woman and everyone he had ever known disappeared. The fangs jutting from the ground shone pearly white. The beach, now clean of the blood and turmoil that cluttered it before, was back to it's sunny weather and tranquil disposition.

He was on a bright white beach and the sun was high in the sky. There was a slight breeze and the relaxing sounds of the ocean's tide. Behind where he lay, there were bodies piked on what appeared to be giant fangs coming from the ground. All of those who had dined on his flesh were now resting as an example for all those who would dare feast on him again. Beside him was a different woman, as she had blue eyes. Everything else about her was the same as the girl he had met on the buggy. Charles broke the silence, "What fine weather."

"It's great weather, but for what? It seems we used to do something on days like this, but I don't remember what." she said.

"I couldn't imagine anything greater than just sitting here with you, enjoying this fine weather."

"Don't you wish there was something more?"

His gaze turned to that of dissatisfaction. It seems even in his dreams, he wasn't good enough for her.

"I see the weather's starting to turn."

In the distance, a storm began brewing.

"We had better get inside, or actually, I should get inside. You stay out here and watch the children."

Charles ran inside as the first spots of rain speckled the hot sand. The blonde woman just lay out watching the ocean as if nothing had happened. There in his beach house, he shut the sliding glass door. The beach grew larger as the water disappeared from it's shore. A massive wave gathered all it could muster before descending upon his quiet beach. In an instant, the blonde woman and everyone he had ever known disappeared. The fangs jutting from the ground shone pearly white. The beach, now clean of the blood and turmoil that cluttered it before, was back to it's sunny weather and tranquil disposition.

"I'm happiest on my own." he thought, "but what of the other? Where had she gone? Where was it that I had first seen her?"

He was on a bar-room stool looking out at the crowd of bodies throbbing to the music. He saw a girl at the edge of the crowd sitting alone at a table moving her body to the music. When she had finished her drink, he turned to the bar keep and ordered another of what she was drinking. He took the glass and approached her with a smile. Her eyes lit up and with a smile returned his gesture with a quick thank-you. Feeling a bit confident in her response Charles replied, "Aren't you a little too pretty to be dancing alone?"

"Yes." she grabbed his hand and they made their way on to the lighted floor. She started dancing and Charles moved his body with her. Not really dancing, but enjoying her every move. It seemed like only a moment went by. He felt a slight tinge and the song changed. His arm spasmed and the woman he was with took a hard right in the shoulder blade. She continued dancing unabated. Then just as all good things are doomed to do, the bar scene took a change for the worse. The lights began flashing incessantly and the floor began to form craters with each step of every dancer. Then like a shot gun went off, Charles screamed at the top of his lungs and the music stopped.

The room went dark and only the woman he was with could be seen. Her eyes look up in betrayal. It's as if a spotlight hits her in the blackness. He hears a caw in the distance. He looks around, but sees nothing. Then a second and a third. Soon nothing can be heard over the sound of the birds. Although none can be seen, the sound of his wife's voice is completely drowned. Her words merely mouthed, "Help me."

There came a raven from the darkness landing on her shoulder. Then another on her leg. Soon she was covered by a mass of black birds. Their wings seem to sparkle with a purple fervor in the spotlight. Then just as his fears became realized, the first bird jerked it's beak into her eye socket. They began ripping at her flesh. She looked up in her silent scream. Charles ran to help her, but fell helplessly to the ground. He felt a tight restraint tied at his ankle. He pulled at the chain desperately trying to drag himself closer--To fend off the attack of the birds. To defend his woman. His lady. His everything.

----

She's back at his side. Watching as he struggles. Only his eyes move beneath his lids, but beyond the close inspection of her loving eyes. Some would say that's enough, but for her she couldn't bare it. Her sadness has turned to anger. Just as the banshee's elegant plight. Her knight in shining armor has become as the stiff plate that she's always imagined him donning. Then as if a sign of the divine, she notices a soft drop. A slight discrepancy in the vision of her hero. A soft line of desperate loss draws itself upon his lifeless face, "I'll wait one more day."

She fights off the urge to feel to see if it's real. The delicate sign of his existence was too much hope for her to muster. As she left to find something to eat, it would dry up before she returned. She knew that no one would believe her had she tried. Who would care? It was her decision to make.

----

Charles had rent his clothes and threw his shirt aside. It was the only sign of remorse left unexpressed. He looked up to see the clouds gather, passing over a full moon. They let in a small glimpse of the boundless universe beyond. His chain had been switched out for a cage. He sat in his cage watching the carnies pack up after their last show. The clown who was too tired to wipe his make-up only clung to his bottle. Charles saw this as an opportunity, "HEY! clown. Come here, let me get a hit."

The clown walked up to his cage and laughed malodorously. Charles cringed as the clown raised his arm to take an irregularly long taunting drink in front of him, "This nectar is not for likes of you. It's too refined for someone who drinks his own urine."

"But I don’t.."

The clown had been one step ahead of him. He had retreated with victory in hand. The midget who twirled plates on the end of sticks was carrying a suitcase to the bearded lady's trailer.

"HEY!"

The dwarf didn't even acknowledge his existence. He sat silently as the poor man lugged the suitcase that could probably have held his brother and him simultaneously without filling capacity. Then it occurred to Charles that not even an airtight suitcase could contain the smell of these people. Every single one of those who worked this carnival seemed to smell of rotting flesh and broken dreams. The bearded lady seemed a bit taken aback at the dwarf's presumption. She nervously tried to brush him off, but his persistence wouldn't allow such easy squandering of his laborious effort. Then a voice bellowed from the back of the trailer that seemed to snap the little man's spirit. It seems the strong man had been enjoying the bearded woman's company. Seeing as she was the only woman among them, jealousies ran high. The dwarf pulled a miniature pistol that seemed appropriate to the situation and talked his way in the door. Just as an impending silence hit just before the storm, something took away from such a momentous occasion.

Like a push-button indication, a girl wearing a long trench coat and a brown hat with the brim pulled down over one eye came walking up. She held a cigarette in her full red lips. Her one eye looked up at Charles. The lid revealed a dark supple blue. The kind of eyes that one could drown in. Like a true blue. She stood there for a moment with an amused smirk on her face as she studied him. He suddenly realized that he had been stripped down to a single loin covering cloth made of what he assumed was leopard skin, "I was curious." came his only response.

A sudden yell came from the trailer across from his cage, "A water pistol!"

A moment later, a rousing laughter came from the threesome behind the closed, but highly stylized walls.

"I'm breaking you outta here." said her low sensuous voice.

"How do you know I wanna be broked out?" he replied coyly.

Without answering, she pulled out a rather large pair of bolt cutters from beneath her trench coat. It almost looked comedic in her awkward hands. It seems she could handle anything in the world, except those four-foot long bolt cutters. When the pad lock and been broken, dogs began barking and lights came on. Clearly alarmed, Charles and this woman took off on foot.

"Hurry. I have a car waiting by the tree line."

They crossed a set of railroad tracks behind the small engine that took the carnival from town to town. A large black sedan came into view. Charles looked back to see a whole scene of them angrily chasing: the clown, the old woman, the cannibals, the dwarf, the bearded-lady, the world's strongest man, and a rabid dog for flavor.

The doors were unlocked as Charles took toward the passenger side. He looked to the driver's side as the woman climbed in. She just sat there frantically looking at each of their attackers and then to Charles.

"I forgot the keys." She said simply.

"It's okay. I love you anyway."

They just watched as their assailants came closer. The rabid dog was the first to attack. He jumped on the car and began growling at the windshield. Another man had a tire iron. They broke out the glass and the other began clawing. The world's strongest man tore his door from the hinges and began smashing the roof of the car in.

----

The machine beside his bed that decidedly went "Ping!" at regular intervals began to pick up pace. He began convulsing in his bed and rolled off the side where his wife had left the rail down. The many tubes that went inside of him were pulled loose. He began to gag and choke on the tubes in his throat. He pulled at them frantically. Alarms and whistles went off everywhere in the room. The Nurses rushed in and sedated him, settling everything. They picked him up and set him in his bed and began their usual routine of reinstituting Charles' return of self-sustaining life.

She had just come back from an almost edible lunch in the cafeteria and heard the commotion. She walked regularly back toward her husband's room. She did not want to again be disappointed. As she got closer and saw drapes up and a closed door, a flood of hope rushed through her. Although her rebellious heart did not want to risk such another fall, she closed her eyes and prayed. She looked in the window and saw that he had moved and the nurses were removing some of the equipment that had been so vital in these last few weeks. Her spirits immediately lifted and despite her overwhelming need to see the man of whom she loved, her reason told her to wait until the nurses came out.

A week or so later, they were together and Charles was talking again, "I saw you when you were young and I loved you. I saw you when you ate me and I loved you. I saw you when you didn't care about me at all and I loved you. I saw you when we met and I love you. I saw you when you were old and I still loved you."

"You saw all that did you?"

"Well, if I told you I saw you with a beard or as some drunken carnies that smelled like old fish on a hot day, you wouldn't believe me."

[ridin gaijin]

Sik, nice story. Some overall points perhaps worth considering:

1) Avoid the passive voice wherever possible. Readers like to see characters acting instead of being acted upon.
2) Watch for fragments and run-on sentences. This is partly a matter of style; James Clavell ran on sentences like crazy and it didn't hurt his sales any.
3) Strong editing is in order. Here's just the first paragraph, marked up:

original

Charles had been wandering through his own mind for weeks. There had been no sign of life on the side of reality, but within his sleeping body, there lay a land made of horror and fantasy. The likes of which had barely passed before his open eye lids. There was such a warping taking place from retina to the frontal lobe that there was not even the slightest resemblance. Here is where Charles finds himself.

markup

Charles had been wandering through his own mind for weeks. There had been no sign of life on the this side of reality, but within his sleeping body, there lay a land made of horror and fantasy. [don't you mean, "his sleeping mind", or "soul", or some such? Or was the fantasy land literally in his body?] The likes of which had barely passed before his open eye lids ["eyelids", one word]. [sentence fragment] There was such a warping [?of time? space? or what?] taking place from retina to the frontal lobe that there was not even the slightest resemblance. [of what to what?] Here is where Charles finds himself. [sentence disagrees in verb tense with rest of paragraph. Present, or past tense?]

or,

He blinked wildly as it became quite clear that the piles of sand [sand, got it] had come from the sand dune [sand, ok, we got it before] on this side of the door. He turned to finish sweeping the sand [more sand?] out here and found nothing but blue sky and an ocean of red sand [4 times in two sentences...].

4) Avoid confusing "it's", which is a contraction of "it is", with "its", which signifies a possession belonging to "it".
5) Reconsider awkward constructions such as "chided viciously" and "wary predicament".

Overall, I didn't understand the connection between Charles's fantasy episodes and his escape. Why had none of them led to an escape earlier? Perhaps most importantly, how is he progressing--i.e., changing--as we follow him through the story? What is it exactly that he's struggling against?

You have some terrific, surreal imagery going on, and it will be a pleasure to see you using it as sinews to pull the story together. Good luck!

[sikdragon]

Well as all emotions and senses are chemical reactions, he's battling a chemical reaction. I'm going to run through and rewrite this story, with a little more attention paid to the wife. I don't have Microsoft Word or any of those classy programs on this computer. That leaves me without any grammar correction software at the moment. All my editing has been manually.

I would like to thank you. It means a lot to have someone read.

On another note, I've picked up a couple of books on writing. The Elements of Style by E.B. White and Strunk is amazing. I've learned more from that book post-completion of this story than I have from any other source.

[ridin gaijin]

Originally Posted by sikdragon

On another note, I've picked up a couple of books on writing. The Elements of Style by E.B. White and Strunk is amazing. I've learned more from that book post-completion of this story than I have from any other source.

You're welcome. And congratulations on the EoS--great move, really! A terrific way to get into the foundations of the writing. So many neglect the basics; their writing ends up like martial arts, sloppily performed, all because of not nailing the fundamentals. Good for you for wanting to head that off in your own work, and taking action.



I also like George Orwell's classic essay on writing--some high points summarized here. Running something I've done through his filter makes me really think about what's on the page.

[Medesha]

Ridin had some really great advice (also, good move on picking up Elements of Style, I agree!). I'll just add a bit to what he said.

Ok, I'll add a lot to what he said. Please take all these comments with a grain of salt. They're mostly minor grammatical errors or suggestions that you can freely discard. You seem to pick up speed as you write, because most of my comments come in the first half of the story. Then you seem to hit your stride. Well done!

Originally Posted by sikdragon

At first it was a little hazy. Then his eyes cleared and the black faded into the first scene.

"It" is a very vague word. I didn't know what you meant by "it" here. Unconsciousness? Maybe something like, "At first, Charles slept a dreamless sleep. Then an image formed in his mind. An old woman stood at a black board..."

He looked ahead of him and saw an old woman standing at a black board. Writing in some language, he was unfamiliar with.

Your second sentence here isn't a sentence, and doesn't need the comma. "An old woman stood at a black board, writing in an unfamiliar language." Something like that.

Her eyes bugged out and retracted as she spoke. It wasn't until a second later did her words become audible, "I want you to study, study, STUDY!" she turned to Charles and yelled for him to stop talking.

You need a capital on that last sentence. "A second later, her words became audible. "I want you to study, study, STUDY!" She turned to Charles and yelled at him to stop talking."

Alternately, you could phrase it like this: "A second later, her words became audible. "I want you to study, study, STUDY!" Her gaze fixed on Charlie. Her eyes bugged out and retracted. "Stop talking!"

She went back to rambling and Charles' interest was caught by a voice that whispered behind him.

That's the passive voice ridin was talking about ("was caught"). Try something more active: "A feminine whisper behind him caught Charles' attention."

"When he cracks his neck, it's like he's dancing."

I really like this line.

"Charlie Wintermire, since you volunteered, why don't you show us how Pythagoras would solve this problem." the old woman held out a fresh piece of white impatience, as she tapped her foot.

Capitalize "The" in "the old woman."

With a sigh, he trudged toward the board and took the chalk from her hand. He looked at the shape and numbers on the board and began a silent calculation. Laughter soon followed. The old woman began goading him and the children chided viciously at his inadequacy.

Charles began writing out Greek letters and memorized calculations. He was just on the verge of a silent break through when the teacher squawked a disheartening, "Times up."

Another thing I notice is a common issue in writing (I struggle with it myself): "began to" and "started to." Unless the action is interrupted or you make a note of its ending, you don't need to write that someone began to do something. Either they did or they didn't. So consider something like this:

"With a sigh, he trudged toward the board and took the chalk from her hand. He looked at the shape and numbers on the board and silently calculated. The class laughed at him." (I rephrased that part because "Laughter soon followed" confused me. Was the class laughing at him, or did Charles' calculations amuse him?) "The old woman goaded him on, and the children chided viciously at his inadequacy."

"Charles wrote out Greek letters and memorized calculations..."

I won't tag every instance of "started to" and "began to", but I strongly recommend doing a search for those phrases. Omitting them makes the story read better and almost always strengthens the sentence.

She took the chalk from his unwilling hand and was commanded to head back to his seat.

She took the chalk from his unwilling hand and commanded him to head back to his seat.

She sits beside him, holding his hand. She looks around this bleak hospital room and all the machines connected to her husband's body. She closes her eyes determined to push them from her sight. She tries to remember his always ruffled dark hair and his sweet smile. She tries to remember how it felt when he held her and everything seemed under his control.

"How could he leave me?" she thought, "I'm not ready. I can't do this on my own."

She felt that burning at the back of her throat that only recently had become so familiar. A line of betrayal traced the contour of her face as it fell from the end of her chin.

First, very well written. Second, you switch tenses here -- you start out in present tense then slip into past. To keep it consistent, try, "How could he leave me?" she thinks. "I'm not ready, I can't do this on my own." She feels that burning at the back of her throat..."

Charles' became afraid that he might die of thirst, his throat had already begun to dry.

No apostrophe needed on Charles.

He heard the subtle roar of something man-made coming over the dunes. Just as he crowned one of them, he saw what looked like a woman coming into view. A figure with dark hair riding a buggy among the never-ending line of sand dunes. A few moments later the buggy had come close enough to make out the features of its rider. She had long blonde hair and a shapely figure. She pulled to a stop right beside him, "Hop on." was all she said, before Charles jumped at the opportunity. He clearly thought she was beautiful. She reminded him of a more grown-up version of the girl he had met in school.

This paragraph is a little wordy. Remember, you don't have to tell us every detail, we can fill in a few blanks. Consider this: "He heard the roar of something man-made coming over the dunes. A buggy crested one of the dunes and came to a stop next to him. The driver, a shapely blonde, smiled at him. "Hop on."

Also you initially say the rider has dark hair, then you say she's blonde.

It seems they rode for hours. In the distance, there came up smoke rising to the sky in different shapes from a fire just beyond his sight. It wasn't until a moment later did a gathering of people come into view.

I notice you say things like "a moment later" more frequently than you need. As long as you present things in chronological order, you don't generally need those tags. Your paragraph is perfectly comprehensible like this: "They drove for hours. In the distance, smoke rose to the sky in different shapes from a fire just beyond his sight. A gathering of people crowded around a fire -- men and women from all walks of life." Etc.

They began pushing him toward the center of the circle. Charles fought, pushing himself back, but he was overwhelmed by the mass of hands pushing him forward. He became desperate, violently shoving all he could. Before reaching the center, he saw someone holding a bat, about to strike him.

Cool, but a bit flat at the end. "He became desperate, violently shoving all he could. One of the men held a bat. Charles tried to back up, but the press of people made retreat impossible. The man struck Charles on the head with the bat, and all went dark." Something like that might be a bit more active.

"We made that especially from you." she said, breaking the silence.

He was sure from her accent that she meant for him.

"You fed a nation of peoples. You’re a great man."

"How did I feed them?"

"Your legs."

That's totally gross and awesome.

Charles felt a terrible sense of foreboding as his stomach began to turn. He looked beneath the table and saw that his legs were scorched and burnt, with chunks missing here and there. The largest chunks being everything below his mid-thigh. He suddenly felt the heat of the fire and throbbing of his head. Letting out a desperate scream, he howled for dear life. They became so much, that he could no longer utter a sound. His muscles locked up as his teeth began to grate and chipping.

Also totally gross and awesome, but I don't know what you mean by "they became so much". The pain? His screams? Also the last sentence is awkward; maybe try something like, "His muscles locked up and he gritted his teeth so hard they chipped."

A was put at ease as the syringe filled his existence with serenity.

Not sure what you're saying here.

He was on a bright white beach and the sun was high in the sky. There was a slight breeze and the relaxing sounds of the ocean's tide. Behind where he lay, there were bodies piked on what appeared to be giant fangs coming from the ground. All of those who had dined on his flesh were now resting as an example for all those who would dare feast on him again. Beside him was a different woman, as she had blue eyes. Everything else about her was the same as the girl he had met on the buggy. Charles broke the silence, "What fine weather."

"It's great weather, but for what? It seems we used to do something on days like this, but I don't remember what." she said.

"I couldn't imagine anything greater than just sitting here with you, enjoying this fine weather."

"Don't you wish there was something more?"

His gaze turned to that of dissatisfaction. It seems even in his dreams, he wasn't good enough for her.

"I see the weather's starting to turn."

In the distance, a storm began brewing.

"We had better get inside, or actually, I should get inside. You stay out here and watch the children."

Charles ran inside as the first spots of rain speckled the hot sand. The blonde woman just lay out watching the ocean as if nothing had happened. There in his beach house, he shut the sliding glass door. The beach grew larger as the water disappeared from it's shore. A massive wave gathered all it could muster before descending upon his quiet beach. In an instant, the blonde woman and everyone he had ever known disappeared. The fangs jutting from the ground shone pearly white. The beach, now clean of the blood and turmoil that cluttered it before, was back to it's sunny weather and tranquil disposition.

Nice piece here, but you repeat it. Copy/paste error, probably.

"I'm happiest on my own." he thought, "but what of the other? Where had she gone? Where was it that I had first seen her?"

The lights began flashing incessantly and the floor began to form craters with each step of every dancer.

Began to, and a little week. "The lights flashed incessantly. Each step of every dancer left a crater in the floor." Something like that.

The room went dark and only the woman he was with could be seen. Her eyes look up in betrayal. It's as if a spotlight hits her in the blackness. He hears a caw in the distance. He looks around, but sees nothing. Then a second and a third. Soon nothing can be heard over the sound of the birds. Although none can be seen, the sound of his wife's voice is completely drowned. Her words merely mouthed, "Help me."

You switch to present tense here, just so you know. Then you switch back to past tense in the next paragraph.

I saw you when you were young and I loved you. I saw you when you ate me and I loved you. I saw you when you didn't care about me at all and I loved you. I saw you when we met and I love you. I saw you when you were old and I still loved you."

"You saw all that did you?"

"Well, if I told you I saw you with a beard or as some drunken carnies that smelled like old fish on a hot day, you wouldn't believe me."

Awesome ending! This is a really cool story -- very surreal and creepy but also beautiful. I really enjoyed it.