Nateskate
01-28-2005, 10:14 PM
I don't like horror, and much prefer fantasy, mystery, sci-fi. Gore does not appeal to me.
However, I wrote a partial story awhile back. Perhaps deep down, I was wondering to myself if I could write a Stephen King type story if I wanted to, although I've never read his books.
My question is about the blurred edges of Genre, and whether I could submit something like this as a fantasy, rather than "horror". This story has been dormant, having been an experiment, and so it is not polished. I don't want to give away too much of the plot, but in my mind it is the type of story you'd tell around a campfire on a dreary sleepless night.
I will post the opening, and simply want suggestions on whether or not a story of legends, curses, could still fit under a fantasy banner?
Opening:
The wide-eyed Hoot Owl stared down as it soared back and forth, winding through the dark leafless trees of Ablegorn, passing over thick briars and brittle nettles, finally reaching the moss and vine-covered stone-bridge that crossed Lonedale Creek, in search for a meal. The rustling of leaves caught its attention, and it turned to look, but these were no potential meals looking back. The cold stares of fiery-eyed shadows passed by, and pointed their long crooked fingers at the bird, drawing its breath away. Frightened, the Owl screeched. This was not the food it sought after, but something unfamiliar and frightening, sinister, and needless to say, quite inhuman. It was a fruitless journey for the old bird, who hungrily turned away to seek food in greener pastures.
What possessed it to fly that way in the first place, and what spooked it, were mysteries. There were no scurrying mice or woodland creatures there. Live things, flitting through the leaves of those dark woods, hadn’t moved along those paths for many years.
Those who rightly interpret dreams would have understood the Omen of the passing bird, discerning its meaning that sadness and sorrow will soon follow when even the wise turn to folly, searching for treasures and sustenance in the land of death.
Passing into Ablegorn was like passing from life onto the borders of the grave, where green disappears, giving way to a bitter gray world, where trees and underbrush live in a perpetual state of near death, cold and leafless, washed of color, in a year-round winter that never ends.
Ablegorn Bridge was no more than seven miles due north of the farthest corner of town, by way of a long winding dirt road. One would suspect that after many years of not being traveled that the road would be overgrown with thick weeds, briars, and burdocks. Yet, not even a patch of grass grew there.
What killed off the brush is unknown, but it wasn’t wagon wheels, or the wearing hoofs of farm animals or the clomping boots of travelers.
Up to three miles before the bridge, where the border between Livingston and Ablegorn ran, beautiful flowers grew tall. On a clear day, the lifeless path was as welcoming as a venous flytrap. Indeed, one wonders if it was baited to lure unsuspecting children to the twisted borders of Ablegorn forest, where those who passed never returned.
However, I wrote a partial story awhile back. Perhaps deep down, I was wondering to myself if I could write a Stephen King type story if I wanted to, although I've never read his books.
My question is about the blurred edges of Genre, and whether I could submit something like this as a fantasy, rather than "horror". This story has been dormant, having been an experiment, and so it is not polished. I don't want to give away too much of the plot, but in my mind it is the type of story you'd tell around a campfire on a dreary sleepless night.
I will post the opening, and simply want suggestions on whether or not a story of legends, curses, could still fit under a fantasy banner?
Opening:
The wide-eyed Hoot Owl stared down as it soared back and forth, winding through the dark leafless trees of Ablegorn, passing over thick briars and brittle nettles, finally reaching the moss and vine-covered stone-bridge that crossed Lonedale Creek, in search for a meal. The rustling of leaves caught its attention, and it turned to look, but these were no potential meals looking back. The cold stares of fiery-eyed shadows passed by, and pointed their long crooked fingers at the bird, drawing its breath away. Frightened, the Owl screeched. This was not the food it sought after, but something unfamiliar and frightening, sinister, and needless to say, quite inhuman. It was a fruitless journey for the old bird, who hungrily turned away to seek food in greener pastures.
What possessed it to fly that way in the first place, and what spooked it, were mysteries. There were no scurrying mice or woodland creatures there. Live things, flitting through the leaves of those dark woods, hadn’t moved along those paths for many years.
Those who rightly interpret dreams would have understood the Omen of the passing bird, discerning its meaning that sadness and sorrow will soon follow when even the wise turn to folly, searching for treasures and sustenance in the land of death.
Passing into Ablegorn was like passing from life onto the borders of the grave, where green disappears, giving way to a bitter gray world, where trees and underbrush live in a perpetual state of near death, cold and leafless, washed of color, in a year-round winter that never ends.
Ablegorn Bridge was no more than seven miles due north of the farthest corner of town, by way of a long winding dirt road. One would suspect that after many years of not being traveled that the road would be overgrown with thick weeds, briars, and burdocks. Yet, not even a patch of grass grew there.
What killed off the brush is unknown, but it wasn’t wagon wheels, or the wearing hoofs of farm animals or the clomping boots of travelers.
Up to three miles before the bridge, where the border between Livingston and Ablegorn ran, beautiful flowers grew tall. On a clear day, the lifeless path was as welcoming as a venous flytrap. Indeed, one wonders if it was baited to lure unsuspecting children to the twisted borders of Ablegorn forest, where those who passed never returned.