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Greed
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01-07-2013, 04:06 AM
... and I want a main place to dump them all and hopefully get critique. (Yes, please!)
The main areas I'm looking for feedback on are: - Writing style
- Mistakes in tense - I'm always looking for these to banish from my writing. I've noticed that I tend to slip between tenses etc. and for some reason are unable to fix them or notice them?
But would love feedback in other areas too.
Thanks. :)
Last edited by Greed; 01-07-2013 at 04:11 AM..
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Greed
(っ◕‿◕)&...
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01-07-2013, 04:11 AM
This one's on belonging.
There were always stories circulating the Kindergarten. She missed her father's laugh. She was always crouched alone in the corner of the playground during recess and lunch – never eating, never talking. She missed her mother's soft smile – they way the corners of her eyes would wrinkle at the corners. The other children thought she was weird - frightened, they teased. She thought her heart would never stop breaking.
No one would ever understand her... They wished she would all go away.
* * *
Almost 12 years had passed since the day her parents had disappeared from her life. The wind around her whipped through her hair, humming an almost eerie tune – as if it understood her pain, and was mourning silently with her. She thought it was funny how after all this time, she was still so affected by the deaths of those she had loved the most. Funny how the memories refused to fade. Firmly attached to her thoughts and actions.
Slinging her knitted rucksack across her back, she brushed a loose stand of mousey brown hair out of her eyes and headed out the partly steel enforced door. The walk to where she worked was always tedious. Heading through alleyways lined with trashcans and floating bits of plastic and broken bottles still set her nerves on end, even after all these years. Shrugging her backpack higher up her shoulder, she looked down at her feet – one in front of the other – and trudged onwards.
She worked at the local corner store which sold just about everything – and attracted just about everyone for that matter. Much like walking down the aisles and aisles of food, clothing, books, detergent and so on at Coles; you would find every variety of humans at the corner store – fat ones, skinny ones, tall ones, short ones, ones with a lot of facial hair, and those with less facial hair, and so on and so forth. She sighed as she ran her hand through her hair, slightly annoyed as an indecisive lady stood at the counter for fifteen minutes trying to choose between the blueberry or strawberry variety of sweets; with a queue of people blossoming behind her. She stared outside the dusty window, longing to be lounging outside in the sun, without any worries for her own future. As quickly as it came - she brushed the thought aside - making a face as though it would remove all traces of her fruitless wish; it wasn't as if she had any friends anyway.
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Greed
(っ◕‿◕)&...
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01-07-2013, 04:51 AM
Paragraph written in the modernist style
I think it was a Tuesday… When the sunshine from a window sent a cascade of light splattering onto the kitchen bench-top in a myriad of coloured rays… Much like the streams of sunlight that filter through the blue-green waters and reach the multitude of bleached corals and seaweed that decorate the shallow ocean waters. And also filter through stain-glass windows that are commonly contained in the everyday church, places where people go to preach or and be preached to. Those beautiful stain-glass windows that look like they just came out of a child’s art studio… Drawings… Neatly coloured inside the lines with fancy Derwent colour pencils, and outlined with Sharpie permanent markers.
Last edited by Greed; 01-07-2013 at 04:53 AM..
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Greed
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01-07-2013, 04:53 AM
A short modernist story dealing with the stream of consciousness and fragmentation.
I may have imagined it; maybe it was a dream… But watching the dark clouds sweep across the starless night sky – I try not to remember. That suffocating air, those drowning skies and pouring winds… Which press against me - engulfing me in a down current of melancholy emotions. Alone; I journey through life. Posters rushing past as I stream past in the safety of the train – day after day, week after week... Is it really safe? Where is safety? Trapped… Inanimate objects lie innocently in my tracks, murmuring sweet lies; as animals stare after me with intelligent, knowing eyes…
Through the window pan – I see those eyes – turning towards me as a sunflower would turn towards the bright, dawn sun. As a trapped songbird would stare pitifully out at you, from a golden cage… Frightened eyes would follow you, as you saunter around the room – your new fur garment slung about your shoulders. Its presence attempting to stimulate your deflated ego, as your garment contrasting sharply to the trembling apprehension in your eyes… Those dark, dark eyes… Failing to shine… Just like the eclipsed moon.
Ever since being caught out in the downpour, I’ve become fragmented. Claustrophobic… Fear; expanding exponentially; encompasses me. Touching water; I think of fire. A steady, solitary bulb of warmth… Yellow, orange, red… then yellow once again – I imagine it engulfing the water. I focus… And then the flame goes out. I keep trying – and history just keeps repeating itself.
Again and again… The addictive monotony of continuous occurrences… Just as you would turn the pages of a book and read of a ‘handsome, clever and rich’ woman who lived in a ‘comfortable home… with very little to distress or vex her.’ Flipping through the worn pages with oily corners where hundreds of other excited fingers have been before… You might wonder… What is it that keeps you flipping? The driving force behind all the pages you turn, one after one, carefully, delicately…
Just as a mother would nurse her new-born, fragile baby – cooing delightfully at it… When its soft fingers curled up into a ball, or when the pale eyelids would lightly flutter in pleasure. How quickly life races away… Before you know it, that bubbling baby becomes an old reliant man, using the dole as a means of support in the late, drowsy days of life. Everyday passing the same way as it had before, just as it always had been doing, just as you never noticed it had been doing until it was presented to you and pressed against your face. The musty black ink leaving dark stains across your tear-streaked and battered face.
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Greed
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01-07-2013, 05:16 AM
Work in progress of potential history story.
Set in Berlin during the Cold War about two children who are the representative of poverty at the time - illustrating the economic paradigm. They are constantly terrorised by society, and both try to rebel against the state. Speed originates from West Berlin, whilst Bliss comes from the East. They will meet as the story goes on, even though they are currently separated by the Berlin Wall.
There's a lot left to do to finish off the story, and frankly I'm wondering if it'll be too difficult to complete or if it'll get too complicated. (Are there too many time skips?)
Franziska or Bliss as she was now known as woke up – just like every other day. The brush would steadily run through her hair, fighting knots, easing the fizz; as she stared forlornly out of the window. Looking out, she could see the gradual swell of people as they streamed out from the little shacks and went off with their everyday work. Soon, it would be time for her to join them, her stomach grumbled, as if complaining about their present situation. She pulled on her red cloak – or what use to be her red cloak. It was dusty and gritty, dirt seeming to cling to every fibre of the cloth, unrelenting like the torrent of abuse life continued to throw at her.
"Bye mum!" She shouted as she shut the door behind her. She drew her cloak tight around her frail shoulders, as the air flicked her hair back away from her face and threatened to steal her cloak. Her white fists were clenched around the pan. Walking past the bakery, she glanced into the window, watching her reflection as she attempted to pull the appropriate smile. However, she just saw her own tired and sleep ridden eyes, dark circles defining them. Sighing softly, she turned her eyes back onto the muddy road and trudged on.
It was a pleasant looking door. She admired the fine detailing and soft strokes of colour that adorned it, and the delicate way in which the glossy paint would reflect the sunlight. She lightly knocked against it. A stern woman opened the door, her hair seemed to cascade behind her like a waterfall, whilst she greeted her with a grim smile. She looked down upon Bliss, as a giant would upon an ant. "Hello, would you like to buy a pan?" Questioned Bliss, her stomach clenching, smile faltering. "No." Came the solemn, bored reply before the door was slammed, the bang resonating whilst a faint muttering about poverty and beggars could be heard, as Bliss stood stunned by the abrupt anger.
* * *
Speed stood facing the horizon, it's soft, warm glow seeming to wrap its tender fingers around and smile down upon him as he took a deep breath, closing his eyes. He thought about a lot of things, but mostly her. His little sister. Where was she now? Was she well? Were they better off than he and his father was? "Speed! Come on, it's time to play!" Called a familiar rough voice from behind him, breaking him from his reverie. With a reluctant glance behind him, he ran after Windy. Laughing, they raced towards the gates before they crashed straight into a lanky boy clutching the shoulders of a young boy.
"Hey Capt'n," they saluted jokingly, "Who's the new-ey?"
"The new recruit for the game," he retorted, annoyed at the disruption.
"Got a name yet?"
"Yeah, this one's Gooey."
* * *
She made her way back, her soft steps clicking lightly against the dirt pavement. Eyes - tracing the familiar pattern of cobble under her slightly dusty brown shoes. Oblivious to the clicking of hooves upon the pavement, and yells coming her way, she collides with a steed and lands upon the ground with a thud. Her already grimy cloak now chokes with the smell of dirt.
"Oi! Maggot, oudda the way!" Gruffly yells the pompous rider.
Bliss scuttles quickly to the side of the building.
* * *
"Hey Gooey, are you ready to play?" Speed questioned, nudging him gently. "P-p-play?" Gooey stuttered. "Yep. The one to obtain and leave with the most loaves wins." Speed answered, mouth curved into a smile, while his eyes stared out – dead, bored, hungry.
* * *
They stood in a row. Sweat; tricking down despite the still iciness of the surrounding air. Waiting. Waiting in unwanted anticipation. Their stomachs grumbled against their will, as they wished that they could've at least taken a mouthful of that loaf of bread they had managed to 'take'... But not get away with. Their attention was undivided as they stared pointedly at a possibly misplaced darker piece of cobble on the wall behind the guards that contrasted against the lighter lichen covered areas... Then a siren erupted, piercing the frigid silence of the dewy morning air. They looked around, questioning as the guards broke formation and started to swarm around – men forgotten.
"Speed! Hurry up and make a dash for it! What on Earth are you waiting for?" he heard a voice shout behind him, as they ran, trying to make a rush for it. Away – anywhere but there. Speed glanced behind him, eyeballing a head guard as he attempted to understand the situation and control his men, then at a slight wall past which he may be able to get over...
He heard the guard shout and point at him, he ran.
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Greed
(っ◕‿◕)&...
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01-07-2013, 05:56 AM
Experimentation with change from first to third person in a quick short story.
Smog. Ice-cream. Cold. He stared greedily at the tubs of colourful ice-cream flavours lining the store, each cruelly promising unobtainable happiness and love. The momentary look of glee that plastered his face, mimicked that same look all the other starving men, women and children in the area made as they stared at boiling bowls of soup. He walked around to the back, as he always did in the cold.
I stuffed my cold, blistered hands into the pockets of my cotton jacket. My feet thumped rhythmically along the pavement, finding their own way into my cavern of pure bliss. Tubs and tubs of empty ice-cream. They decorated the beautiful misty backdoor of the store, along with rows and rows of plastics bags and the occasional scavenging rat who would find him for his treasures.
His back was hunched, and he started to dine upon the first tub – "Raspberry Ripple" this one read. He slowly ran his plague-covered tongue along his chapped lips. Ravenous, searching fingers slowly reached out and ran along the inside lengths of the tub, catching the small droplets of ice-cream that would run and drip from the sides of the box to collect in the centre. But, before he could taste the lovely sweetness of the treat, a tattered ginger cat meowed loudly at him, arching it's back before quickly licking his finger and jumping nimbly away.
"No!" I shouted, quickly getting up and slamming the tub against the concrete – following it with a string of curses that would potentially make every gang in the area envious, no matter which side they were on. I felt tears starting to well up in my eyes, and burn down my face in streaks. Angrily, I brushed them away, and started on the second tub... And the third... And then the fourth... By then, I was out of tears, and the ice-cream tasted salty and watery. I curled up into a tight ball. As a caterpillar would construct a cocoon, he wrapped his grimy cloak around him. His hands reached up and cupped his neck, as if his bony fingers would be able to shield his delicate human skin from the harsh winds that had picked up and seemed to rip through the air – cutting through the fine grit filled wrinkles that ran across his skin. The once calm tendrils of wind became unforgiving, their tiny pellets aimed straight at him, as if God himself had hired angelic sharpshooters to punish him. Mournfully, he closed his eyes and attempted to pitifully visualise how life had once been.
I opened my eyes. Blinking, my eyes attempted to adjust to the searing morning light that radiated its warmth down towards me. The fingers of rays wrapped themselves around me, trying to envelop me into a microcosm of... Joy. I breathed in deeply, my chest rising as my lungs tried to accommodate as much of the crisp dewy air that was physically possible, the tiny droplets of water seeming to dance around inside of me. "Ring a ring o' rosies!" They sang in union, harmonies came and left with the rhythmic beating of the cool air. Melodies spun through the air, making me slightly breathless and dizzy whilst feeling completely at home at the same time. As if God was exposing a creation of art, the light seemed to dim a little, allowing me to make out the faint outlines of a chapel, that slowly unfolded before my unworthy eyes. A bishop stood in the gates of the church. His gown billowed behind him, as his face was folded into an unwavering smile. A small ring of sunflowers surrounded him, as he beckoned towards me – no, behind me. Steams of people: grandparents, parents, children of all shapes and colours came flooding out from the horizon, skipping towards the building. They giggled, smiled and laughed. A twinge of jealousy erupted from within me, the emotion spilling outwards, tainting and darkening the soil beneath my feet. As quickly as the feeling entered, it left me. Just like everyone else in my life. Lustfully I glanced towards the families that surrounded me, then towards the chapel. Then I too, began to make my way towards heaven; towards a better place, I'm sure. I ducked my head under the arms of people, picking my way nimbly through the vast crowds of people that had suddenly appeared. As the hour hand of the grandfather clock face that adorned the steeple struck 6, deep chimes began to shake the very air around me. The people around me started to wear frantic looks upon their faces, as they ran faster, trying to make it over... A blanket of nothingness descended, engulfing everything. Despair. My outreached arm grabbed still air.
It was just as before. He sat there, cloak still firmly wrapped about his shoulders. His lips were slightly tinged with the fainted of blues that peaked out from behind the dark, blotchy chapped skin of his lips. That night, he wouldn't be the only one resting like that. Merely a metre from where he huddled, a small child in his tattered clothes made a bed out of ice-cream cartons and loose bits of plastic and food scraps; his arm cradling a small, deflated teddy.
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