Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-28770958-20160916100725/@comment-28266772-20160916161417

In a far off time, in the age of Aristocracy in 1440's France '[age of aristocracy…? Aristocracy is a social class that still exists so not sure about its age. Furthermore, only one historian has a book titled Age of Aristocracy and it covers 1688-1833], There [there] 'lived a man known as Aimé de Lorraine. He was tall though no one could quite guess his true height, '[are these two clauses connected someway? Is it his high heeled shoes that makes his height hard to guess?]' he had a love of wearing high heeled shoes. He was beautiful, his long golden blonde hair flowed down his back in waves, his milky white skin the envy of every man and woman alike. He wore a white ruffled shirt with a black dress coat over it, [you can connect these two clauses with a preposition e.g. ‘with’ or you can use a semicolon and make ‘lining’ past tense e.g. ‘with purple buttons lining the side’ or ‘; purple buttons lined the side;] purple buttons lining the side.

His pants were pinstriped, purple and black. He wore a top hat that bore a rose on the side. Red like the color of the rose petals that would carpet the garden tonight [tonight signifies a tense change].

He had a brother, whom he loved very much, but his brother had fallen in with sickly people, people whom made The Count Lorraine violently ill to even speak to. He’d married a woman that after laying eyes on his Count of a brother, had suddenly come upon her husband, dead in the sitting room of their mansion. '[this paragraph isn’t clear – it’s also a bit superfluous. It doesn’t contribute much to the story]'

He was the crown jewel of every ball held by the rich noblemen of his city. He was also the enemy of many who attended said functions.

[why do you connect his status as an ‘enemy’ with the two women who try to fuck him in the following two paragraphs?]

"Aimé, you simply must come with us after the ball tonight!" The person that spoke, her name was Nicolette Du Coudray and she was a loose woman with even an even looser mouth. He despised her with the intensity of the darkness that surrounded them. She clung to his arm, pressing herself against him like some kind of parasite, he mentally sneered in disgust. "Certainly cheri", he spoke at last, french [French] rolling off of his tongue like silk sliding under the hand of a lover.

She stuck to him as if a fly drowned in honeyed nectar. He finally managed to peel her disgustingly obese form away from him before he bowed to her and the woman in the carriage, if Nicolette was a sow Marcine was a starving pigeon. Her eyes too large for her head, her limbs spindly and misshapen. Marcine smiled at him with her bug eyed grin, her husband was a baker who liked to bake inside other women’s ovens. '[While I enjoy the imagery aristocrats did not work; in ancient France only peasants paid taxes which were used to support the nobles. Also even if they did work, it would not have been as a baker] 'He could smell her desperation from kilometers away. The Count Lorraine shivered in mortification, ignoring her roving eyes and those of the equally groping Nicolette.

The man bade them farewell as he departed. The lights on the streets of Versailles had grown dim, he made his way through the alleyways and the backdoors of various buildings. His light blue eyes twinkled in the moonlight as he arrived at his home.

Château du Lorraine. Lorraine was nowhere near Versailles, but he'd moved here to make his own way in the world. He headed into the mansion and sat at his desk, he would do it tonight, it had been so long since he'd watched the beautiful roses bloom. He would teach that slovenly woman what he thought of her,.....tonight. '[her… tonight – you should not precede an ellipsis with a comma, and you should end it with a space. Also, a good convention to follow is three periods – keeps it consistent]'

He met with the Queen Of [of – articles such as these are never capitalized] Pigs at her home, the smell of her cheaply made perfumes viciously assaulting his sensitive nostrils. [new speaker new line] "Are you ready Nicolette?", he questioned as he offered her his arm. She nodded eagerly, the fat rolls on her chin wobbling like a gelatin left to rot in the evening sunlight. He kept a bright smile as she took to his arm, she’d been chasing after him for years, leaving her husband in the dirt, her husband who happened to be The Count’s younger brother. [okay so we come back to the brother – this actually makes some sense but the flow still feels so wrong]

He would never forgive this woman for her sins.

Why his brother ever married her he would never know, all he knew was his brother had been murdered and she was the prime suspect. He did not need evidence to back up his claim.

He could see it in her eyes with how she leered at him, wanton and lustful. As long as she was married she had responsibility as a wife to her husband. With his brother gone, he knew she would feel free to pursue him. The mere idea made him want to regurgitate.

She was dressed as some type of Parisian noblewoman, gaudy wig and all. He cringed at the sight of it. His own attire was a dark blue suit, a black ruffled shirt and a masquerade ball mask with black feathers on either side. Suddenly, a group of angry men rode up in a carriage behind him.

"Aimé du Lorraine! you are under arrest for the murder of the duke [Duke] of Lorraine!", [no comma – he should be capitalized] he turned to glare at the ones who'd finally caught up with him. Before he'd left his home city, he wanted to see the beautiful roses bloom, and in order to do so, he needed a garden from which they would spring forth. He chose his own father.....

He was taken away from the screaming hog, glad at least to be rid of her hungered gaze. Thrown into a cell where for several days and nights he was tortured. Rose vines were tied around his entire body in such a great number and so tightly that they cut off his blood flow. He was hung from the ceiling of his cell, by thick ropes that did nothing but slice the vines deeper into his flesh.

"You are convicted of murdering your own father, monsieur Aimé, we have been instructed by your mother to, 'use you as the garden from which the roses bloom' [no space here]".

<p class="MsoNormal">The guard that said this had been standing in front of the bars, mocking him. His eyes widened, but soon his look of shock turned into one of pure pleasure. "Tell my mother" he giggled, "I am honored to make such a sacrifice, I a son who has committed the ultimate sin....", '[no comma, also the ellipsis feels over the top and confusing. The convention in dialogue is to use an ellipsis at the end of a sentence only if the speaker is interrupted and does not resume their sentence] 'his expression feigned remorse when on the inside he was ecstatic.

<p class="MsoNormal">The guard, unnerved by his vocalization quickly walked away from the cell. "Yes dear mother, I am a sinner, but I am also a gentleman." He [He] was executed that night, his body split apart by rose vines, his tongue torn out and his lips sewn shut, whips and other torture devices saw that he became the blood that painted the walls, his screams faded into the darkness...

<p class="MsoNormal">Many years later, the night so long ago that Aime had been executed. There came a knock upon the door of Nicolette du Coudray. Aimé stood there, dressed as he had the night they'd met before he'd been taken by the royal guard.

<p class="MsoNormal">Only this time, the buttons on his jacket were dark purple roses, a skull sat on the side of his now smaller elegant hat with a rose coming out of it's [its] mouth. "Is that you dear sir?" came the voice of the pig woman. He nodded silently, his light blue eyes twinkling in the moonlight. He smiled kindly to her. He offered her his hand, she was compelled to grasp it in her own.

<p class="MsoNormal">Without a word he walked with her down the cobblestone streets of Versailles. "We are headed to the ball tonight, I am so terribly sorry that I did not get to escort you before cheri." he stopped at the street he'd been arrested on and turned back. He then opened the door to her home.

<p class="MsoNormal">"What is this? we [We]are merely entering back into my home what do you mean by such a thing?"

<p class="MsoNormal">He did not answer, only gripped her hand a bit tighter. "Dance with me, my little dove", he said this as he took her other hand in his and began to dance, she fell into step with him almost instantly.

<p class="MsoNormal">They were inside his mansion now, with the walls as black as night and each door as if spun silver from the moon itself. The ballroom they stood within was beautiful, the marble floor was a deep red with flecks of purple within them. The walls were black and the designs on them were of light purple roses. [repetition]

<p class="MsoNormal">An orchestra began to play in the background as they danced, Nicolette nodded in appreciation, even if she was a bit confused as to the change of scenery. She was certain she must be dreaming. She smiled in glee as he danced with her, but soon grew weary, wishing to rest.

<p class="MsoNormal">“My dear my we take a break now?”, [no comma] she asked this as sweat began to drip down her face. He shook his head silently in rejection of the notion.

<p class="MsoNormal">“Oh no my dear! Tonight is the night the roses shall bloom!”, He cackled as he spoke. She tried to pull away from him, too tired to continue onward. Enraged, [no space after engraged] his face changed as they went, his once plump lips were stitched closed by thick black thread.

<p class="MsoNormal">The Count's once twinkling light blue eyes became dark burning purple with black sclera. Ears pointed out of his curls of blonde hair that had suddenly turned as white as as [repetition] the woman’s face and knuckles soon became, clawing at his arms. She was desperate to escape the deranged fang smile of the crazed Count.

<p class="MsoNormal">But, she would never escape as he hypnotized her with his ethereal gaze...

<p class="MsoNormal">Her eyes widened in pure terror, screams echoing into the night.

<p class="MsoNormal">However, none could hear her.

<p class="MsoNormal">Even if they had none would be foolish enough to go within.

<p class="MsoNormal">For in the morning, as dawn’s light crept up the side of her home where a bushel of strange roses had overgrown to cover the entire house in winding, twisting vines that choked the life from all that it touched.

<p class="MsoNormal">There was no mansion with walls as black as night and doors as silver as the moon. There was no ballroom surrounded by the very same vines that now infected the normal abode. With marble floors red as blood with purple dashed about their surface just as deeply lavender as the roses that had lined the walls.

<p class="MsoNormal">No, all that was left, deep inside the swirling twisted evils of the home of Nicolette du Coudray, were her shoes. And beneath, around, inside of them, several roses growing from the pool of blood that they stood in.....

<p class="MsoNormal">The sound of an orchestra putting away it’s instruments of torture.

<p class="MsoNormal">-

<p class="MsoNormal">Mechanical issues – enough to hurt the story significantly. You need to check the wikia’s style guides, or pretty much any online source on literature writing, and also use a spellcheck and your own eyes during a proof read to address these issues.

<p class="MsoNormal">Style issues – you’ve got a flare for some fun imagery but it’s choked under an awkward plot and weirdly inaccurate storytelling. You repeat your imagery over and over and struggle to connect the disparate threads. You are clearly endeared to this Count and I admire some of the aesthetics you create but you need to stop being so heavy handed with everything. I lost count of how many times you referenced black, silver, purple, and roses. I get that it’s a recurring motif but you can achieve much more, with much less.

<p class="MsoNormal">The era you describe is quite clearly meant to be France either just before or after the revolution, but in 1433 shit was still medieval. People shat in the streets and metal clad knights were raping the peasants silly. It’s worth doing some googling to get this right next time. Maybe I’m nitpicking but you know what I thought reading this?

<p class="MsoNormal">The author is in a rush. They’ve got an image in their head of some romantic bloody count and they want to show him off. They’re less concerned with the plot and setting than they are with ramming their skill for aesthetics down our throats. Over. And over. And over. Also what’s the point of the Count? If your character is defined by their appearance, and not their character, then you don’t have a character. You have a drawing. This guy has literally no personality. He’s just a vague outline of a scheming brooding goon with no real charisma.

<p class="MsoNormal">There’s so many weird little things about this story that I don’t have time to address but here’s the gist of it – keep it simple, lower your ambitions, and focus on crafting a moody, atmospheric story, through which the count can actually shine as someone worth our time. Plot first. Characters second.