Hey everyone, last week I started this short story for my GCSE coursework. For those of you who don't know, GCSEs are the exams you do at the end of year 11 in the UK (that's the school year you're in if you're 15/16). So yeah, we have to write a short (approximately 1,000 word) story. I had an idea but it was kind of crap so I changed it into this. If anyone has any suggestions for me (please don't tell me anything that'll make it longer - it's long enough already) it would be greatly appreciated. Oh yeah, if you think of a title, that would also be really useful. So uh, here it is! It was like any other day: Sloane Huxley woke early to catch the magnet strips to work. He was proud of his job, not many people could boast power like his. He was the head of Department H, and was in charge of the regulation of personal expression. He surveyed over all in his section like a king over his kingdom. He was feared for his controlling mind set when it came to discussing one’s opinions. But many viewed this as a necessity in the modern society of New Chicago – efficiency was key in the leading city of robotics and engineering of planet Onyx. As a public figure, Sloane was always a prime target for gossip and (more importantly) assassination attempts. He was widely unpopular with the underground religious groups that he strived to suppress. He had already survived two attacks in his short term as ‘the big H’ (the term usually attributed to the boss of the controversial department H). He stood and, careful not to wake his slumbering wife, summoned his personal butler. He heard the characteristic whirr as the butler entered the room. As he was being dressed he began to wonder at the marvels of modern technology – to anyone on the old-fashioned outer worlds this robot looked precisely like a human. But there were subtle signs: the lack of blinking, the too-even mechanical breathing. He was suddenly brought out of his reverie by the butler’s harsh, grating voice stating, “The lord will rejoice over you to destroy you, and to bring you to nought.” Amazed, Sloane ordered the robot to repeat but, with a simulated look of confusion on its face, the butler denied ‘the existence of such a statement in my communication logs, Mr Huxley’. Sloane shooed the butler away and, slightly unnerved, proceeded to dress himself and make the short journey to the kitchen pod. He enjoyed his job and showed great satisfaction at punishing others for their misbehaviour. But he couldn’t concentrate on or enjoy his work after the robot’s unusual statement. He would have to look into the malfunction with the department’s robo-engineer. Sloane was cautiously passing through the printing rooms, conscience of any malfunctioning robots when, out of nowhere, all of the machines in the vicinity started to pulse red and chant, ‘I tell you, on the day of judgment men will render account for every careless word they utter.’ Sloane froze. ‘That’s the second time,’ he thought, ‘what’s happening?’ He slowly backed away from the room and, turning on his heel, fled to the department engineer. After relating the events of the morning to the engineer, who proceeded to inform Sloane that he hadn’t noticed anything odd in the command post that issued orders to all the robots in Department H, Sloane started thinking. He knew that the quotes were from the bible, that much was obvious, but what was the meaning? Who would want to unnerve him so? The only organisation he could think of was the group of religious fanatics that had been causing Department H a lot of hassle recently. However the police had recently released a statement saying that they’re ‘a group of harmless criminals that are content with merely destroying property in protest’. It was inconceivable that a group like this would attempt a psychological attack on a public figure like Sloane. But in a world like this, who knows what they’re boundaries are? People on a mission like theirs can get desperate. They called themselves the Fireflies and claimed to be ‘sent from above’ to cleanse the ‘servants of the devil’ from Onyx. Most people dismissed them as a bunch of lunatics in accordance with the official statement. But Sloane had started doing some research since the incident with the Butler and had uncovered some unsettling cases. The incident at Nuclear Container B, the demonstration in quarantine zone 3C, all of them linked up to point at one culprit: the Fireflies. They were slowly growing in numbers as they recruited the other religious fanatics. On top of all of this, official signs were being spray painted over with mysterious messages that read: ‘You can still rise with us. When you’re lost in the darkness, look for the light. Believe in the Fireflies’. It was night and Sloane was scared. His wife was staying somewhere for a few days on business. He was alone and he didn’t like it. He felt vulnerable and couldn’t sleep. The events of the previous days were putting stress on him and he was finding it hard to cope. A sound, he heard a creak outside the door. He froze. Something was out there, waiting for him. Slowly sneaking out of bed with lethal-grade blaster in hand, he crept cautiously towards the door. Suddenly, he heard a whirring sound and the door slammed open. His Butler stepped in. ‘What?’ he thought, ‘I could have sworn I deactivated you!’ The Butler opened its mouth to speak, but all it could say was ‘Judgement is comi-‘, before Sloane charged the blaster and unloaded its powerful payload directly into its mechanical brain. The Butler’s limp body flew across the room and slammed through the door, sparking wildly. Sloane started to laugh. It wasn’t the kind of laugh you would hear after cracking a joke, it was loud and manic. The Fireflies were affecting him. They were infiltrating his brain and twisting it, slowly eliminating their main enemy. The final straw came when he was discussing the arrangements of the upcoming departmental birthday celebration over his personal communicator. He was walking through the back alleys of New Chicago in an attempt to arrive home in time to welcome his wife back from her business strip. After finishing the call and approaching the half-way mark of his journey he saw something in the corner of his eye. A flash, a searing pain in his head, and everything went dark. Sloane woke in exactly the same spot and, aching, rose to his feet. He could see some red writing sticking out the side of some posters on the old brick wall facing him. ‘Get ready,’ it said. Frantically he started to pull the posters away, the writing continued. The number ‘three’ was scrawled over the surface, he was pulling faster now. ‘Two’, he started breathing heavily. ‘One’, finally it dawned on him; the numbers were counting down to zero. With shaking movements he pulled away the last poster and sat down hard on the floor. ‘Night, night’, he murmured, ‘Night, night.’ He pulled out his blaster and started to sob. He had finally realised the power of the force he was up against. They had managed to completely destroy his mental health within two days. There’s no point going on if he would have to face this torture every waking hour of my life. Better to take the easy way out and let someone stronger take care of it than live in fear for the rest of your life. It was the perfect murder: scare your victim out of their wits and, when they’re teetering on the edge of sanity, give them a gentle push and let them do the rest. He started to lift the blaster to his head and smiled. ‘Night, night indeed,’ he whispered as he pulled the trigger and ended his life.
In the penultimate paragraph, where it says 'sat down ******* the floor'. It's meant to say 'sat down ha.rd 0n the floor'. Excuse the bypass, but it's necessary and what I'm trying to say is in no way rude.
Original. I like the concept and the abrupt finish. I understand 1000 words isn't a lot to work with but I felt that some places lacked description, like the departmentalisation for instance. Fourty or so words would have been enough to put across the idea that it's a futuristic, post apocalyptic setup. And would you mind taking a look at my story Iris? It would be greatly appreciated I'm Irish, but in English terms I'm in year nine I think? Might seem pathetic for me to be giving someone older than myself advice but Ive won my fair share of writing competitions :/
And you could give it a snappy title like "Within Him" or something and work some kind of phrase like "the force within him would lead to his inevitable self-destruction" or some wordy crap like that :3
I've ended up calling it 'Fireflies', it's a sort of catchy and short but not ridiculously cheesy title.
Yeah, I always find that really annoying. Titles like 'the Great War' or something are always too lame and give away too much for me. I like to keep the reader intrigued
I think my problem has been to spend too much time on explaining the fireflies and not enough on what actually happens. By the time I've done this the ending just feels a bit rushed. I'll post my final version whem we get the feedback from the teacher. You definitely are a good writer and I'm young for my year so we're probably a similar age.
I sought of made a whole new universe and I could quite easily have written a ten page novel. I think I just needed to focus more on what was actually happening.
I've updated it a bit in preparation for the final draft. I've also thought of a title: 'Fireflies'. So here it is! It was like any other day: Sloane Huxley woke early to catch the magnet strips to work. He was proud of his job, not many people could boast power like his. He was the head of Department H, and was in charge of the regulation of personal expression. He surveyed over all in his section like a king over his kingdom. He was feared for his controlling mind-set when it came to discussing one’s opinions. But many viewed this as a necessity in the modern society of New Chicago – efficiency was key in the leading city of robotics and engineering of planet Onyx. As a public figure, Sloane was always a prime target for gossip and (more importantly) the occasional assassination attempt. He was widely unpopular with the underground religious groups that he strived to suppress. An operation to clean up the majority of the crude graffiti that littered the backstreets of New Chicago revealed some rather ‘expressive’ opinions on his work. He had already survived two attacks in his short term as ‘the big H’ (the term usually attributed to the boss of the controversial department H). He stood and, careful not to wake his slumbering wife, summoned his personal butler. He heard the characteristic whirr as the butler entered the room. As he was being dressed he began to wonder at the marvels of modern technology – to anyone on the old-fashioned outer worlds this robot looked precisely like a human. But there were subtle signs: the lack of blinking, the too-even mechanical breathing. He was suddenly brought out of his reverie by the butler’s harsh, grating voice stating, “The lord will rejoice over you to destroy you, and to bring you to nought.” Amazed, Sloane ordered the robot to repeat but, with a simulated look of confusion on its face, the butler denied ‘the existence of such a statement in my communication logs, Mr Huxley’. Sloane shooed the butler away and, slightly unnerved, proceeded to dress himself and make the short journey to the kitchen pod. He enjoyed his job and showed great satisfaction at punishing others for their misbehaviour. But he couldn’t concentrate on or enjoy his work after the robot’s unusual statement. He would have to look into the malfunction with the department’s robo-engineer. Sloane was cautiously passing through the printing rooms, conscience of any malfunctioning robots when he sensed something out of place. He couldn’t quite lay a finger on it but something was odd. Then he realised: all the machines in the room had stopped. The usual reassuring hum had ceased. Suddenly, all of the equipment in the vicinity started to pulse red and chant, “I tell you, on the day of judgment men will render account for every careless word they utter.” Sloane froze. “That’s the second time,” he thought, “what’s happening?” He slowly backed away from the room and, turning on his heel, fled to the department engineer. After relating the events of the morning to the engineer, who proceeded to inform Sloane that he hadn’t noticed anything odd in the command post that issued orders to all the robots in Department H, Sloane started thinking. He knew that they were quotes from the bible, that much was obvious, but what was the meaning? Who would want to unnerve him so? The only organisation he could think of was the group of religious fanatics that had been causing Department H a lot of hassle recently. However the police had released a statement saying that they’re ‘a group of harmless criminals that are content with merely destroying property in protest’. It was inconceivable that a group like this would attempt a psychological attack on a public figure like Sloane. But in a world like this, who knows what they’re boundaries are? People on a mission like theirs can get desperate. They called themselves the Fireflies and claimed to be ‘sent from above’ to cleanse the ‘servants of the devil’ from Onyx. Most people dismissed them as a bunch of lunatics in accordance with the official statement. But Sloane had started doing some research since the incident with the Butler and had uncovered some unsettling cases. The incident at Nuclear Container B, the demonstration in quarantine zone 4C, all of them linked up to point at one culprit: the Fireflies. They were slowly growing in numbers as they recruited the other religious fanatics. On top of all of this, various official signs were being spray painted over with mysterious messages that read: ‘You can still rise with us. When you’re lost in the darkness, look for the light. Believe in the Fireflies’. Two nights later Sloane couldn’t sleep, he kept glancing at the shadows expecting something to jump out at him. His wife was staying somewhere for a few days on business. He was alone and feeling vulnerable. The events of the previous days were putting stress on him and he was finding it hard to cope. A sound, he heard a creak outside the door. He froze. Something was out there, waiting for him. Breathing heavily he started to slowly sneak out of bed with his lethal-grade blaster un-holstered; he crept cautiously towards the door. Suddenly, he heard a whirring sound and the door slammed open. A bright light shone through the door, obscuring the figure that stood before him. Eventually his assailant moved in front of the blinding light, blocking it and revealing his identity: the Butler. ‘What?’ he thought, “I could have sworn I deactivated you!” The Butler opened its mouth to speak, but all it could say in its cold, heartless voice was “Judgement is comi-“, before, in a burst of rage and fear, Sloane charged the blaster and unloaded its powerful payload directly into its mechanical brain. The Butler’s limp body flew across the room and slammed through the door, sparking wildly. The robot’s body slowly melted away as the acidic compounds in the blaster’s ammunition started to eat away at the complex metallic structure. Sloane started to whimper, his eyes open wide with fear. The Fireflies were starting to affect him. They were infiltrating his brain and twisting it, slowly eliminating their main enemy. The final straw came three days later when he was discussing the arrangements of the upcoming departmental birthday celebration over his mini-communicator. He was walking through the back alleys of New Chicago in an attempt to arrive home in time to welcome his wife back from her business trip. After finishing the call and approaching the half-way mark of his journey he saw something in the corner of his eye. All of a sudden there was a flash, he felt a searing pain in his head and everything went dark. Sloane woke in exactly the same spot and, with an aching head, rose to his feet. He could see some red writing sticking out the side of some posters on the old brick wall facing him. ‘Get ready,’ it said. Frantically he started to pull the posters away, the writing continued. The number ‘three’ was scrawled over the surface, he was pulling faster now. ‘Two’, he started breathing heavily. ‘One’, finally it dawned on him; the numbers were counting down to zero. With shaking movements he pulled away the last poster and sat down hard on the floor. “Night, night”, he murmured, “Night, night.” He pulled out his blaster and started to sob. He had experienced numerous more incidents in the past few days, ranging from more unnerving bible quotes to secret messages left written around his house. All of it had just one target: his sanity. He had finally realised the power of the force he was up against. They had managed to completely destroy his mental health within a week. And it could only get worse. There was no point going on if he would have to face this torture every waking hour of his life. Better to take the easy way out and let someone stronger take care of it than live in fear for the rest of his life. It was the perfect murder: scare your victim out of their wits and, when they’re teetering on the edge of sanity, give them a gentle push and let them do the rest. He left a hastily scrawled note explaining what had happened to his wife and placed it carefully to his right. He started to lift the blaster to his head and smiled. ‘Night, night indeed,’ he whispered as he pulled the trigger. Jennifer Huxley sobbed as she smudged away the blood that obscured the writing on her husband’s note. The medical team had confirmed the shaky words on the dirty piece of paper. Sloane Huxley was dead. The Fireflies had won.
Overall, I have found this a very well rounded and interesting short story. I particularly like the ending. There are a couple of points which could probably be improved further for example, when the cases he discovers are "unsettling", I think a little bit extra could be added to add more intrigue. I'm not sure whether they are unsettling enough, considering the ending. Perhaps you could mention an disappearing witness or a gap in the information which no one seemed to care enough about to follow up. Also there is a bit that I find is phrased awkwardly. "They had managed to destroy his mental health within a week." You could try "mental faculties" or "wits". Good luck in your assessment.
Thanks for the feedback. I've been trying to make the ending less abrupt and have sacrificed some stuff detailing the backgroind of the sotuatiom in order to add to the creepy bits. But like you said I'm still slightly off, to be honest, to make that perfect would require a whole restructuring of the story as I've reached a point where I can't cut anything of earlier on. I just don't have time to do this in the one day I have remaining. But I will do what I can to add a bit of detail to the things mentioned at the end. I will also use your suggestion for the mental health part. Thanks!