Paranormal Investigations - Writers Forum

Mean · 10-28-2005, 10:27 AM

I have no real working title for this one. This is the beginning to a chronicle of what took place in an ongoing GURPS campaign. This story is extremely imprtant to me and nobody has read it yet. So, please read it...be critical and don't pull any punches...but don't hurt my feelings

(just kidding. I don't have feelings)

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1.

The alarm clock sounded at 5am. Robert Braveheart rolled over and placed his feet on the cold floor of his smallish apartment, shivering. Even after a year, winter in Boston was hell on a Native American from Arizona. He slipped on his running shoes and strode to the bathroom in the jogging suit he’d slept in the night before. It was cold and he had no heat, plus he didn’t see the point in removing clothes he knew he was going to have to put on again in six hours.

Special Agent Robert Braveheart. The title always made him smile bitterly as he looked at his reflection in the bathroom mirror in his cluttered apartment. It was not his home, but then, he hadn’t known home since he was a boy. He rubbed the smooth tan skin on his face and wished he could grow a beard. He felt that a beard would help cover up the scowl. He reached over to the sink faucet and turned on the hot water, which almost immediately filled the room with steam. He filled his cupped hands with the warm liquid and splashed it onto his face, relieved that he could still feel warmth. He pulled on his hood, took one last look at himself in the fogging mirror and walked out onto the frigid Massachusetts street.

He always jogged before work. After all this time as an FBI Agent, he still jogged. He stayed in excellent condition because he never knew what his job would require of him next. Either the cultists in DeVille Falls would have him hip deep in human remains or some whacked out cabbie would try to set him on fire. It never failed.

In the winter, 5:30am Boston appeared as if it were spread on some surrealist’s canvas. It brought the real world and the world Agent Braveheart lived in together. An hour passed before Robert made it back to his apartment. He still had an hour before he had to be at the office, so he sat in the shower and allowed the hot water to wash over him, relieving him of the chill he always seemed to carry. It was liberating, he felt, as he slipped into a relaxed coma-like state. Were it not for the piercing sound of The A-Team theme song emitted by his ringing cell phone, he may have stayed there forever. At least until the water turned cold. He cursed out loud and reached for the noise maker.

“Braveheart,” he answered gruffly, groggily. The familiar voice that replied was welcome even at this time of the morning.

“Robert, were you still in the shower? You know hot water is bad for you.” It was Stephen Mully, his mentor. Stephen Randolph Mully entered the FBI as a much younger man. His skill as a surgeon was, as far as those who worked with him were concerned, unmatched. In fact, it was science that brought him to his position with the FBI. His extensive studies in the histories and sciences of many civilizations of Man, living and dead, made him a world renowned authority on a variety of subjects. None of these held his interest as fast as the occult. Medicine bought him his place in the FBI, but this fascination with the occult led him to this team.

“Yeah. So are your cigars and your scotch.” He chuckled. “Let me dry off and call you back. I’m a bit creeped out talking to you on the phone buck naked.”

“No time, son. Dry off and meet me in the Assistant Director’s office. Looks like we have a job to do in Texas.” Mully knew how Braveheart loathed the South, which is why he relished giving him that news.

“Crap. Fine. I’m on my way, Doc.” He tossed the phone across the room and cursed again, out loud. He hated going in to the Assistant Director’s office. To him it seemed akin to going to see the Principal. The A.D. rarely had anything good to say to Robert Braveheart.

Outside on the street his primer gray Chevrolet four-by-four sat covered in ice and snow. He knew it would take some coaxing to awaken the beast. It was more attuned to warmer climes and therefore often rejected attempts at cranking. After several seconds, the vehicle came to live with a dual-exhaust roar and a thick cloud of white smoke onlookers were certain could be seen from space. The over-sized tires crunched through the snow on the way to the FBI Headquarters.

Mean · 10-28-2005, 10:34 AM

2.

He walked into the smoky room and knew immediately who he would see. Special Agent Trenton Chantry stood puffing on a filterless cigarette directly beneath the “No Smoking” sign. Chantry could have been a character plucked out of a Mickey Spilane novel, with his beige trench coat, his five o’clock shadow and his poorly tied necktie over a white button down shirt. He in no way resembled the typical picture of an FBI agent. But then, he wasn’t a typical agent. He had been brought in from an “agency” in Los Angeles to consult the team on an organized crime case. His experience as a private detective made him indispensable on several cases since. Trenton Chantry was friend to no man and trusted no one. He liked this group, however, so he tolerated them as friends.

“Bob. Steve.” Chantry nodded toward the pair when they entered the room. His propensity for nicknaming took some getting used to. “Jerry’s late. I thought the squirrelly little guy lived here.” He referred to Agent Jeremiah Grey. Grey was, for lack of a better term, squirrelly. He had a weirdness about him that put most people off. Robert Braveheart took to him almost immediately.

“Good morning, Trenton. Must you smoke?” Mully regarded him disgustedly.

“Yes…Yeah, I suppose I must, Steve. I must also drink coffee.” He strode lazily past the Assistant Director’s desk and out of the room to the coffee pot. He could be heard making a comment to the pretty secretary and she could be heard reacting badly. Agents Braveheart and Mully took their seats on the leather couch. Chantry followed suit, smoking a fresh cigarette and sipping his too-hot coffee.

Minutes passed before anyone else arrived to be briefed. The Assistant Director appeared carrying four envelopes, a briefcase and a giant cup of Starbucks coffee. He didn’t say a word. It was too early for that. He simply sat at his desk and began sorting out his email.

An hour later, Jeremiah Grey made his way in. “Where the hell have you been, Agent? Do you realize just HOW late you are?” The Assistant Director was furious.

Agent Grey’s answer cut through the Assistant Director like a hacksaw. “An hour, sir?” Braveheart had trouble controlling his laughter, so he coughed to cover it up. He knew Grey wasn’t being facetious, but genuinely trying to answer his boss’ question. Mully pounded him on the back, making matters worse. Grey didn’t so much walk as put one foot in front of the other like a robot. He had a deliberate gait that led one to believe he was following some phantom rail that just happened to lead exactly where he was going. He made his way to the chair next to the couch, sat down rigidly, and opened a roll of breath mints. Everyone in the office was offered a fresh mint, and everyone declined.

slayerofangels · 10-28-2005, 11:11 AM

I am liking this very much, though that Robert Braveheart guy was cursed with the most cliched surname you could invent. I can overlook that though.

semtecks · 10-28-2005, 01:23 PM

The name didn't come across too well to me too. This was very professionally written though and I'll definately read more.

Mean · 10-28-2005, 02:31 PM

Out of curiosity, why is it cliche? Is it because of the movie? The character actually pre-dates Braveheart the movie (not that it makes a difference).

In the timeline of the GURPS game, he actually made that name up for himself. He last name at birth was Whitefeather.

I appreciate criticism (good and bad), so be as brutal as you wanna be.

slayerofangels · 10-29-2005, 03:27 PM

So why not use Whitefeather? Or something along those lines. The name Brave heart just won't go down well wherever its used. I think its because no one likes mel gibson.

Mean · 10-31-2005, 08:13 AM

Come on. Everybody likes crazy people.

silverink · 10-31-2005, 09:22 AM

I really, really liked it. The descriptions were awesome and you've made me really interested in Braveheart (irrespective of the weird name. I found it a bit in your face, I dunno why. But hey, for me, once the character is named I find it really difficult to change it to something else, so I'm not going to get too bothered about it...). Love the way it's developing

Where can I read more?

Mean · 10-31-2005, 01:50 PM

I plan on posting it here, in this thread. That is assuming the people won't be distressed about an over-long thread

SeattleGhostWriter · 10-31-2005, 02:38 PM

Quote:

Originally Posted by Mean

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1.

The alarm clock sounded at 5am. Robert Braveheart rolled over and placed his feet on the cold floor of his smallish apartment, shivering. Even after a year, winter in Boston was hell on a Native American from Arizona. He slipped on his running shoes and strode to the bathroom in the jogging suit he’d slept in the night before. It was cold and he had no heat, plus he didn’t see the point in removing clothes he knew he was going to have to put on again in six hours.

1) Change Smallish Apartment to Studio Apartment.
2) First sentence is weak, not much of an attention grabber here. Something to consider: He peeled himself from beneath the sheets of the bed, placing his bare feet on the floor, jerking them back suddenly - ice cold. Cursing beneath his breath, he killed the annoying sound the alarm clock made as it continued to flash the time, 5am. Braving the cold hardwood floor, he quickly slipped on his running shoes, shivering slightly now that he was no longer suffocating beneath several blankets and a thick comforter. This was only his second winter, something he was not used to. One reason was because he grew up in the Arizona Desert, and another reason was because of the Native American blood that coursed through his veins. Still shivering, it took him a moment to realize he had worn his jogging suit to bed the night before. After a moment of stretching and allowing his limbs awake, he staggered half-awake toward the bathroom.

Quote:

Special Agent Robert Braveheart. The title always made him smile bitterly as he looked at his reflection in the bathroom mirror in his cluttered apartment. It was not his home, but then, he hadn’t known home since he was a boy. He rubbed the smooth tan skin on his face and wished he could grow a beard. He felt that a beard would help cover up the scowl. He reached over to the sink faucet and turned on the hot water, which almost immediately filled the room with steam. He filled his cupped hands with the warm liquid and splashed it onto his face, relieved that he could still feel warmth. He pulled on his hood, took one last look at himself in the fogging mirror and walked out onto the frigid Massachusetts street.

1) Axe the Special Agent from the beginning of this paragraph. I would word it: Robert Braveheart leaned against the sink counter, the tile cold to the touch as he reached out with one hand and turned the hot water on, then the cold. Cupping his hands beneath the stream of water, steam rose up from the bowl of the sink, fogging the mirror up as he splashed his face with water. His tan skin was smooth to the touch....(I would continue here with the rest of the paragraph).

Quote:

He always jogged before work. After all this time as an FBI Agent, he still jogged. He stayed in excellent condition because he never knew what his job would require of him next. Either the cultists in DeVille Falls would have him hip deep in human remains or some whacked out cabbie would try to set him on fire. It never failed.

In the winter, 5:30am Boston appeared as if it were spread on some surrealist’s canvas. It brought the real world and the world Agent Braveheart lived in together. An hour passed before Robert made it back to his apartment. He still had an hour before he had to be at the office, so he sat in the shower and allowed the hot water to wash over him, relieving him of the chill he always seemed to carry. It was liberating, he felt, as he slipped into a relaxed coma-like state. Were it not for the piercing sound of The A-Team theme song emitted by his ringing cell phone, he may have stayed there forever. At least until the water turned cold. He cursed out loud and reached for the noise maker.

I would move this paragraph up one and assimilate the above paragraph with this paragraph here. There would be some rewording involved, but it will flow better.

I hadn't time to comment on the rest but will if you would like.

Timothy

Mean · 11-01-2005, 08:10 AM

Please do comment on the rest. That'll make the parts that follow stronger.

Thanks for your input.

Mean · 11-02-2005, 09:28 AM

Quote:

Originally Posted by SeattleGhostWriter

1) Change Smallish Apartment to Studio Apartment.

Can't a studio apartment also be spacious? I want the reader to see a living space that is small, but not so small that he could spit in his toilet while lying in bed. Would, maybe, "small studio apartment" work better?

To be honest, I don't like "studio apartment" at all, but I'll use whatever works.

Quote:

Originally Posted by SeattleGhostWriter

1) Axe the Special Agent from the beginning of this paragraph. I would word it: Robert Braveheart leaned against the sink counter, the tile cold to the touch as he reached out with one hand and turned the hot water on, then the cold. Cupping his hands beneath the stream of water, steam rose up from the bowl of the sink, fogging the mirror up as he splashed his face with water. His tan skin was smooth to the touch....(I would continue here with the rest of the paragraph).

That not only sounds better than what I wrote, but it also sounds similar to my own writing style.

Mean · 11-08-2005, 12:00 PM

Here we go. After much labor, I've revised the story as it was posted. Please let me know if this works better/worse/the same.

I'll just post the opening paragraph to make it easier, then, after a while, I'll post the rest in chunks.

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The original:

Quote:

Originally Posted by mean

The alarm clock sounded at 5am. Robert Braveheart rolled over and placed his feet on the cold floor of his smallish apartment, shivering. Even after a year, winter in Boston was hell on a Native American from Arizona. He slipped on his running shoes and strode to the bathroom in the jogging suit he’d slept in the night before. It was cold and he had no heat, plus he didn’t see the point in removing clothes he knew he was going to have to put on again in six hours.

The revision:

The screeching alarm clock sounded, rudely waking the slumbering man. Five o’clock in the morning was a problem for him, but he managed, with some difficulty, to disable the clock and separate himself from his bed. Robert Braveheart sat up and placed his bare feet on the floor of his small apartment, shivering. This was his first winter in Boston and the move from Arizona to Massachusetts had been a shock to his Native American physiology. He slipped on his running shoes and strode to the bathroom in the jogging suit he’d slept in the night before. It was cold in the apartment outside the pile of blankets under which he slept, and besides, he didn’t see the point in removing clothes he knew he was going to have to put on again in six hours.