Young Writers Society

Part One


Maurice.

Alone. Alone in a granite cell with a thousand thoughts of a thousand dreams and then some. It was easiest when he didn’t think, didn’t try to recall his belabored past. But then again, thinking was all he had left.

Maurice.

The nights were the worst, especially those where he could not fall asleep. The cell had an interminable emptiness, and the odd shadows, enigmatic bumps in the night, and other obscurities closed in on him as if the walls themselves were slowly moving toward him and his small mattress. The earthy smell from the rotting heap of straw they had given him as a bed was revolting, and it stunned his old nose each time he fell upon it to rest. It was either tolerate the darkness and smell of the mattress or wake up terribly stiff each morning, something he tried desperately to prevent.

Maurice.

“What!?” he shouted and then erupted into a horrible fit of coughing.

A guard dressed in a dark uniform appeared at the bars carrying a light pod. Its red glow emanated from a silicon shell illuminating Maurice’s face.

“You looking for a beating, old man?”

Maurice simply returned the guard’s stern look.

“Well, you best not be stirring up trouble in here or I’ll get the warden to put you downstairs again.” The man chuckled as he departed. The red light left with him.

Maurice’s head dropped back onto the straw. He knew what that meant. The Piano Room was no place he wanted to be.

“Why don’t you want to go to the Piano Room?”

The voice, which had an assured strength about it, came not from the bars, but from behind him. Even in the darkness he could see a woman lavishly dressed in a stunning emerald gown. He could have stared at her cold obsidian hair and pale skin into the reaches of night.

“What’s in the Piano Room? To me it sounds like a lovely place: chandeliers, ball gowns, sweet music in the air. Am I right?”

“Only about the music,” his rough voice replied. “No chandeliers, no ladies in their silly evening gowns, and certainly no pianos, but there is music.”

“If there are no pianos, then why is it called the Piano Room?”

“The music, my dear. Beethoven, Mozart, Tchaikovsky; the classics. Piano sonatas and concertos. Oh, how the warden loved to listen to his music. But don’t be mistaken. The classics only played while unspeakable horrors were in progress.”

“Unspeakable horrors?”

“Torture mostly. I don’t recall much of what happened while I was in the Piano Room, but I remember enough to know I would rather die than end up there again.”

She neared the rotten straw mattress, bent over and placed a finger on his forehead. She traced the finger down the bridge of his nose and to his lips where she finally hushed him. As she drew her face closer to his, he could no longer smell the putridness of the straw, but the wondrous scent of violets and fuchsias. She kissed him on the cheek and took his head into her shoulder.

“Tell me,” she said. “I must know of the unspeakable horrors you have witnessed.”

As if a door had suddenly been unlocked and opened, a series of images poured into Maurice’s consciousness. He struggled to close that door, to shove all those terrible memories back into the vault he had set for them, bolt them up, and forever rid himself of them.

“No, don’t fight it. You must tell me.”

A tear fell down Maurice’s cheek as he realized he couldn’t shut out these new demons. They had been all but forgotten, and now he had to face them. He panicked, and in the process started hacking out fierce, dry coughs.

“They are abhorrent. Please, release me from them.”

“I cannot.”

He knew his only escape would be to relive them, and give the woman what she wanted.

“The Piano Room,” he sighed, “is a place that any sane man would fear, as well as the insane. At first, they act friendly--”

“Who acts friendly?”

“The men. They are the warden’s pets; men without any semblance of morality. At first they will act with compassion. They want to be your friends. Then they start asking you questions. Some you answer, some you can’t answer, and some you do not wish to answer. The lattermost are where things start to turn sour.”

Maurice swallowed hard and wiped his sweating forehead with his sleeve.

“Their first question was something trivial.”

“What did they want to know?”

“I don’t know. I don’t even remember. I just know that after I didn’t tell them, they broke my index finger. I still would not fold, for whatever reason. They broke two more fingers before I gave up and told.”

“It must have been important for you to suffer like that.”

“No, it wasn’t, I remember that much. More questions kept coming at me, and as I refused each time, a new punishment was inflicted. Once, they placed an odd contraption on a steel table next to my bed. I wondered what they could possibly do with it. After I had refused answering yet another of their questions, they held me down and inserted it into my ear canal. There was a clicking, as if some mechanism snapped into place, and soon after, my ear went hot and blood spilled from my head. They had ruptured my eardrum.”

Maurice looked up at the woman. “That is especially excruciating, my dear.”

She gave him a reassured smile traced with pity.

“They also used a disc sander on my skin. As they applied it to my body, layer upon layer of flesh tore away, and the whole time, the classics were playing in the background. The warden simply listened as if the screams and the music were the same.”

“I am unsure I wish to hear any more.”

He went on, ignoring her plea. “My last punishment was to be infected with some sort of virus. It ate away at my organs, turning them to liquid. Each night I coughed up clots of blood, unsure if the next time, I might expel a piece of a lung or some other part of my insides. And still the music played. I would suffer each fateful breath with a crescendo and my pulse would beat with each note played by those long-dead men. I knew I would soon come to the same fate as them. But then the warden gave me an antidote and I slowly progressed back to health, or at least to my current condition. I’m not exactly the prime example of wellness.” He coughed again as if to prove that very point.

“What they did to you was unforgivable. All of it. I want you to remember that.” She rose then, and let him descend back to the straw mattress. She walked to the corner of the room where Maurice had first seen her. She disappeared into the shadows leaving Maurice once again enveloped by a feeling of utter loneliness.

Okay... before I critique, answer this:

You say he is alone, right? WHERE does the woman come from?

She's a machination of his subconscious mind. Her purpose is explained later.

Wouldn't you invent someone in your loneliness?

Hehehe... okay. Her purpose needs to be explained now. Either that, or you have to give us a description of what she looks like, a better one that is very dreamlike. Otherwise, people will be confused.

You see, the bad part is that, as a writer, you say to yourself, "Oh, it'll be explained later," and then you decide not to explain a potentially confusing aspect of the story. Not good. When your agent/publisher reads it, he'll look at it and say, "This doesn't make sense, so therefore I shall not look at the second chapter.

So yeah. Make it dreamlike and emphasize the sureal aspect of this lady.

Now, for the critique?

First of all, the beginning doesn't really hook. I mean, the italics are pretty cool, but I've read thousands of stories it seems that start in a dank dungeon. The reason for this dungeon setting is usually is to make the reader immediately pity the narrator. It's like, "PITY ME, I'M STUCK IN A DUNGEON!"

So yeah.

Probably, I would look at this story and not read it. Just because of the beginning. *is mean*

Now, don't stop writing just because it starts off in a dungeon scene -- it, unlike many other stories -- actually belongs there. But what you have to do is to make the beginning different from the usual "woe-is-me!" types of stories. How?

Hmm...

Well, instead of describing the loneliness, you might just want to focus on one thing first and then slowly expand that to include the whole story. How do you explain this? Grrr... Okay! In the movies, what I would see is a small rat being focused in on, and that rat is bright and chipper as usual, cleaning his head. Then the camera goes back to see more. Or something like that.

So try focusing on something that can be "happy" and then expand it to reveal this rather grim picture. By doing this, it will show a contrast to it that is far more potent then the usual "woe-is-me" type writing.

Next of all... GAH! Describe within your dialogue. Right now, you have a bunch of infodumps included in your writing. Which might be good, possibly, except that it's just long and kind of boring.

Wait... dialogue describing torture can be BORING???

Yes.

Basically, the important thing for the reader to know is how your characters are reacting to this... not just what happened. I don't care what just happened... that doesn't matter. What is happening? By creating a sense of now-ness, this creates a sense of urgency that makes the reader interested. Now? It doesn't matter.

So yeah. Create tensions within the characters. You have some sexual tension with your characters, which is good and fascinating. Now, heighten this. Does he reach out for her, or does he keep to himself, knowing that he cannot possibly be with her.

And guess how you're going to do this? YES! Breaking up the long boring dialogue with description! What is she doing? How does she say her words? That kind of stuff. Though the reader's imagination is good for this type of stuff, it's also good to create an image in your readers' mind. Especially at the beginning! Towards the middle and end, we can fill it in, but we want to know who your characters are before.

So yeah. Make the conflict more in the now and less in the past.

Harsh enough for you, baby?

I have slivers after that altercation. Okay, do you think I should have him reliving this moment and add action instead of dialogue?

I have considered dumping the whole beginning and starting right off with Maurice seeing the woman. Maybe I could add that she is just part of his mind right there, but do I want him to know that, hmmm...

Perhaps you will like the later sections a bit better. They have less infodump, at least I think they do. *runs and checks* Well you'll be able to tell me anyways.

Muchas gracias tocino, I mean Snoink.

I like the dialogue, but it's MUCH too much dialogue and not enough action, so throw in some action within the dialogue and that will make it nicer.

Part II


The morning sun bounced off the granite walls that towered above him. Small shadows of tree branches swaying in the wind danced in the light and a brief, yet pleasing, gust of wind found its way into his cell.

He awoke the next morning unaware he had fallen asleep. The last thing he remembered was the emerald-colored dress fading into darkness. Then just as abruptly, he had risen from his slumber.

Even though the transition from him drowsing off to his waking had seemed instantaneous, he had dreamed richly. Small memories came back to him, things that served him no good practically, but piqued his sentiment.

He recalled plowing through snow with his heavy boots, flakes gently tumbling into his hair and the frost nipping at him, causing his breath to fog.

Then he was in a house, familiar, yet not his own. A buxom woman knitted cheerfully next to a fireplace relaying stories of her dogs. An aunt, perhaps?

Suddenly, a child appeared, young and playful, no more than eight, swinging in an outdoor playground. She wore a jade shirt and jeans, and her dark hair flowed back as she kicked forward. Her smile caused an aching in his heart.

A tray of food was set in front of his face, interrupting his train of thought.

“Rations,” the guard said. The dark uniform started toward the door.

“Wait,” Maurice pled in desperation.

The man turned and raised an eyebrow.

“Do you know who I am?”

“What is this, old man?” The guard prepared himself against a trap.

“I just need to know some things that I have… forgotten.”

“I’m not sure if I can give you what you want. Perhaps I should talk to the warden first.”

“No!”

Maurice hesitated. “That is not necessary. I just need to know-- have I a daughter? A little girl?”

“I don’t know. I am uninformed about such things. But you’ve been in here for twelve years, so I doubt she’d be very little anymore.”

“What is my name?” Maurice thought it odd he didn’t know his own name. The apparition from last night had called him something, but he couldn’t remember exactly what it had been.

“You are known by many names now, none of them your own. You are scum, an unforgivable wretch. Personally, I am agreeable with the term Pigyanker, though many would find that not vile enough. Are you finished with your inquiry now?” The look the guard gave Maurice was filled with contempt.

He nodded.

The man plodded forward and slammed the cell door as he left.

“A little girl?” the voice came from behind.

He kept his focus on the bars. “You’re back.”

“I certainly wouldn’t leave you here to rot alone in this cell, would I?”

“I wouldn’t know.” He finally turned to look at her. “Have I a daughter?”

“You poor soul…” She lifted a foot to approach him, but Maurice stopped her with a grunt.

“Not a step closer.” He broke into another wild cough. “What are your motives here?”

“I have done nothing but help you.”

“The last time you helped me, the painful memories of the Piano Room surged through my head. Am I to bear the same consequences if I accept your touch this time?”

“Every memory bears pain and longing. I am only here to show you that which you have forgotten. So no, this time I shall not subject you to relive the tortures of the Piano Room, but to give you what you seek.”

“And what is that?”

She took a step forward. “You will have to trust me.”

He did not move to intercept her. She edged elegantly toward him, like some foreign dignitary. There was a certain grace about her, to be sure, and he was suddenly comforted by that fact. She knew what she was doing, even if she was some sort of apparition or machination of his mind.

She touched him as she had the last time, putting her finger on his forehead and then tracing it down to his lips. She embraced him as well, allowing his unkempt hair to lie on her shoulder. It was a position, he realized, a mother might use with her child. Only she was not his mother.

Another series of images rushed through his mind, some that he could make sense of, and some he couldn’t. Then the memories were all there: the winter, his buxom aunt, and the girl on the swing, but the one he relived was more powerful than the rest put together.

He stood next to his long-forgotten wife, their hands interlocked. Her grip was a fierce one, and he knew he wouldn’t let it go for the world. She was in a delivery room, her hospital gown full of sweat and doctors crowding her bed. His daughter was in the process of being born, and while he didn’t quite witness the actual birth-- he had turned his head to avoid getting sick-- he was among the first to see his daughter alive and kicking. The doctors offered to let him cut the umbilical cord, which he accepted after some convincing. He smiled at his wife as she held their tiny miracle in her arms swaddled in a lime-colored blanket, and then she was gone, off to get cleaned and prepped for the new life she was about to venture into.

Then there was a scream from a nurse who noticed a pool of blood on his wife’s hospital bed. It had slowly dripped onto the floor, creating a small puddle, a footprint ingrained in it. Quickly, the doctors scuttled around the bed, and the grip he and his wife had again initiated slowly turned limp. The monitors next to the bed began to blip and beep and yell obnoxiously at him. A young nurse grabbed onto his arm and tried unsuccessfully to drag him away from his wife.

“You need to leave now,” she said. “We need to help her. You’ll just be in the way.”

The words were surreal and he relented because she was providing him with guidance in a situation in which he knew not what to do.

Then he was in a lobby, waiting. Sitting and waiting. He had asked about his wife every five minutes for the past hour, but the nurse at the desk didn’t know anything. He queried someone in a lab coat, probably an orderly or a med student, but they looked at him as if he was crazy. After another twenty minutes of agonizing worry, he jumped from his seat and walked to the receptionist.

“There have been no updates--” she began, but a doctor appeared from the left and whispered in her ear.

“Are you the husband?” the large man asked.

He nodded.

The man held out his arms toward the same row of chairs he had been waiting. “Please, sit down. Over here.”

A terrible feeling hit him as he sat.

“I’m sorry I have to deliver such news after the birth of your child. Your wife suffered from postpartum hemorrhaging, which caused her to bleed out from her uterus. We couldn’t stop it. She’s-- she’s lost too much blood. We can’t do anything else for her. I’m sorry.”

Maurice felt his insides rip apart, and he was suddenly back in his cell with his stony walls, steel bars, and rotten mattress. The day had passed and the darkness of the night once again engulfed him. There was no sign of the woman in the emerald dress. He cursed her treachery and passed out on his mattress, too worn from the past he had locked out of his mind to do much else.

Well, I've only read part 1 at this time but I do plan to continue into it because I found part 1 extremely well written and intriguing. Who would have thought that a piano room could be the object of such terror? Brilliant.

I wouldn't change it. Not at all really. My only question as a reader is how did he get locked up in the first place. What was his crime? I do hope this is addressed later or my curiousity might kill me.

As always,

POKE

Part III


He was walking the corridors of the prison. He had on shoes-- he couldn’t remember the last time he had worn shoes. They scraped against the stone floor. He was dressed in the blue uniform of the guard that tended his cell each day.

He spotted light escaping from a doorway on his right. His curiosity was insatiable. He took a step into the light and was abruptly caught up in a storm of horrendous shrieks and wails. Men and women suffered. Some hung from chains against the wall, whipped or simply left to waste away. Others were strapped to tables, like he had been in his visit to the Piano Room. Men with bladed and picked instruments slowly cut into their skin, and blood oozed from their wounds and dripped slowly to the floor. The blood splashed as the torturers stomped in it, proud of dirtying their boots.

He was sent in the direction of the back room, one beyond the torture tables and chains. He looked down the endless hallway he needed to pass through and shuddered. He took a step forward, and fell into a sludgy concoction, what looked to be a gruesome mixture of blood and dirt. Along the way, he encountered nightmarish entities. Insects skittered about his feet, occasionally crawling up his legs and touching his skin. He felt a crunch each time he stepped down on top of them. He saw a few snakes, misshapen and grotesque, but they left him alone mostly, slithering away into darker corners. He even discerned a few plants. Their vinous limbs stretched out and wrapped around any creature that came too close, and drug them in, feeding on their meat.

The end of the hall was unreachable. No matter how much he trudged through the sludge and crunch of the insects, he didn’t seem to be getting any closer. And then he was there at the door. He knocked.

The door opened, its hinges creaking loudly, enough to overpower the call of the hall creatures. He stepped in, and there was silence. A thin red portiere hung over an archway, revealing little of what was behind it. A slight breeze blew through the fabric and went over his face.

He shifted the portiere aside and spotted a man drinking tea at a round oaken table. It was the warden. The classics played in the background; Mozart he thought.

“Over there,” the warden said and pointed to another section of the room that had suddenly appeared. Without any thought, he started in that direction, eager to discover what the warden was pointing at. The room grew cold and he realized he was now in his cell. He still wore the uniform of the guard, but it didn’t help him against feeling powerless and caged. His limbs became heavy and his eyes struggled to stay open. He wanted to get to his mattress or he would surely be sore the next morning.

When he reached the rotting pile, he found it was already occupied. In his listlessness, he went to fall next to the person in despair. But when he touched the body it rolled over to reveal the woman in the emerald dress. Her face was riddled with sores and she coughed out blood onto her chin. She was dying.

He was shocked at first. How did she get the virus he had had in the Piano Room? Then he felt complete satisfaction. She had messed with his mind for the last time. He laughed a mad laugh and fell to the straw.

I don't have too much time right now, but something jumped out at me pretty quickly.



He was walking the corridors of the prison. He had on shoes-- he couldn’t remember the last time he had worn shoes. They scraped against the stone floor. He was dressed in the blue uniform of the guard that tended his cell each day.

He spotted light escaping from a doorway on his right. His curiosity was insatiable. He took a step into the light and was abruptly caught up in a storm of horrendous shrieks and wails. Men and women suffered. Some hung from chains against the wall, whipped or simply left to waste away. Others were strapped to tables, like he had been in his visit to the Piano Room. Men with bladed and picked instruments slowly cut into their skin, and blood oozed from their wounds and dripped slowly to the floor. The blood splashed as the torturers stomped in it, proud of dirtying their boots.

He was sent in the direction of the back room, one beyond the torture tables and chains. He looked down the endless hallway he needed to pass through and shuddered. He took a step forward, and fell into a sludgy concoction, what looked to be a gruesome mixture of blood and dirt. Along the way, he encountered nightmarish entities. Insects skittered about his feet, occasionally crawling up his legs and touching his skin. He felt a crunch each time he stepped down on top of them. He saw a few snakes, misshapen and grotesque, but they left him alone mostly, slithering away into darker corners. He even discerned a few plants. Their vinous limbs stretched out and wrapped around any creature that came too close, and drug them in, feeding on their meat.





Beginning sentences with pronouns all the time gets a little tedious. Especially when you could just as easily give this guy a name (without the stupid excuses). Also, think about all the passive in this. There's way too much for it to be purposeful. And you also change tense, which is a little distracting.

Sorry for being brief. Give it a run over, and read it aloud.

-Fantasy

Part IV



“Get up, Maurice, get up!”

He shuffled around on the straw mattress. The night still shrouded the cell in darkness.

“Now!”

He got up. “What? What do you want? Are you here to play with my head again? Show me something else terrible?”

“Yes. It is time you learn what you have done, what I have waited until now to show you.”

“There is nothing more you can reveal that is worse than what I have already seen. I’ve been tortured and bled. I’ve seen my wife die before my eyes.”

“You must live with your sins and their consequences.”

“What sins? I was the victim. How can you say the warden’s men torturing me and my wife dying are my sins? You speak nonsense.”

“Oh? I shall show you something else now.” She went to grab his arm, but he pulled it away from her.

“No, stay clear of me woman. I won’t tolerate your tricks.”

“You can’t escape the truth, Maurice.” He squinted at the mention of his name.

“So now you know your name. Maurice. You shall know more soon.”

She grabbed his wrist and pulled him into an embrace.

“No! I don’t wish to see it!” but he was already growing weaker by the second.

“You must. You must now learn what you have done and why you must redeem yourself.”

Then she showed him.

He was in a laboratory with glass beakers, test tubes, and some seemingly advanced pieces of technology.

He went over to a cryogenic freezer, opened it, and looked at the hundreds of vials sitting in there just ready to go. He grabbed a select few, replaced them with identical-looking vials, and put them in a large thermos, his way of getting them out of the lab. No one would suspect he would try something like that; scientists have to eat, after all.

He was in his home now. He recognized the kitchen counter,
the refrigerator, the oven. He held a briefcase. He wanted to peek at what was inside, but he wasn’t in control. He was just watching.

His wife came into the kitchen. “Hey sweetie,” she said as she retrieved a bag lunch meat and head of lettuce out of the refrigerator.

“How was your day?” Maurice replied.

“Hectic. I was typing up the Harris report when I started having some pretty bad contractions.”

His wife rubbed her hands gently across her bulging belly. “Melinda was about ready to call an ambulance, but they passed. Just a false alarm.” She grabbed two slices of bread and spread on some mayonnaise.

“You should take leave. You’re due in a couple of weeks.”

“I should, but I won’t. There’s too much going on right now. I couldn’t just leave Melinda and the rest to handle the Harris case.”

“They could bring in someone else. You should be here resting.”

“Soon enough.” She smiled, but it soon faded. “I’ll be right back.”

She dropped the butter knife and rushed for the bathroom.

Maurice was still watching himself. He had to have been at least ten years younger than he was now.

He placed the briefcase on the counter and flipped the latches. As he lifted the top, he saw himself staring at the vials he had taken from the lab. He quickly pulled one of them from the briefcase along with a small eye dropper. He extracted some of the liquid and squirted it onto his wife’s sandwich. The toilet flushed, and he rushed to get everything back into his briefcase and close it.

“Much better,” his wife said as she returned. She folded the sandwich and took a bite. “Mmmm. That’s good. You want some?”

“No,” Maurice said, “I’m not hungry.”

He was in a prison facility.

An especially angry-looking man stood over him. Maurice realized he was in the Piano Room.

“Where’s the last sample?” the man asked.

He would tell them nothing. It had been a mistake revealing that there was a sample he hid that would help them find an antidote. But the pain…

“Millions are dying. And since you’ve mutated the virus beyond recognition, we cannot develop a reliable antidote. You’d let all these people die?”

He would tell them nothing.

The man walked to the side and spoke with the warden. Maurice could hear some of what they said, but he was tired and drugged, no less.

“The torture’s not working… he thinks there’s music playing… Beethoven… he sees his daughter… she was just a baby… he won’t break.”

The man left and the warden sauntered over to the table.

“Do you truly wish all those people to die at your hands? What had they done to you? Nothing. Your own wife, your daughter--”

Maurice winced.

The warden took advantage. “Your daughter died last week. I thought I would let you know. She contracted the virus through your wife’s blood stream while she was still carrying her. She suffered a painful death.”

Maurice kept his mouth shut. He would tell them nothing.

“All right, if you want to play that way.” The warden signaled to another man who brought over a red medical kit. The warden opened it and lifted a syringe and a small medical vial. He extracted some of the liquid. “This is a sample of contaminated blood from one of the virus victims. You have no idea how much I risked getting my hands on this.”

Maurice eyed him suspiciously, wondering what tactic he was trying to use.

“This is the last time I will ask. Where’s the sample?”

Maurice said nothing.

The warden lowered his head and shook it back and forth. Maurice believed he had won.

Then the warden jammed the needle into Maurice’s leg.

“You shall suffer the same fate as your victims.” The warden motioned to the other man. “I don’t want to see him again unless he tells us where the last sample is.”

The warden left, the needle still projecting from Maurice’s leg.




“You have witnessed your sins, now redeem yourself,” the woman in the emerald dress said. “You took my life, now give back those of the millions you have doomed.”

“But you lived! The memories!”

“No father, I was but a newborn, barely hours old when I died. The memories are only what your mind has fabricated. You tried to create a life for me that you were responsible for taking.” She placed her delicate hand on his shoulder. “Now spare those you have condemned to die. It is my only request.”

She disappeared.

“The playground!” Maurice shouted.

The guard in the dark uniform came running.

“The last sample is in the playground!”

The guard spoke into a two-way radio. Several minutes more of Maurice’s screaming passed and the warden appeared at the bars.

“What is it, Maurice?”

“The last sample, it’s in the playground.”

“Yes, Maurice, you’ve already told us. Three hundred and seventy-two times actually. We found it and created an antidote over twelve years ago.”

Confused, Maurice laid back down on his straw mattress. Had he already told them where it was? He did receive the antidote, so that made sense. But had he disclosed the location three hundred and seventy-two times? He didn’t remember doing it once. He was supposed to have told them nothing.

Eventually the guard and the warden went on with their duties, leaving Maurice isolated in the cell.

He was exhausted after all he had been through. The smell of the mattress disgusted him, but if he didn’t sleep on it, he would be sore the next morning. He had just about dozed off when he heard a voice.

Maurice.

Grar! Wonderful tale by the way but argh! The typos, the continual dimness, the constant tension! Grrr.

Alright, going from the top shall we? This will take a while I think.

Part one

I agree with Snoik by the way, starting in a dungeon scene is a bit...cliche. Although, with the italics it gets my attention. The second lot I'd -describe- what was happening. Was his name (as I assumed) a thought, a whisper, a sound, what? VARY the tension.

For example

Maurice. A soft whisper in his mind.

Alone. Alone in a granite cell with a thousand thoughts of a thousand dreams and then some. It was easiest when he didn’t think, didn’t try to recall his belabored past. But then again, thinking was all he had left.

Maurice. It came again.

Just an idea, tension, make the reader wonder what significance the voice has, who's saying where it came from...and then the sort of, dullness of the first background para.

Maurice. The sibilant whisper was louder, almost commanding.

“What!?” he shouted and then erupted into a horrible fit of coughing.

You see what I mean? It's just one way of describing it but it gives the voice, which is clearly important, MORE importance...if that makes sense.

I -could- go through the dialog as well but...bleh. It's already been commented on...Ah, stuff it. I'll give you some help there too aye?

A tear fell down Maurice’s cheek as he realized he couldn’t shut out these new demons. They had been all but forgotten, and now he had to face them. He panicked, and in the process started hacking out fierce, dry coughs.

“They are abhorrent. Please, release me from them.”
He whispered softly, desperately as he gazed at her imploringly
“I cannot.” Her voice was softly regretful, yet uncompromising.

He knew his only escape would be to relive them, and give the woman what she wanted.

“The Piano Room,” he sighed, “is a place that any sane man would fear, as well as the insane. At first, they act friendly--”

“Who acts friendly?” She enquires softly, genuinely interested

Do you get what Snoik was talking about? If only a little bit?

Part two

Loved the way you linked it directly on from the previous tale! Brilliant. It gave me a sense of what he was actually feeling, and a slight bit of confusion even though the reader knows exactly what is going on. (don't mind me, I jump from saying 'me' to 'the reader' and back again, stay with me).

“You are known by many names now, none of them your own. You are scum, an unforgivable wretch. Personally, I am agreeable with the term Pigyanker, though many would find that not vile enough. Are you finished with your inquiry now?” The look the guards [s]gave Maurice [/s] cold eyes were[s]was[/s] filled with contempt.

[s]He nodded.[/s] He turned his gaze to the floor and his shoulders slumped in despair as he nodded wearily.

[s]The man plodded forward and slammed the cell door as he left[/s] The guard strode from the cell, his footfalls echoing hollowly down the hallway after the reverberating echoes of the door had stilled.

Just...little things. Teensy little bits of detail that give your story more ...life I suppose you could say. Maurice, your main character, has been beaten down by the monotony of his cell, emphasise that. The guard dislikes him, intensely. Enhance it! Give the reader a sense of helplessness, hopelessness...You could do so much more with these writings, if only you fleshed them out more.

I'm not going through and correcting every little spot, well, suggesting corrections, because it's -your- tale, not mine...I'm just trying to give you ways of making it better.

Part three

First line, it was even QUOTED and they didn't pick it up!!

He had on shoes

On shoes? ON SHOES!? I'm assuming you mean that he was wearing footwear yes? Then wouldn't he have shoes ON. Sheesh. It was quoted and nobody else picked it up.

Sorry, It was that one thing that made me go back and reread through this and poke holes in all the thin bits.

All the 'he's in the very start of the post got a touch monotonous, as well as making me wonder just -who- we are talking about here. Since the third piece didn't logically link on from the second. Why was he walking, how did he start walking and who was he walking with?

Men and women suffered. Some hung from chains against the wall, whipped or simply left to waste away. Others were strapped to tables, like he had been in his visit to the Piano Room. Men with bladed and picked instruments slowly cut into their skin, and blood oozed from their wounds and dripped slowly to the floor.

My compliments on this paragraph, a good work of imagery. I could actually see it, and you put the image there rather than me relying on my imagination. Albeit it's a bit gory and...well, painful looking, but it is THERE yay!

A thin red portiere hung over an archway

Uhum...forgive my ignorance, but what's a portiere?

All in all, Apart from starting like, -every- sentence with 'he', I think that Part three is your best written section.

Part four
Wonderful, we start again with an unknown voice, only this time it is actually a -voice- not a disembodied thought like thing.

“Get up, Maurice, get up!” A sharp feminine voice cracks through his dreaming mind.

He shuffled around on the straw mattress. The night still shrouded the cell in darkness. A little more detail here...like, perhaps he didn't want to wake?

“Now!”

He got up. “What? What do you want? Are you here to play with my head again? Show me something else terrible?” He almost snarled the accusation.

What happened? We went from those greatly descriptive paragraphs in part three, a somewhat...unimportant, 'dream' of events(?) to...that. This is a major section of your tale, he finds out the why, the what and how of his crime. And we have three sentence paragraphs.

Alright, it's not quite -that- bad but honestly!

Part four

Very nice, in theory. It's a memory of sorts yes? A replay inside Maurices mind. Personally, I would have kept the reader guessing for a little longer.

He was in a prison facility.

Who was? I like that...the reader has to guess, are we still talking about Maurice or is this some new guy? Some other poor soul?

An especially angry-looking man stood over him. Maurice realized he was in the Piano Room

Hmm. And we lose the suspence. How about, rather than giving the reader his name, describe the angry-looking man. Was he redfaced, blotchy? Did he spit from the anger when he spoke, did he have a twitch in his cheek? Rather than TELLING the reader that he was angry, SHOW them and let them draw their own conclusions. Oh, and DESCRIBE THE ROOM!! I'm dying to know what the Piano Room looks like!

The man walked to the side and spoke with the warden. Maurice could hear some of what they said, but he was tired and drugged, no less.

Ooookay then. -Where- did this come from? Where did the drugging come from, let alone being bound? All the reader got was that he was in pain, and we (I know I did) assumed that he was incapacitated from said pain, not bound! And what was he bound TO?

Sure, Maurice may have been drugged, which means that he couldn't hear ALL of what they said, but you could have --should have written what he COULD hear.

The man left and the warden sauntered over to the table. What does the warden look like? A balding man, his eyes set too closely together to let him have the look of a man that would be pleasant to know. He saunters over to Maurice, arrogance in every motion, well aware and eager to flaunt his power.
“Do you truly wish all those people to die at your hands? What had they done to you? Nothing. Your own wife, your daughter--” What does the wardens voice sound like? Is it hard, mean? Are those words flung at him like bullets, designed to wound?

Maurice winced.

Even with my additions, you could reword them and leave the reader still wondering who is being hurt...let them draw their own conclusions rather than tell them outright. Makes readers feel rather clever when they 'figure out' the storyline. Trust me, I know. I felt clever when I pegged that the 'woman' was his dead daughter.

Also, I LOVED the way you ended it. Perfect, absolutely perfect. He's stuck in a loop of his own nightmare. Although, add a couple dots onto the end of Maurice. To indicate that there is a little bit more to come...that the loop replays indefnitely.

Well done, it was an ...engaging tale, despite the constant level of tension, and despair. Add something to give the reader the faint hope that he was innocent, or could escape...or SOMETHING, rather than the constant, never ending cycle of memories....as you reveal in the last line.

~Chibi
Note, I HATE American spellings. I had to go back and edit three times, for spelling the syntax 'colour'

I liked the first part, and i have yet to read the next few. I understood that the lady was a part of his imagination right at the beginning, but I'm not sure if that's because it was partially obvious or because I've read other books like it.
The Piano room sounds interesting but I wish I could know why he was put there in first place. Unless, of course, that is the way you meant to have it. I shall go and read the other parts now. Good job, by the way.