This is the start of my story for NaNoWriMo. Its narrated by two, the bold and the unbolded. The launguage is rather Juxtaposed, so its a little confusing. Tell me what you think?

So this is a story about a girl, with a light hearted laugh and a careful demeanor. With eyes of caramel chocolate, and hair of caramel chocolate. Whose age is undetermined, because she rarely acts it, and whose name is a pun, so she’d rather not use it. For the duration, we may call her Uvery.She was born in an area few know about, in a place most would rather forget. She had a mother a father, and a sister too old and too indifferent to care, so in terms, she was born, only to a mother and a father.
Maybe not so much of a ghetto, than the slums. It wasn’t too unique, a tiny area where those of likewise financial states would conglomerate, because frankly, where else would they go? The bedrooms were miniscule, only enough space for the barest of habitation needs. The kitchen wasn’t even that. The size of a shower stall, and usually four times smokier, air saturated with the smells of Chinese spices and occasionally, if lucky, caramelized apples. This little 4-by-4 didn’t even have a door. A long, sturdy, pink cloth covered the opening, prettied by a huge pink rose and smoke stains. The washroom was perpetually reeking (though usually clean, thanks to my mother light case of Automysophobia.) and the living room was naught but a collection of scattered furniture, and walls. Food, though frequent, was never very abundant. Through the night, muffled yelling and breaking dishes always seemed to creep through the thin plaster walls. Oh, sympathy is unnecessary for my situation. I adored my home. An apartment is the ideal place to raise a young tot. Everyday, new sights and smells and people and things to do. It was heaven, on a stick, proverbially speaking. So obviously, I was required to move. I loved my little apartment, but my parents had a different idea in their head. It involved a lot more trees, and a lot less muffled shooting in the night.
By the time she was 4, she moved, relocating to an area closeish in distance and farish in difference. She went to school, making friends and enjoying nature, content in the security that was her niche in life. She learned; too much in some areas, and too little in others, only pulling up decent marks and disapproving glances from her teachers, adamant in her ability to do better. She met, people, places, things. Nouns in every colour, shape, and proverbial nature. People who made her blood boil in their insolence, people who made her heart sing in their gold plating, people who made her gape in their profanity. She faced set backs, challenges, mind numbing defeat. She laughed, loved, wondered. During that time she flourished. Even in times of bleakness, she held a modicum of peace, for she knew that this was her life, and she knew where she stood.
I don’t remember the first day of school. Its interesting, a time so significant, so important should stand fresh in remembrance, considering the obscenely large capacity I have or past experiences. Sadly, not much remains of that particular memory. Snatches of kindergarten stick in my mind, Colouring a Winnie-the-Pooh, learning what “coral” was, making tiny pancakes on Fat Tuesday, rolling around in the sand box. Meeting Lisa. Kindergarten passed without a hitch. I graduated, holding a cheap fake diploma and the biggest grin muster able by my tiny little cheeks.
She was a bit of a tomboy, after the odd age of 6. At six, she was intent on doing what was “proper” rather than what she felt. Following the textbooks instead of her instincts, so to speak. It was in her own opinion that a respectable young lady at the age of five and one, should like pink, demand to be the pet when playing games of “House”, and smile incessantly when ever at school. Grade 2, that’s when she would like to think she blossomed. She threw off the oppressive yoke of “girlishness” and exchanged it for the equally oppressive yoke of “tomboy”. The only difference was that she liked being a tomboy. She hung out with the “bad boys” of school. A lot of boy and not a lot of bad. Two boys (and an addition of five) and one girl made up her group, her standings in Elementary School.
Mark was our leader, a natural born one at that. He wore power and confidence like most would wear their own skin. Standing a full head above the rest of the class, it came easy to him, even with the pancreatic disability. Diabetes was a bit of a mystery to the class at the time. All we knew was that every lunch, he had to stick himself with a small needle, and shove a tiny drop of blood, a single ruby pinprick, through a tiny machine. The insulin deficiency, the need of sugar, it was all irrelevant to us. All we knew was the spring loaded needle.
Grade one slipped by, nothing of note, nothing worthy of importance. The year simply slipped by, with the aid of smiles, friends, and daily stickers.
Proud and fearless was he, Mark, the lion, outdone only by Aden, the panther. Sometimes, it was hard to tell who went where, who deserved the title of “Most Powerful”. If power derived from brawn, from circumference of biceps alone, then Mark would have taken the cake, the pie too, even. If wisdom and wit had any say in the formula for power, the Aden would have discretely taken the cake from under Mark’s nose, and polished it off in a corner; coming out only after all the frosting was gone from his lips. Aden was wise, not smart. This is what separated him from the rest. I was smart, but naive; this is what separated me from him.
Aden, he, at the grade of 3, had the comprehension of one at the grade of 9. When he had the body of an eight year old, he had the mind of a teen. Now how do you think this affected his psyche? Uvery didn’t think too much about trivial things like mind state and psychology. Her say of life was like that of an expensive car. If the bumper falls off, stick on a new one. If a window cracks. Cover it with a band aid, and get mommy to fix it. She can pay the auto repairman. If it breaks, fix it, because a fancy car is too precious to go to waste. She had the right idea, but not the universally accepted one. And of course, she didn’t understand the finer points of mechanics. What would you do with a battery leak? Perchance the car would run, still function like it was designed to. But sooner or later, the car was going to blow. The only problem was it would usually have to be sooner.
In grade 2 science, we learned that in magnetism, a polar would attract a no polar, and vise versa. The trick wowed me, two hunks of dubious metal, painted bright with red and blue (ends conveniently marked with a plus and a minus) that would, as if by magic, stick together and hold on tight. A great metaphor, for Lisa and me. We weren’t strangers, meeting in the classroom, under the benevolent gaze of a wizened teacher. In kindergarten, we were acquaintances, if not full on friends. We definitely liked each other, despite our very obvious differences. She was tall, I was just bordering on average. She was gorgeous, if I worked hard enough, I could make it to “cute”. Her skin was decidedly dark, dark chocolate in colour. Mine was a wimpy shade of off-cream, brought to me by Asian heritage and sun only half the year. I was smart; she just barely slipped by in school. I was rash, polite, small in conduct. She was careful, biting when necessary, and spoke her mind. Polar opposites, together as if by chance, destined to stay close forevermore.
Forever was a loose concept, for any sort of child, how long could it really be? A day? A month? A year? A millennium and a half? Uvery and Lisa had a surprisingly solid concept of “forever”. Forever being until the stars stopped wishing on themselves. Besides the Lion and the Panther, we had an entire menagerie. The lion and the panther, along with the Warthog, the Cheetah, times two (and a half), the chimpanzee, the golden retriever, and the grizzly.
Matt was the warthog, warthog only for his relationship with Mark, brothers. An obscure Disney reference if anything, Matt was about as Warthog as he was poodle. The Cheetah, times two, was the place of two individuals. Danny and Alex, both cheetah in their own right, fast, strong, athletic. Only Danny was more. Throw a cheetah’s speed and the intelligence of a chimp together, you have something resembling Danny. Add a male model to the equation; you have a blow by blow sculpture, only take out the Greek-god factor. Danny demanded similarity in treatment, despite near unholy skills and talents. The golden retriever, Sean, was so sweet; he could give you a tooth ache. Loyal to a fault, and kind to a miss. He was imperfect, but his imperfections made him all the more endearing. That leaves the grizzly, which would undoubtedly belong to Jared. Winnie the Pooh, and the wild bears are apparently the same species. So alike in genetic matter, but so different in taste. Jared could do both. The nicest person you could ever care to meet, but he always had those claws ready.
If they were the animals, what were Lisa and I? I was a bumblebee that accounted for the other half of cheetah. Running, not known for endurance (though it wasn’t too shabby), but instead for sheer, raw speed. In a straight race, from one end to another, I could match Danny with ease. Leg muscles, toned from swimming and regular use, readily matched even the fastest speed. But throw in a curve or two, all I could do was fall. The bumblebee requited for my nature. Blitzing around. Seemingly small, but a vital portion of the equation.
Which equation? There were many, most of which she didn’t or never understood.
Lisa wasn’t an animal. She didn’t even want to be a part of the zoo! She was the flower, impossibly beautiful and aloof in her ways. She was brought to the motley crew, not strictly by choice (though she grew to like many of the once iffy animals) but because the flower would die without the bumblebee, and a flower alone isn’t a flower. It’s just another weed.

At first glace, or even second or third, she appeared the average student; usually pulling decent grades, some A’s, but most residing in the B area. She had a talent for math, but an extreme dislike. She got on affably well with History and was best friends with Art. She found French too difficult to get along with, and gym just required too much commitment. She was already engaged to be married to Science by her two Chemist parents, but her true love belonged to literature. Books, words, the heady perfume of twice cherished pages, fantastical plots brought not to life, but beyond with naught but a breath of whispered words, and a paperback covering. What would eventually be a voracious reader started off as a mild hunger. Thin chapter books, titles ending with exclamation marks or puns. The paltry mysteries that Jigsaw provided amused, but didn’t interest. Junie B was just fine and dandy, but the situations were too simple, to ordinary to really amaze. Finding the simplistic plots boring, she threw them in her dust, from that point moving to the other side of fiction. The Big Kid side of the library daunted. Single books, passion and soul only barely contained in the wafer thin pages. Series, when the author loved the characters too much to let go. Swallowing fear, I dove into the shelves, sought refuge in the endless shelves that stretched for miles and miles and didn’t stop till my arms were busting out of their seams but I didn’t care because that meant that I had literature. I found Wishbone, endless plays and epics condensed into child appropriate size, with the aid of Dalmatian. DSA, assorted children, all completely unfit for their way of life. Even Pokémon, for the times when the cartoon just wasn’t enough.<--And it shall continue D<

I would suggest putting another space of line between the bold and not bold segments just so the eyes will follow the page better. I love the introduction and the way she seems so average and uncomfortable. I also like the mystery provided in the intro, the rest also flows very good with how you start the story. Great job. I love it!

i agree with the spacing that daemon_lucifer suggested it would make it a little more easy to read. i like the story its interesting and switching back and forth keeps the read interested in my opinion. i love the mystery of who she is. i like that you can tell the non bold part is her speaking.

This is just a suggestion for the fact that it's a pet peeve of mine. Don't use caramel chocolate for her eyes and hair. Once my friend had me read a story she wrote and was proud of, it was really bad and she repeatedly wrote, "chocolate brown eyes". She wrote some idiotic love scene and she used that phrase at least four times.

Maybe you could use dark chocolate for one and caramel for another. However, food for explaining eyes and most other things is dull especially when it comes to brown eyes.

I'm not exactly sure if I should bring up anything about grammar or punctuation. This seems like something I'd be critiquing about ideas. However, you should spell out numbers that are lower than 1-100 or 1-10. (Depends on the level of writing.)

This is an interesting idea, it sounds similar to a play. I like how it's well written and so far none of the characters are lacking common sense. I really hate when a book is written with an idiot for a main character, unless they change. The writing was adorable in a way, I don't know why but I just got that from it.

It's not really my cup of tea, but it's a good idea and it has unique characters. <3

Thanks! The commentary is appreciated.
I'll make it doubble spaced in the future, and yes, it is a little difficult to read, even with the bold.

As for the "choclate" part, the eyes and the hair are actually based off someone, her eyes are lighter around the pupil, and darker around the edges. Same with her hair. I don’t know, chocolate is overplayed, but its honestly better than saying “And eyes the colour of mud with caramel pudding dropped in the corner.”

I'm glad to know the characters are liked, and yes, you are right. NU,BERS SPELLED, AWAY!

are you going to post more soon? i am not trying to rush i am just wondering. you can take all the time you need.

I am writing, I'm just a notoriously slow writer. I'll have more posted soon-ish. >]

The main recess stood 20 minutes long, times two. Before, once upon a wistful bored child’s daydream, it was 45, surrounded by 2 extra 10 minute periods. Since then, the time changed, shortening itself, cut into 2 pieces; a couple minutes of educational respite, at 11:00, and 1:30. Despite the reduction, 40 total minutes was ample time to play the games invented and conducted by our group. Starting from fantastical, and moving up, we amused ourselves with games involving imagination and make believe, and on the rarest of occasions, violence. Pokémon was the blueprints for out first games, structurally standing, but not at all similar. Pikachu? Bulbasaur? Lizards and turtles and other such small, potentially wimpy creatures ignored, we had bigger to fish to fry. Rarer creatures, Lavitar and Kangaskan. We amused ourselves, pretending smatterings of trees were looming forests, fraught with dangerous yet completely adorable creatures to capture and nurture and not get beat up by. Well, I did. Usually, I played the role of the lone human; most others contented themselves with the actual Pokémon. Mark immersed himself in the role of Lavitar, with a mouth full of leaves, reassuring us all that Lavitars LOVED fresh oak leaves. When “human” became too boring, to difficult to play, I choose Kangaskan, loving the tiny baby carried, marsupial style. Others choose stronger creatures, need for power quenched by imagining themselves bigger and more powerful than the rest. Houndour was a popular choice, as well as the Legendary Pokémon, which were later declared as “cheap”. Eschewing the power rule completely, Lisa liked more mammalian creatures, sticking to her firm logic of “Dogs, and lots of them.”


If Mark said jump, they would ask trajectory. Trained puppy dogs they were, but content in their placings’. He played the role of Leader well, allowing comments to fuel his decisions, trying his best to make sure all were pleased.


I wouldn’t go as far to say Mark was psycho. For one, he didn’t “psycho” too often. Once a dreary meadowed fairytale, if you want to go to specifics. Most of the time he was calm, politically correct, inventive within his parameters, but once in a rare while, influenced by full moon or faulty gravitation, he would blow. Metaphorically speaking, of course. Though a very apt one. Face an odd shade of tomato, and fists beating anything near. It was a tantrum, one designed, not to hurt- not people anyway- but instead for stress relief, and or a complaint. Still, it frightened. No matter the amount of conniption, big small or barely visible, someone standing a full head above always seemed to scare. The teachers put on a brave face, frowning at the upturned desks. No one seemed to notice the slight shake of the fingers, or the mild quavering in their voices. Details that required subtlety were lost on seven year olds.


Grade two ended with the grace of a three legged dog with a bowel disorder. Grade three drifted in, dainty on little cat feet. A great teacher, and winning classmates. Enter, Aden, stage right.


Grade three meant Mrs. Stefanos, the EQAO but mostly it meant the meeting of new people, namely Aden. A new face, newly transferred from Who Knows Where, an slight build and a premature maturity, which he disguised with a sense of humor and a disregard for sexism. Shortened brown hair, only slightly curling and blue eyes, not meant for dreaming, but instead for the most piercing of stares. He would have blended around anywhere, but Mark brought him out. Introduced him at the first recess possible. Mild repetitive “Hi!”s later, we played. Frolicked in our imaginations. Befriended instantly, Aden joined.


The byproduct of a school-wide contest, reading was suddenly made much, much more popular. Reading corners were promoted, prizes given for best, jeers, quietly spoken, for worst. Interest for reading spread like the flu, for everything was better when aided by colourful cushions.


Rather generic in style, and clichéd in decorations, our reading corner was the tiniest slice of heaven. Rectangular in structure, two sides wall (with one wall’s drab beige cheered by a long painting, the other covered with propped pillows) and one complete book shelf. The last section opened, depicting the teacher’s desk. Floor completely covered with pillows, stuffed with combinations of wool, down, and most likely pieces of cloud for how soft they were. For the allotted reading time, only 4 had the privilege of The Book Corner. A much sought after right, depicted by the shameless begging and flattery showered onto the teacher at times right before and after the half hour. Old books, new books, books on varying levels of difficulty, length, and sarcastic humor presented themselves, wearing colourful covers and shiny writing and interesting backs not unlike a male mandrill.


Imaginations fueled by literature, and literature fueled by ever popular demand, recesses upgraded to fantastical games, purely of own invention. Well nearly.