ndmellen
Minstrel
Hey, guys, haven't posted in a bit, and I could use some advice/ feedback on last nights' writing scene.
Preface- Years ago, I was a medic. The pay was garbage, but I loved the work. When the bad calls came in ( not the broken arms, mild car accidents, heart attacks, etc., but the mass casualty incidents, the explosions, the burn victims) there is a certain kind of shock (for me, at least.) All emotion turned off. The limbs, the blood, the screaming...none of it really registered. It wasn't that I was overwhelmed, it was like there was a buffer cutting everything emotional off so that I could think rationally.
Now, I told you that so I could tell this:
I wrote a scene the other night where I tried to incorporate this mentality. The scene is moderately brutal (my party of mc's arrives at the scene of a battle in an attempt to rescue a friend.) I really wanted to get the sensation of "numb detachment" across. I don't know if I was able to incorporate this view point accurately, or if it just comes across as short, choppy writing. If you get the chance to glance over it, I would greatly appreciate any and all feedback.
Thanks-
Bull
Bodies are everywhere. Dozens. A score. Two score. More. Human and Feral, male and female. Guards and merchants. Children and horses. They’re scattered about, broken, limbs lying akimbo, assuming that they still had limbs. Face down, face up, slumped against a train of wagons on the crest of the hill. Open eyes, glazed over in death, staring directly into the sun.
The mysterious buzzing I was hearing were the flies. They covered almost everything, a shifting black blanket draped over the bodies, creeping across dry eyes and into open mouths. They hop, skip, jump, swirling into the air to alight on the next morsel. As we pass, they twitch and creep, whirling through the air in noxious clouds, unconcerned at having their meal interrupted.
The ground is muddy with blood, both red and black. It’s pooled next to slack mouths, stomachs that have been clawed open, in the ruts next to wagon wheels. The smell covers everything, filling my nose with the scent of iron and rotten meat. I try to swallow, but can’t because my mouth is too dry. I’ve never seen so much blood
We head towards the caravan, all of us picking our steps carefully. I step over an arm that has been ripped free at the elbow. It’s thin, sun darkened. The stiff fingers are curled around a child’s toy doll that is covered in brown stains. A numb, detached, portion of my mind wonders macabrely where the rest of the little girl is.
A low, pitiful whine comes from the left. It’s a dog, its yellow fur stained red. The lower half of its jaw has been torn off, and one of its forelegs is missing. Teek steps over, drawing a knife from his waist, and mercifully puts it out of its misery. I can’t find any more emotion for that poor animal than I can for these poor people.
We continue moving forward towards the caravan. It’s a big one, at least a dozen wagons and coaches filled with supplies and merchandise. One has a bright green tarp covering its goods. I don’t know why I notice it. I check the black drop. Cait’s weak green light is still there, flickering dimly, just on the other side of the wagons cresting the hill.
I try to summon up hope. The same hope that drove me out here; The same hope that Teek said was a mistake. Looking around, though, at the carnage, the bodies, I can’t do it. It’s gone, lost like a ship dashed against the rocks of the Skrelling Coast. Now it’s just about finding what kind of a warning Jabrom left for me. As if all this weren’t enough.
With a breath to steady myself, I step around the wagon in front of me, it’s horses dead in their leads. As I round the corner, my feet halt in their tracks. A dim part of my mind hears the shuffling of footsteps as the others join me.
My eyes land on the side of the wagon, where Vitus Cait is resting at his ease. There are a dozen dead Ferals scattered around him, almost a half-circle of broken white bodies. Skulls are crushed, faces mangled, limbs bending the wrong way. Jagged teeth lay broken on the earth like hail stones that won’t melt. Cait is leaning with his back against the hard planks of the wagon, and he opens his eyes in to two thin slits at my approach.
Both of his arms are gone beneath the elbows. Both legs at the knee. White bone shines wetly through the tattered strips of flesh hanging loosely at the stumps. His face is a furrowed field of cuts and claw marks, leaving a mask of blood in its place. A chunk of hair on the side of his head has been ripped out, and the rest hangs in his eyes. His silver maces, covered head to pommel in black gore, are resting in a neat ‘X’ across what remains of his lap.
Preface- Years ago, I was a medic. The pay was garbage, but I loved the work. When the bad calls came in ( not the broken arms, mild car accidents, heart attacks, etc., but the mass casualty incidents, the explosions, the burn victims) there is a certain kind of shock (for me, at least.) All emotion turned off. The limbs, the blood, the screaming...none of it really registered. It wasn't that I was overwhelmed, it was like there was a buffer cutting everything emotional off so that I could think rationally.
Now, I told you that so I could tell this:
I wrote a scene the other night where I tried to incorporate this mentality. The scene is moderately brutal (my party of mc's arrives at the scene of a battle in an attempt to rescue a friend.) I really wanted to get the sensation of "numb detachment" across. I don't know if I was able to incorporate this view point accurately, or if it just comes across as short, choppy writing. If you get the chance to glance over it, I would greatly appreciate any and all feedback.
Thanks-
Bull
Bodies are everywhere. Dozens. A score. Two score. More. Human and Feral, male and female. Guards and merchants. Children and horses. They’re scattered about, broken, limbs lying akimbo, assuming that they still had limbs. Face down, face up, slumped against a train of wagons on the crest of the hill. Open eyes, glazed over in death, staring directly into the sun.
The mysterious buzzing I was hearing were the flies. They covered almost everything, a shifting black blanket draped over the bodies, creeping across dry eyes and into open mouths. They hop, skip, jump, swirling into the air to alight on the next morsel. As we pass, they twitch and creep, whirling through the air in noxious clouds, unconcerned at having their meal interrupted.
The ground is muddy with blood, both red and black. It’s pooled next to slack mouths, stomachs that have been clawed open, in the ruts next to wagon wheels. The smell covers everything, filling my nose with the scent of iron and rotten meat. I try to swallow, but can’t because my mouth is too dry. I’ve never seen so much blood
We head towards the caravan, all of us picking our steps carefully. I step over an arm that has been ripped free at the elbow. It’s thin, sun darkened. The stiff fingers are curled around a child’s toy doll that is covered in brown stains. A numb, detached, portion of my mind wonders macabrely where the rest of the little girl is.
A low, pitiful whine comes from the left. It’s a dog, its yellow fur stained red. The lower half of its jaw has been torn off, and one of its forelegs is missing. Teek steps over, drawing a knife from his waist, and mercifully puts it out of its misery. I can’t find any more emotion for that poor animal than I can for these poor people.
We continue moving forward towards the caravan. It’s a big one, at least a dozen wagons and coaches filled with supplies and merchandise. One has a bright green tarp covering its goods. I don’t know why I notice it. I check the black drop. Cait’s weak green light is still there, flickering dimly, just on the other side of the wagons cresting the hill.
I try to summon up hope. The same hope that drove me out here; The same hope that Teek said was a mistake. Looking around, though, at the carnage, the bodies, I can’t do it. It’s gone, lost like a ship dashed against the rocks of the Skrelling Coast. Now it’s just about finding what kind of a warning Jabrom left for me. As if all this weren’t enough.
With a breath to steady myself, I step around the wagon in front of me, it’s horses dead in their leads. As I round the corner, my feet halt in their tracks. A dim part of my mind hears the shuffling of footsteps as the others join me.
My eyes land on the side of the wagon, where Vitus Cait is resting at his ease. There are a dozen dead Ferals scattered around him, almost a half-circle of broken white bodies. Skulls are crushed, faces mangled, limbs bending the wrong way. Jagged teeth lay broken on the earth like hail stones that won’t melt. Cait is leaning with his back against the hard planks of the wagon, and he opens his eyes in to two thin slits at my approach.
Both of his arms are gone beneath the elbows. Both legs at the knee. White bone shines wetly through the tattered strips of flesh hanging loosely at the stumps. His face is a furrowed field of cuts and claw marks, leaving a mask of blood in its place. A chunk of hair on the side of his head has been ripped out, and the rest hangs in his eyes. His silver maces, covered head to pommel in black gore, are resting in a neat ‘X’ across what remains of his lap.
Myth Weaver
Auror
Inkling
