Oct 17 2011

Derp Writer’s Review Forum

Published by at 8:13 am under Review Forums

Please see the comments below.

9 responses so far

9 Responses to “Derp Writer’s Review Forum”

  1. Derp Writeron 25 Oct 2011 at 11:57 am

    So this first one is actually the fist post of a Roleplay in which I used the character, Barrett. The roleplay was based in WWI, but with zombies. Who doesn’t love zombies? Yeah, I just wanted to post it for your review. I had considered editing it to make it seem less stupid (by fixing mistakes that were obvious after the fact), but I decided against it, so you get the whole thing, unedited.
    Enjoy…or don’t. Your call.

    Oberleutnant Barrett Jaegar grimaced as he pulled the limp form of a soldier down from the lip of the trench. He carefully placed the soldier in a sitting position on the opposite wall, sweeping a hand over the man’s face to close his eyes. The deceased man had never made it out of the trench in their most recent charge towards British lines, and had been unfortunate enough in death to have fallen in a position that gave the appearance of a sharpshooter lining up a shot at a glance, and had been shot three times post-humously because of this.

    For a while, Barrett had been too preoccupied with other matters to notice, but when it came to his attention he took it as a matter of honor to ensure that the man didn’t have any more bullets passing through his body. He needed to look his best when he met Saint Peter, after all, and it would be on the head of anyone who didn’t act as soon as they were able to make it so.

    He stood as he finished placing the man in a respectable position, one hand laid upon the other over his belly, head tilted downward as though he were resting. That was his way of boosting morale. You didn’t tell the new recruits that their fellow soldiers were dead. Those that they didn’t see die were just captured, and the ones they did see were just resting.
    It helped to ease the passing of many young men when it was their time, the charade that he put up. The more experienced soldiers knew better, but they kept the fact to themselves, and over time a few of them eventually began to believe it, if only a bit.

    He sighed, wiping his brow with his forearm, as his sleeves were rolled up past his elbows. The fighting seemed to be the least tiring thing he had to deal with. In battle he got a rush that pushed him forward, beating back fatigue and allowing his to put down many enemies in a skirmish. That was limited, though, to the few times when both sides happened to give the same order to charge at roughly the same time. Nevertheless, it took far less of a toll on him than trying to refrain from shouting his frustrations at the nearest soldier. He did the opposite, in fact. He put on a mask of calm every day, and this was more exhausting than any task on Earth for him, simply because it was him.
    He had been told many times that he would be right at home swinging a mace and screaming at the top of his lungs on some Medieval battlefield. He tended to agree, as it was his nature to fight. That was why he joined the military, to fight. He imagined that it wouldn’t have mattered whether or not he was British, French, or even American, as long as he was given the chance to fight. He hadn’t imagined the dullness of trench warfare, however, and quickly found that his enthusiasm was all but worthless and that he resented his swift rise in rank more than the enemy.

    “Tch,” He muttered, “Strength of a bear indeed.”

    He was, of course, referring to his first name, which translated to such in English. He found it ironic that as large and strong as he was; his rise in rank was the result of carefully placed shots from the trench and a sense for when things were futile that saved many soldiers from an untimely demise. Ironic though it was, he was less than amused.

    Drawing a cigar from his shirt pocket, he bit off the front cap, spitting it to the ground, and placed the reverse end between his teeth. He then retrieved a matchbox from the same pocket and took two matches from it, igniting them simultaneously on the edge of the patch on his left sleeve, which indicated his rank, and proceeded to light the cigar.

    As the sun set, the sense of fear in the trench was palpable. The stories of terrible creatures wandering about in hordes devouring soldiers were dismissed by everyone, and scoffed at by officers such as him. That did not, however, prevent the small bit of doubt that one must hold from just having heard such rumors, from gaining strength. The anxiety of one soldier fed that of another, and so on and so forth, until the air seemed to reek of terror. Barrett did his best to combat this, but he was perplexed by the ability of those under his command to work themselves into a horrified stupor. It also didn’t help that at night the wind changed direction, carrying the remaining clouds of dust, smoke, and gas in such a way that it obscured anything and everything beyond ten yards from the trench in all directions.

    He shook his head, taking a puff from his cigar. He pondered why it was, exactly, that he could not calm the nerves of his soldiers, as he swirled the smoke around in his mouth a bit. Before exhaling, he turned to look at the artificial fog that surrounded them. He could swear, sometimes, that if he listened, he could hear the sound of distant moaning. He passed it off as the paranoia in the trench getting to him, but he still wondered, occasionally, whether it was really his imagination, or if there was indeed some horror stalking about in search of a victim.

  2. RL Junioron 30 Oct 2011 at 4:05 pm

    I’m excited about this. I got a pretty good sense of who Barrett is. I’m Interested to see where you are headed and what you are going to do with this character as well as the story.

  3. Derp Writeron 31 Oct 2011 at 10:23 pm

    Wow…thank you. I had just intended to put up posts where I believed possible mistakes were made to be pointed out, but if you (and/or anyone else) want, I could put up the other posts of the zombie RP from which this example came (though the posts from others would be obvious from the large difference in grammar and narration).

    Also, what did you think of Barrett? I’m trying to engineer a vibe of “badassery” without going for the typical things like being ultra-violent and/or anti-social. The feeling for who the character is that I’m trying to convey is of a man who takes his authority seriously, but is also not a hardass; who is a perfect mix of tradition and practicality.
    Was I successful in this, or do you need more information before making an opinion?

  4. L. Milleron 02 Nov 2011 at 12:10 am

    I found Barrett to be badass with honor and civility. I am intrigued and would really like to read the rest at some point. I enjoyed how you built his character in this portion. I felt like I was there. Smelling, hearing, and seeing what he saw, felt and smelled. Just how I like to read…inciting my imagination. Keep up the good work.

  5. Derp Writeron 08 Jan 2012 at 3:08 pm

    I’m torn, now, on what to do. I want to continue posting along this story line (at least up to the point where the thread this was posted in died), but after comments from some of my critics (who wish to remain anonymous) I am afraid that I may spoil the character for others.
    If anyone is confused, the critics in question stated that they felt a zombie scenario would ruin Barrett by not giving the proper chance to show his true colors, and, or, making him seem like a different person. While I disagreed, I also did not want to take the chance of ignoring their advice.
    So if anyone has any ideas or suggestions, I would greatly appreciate them.

  6. Cray ZeBouyon 29 Feb 2012 at 12:11 am

    This is really good! I can visualize the trench and the fog, and I really get a feel for the scene. Your storytelling is amazing! It makes me want to read more.
    In other words: Cool story, bro!

  7. Derp Writeron 16 Nov 2012 at 4:20 pm

    Disclaimer: This is the point at which other people began contributing to the story which Barrett currently inhabits. I had tried to avoid continuing on with the story being set in a world with zombies on the recommendation of the previously mentioned reader (who, as said earlier, believed that Barrett would be ruined as a character in such a setting), but due to circumstances in my life which will not be described I want only to put the rest of the (very short) story up for review.

    I apologize for lack of grammar and spelling in several parts from here on out, as I said that I would not edit any of it, and thus am not changing any of the parts (no matter how much I want to) that the others involved in the RP put forth. Therefore I can only ask that you excuse any lack of character introduction and development, or any other flaws with the story caused by the inexperience of those who made the parts in question and understand that one of the two others providing narrative in this story is very young and that the other is more of a technical mind, rather than an artistic one and that neither is incompetent, unimaginative, or lazy.

    That said, please enjoy the following.

    “Sir I am awaiting orders.” Mordecai said saluting the first lieutenant. “We lost some good men today didn’t we sir?” He said looking off into the distance hearing a slight moaning sound. “Sir I might be getting paranoia but I thought I heard a low moaning sound.” He said quietly picking up his sniper rifle.

    “It’s nothing, for the thousandth time,” Barrett growled, eyeing Mordecai sternly, “In any case, if it were moaning, it’s definitely just a wounded soldier. He’ll probably be…resting…any time now.”

    He paused as he said the last bit, remembering that he didn’t say that soldiers died in this trench. He looked at his soldiers, checking that none had heard before stepping closer to Mordecai.

    “Don’t get them any more anxious than they already are,” he whispered, “We don’t need them pissing themselves over stories.”

    He took another puff of his cigar as he listened to the sounds of the trench. He released the sweet-scented smoke to his left as he removed the cigar from his mouth.

    “Anyway, if you’re so paranoid why don’t you take a look about with that rifle of yours? You know what to do if you see anyone.”

    “yes sir.” Mordecai said aiming over at the British side. He smelt the over intoxicating smell of blood tainting the air all around. He still heard the moaning noise though it seemed a little louder than before. Then the moon came up and to Mordecai it looked like it had been bloodied through a thick mist of blood.

    As Barrett discarded the butt of his cigar, flinging it aside, he savored the last bit of smoke before releasing it into the air. It would be a few days before he decided to light up another, as he didn’t want to go through them too quickly.

    He stepped on the smoldering remains of his cigar, smothering it with the toe of his boot. Before he had regained his posture, he froze. Listening intently to the sounds outside of the trench, he quickly distinguished the moaning sound from earlier.
    It was clearly louder, and not like any sort of moan he had ever heard. It was not the wind, and yet he had never heard any person let out that sort of sound.
    There were only three reasons that a person would moan: pain, pleasure, or disgust, and this, by his reasoning, was none of those.
    It was a lazy, droning sound, like wind simply being released from the lungs, but it continued on longer than any human being could maintain.

    Now very alert, he motioned for his machine-gunners to take their positions and wait for further instructions. They did as commanded and manned the guns they were assigned.

    “Mordecai,” he began, his voice betraying the level of wariness that he felt, “Keep your scope on the origin of the noise. If you see anything, shoot. Remember, center mass. Head shots are for heroes, and we don’t need any of those.”

    Out of the raging storm, in the dead of night, the ravenous, blood-sick creatures searched for their sacrifice; through the hideous darkness they lurched, driven by death itself, while only the satisfaction of slaughter would cause them to return to the darkness from which they came…

    From the ashes and mud came the first wave, complete with gray faces, gray skin, their withering bodies slowly rising up, strangely, unnaturally, almost as if they were lifted straight up. From the barbed wire and the bloody gravel, bodies still twitching, long thought dead, arose, filled full of anguish, filled full of hate, and filled full of life.

    No more remained of their once active cerebral cortex’s; nothing but base instinct and spinal cords drove them. They were but empty shells, hopeless husks, sent wandering on this eternal plane, in massive hordes of fallen bodies.

    Not all who were dead had risen, nor all of those whom were infected. Merely the ones most affected by the chemically altered bacterial disease, left writhing in their own filth. These creatures, these humans, rose distinctly, and defiantly, resisting death and life alone, and mindless, brainless swarms whom would surge their enemies without hesitation, without the need for guns, without fear or reason for life, almost the perfect WWI lifeless soldier requested by the mindless leaders of these battles. They could withstand multiple bullet wounds, required little water or food, required no sleep, had no opinions, made no decisions, were easy to control, and were fierce close quarters combat contenders, using teeth and hands in all, exactly what was required for WWI combat charges.

    And as well, they all worked in unison. It is unclear why they chose to fight in waves; possibly a cognitive decision, possibly an accident, possibly due to various pheromones or chemicals, or possibly due to the nature in which they died, and had lived, in groups, in waves, in large units fielded as soldiers.

    These creatures, these zombies, fueled by rage and death, were also driven by another singular force; Food. Their enemies represented not only those they needed to tactically defeat, but also their source of food and water. If they did not kill and eat within 3-6 days, they would dehydrate and starve like the rest of the humans on this planet. Of course, the zombies fight much more ferociously, hitting targets so hard they possible break their own bones from the force of the impact. Fists and teeth flying, gouging, tearing, attempting to kill another with their bare hands. And with the adrenaline fueled, base instinct, painless body, extraordinary feats that, while ordinary humans were capable of, would be achieved on a regular basis, even if it meant the death of the zombie itself.

    Attracted to sound, attracted to sight, but more importantly, attracted by the smell of food, the zombies would attack, in waves, in mass, in attempts to over-run the entire enemy trenches for the hint of food. Almost like a hive mind, almost like a single unit, almost completely in unison.

    And so they attacked; the countless British soldiers gunned down by the German Troops, sitting precariously from the edge of the German trenches, rose, in the hundreds, to swarm their section of the trench.

    And so the first fallen 500 rose, directed their attention towards the German front line, Spaced between 25 and 500 yards away, swarmed, and attacked.

  8. Derp Writeron 16 Nov 2012 at 4:43 pm

    This is the last of the entries of this story, which died before it really got started, so I apologize again if anyone is disappointed. I really only need opinions on Barrett, as he is my own creation, but feedback on the type of story is welcomed as well. I will also be putting up a new story (a comedy) and ideas for others as they come to me and as I develop the comedy.

    Also, I would like to point out a blooper in the last part of this piece (which is of my own creation) that I want the viewers to know that I spotted just before posting this. I apologize for this, as well, as I know that such easily avoided mistakes are irritating to read.

    As always, enjoy.

    Mordecai saw a dead British soldier rise from the ground. “Sir did you see that.” He said as he aimed and fired in the heart and lung areas. He smelt a decaying stench that nearly knocked him out but he endured it. Now the moaning was clear it had no emotional exasperation at all. an empty moan with a dark and demented echo.

    ‘Yeah…I saw that,’ Barrett thought as he watched the dead rise from the ground.

    He thought, for a moment, about calling some sort of question in German to the approaching soldiers, but decided against it when he saw that their helmets were definitely British in design.

    “Fire!” He roared, thrusting his hand forward in such a way that it gave visual confirmation of his order, “Gun those Brits down!”

    He felt a bit of relief in the resulting gunfire. The sound seemed to ward away any fears that welled inside him. The effect was short lived, though, as he quickly realized that the bullets were hardly effective. He watched in horror as the slain soldiers rose again, or didn’t fall at all, and continued on their path. Upon witnessing this, he did something he had never even dreamed of in his entire life; he took a step backward.

    though each time we fired they kept getting back up except for the people who got accidental headshots. “Sir they are relentless why don’t they stay down?” I whispered quietly. Smelling rotted flesh nearly choked him.

    Barrett shook his head in disbelief as the horde of soldiers kept approaching. He had personally put out a whole stripper-clip of ammunition with his Mauser and was in the middle of reloading when Mordecai asked him what to do. That was an excellent question, but it was just a bit off. The better question was, what could they do? As far as he was concerned, this may very well be the Apocalypse, which left it out of their hands.
    He was on the brink of letting despair over-come him, when he remembered who he was. Gritting his teeth as he thought of a plan, he regained the step he had taken backwards previously.

    “We fight, that’s what we do,” he growled, pushing the bolt of his rifle home and raising it to take another shot.

    For some reason, he felt as though it were futile to shoot for the torso, which, in truth, it seemed to be in this case. He felt that he had nothing to lose by aiming for the head, but everything to gain.
    When he fired, he was, admittedly, surprised to see the soldier he had hit go down and cease to function. Nevertheless, a new idea popped into his head.

    “Aim for the head!” He shouted, “The head is their weakness! Shoot for the heads!”

    “Yes sir.” Mordecai said gladly pulling out his shotgun and he started to blow their heads off only smelling a bloody mist around the battlefield. hearing the emotionless moans go mute as he killed them one-by-one. he was laughing maniacally as he shot the Brits heads off.

    Barrett found no relief in the fact that he had discovered how to kill the creatures early on, as there were easily hundreds of them, many gaining a good deal of ground before being gunned down. A few of them had already made it to the trench and were promptly tearing apart any soldiers they could get their hands on.
    The clicking sound of bolts being pulled back and slid home and the sharp reports in between made him conscious of the fact that he had only a few clips of ammunition left in the small satchel at the base of his harness and he imagined that those under his command were facing similar issues. They hadn’t a chance of holding out at this rate.
    Taking a brief moment after downing another monster and readying the next bullet, his last before needing to reload, he searched his mind for the best order to give his men.
    His thoughts were interrupted by the wet, ripping sound of flesh being torn from bone and the agonized and dread filled screams that resulted.
    This drew his attention to one of the nightmares as it attempted to pin down another soldier.
    Taking quick, yet precise, aim, he freed the man of the burden of an incredibly slow and painful death. The creature went limp as a large red flower bloomed where the upper portion of its head had been.

    “Fall back to the inner trenches! Pick up those rifles! We need as many shots as we can get!” he roared, finally finding the right command.

    As his soldiers began to obey, he turned to leave, pausing only briefly to draw his sidearm, a Luger, and put one man out of his misery, taking him before the terrible figure that insisted on devouring him could it its sick manner.

    And each time they fell, they rose again. Nothing but a head shot could reliably take them down, and they seemed even tougher than ordinary humans. Only a few stayed down, from lucky headshots, as many more rose, and the horde continued on.

    At roughly 4 mph. And in came the first wave. Hoards of zombies fell into the trenches, the first one’s within 50 yards, dozens and dozens of them, growling, biting, scratching, and fully disoriented. They landed in the trenches practically face first, fully oblivious of their surroundings, and covered in a strange slime.

    They of course, would reorient themselves soon, and more zombies would come, dozens more, and the units in the trenches were nearly trapped. Face zombies, or stand up for a second and risk being shot.

    Out of the hoard, one turned to face Barrett, and charged.

    Mordecai was in the clear; oh no, wait, five more zombies headed his way.

    Supplies were dropped and machine guns abandoned as the soldiers followed Barrett’s order, many scrambling to do so as they tried to fight off of flee from the undead at the same time. The situation in the trench was quickly going downhill and it seemed, at the moment, as though there was little anyone could do about it. With so many men frantically attempting to retreat to the trench lines set up farther away from the British trenches a few were bound to fall.

    One man was even trampled as his terrified comrades stampeded past him to reach an area of relative safety. Barrett shoved past a few of his subordinates to prevent another, younger male, from sharing the same fate, pulling him to his feet with his spare hand and pushing him in the direction he need to go. The last to leave, he himself became the target of one of the menacing, mud encrusted horrors which bore its teeth at him as it lunged forward.

    His dominant hand already free from having help the soldier to his feet, Barrett pulled back his arm, tensing the muscles in his shoulder, and let the creature have a taste of the famous right hook that had earned him his nickname as a boxer before the war. He knew full well that at best it would merely halt to progress of the abomination for a second or two longer, but that was enough for him to draw upon his weapon of choice in such confined spaces as he was currently in, the standard digging spade, which was strapped to his belt for easy access in such an occasion.
    With the tool-turned-weapon in hand, he struck the monster, caving in its skull, and wrenched it free of the cavity it had made.

    Now his attention turned to Mordecai, who was being attacked by five of the automatons at once. Having no time to properly put away his recently used shovel, he simply jammed it into the dirt wall beside him and raised his rifle, using the final shot for that clip to put one of the ghouls down. He hoped it would give the young would-be sniper time to escape past his superior. Barrett, at least, could probably handle the remaining few, but the boy himself had little chance.

    “Come, boy!” He barked, encouraging him to run, “Follow the others! I’ll cover your escape!”

  9. Derp Writeron 16 May 2013 at 12:06 pm

    You know what? I’m just voiding everything here and starting fresh. That anonymous reader was right, zombies ruined Barrett. I’ll just start on the story he actually belongs in. I’m sorry that any of you had to read this nonsense and I hope that you find the REAL story good enough to remedy this.

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