Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-25421326-20160711151708/@comment-28266772-20160712145524

So this is an annotated version of your story with further notes at the bottom - I highly recommend you do not repost this story without fundamentally rewriting it as the plot has significant problems and is very cliched.

I slammed urgently through the ornate, wooden doors, using all my might to do my usual business without being noticed by the paparazzi waiting for me outside my workplace, but to no avail. The camera shutters clicked rapidly, the bright, silver lights annoyingly flashing [think this would read better if it was ‘flashed’] in my eyes, blinding me and leaving a temporary footprint on my vision. I was struggling to break free from the crowd that had concealed me entirely, pushing away the microphones they had shoved forcefully in my face.

I had noticed how unbelievably calm and content I was acting, even in spite of the Hellish [not a proper noun – no need for capital] task that lay ahead for me. I felt like I was about to play God and be rewarded for it, and that’s not a fun thought to have, especially when you’re about to make the biggest scientific breakthrough in history.

Our task was simple: We were going to implant a vitreo-neuron enabler [this doesn’t reflect the neuroscience terminology that well – one problem is that vitreo refers to the jelly of the eye, while really this device would be targeting the optical nerve sometime before it hit the lateral geniculate nucleus in the brain, but the biggest problem is the ‘enabler’ part since this device isn’t ‘enabling’ anything – it’s just capturing the signal from the nerve to the eye], that allowed us to view everything a person sees through a computer monitor, into the heads of three young adults. It took eighty-three years [they have prototypes of this now] to perfect this device since the idea was recommended by Stephen Hawking in 2022 [I don’t know why Stephen Hawking – an astrophysicist – would have anything to say on neuroscience, and again, this device exists in a basic format right now], and after several prototypes were used on animals, I was going to be one of the first scientists to use it on a human being.

And what I was going to use it for… [question mark here somewhere would be useful] It turned my stomach inside out, like someone had given me a huge blow. The nervousness stirred inside me. I felt depressed. I felt sick. I felt like someone had just discovered a huge secret about me that I’d intended to keep for years, and the rumor was spreading like wildfire. I could NOT do what I was assigned to do.

We were going to see what happens when people die.

I creaked open the door slightly, peeking over to the side, where the audience sat, before abruptly stepping in and walking to my seat. The medical theatre was exponentially large, dark and brooding, as I had thought it would be. A single hover-light lit up the room over the podium where the person who started Project D.E.A.D, Mr. Conoway, [this name is extremely cheesy but, then again, they called the real life Iraq invasion something like ‘operation desert hawk’ so maybe they would give it a cheesy name] would be presenting and answering questions at the end of the experiment once the results were given.

I was very late, but that wasn’t what was on my mind. The theatre was more full [fuller not ‘more full’] than I’ve seen it ever before. The seats were all dotted with scientists, medical doctors, and news reporters from around the entire Earth, all converging on one small town in Great Britain. At first glance, I was very happy with the amount of people present and accounted for, until my heart sank to the lowest pit of despair it had ever reached, when I noticed the “special guests” I was frequently warned about: The Ethics Committee. What we were about to do was apparently deemed so unethical that they had unfortunately taken it upon themselves to attend this scientific study. This only added to the sickening, dreadful, impermissible feeling that had started just moments prior. [This isn’t really how ethical committees work – ethical committees are a prerequisite to most organizations becoming eligible for government funding, whether they’re a university or a company, most institutions will be given a strong financial incentive to create an internal committee of high ranking members that will go over research proposals and either approve or disprove them. They are stupidly strict to the point of being unbelievably difficult to work with – they also hold unbelievable amounts of power. But they’re also not some external force – if a company wants a piece of research to go ahead they’ll just ignore the ethics committee and do it anyway. The same goes for the government – although universities can’t really ignore them. What you’re describing doesn’t really fit with any of my experiences in research.]

Mr. Conoway was an old man of age 67, and was going gray at an alarming [surely this is hyperbole? An alarming rate indicates that it makes one scared – almost like this guy is going grey in real time] rate. He was very tall and skinny, yet he was always hunched over, probably due to him grabbing onto his cane that he seldom used for anything other than fashion [or… ya know, for that hunch you literally just described?].

He was usually very nimble, happy, charming, and quick on his feet [again this seems to contrast with the description you just gave of him being always hunched over], yet today, something seemed a bit… Off… [shouldn’t capitalize ‘off’ here] About [same with this – it’s all one sentence so need for a capital] him. He was exasperated, as if he had just run a mile-long race, and his tight brown suit was somewhat wrinkled. He was walking slower than usual, and he seemed rather irritated with something or rather [do you mean ‘other’?]. He had a look of desperation for help in his eyes, a sad, depressing look that I can’t shake off, even today. What he was sad about, I can only guess. [I’m going to come back to this point because, guaranteed, this experiment goes wrong and that’s why this guy is sad… so need to guess really]

He feebly, clumsily stepped up to the podium, clearing his throat in preparation for the speech that would be told to a million generations to come, “Greetings, my fellow scientists, doctorates, and variations thereupon [huh… not super convincing dialogue here]. As you are all well aware of, we at Project Deceased Experimentation and Documentation [okay that’s actually a pretty cool acronym], ironically [it would be ironic if it abbreviated to alive – irony is where the outcome is in stark contrast to the expectation. A hooker named Chastity is ironic, in contrast a hooker named Suxa Lodadix is not] abbreviated D.E.A.D, have gathered in this room to witness what we as humanity have mystified in awe over for millions of years. We will witness the truth as to what really happens when the mind is put to its final rest.

“Theories over the millions upon millions of years in which humanity has existed have sprouted up on infinitely numerous occasions. Let it be known that it has been estimated that there are more theories about the afterlife than the amount of people living on the world today [this feels a bit over the top]. Do we become ghosts, forced to roam the world we once knew as home forever and ever? Do we reincarnate into new bodies throughout time, with similar, or perhaps identical, souls and personalities? Do we ascend to Heaven, rewarded by the presence of God, or burn in the murderous pits of Hell for all eternity? Or are we granted with an empty, white void of blank nothingness, unable to think or perceive of anything ever again?

“Whatever happens during the visionary test, I promise that it will thoroughly [hmmmm] answer the age-old inquiry, with no dispute or denial. Thank you for joining us today, and please wait patiently as I assemble the materials for my life’s work. In the meantime, please watch and encourage the slide show ‘Concept to Reality’, telling the origin, inspiration, and story behind Project D.E.A.D, voiced over and put together by our very own Patrick Samuels of the LGM Department, Division 34.” Mr. Conoway stepped down from the precarious podium, almost tripping over his own two feet while doing so.

The audience applauded powerfully and noisily, roaring and whistling for Conoway’s words of wisdom and true dedication. Behind the curtain, the leader of the experiment lurched a finger at both Patrick and I, as we made our way to the black curtains, and behind the massive stage.

“Well done, sir! That was great, absolutely spectacular!” Patrick congratulated Mr. Conoway. But the man didn’t say a word. It’s not at all like him to ignore his star pupil, not at all. What was up with him today? [you’ve completely swapped tense here] He walked, tired and confused, towards a crate, sitting on top of it to retain his balance. He took out a handkerchief, from his coat pocket, and wiped the glistening pool of sweat off his brow, quietly sobbing to himself. That’s when it finally clicked: Something was wrong, [this sentence needs something to give it more structure – a conjunction maybe] more terrible than I could’ve ever imagined.

After the last slide had finished being projected over the silky, black curtain, we had managed to calm down Mr. Conoway enough to get him back onstage. We got nothing out of him as to why he was acting hysterical, and even as I type this, I get chills brushing against my spine thinking about who, or what, could have made him break down into a such a fetal state. The whole project seemed to be riddled with bad luck. First, Stephen Hawking died shortly after imagining the original idea [I’m struggling to get why he died given that I’m imagining the idea right now and am still alive]. Then, several prototypes of the experiment imploded [this just doesn’t seem right given that it’s basically simple technology that we have right now – it’s just extremely difficult to decode the signal into something meaningful – to give a hint of how difficult, we evolved a brain just to decode the neural signals we get from our own sensory organs. But it’s hardly something that might explode, it’s a question of computing power], killing all scientists in reach of the test subjects. And now the person who finally got it working, who reimagined a rather old idea that people never thought possible, becomes unusually depressed, right when the experiment is put into effect? [surely this guy isn’t that confused as to why staring into the after life might make someone sad right?]

Regardless, the experiment I’d been working on for ten years was finally going to begin, and better still, in front of the largest scientific committee I’ve ever seen, and that was enough to put a large, ecstatic grin on my now darkened face. The three young subjects, who volunteered for the experiment due to health issues beyond their control, stood, fixed on either side of the podium. I still feel terrible for allowing them to participate in this strange and fatal operation. Even if it was their own decision, I felt sickened by the thought of three children in their twenties getting murdered for some brute science cadaver [do you mean endeavour? A cadaver is a corpse used for dissection]. The fearfulness and terror that showed in their eyes could have driven me to tears, had Mr. Conoway’s second utterance not have begun.

<p class="MsoNormal">“Hello, all. I hope you enjoyed the slideshow as much as Patrick did making it,” Several nervous chuckles echoed off the walls of the circular theatre. They seemed just about as distraught and terrified as the ones who were about to get murdered on stage. As the dry laughter died down, Mr. Conoway continued on, ”As [ <- punctuation is all weird by here] you can plainly examine, beside me are three young adults on either side of the dais [dais? Also this feels like quite an awkward sentence].

<p class="MsoNormal">“The woman on the right is a Muslim, the man on the left is a Christian, and the second woman east [again, this feels unnecessarily awkward] of the man is an Atheist. As you have probably inferred, the difference in religious preference is to make sure that the outcome is the exact same for all beliefs. The subjects in question will be given an electrical shock that will theoretically, and hopefully, be wholly painless, but will be proven deadly when reaching the cerebral cortex [again this term is not correct in this context – the cerebral cortex is the wrinkly bit of the brain, how can electricity only be fatal when reaching that one thin piece of anatomy?]. We will begin once they have donned on their headgear and lie on the silver stretcher provided.”

<p class="MsoNormal">All three subjects slowly and frightfully put on the collinder like helmets, which were laced with several different branches of wire and machinery, leading to the 50-foot contraption hidden under a tarp that we had been diligently working on for years. The blank stare of terror and disbelief made a small amount of vomit creep up my throat. We were going to take the lives of three pedestrians so that we may act like Gods. I was condoning a murder, and if there was a Hell, I was sure that I would be the one to occupy it.

<p class="MsoNormal">Mr. Conoway limped tiredly toward the pumping, impaling hidden machine, and flicked the switch labeled “ON” over the exterior of the tarp. It felt as though a frog was going to crawl out of my throat, and hop away frantically. My mind was a hazy gray mixture of disgust and dread as I heard the words emerge from Mr. Conoway’s quivering lips: “Patrick, my good man, please project the image onto the curtain.” He said it with such confidence and meaning that I couldn’t help but trust him, mindless to the theoretical hypnosis he had put me under.

<p class="MsoNormal">The hover-light dimmed, giving off a creeping grayish tint, as the room was ecstatically brightened with blue, dancing sparks, branching, swirling, crackling with small bursts of electrical currents flying in the air, giving a wonderful sight for the audience to observe. The room was entrenched once again in a flurry of subtle brightness, as the perspective of the three patients zapped onto the black drapes with finesse. The show was about to begin.

<p class="MsoNormal">The professor primed the machine, circling around the levers and buttons, and a slow, electrical buzz rang in our ears. That can’t be right, I thought to myself [you should attribute the thoughts using some type of quotation]. The machine is supposed to be silent, save for the light sparks, and the occasional clang of pipes and wires. It shouldn’t buzz at all. Just then, with a sudden jolt of mind-shattering electricity zapping across the wires, I flew myself back, gasping in shock. Sparks were exploding, crashing, zapping, spreading out in every direction possible, reaching all the way up to the 130-foot ceiling of the humongous auditorium. I fell out of my chair, struggling to get back up, as my heart was about to emerge from my chest.

<p class="MsoNormal">The current was wisping [after significant googling I have concluded this word – which means a bundle of grass – cannot be used in this context] around the room, circling the walls, lining every inch of the floor with blue, radioactive elegance. The current zipped past my feet, swirling on the hard ground towards a middle-aged man in a doctor’s cloak. The sudden boom of angry sparks caught up to the unfortunate soul, climbing his thin posture and wrapping itself around his head. He disturbingly wailed as his face was scorched to a near unwatchable state. He had fallen to the floor, as the gleaming killer creeped back onto the ground, searching for the next victim of its abhorrence. He was stone dead. And Mr. Conoway let out a maniacal, raspy, insane laugh.

<p class="MsoNormal">I got back up on my wobbly feet, as the oxygen was drained from every corner of the room, only to blow back into us forcefully, as if the room had developed a respiratory system. People were frantically running about, dancing around the glowing slayers that were now targeting them, screaming violently, tripping over one another as they shoved at each other to move towards the door. I sprinted towards the metal exit, as the discord continued on behind my back. But the outbreak of brute insanity was only fueled when I had found that the door was locked. Wind, electrical static, and barbaric shrieks were the only things I could hear, as papers and notes blew about, scattering across the room randomly. I frantically spun around, and I saw it… everyone in the midst of the strange, deadly debacle missed the worst part, the most hideous, heinous sight that came out of this failed experiment from the depths of Hell.

<p class="MsoNormal">Being projected onto the backstage wall, where the curtain used to hang, but since then fell lightly onto a nearby stage prop, were the perspectives of the three victims that had caused this mess. But each perspective didn’t show what they were observing at the time, no. What was being displayed, clear as day, yet no one turning a blind eye at it, was a message, spoken throughout the ages, a message that creeped into my soul, and left a regrettably permanent impression.

<p class="MsoNormal">The message disgusted me, and wrenched my stomach with heavy force, starving me of all things good and righteous. The twisted message [was]...

<p class="MsoNormal">“THOU SHALT NOT MAKE UNTO THEE ANY GRAVEN IMAGE.”

<p class="MsoNormal">I understood now, why this lawlessness had taken effect. Why every attempt at building the machine to peek into the afterlife had gone faulty. And right then it had blatantly come to mind, while eyeing that single, deep heeding: This message had made its way into my timeline on countless occasions, no effort given to hide it from my unsuspecting eyes. It was engraven on my doormat [does this guy really have one of the ten commandments on his doormat?], written on an envelope in my mailbox, chipped and carved into an ancient stone tablet I had seen on my sabbatical to Egypt [it’s one of the ten commandments – surely he must have recognized this?]. This message was meant for me, and me alone.

<p class="MsoNormal">And almost instantaneously, after my horrifying realization, the text flickered away, in the manner of a dying luminescent light bulb, and out of the shadows of my mind, I bore witness to a face manifesting on the wall, a terrible, deformed, ungodly figure, hunched over into a slouched, depressing position. It was enrobed in a ripped, bloodstained hooded coat. It shined brightly through its gas masked visor [why gas masked?}, and menacingly slithered into my soul, surveying my purposeless essence with its clouded, lightless glass voids. It had entrailed [eh? Again this word doesn’t really work here] inside me, merging my small, pathetic mind with its divine glory. I could understand everything, all that once was, all that will be. While it was linking me into its collection of death, I as well could observe its intentions, and its lengthy, disturbing timeline. And thereupon, I had the answer. The answer I was looking for all my life. The answer I had dreamed of finding. The answer to life after death. We must embrace it.

<p class="MsoNormal">When you pass on, it wraps its arms around you. It takes you in. And you are a part of it. The stiffs, the ones on the other side. The ones who kill, the ones who hate, the ones who steal. They are clasped in its grace, screaming, writhing, descending, all their souls sucked into a single enigmatic, gas masked demon, forced to control its every movement… The figure in front of me, embracing my aura, was not a figure at all. It was more than a location, more than an entity, more than an embodiment… It was Hell.

<p class="MsoNormal">It nasally took in slow, meticulous breathes through a disc-like filter infuzed [do you mean infused?] onto its pale, leathery face. I stared into it, and it stared back into me. And then I saw, that its deep, shaking breaths were causing the air to move as if it were breathing. It was the source of everything that had happened that worrisome day. And It shined with delight, pulling out a small, silver dagger from its coat pocket. It was pleased. It was going to kill me.

<p class="MsoNormal">And then it released me. My throat was dry, with a stabbing, sharp pain sliding down my trachea. I vomited a vile black tar-like substance onto the ground, and collapsed heavily onto the earth, my arms weak, knowing I was without hope.

<p class="MsoNormal">

<p class="MsoNormal">But the air stopped blowing, and the figure disappeared from the screen, vanishing into the night. Hell was gone. And I smiled.

<p class="MsoNormal">The hover-light flickered abruptly, and I was encircled in the comfort of brightness and warmth I felt I had forgotten so long ago. The locked doors clicked satisfyingly, and a wave of mentally scarred scientific officials spilled out into the vacant hallway. Some hadn’t left their seats, still praying to God in their tireless hopes of forgiveness. And after what had just occurred to me, all my faith in a good and just God had vanished completely.

<p class="MsoNormal">I still lay on the ground, unable to get up. The information I had previously explained about what I had learned was all I could retain. There was a tremendous amount of smarts [not how an intelligent person would speak] I had been given, but the rest of the knowledge had left. I was free. I watched each and every scientist’s actions with my head tilted east, aching as it lay right where it had smacked onto. My heart was beating with a force I had not yet discovered, and the veins pumping through my arms were flowing not with blood, but with what seemed like pure adrenaline. I was freezing cold, fixed in a twisted lying stature. I was about to drift off into a coma, when my eyelids shot up into the ceiling. I couldn’t be seeing this. This isn’t real. This isn’t god damn real. This is a dream. [you just completely give up on the past tense for a couple of sentences there] I couldn’t believe it. I watched, with fixed eyes onto the stage, as the three young adults rose up from their seats, looking dumbfounded and confused as to where they were. The [they] weren’t dead.

<p class="MsoNormal">And they sauntered out, hands in pockets, as I drifted into the falling oblivion...

<p class="MsoNormal">“Wake up, Jaden.”

<p class="MsoNormal">I slightly opened my weak, wavering spectors [spectors!? You have a tendency to pull words out of thin air]. My brain felt as if it was mashed into a dripping pulp, and a piercing headache shot through my body. I lie [laid] on a cold, metal stretcher, as I was carried through the long, winding corridors, out the sliding doors, and to the familiar exterior of Lost Prophet Hospital, thoroughly packed to the brim with police cars, ambulances, firetrucks, and more, [this sentence is structured weirdly] radios chattering on about the events I had just awoken from. The chaotic whizzing blair [do you mean blare? Blair was a PM of the UK once – context tells you probably don’t mean him] of noises, beeps, and sirens was almost too much to handle because of my splitting headache, but after a few minutes of doctors saying repeatedly that it was a “damn shame”, I was finally ascended into a white medical van.

<p class="MsoNormal">And coming from behind the doctors was a man, sprinting ecstatically towards me. And the figure spoke in a voice that I dreaded to hear again, with the simple little phrase... “Hello there. My name is Mr. Conoway [as a scientist this guy would probably be Dr.Conoway]. This young man was my star student, and I would much rather ride to the emergency room with him, to keep him company through this awful experience.”

<p class="MsoNormal">And they let him in. “Alright, Mr. Jaden. We’re going to take you home now. I’m closing the doors. Mr. Conoway will keep you company while we drive.” The young blonde nurse in the long medical gown reassured me.

<p class="MsoNormal">The doors creaked shut, and alI [all] of a sudden, I was alone with Mr. Conoway. The night was a dark, engulfing nothingness, only illuminated by an unsteadily flickering hover-light within the ambulance. I was still paralyzed, yet my head managed to turn towards the window, to see the commotion ensue from the other side.

<p class="MsoNormal">

<p class="MsoNormal">And right in front of me, plain as day, I spectated [just say ‘saw’] something, the worst thing. A sight that haunts me, rips me into pieces, kills me, exhausts me of oxygen, a despicable, disgusting sight, worse than Hell itself.

<p class="MsoNormal">On the ground, twisted into an ungodly screaming position, was the figure sitting in the small blue chair next to me: Mr. Conoway’s body, lying face first in a pool of his own blood. Dead. Mutilated. Smiling.

<p class="MsoNormal">I snapped my neck towards the thing sitting in the van before me, still retaining the shape of Mr. Conoway. But for a split second, a small fraction of a fraction of a moment, I could make out several distinct features.

<p class="MsoNormal">A gas mask, a hoodie, a knife, everything bloodstained.

<p class="MsoNormal">“Looks like we’re going to have some fun tonight, aren’t we?!” Hell said, hoarsely cackling in a raspy, coughing chuckle. “Now, what shall we do to you tonight? Hmmm… Oh, I know!”

<p class="MsoNormal">Hell pulled out the same sharp knife I had seen on the screen, and VGhlIERldmlsIFdlYXJzIGEgR2FzIE1hc2s= EMBRACE THE ARCHANGEL.

<p class="MsoNormal">-

<p class="MsoNormal">Okay so overall let’s get into the nitty gritty –

<p class="MsoNormal">First you need to proof read your stories. The number of spelling mistakes was surprisingly high, and worse still you have a tendency to flat out make up words, or use them in the completely wrong context. MS word should have picked these up with no effort – there’s no real reason for these sorts of errors to make it this far in the writing process.

<p class="MsoNormal">Second – the fundamental premise of this story doesn’t make sense. The idea is capturing what people see as they die, right? I’ll try to break it down because I have other stories I need to give feedback on but basically;

<p class="MsoNormal">1 – your eyes only detect light from the physical world in front of us. When you die so do they. Why would capturing what the eye sees during death reveal anything other than “a shit load of black”?

<p class="MsoNormal">2 – your brain actively constructs the visual information you receive. Perception is an active process and there’s a reason your brain has an entire lobe to take the visual input and turn it into something useful – your eyes aren’t just cameras and you can’t just ‘hijack’ the feed in the eye – it would be nothing more than white noise. The name is, as discussed above, also wrong. The vitriol fluid is just jelly – makes no sense why it’d be called this.

<p class="MsoNormal">3 – this technology exists now just by using fMRI machines to correlate and capture the activity of the visusal/occipital lobe and convert it into low res images. It’s a simple idea that won’t need another eight decades to put into existence and it certainly hasn’t provoked anyone to death.

<p class="MsoNormal">4 – This wouldn’t answer jack shit other than ‘what message does the brain receive from the eye during death?’ – it would, in no way, be taken as a sign of the afterlife by the scientific community. For example, I can drop acid and see a giant frog made of sugar icing – it doesn’t mean I’m actually seeing that it just means by brain has decided to take the messages from my eyes and go crazy with them.

<p class="MsoNormal">Third set of issues – the guy with the gas mask is unnecessarily clichéd and there’s no rational reason he would appear like that. I don’t get it. You start off with some big religious story but decide to take the villain and turn him into some lame slasher stereotype? Why would hell even have a damned mask? Or a knife!? It just feels like you picked traits out of a hat and ran with them.

<p class="MsoNormal">In conclusion: Your use of language, both in terms of mechanical errors and also inauthentic use of basic scientific terminology, undermines any attempt you make at creating a cohesive narrative. This is a shame because the fundamental idea is interesting and worth revisiting but the lack of scientific authenticity robs it of all credibility. It lacks the sort of detail and authenticity that is necessary when writing about a topic like this. If I wrote about cars I wouldn’t try to just wing it and make things up – it’s the equivalent of a mechanic talking about engine carbarator turbo boosters - I highly recommend you do a bit of research regarding similar stories and ideas to lend some more credibility to the narrative. You don’t need to go get a bloody degree or anything, but you should at least understand that a high ranking scientist would be a ‘Dr’ not a ‘Mr’, and that Stephen Hawking would in no way at all be giving neuroscientists inspiration. Similarly, a quick google would have revealed this sort of tech already exists in a primitive form and won’t need decades to advance, and nor would the device need some huge heaving machine to work because it would be a process of computing not mechanics.

<p class="MsoNormal">Finally – the use of a clichéd character description, and the terrible ending drives this story into the ground. It makes no sense why this character is writing his story in the ambulance just before he dies. And it makes no sense why the second commandment would flash up on the screen – is it in reference to man’s reliance on science to advance their understanding of the world? If so, why? Why is it wrong? And why is hell running around slashing people up with a damned knife? The final part of the plot feels as though it just pulls disparate ideas from a bucket and throws them against the wall to see what sticks. I highly recommend you go over the creepy cliché list on this site to get a sense of what ideas to avoid in future.

<p class="MsoNormal">