The impending editable books got me thinking about something to write, and I settled on simple short fiction set in Minecraft. With that in mind, I got to the writing of it.
Then I remembered that editable books are coming in 1.5, which isn't exactly tomorrow.
So, I wrote a thousand or so words of a story, and, being the attention whore that I am, I wanted to get some opinions on the first bit (kind of a chapter, I guess).
Basically, would you be interesting in reading more? (note, I haven't copied emphasis across, because I'm lazy)
1
Every story has a beginning. Steve's began with a death.
Fortunately, it wasn't his own.
.
It was generally considered that there was something strange about the way the Master looked at people. It wasn't so much that he looked down on you – after all, he was only a block and a half high – it was that he seemed to be waiting. Those who came to know the Master would learn that he was waiting for them.
He had a perpetual optimism that drove him onward like wound elastic band. He was optimistic about people, and he believed that anyone could rise, with the right kind of motivation. What they were supposed to be rising to, only the Master knew.
Steve never knew the Master's optimism, though. It died before he got the chance.
.
'You should be grateful!' said a stern voice from the next room. It belonged to Sister Jasmine, the overseer of Toast Town Orphanage. 'The Master is one of the greatest crafters in all the land. Any child would be thrilled to apprentice with him.'
'You mean was one of the greatest crafters,' Steve muttered.
'What was that?' Sister Jasmine said sharply, stepping into the room with what might have been called a flourish, if a flourish had hands on it's hips.
'Nothing, Sister Jasmine,' Steve said in feigned obedience.
He had only been at the orphanage a week, and already he was being sent away on an apprenticeship. It was either a testament to the efficiency of Sister Jasmine, or an indicator of how much trouble Steve had been since he'd arrived.
He would never deny that he'd been a pain in Sister Jasmine's square behind from the minute he'd arrived, but he rather felt he deserved a little more understanding. After all, it was barely a whole week since he'd lost his parents.
'I know you've had a rough few days,' Sister Jasmine said, as if reading Steve's thoughts, 'but it's best you find a way to take your mind off of your troubling thoughts.'
'Yes, Sister Jasmine,' said Steve automatically.
Sister Jasmine sighed, and sat down heavily on Steve's bed while he tried not to make eye contact, he may have only spent a week in the orphanage, but that was more than long enough to learn that Sister Jasmine's attempts to act maternal were as warm and comforting as an icicle against the ear drum.
'Creeper attacks happen all the time,' she said, as kindly as she could manage, which wasn't very. 'True, it's unusual that they should result in death, and more unusual still that this one took out two people, but we have to move on. We have to put these things behind us and try to live our lives.'
'Have you ever lost anyone to a creeper, Sister Jasmine?' Steve said, slowly and deliberately.
'Well … I,' she began, and then sagged, 'no, Steven, I have not.'
And nothing more was said. Steve continued to pack his meagre belongings, and Sister Jasmine left him alone. When he left, there wasn't much of a goodbye, and there certainly weren't any tears. His story could have ended there …
… but it didn't.
) However, if I may, could I ask some advice in regards to writing?
