Re: The Wretched Rite - Round One - The Rose Ring
01-10-2012, 05:35 PM
Originally posted on MSPA by MrGuy.
Okay. So I guess now it's Break The Fourth Wall Fest 2011/2012 or something.
The problem being, of course, that when you break the fourth wall in a setting that's all about stories and such and then the next guy to write loves poetic insanity that's really no more than nonsense almost as much as he loves metafiction, you're asking for it.
There were many things Poran could have done to distract the dragon, the most obvious being something involving gold or similar treasures (the old dragon knowing quite well that he, being what he was, was obligated to love treasure in any good story). However, fuck that piece of shit dragon and all his stupid bullshit. He had a fuckin' heart attack and died and nobody cared.
Amazingly, the damage done to the town began to reverse. Buildings pieced themselves together, ashes forming boards, bricks un-shattering, every piece floating back into its place. Dead men and women stood again, looking around quizzically, obviously not knowing what the fuck just happened at all.
The third or so narrator that isn't a character in the story, or at least wasn't until these ridiculous shenanigans got underway, frowned at the page. Perhaps it wasn't quite a deus ex machina he'd written in, but something wasn't quite right about it. It was too clean, too neat. The town would be fixed, of course, but not so quickly.
For now, it ought to break. And so:
--------
A proper story's supposed to start at the beginning. So wrote Cide Hamete Benengeli (check this) in a treatise on the common isotopes of narrativium. This man was also known to have said "one can have an infinity of apples without having a single orange", which is to say that not all fictional or otherwise hypothetical universes can exist. This can be good or bad, with regards to the metaphysical converse aspects quaquaqua of fanfiction versus initial fiction and the extended degrees of unreality quaquaqua vis-a-vis nested stories and the little yellow boxes containing my heart and soul and thoughts, and the screen shattering from a dart, ipso facto quaquaqua the dart being God and the viewer or player Satan and all an ulterior examination of the morality of sending a simulated individual to their repeated deaths quaquaqua and simultaneously and subsequently on the Walrus and me, who are as close as can be both one and two. Is that to say, QED, that I am the carpenter?
Persons attempting to find a meaning in this narrative will be prosecuted. Persons attempting to find a moral in it will be banished. Persons attempting to find a plot in it will be shot.
All is fractured under the weight of a metric fuckton of total bullshit and gratuitous references masquerading as prose. The players were never here, in this quiet town, yet so they were always; the narrator dealt in murder, not sleep and dragons, and yet she did the other as well. Is either of these realities more or less real than the other?
Who cares.
Okay. So I guess now it's Break The Fourth Wall Fest 2011/2012 or something.
The problem being, of course, that when you break the fourth wall in a setting that's all about stories and such and then the next guy to write loves poetic insanity that's really no more than nonsense almost as much as he loves metafiction, you're asking for it.
There were many things Poran could have done to distract the dragon, the most obvious being something involving gold or similar treasures (the old dragon knowing quite well that he, being what he was, was obligated to love treasure in any good story). However, fuck that piece of shit dragon and all his stupid bullshit. He had a fuckin' heart attack and died and nobody cared.
Amazingly, the damage done to the town began to reverse. Buildings pieced themselves together, ashes forming boards, bricks un-shattering, every piece floating back into its place. Dead men and women stood again, looking around quizzically, obviously not knowing what the fuck just happened at all.
The third or so narrator that isn't a character in the story, or at least wasn't until these ridiculous shenanigans got underway, frowned at the page. Perhaps it wasn't quite a deus ex machina he'd written in, but something wasn't quite right about it. It was too clean, too neat. The town would be fixed, of course, but not so quickly.
For now, it ought to break. And so:
--------
A proper story's supposed to start at the beginning. So wrote Cide Hamete Benengeli (check this) in a treatise on the common isotopes of narrativium. This man was also known to have said "one can have an infinity of apples without having a single orange", which is to say that not all fictional or otherwise hypothetical universes can exist. This can be good or bad, with regards to the metaphysical converse aspects quaquaqua of fanfiction versus initial fiction and the extended degrees of unreality quaquaqua vis-a-vis nested stories and the little yellow boxes containing my heart and soul and thoughts, and the screen shattering from a dart, ipso facto quaquaqua the dart being God and the viewer or player Satan and all an ulterior examination of the morality of sending a simulated individual to their repeated deaths quaquaqua and simultaneously and subsequently on the Walrus and me, who are as close as can be both one and two. Is that to say, QED, that I am the carpenter?
Persons attempting to find a meaning in this narrative will be prosecuted. Persons attempting to find a moral in it will be banished. Persons attempting to find a plot in it will be shot.
All is fractured under the weight of a metric fuckton of total bullshit and gratuitous references masquerading as prose. The players were never here, in this quiet town, yet so they were always; the narrator dealt in murder, not sleep and dragons, and yet she did the other as well. Is either of these realities more or less real than the other?
Who cares.