Any writer's Here?
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Topic: Any writer's Here?
Posted By: Floydian42
Subject: Any writer's Here?
Date Posted: February 02 2007 at 14:41
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I recently started trying to write stories, and I've been working on improving my writing style. I wrote this a couple days ago, and figured someone on here would be intrested or would be able to give good feedback (unlike my friends, who I can never tell weather or not there just being nice) This is called "The Dream": I remember! Two snow-white children silent in the brisk of autumn. They stood tall, strait as a telephone pole waiting for the next signal. Facing each other. Both in a perfectly fit wedding gown, slightly faded and torn on the ends. There had to have been something before this... I remember walking; not here, but somehow I got here. My light brown jacket was no wear near enough to keep my soul content. Although no breeze was blowing, I still felt the occasional chill, I still could hear the occasional chime of the rusted bells, which decorated both the trees and the floor. Leaves on the ground, all were still. I walked up to one of the girls. Two enlarged pupils staring strait into their twins. The only difference between the two was that one had a wedding ring on the appropriate finger. A bride staring strait into her maid's eyes. The maid had no expression, just the weary eyes of a grandmother who had scene the worst her years had too offer. The bride, crystallized in a sense of worry. "Whose the lucky man?" I asked, trying to lighten her mood. A whispered voice came from her mouth. "Sean." I recognized the name as my own, although I'm one in a million. Sean: "How long have you been standing here for?" Maid: "She can't Remember" Spoken with a matching voice. Sean: "Can you?" Bride: "No. ... I can." Sean: "How long?" Maid: "Life began in water, life will end in water." Bride: "Since the first born." Sean: "Your first born" Maid: "Yes." Sean: "Her first born?" I said pointing to the bride. Bride: "Yes." Maid: "Not yet." Sean: "Her future son?" The Children: "Yes." Sean: After a moments thought, I said "How do you know life will end in water?" Maid: "I've seen it" Bride: "Would you like to see?" Sean: "Yes." We walked into the woods for what felt like hours. Just me and the bride. My ankles ached, not a word was spoke. What started as the periodical leaf turned into the knee high obstacle of each step. But once she stopped, I looked at the clearing in front of her. The most clear and clean water at the mile wide intersection of four rivers. The sun reflected directly at it's center. The Bride stared strait forward for several moments, then I noticed in the corner of my eye: a silhouette of a man standing to the side of me! There was no light behind it, just a dark figure without depth... moving. Around the lake was more of the same. There backs were hunched, there arms dragged, and they moved as if in a traffic jam. They all walked toward into the lake... exactly the same. None of them turned there heads, or acknowledged anyone else. The bride stepped to the side, and gestured to the Lake. My curiosity grabbed a hold of me! I stepped closer to the lake, and looked in, only to see my reflection. I couldn't put my finger on it, but it wasn't me. It was something different. Someone else. It moved exactly the same as I did, same clothes, same look on his face. But it wasn't me. Nevertheless, I walked into the lake. The water was warm, I felt a comfort as the water came between my leg and the cloth. I just looked at me, nothing else. My face, staring down, collided with the water. The buzzing alarm clock rang. I remember and write it down. October eight, 7:20 A.M. ------------------------------------------------- Opinions?  |
Replies:
Posted By: Angelo
Date Posted: February 02 2007 at 15:29
That's an invitation I'll take you up on. The first step in writing, after actually writing something down, is daring to show it to others.  I'll give you some feedback in return.> Two enlarged pupils staring strait into their twins. The only difference was one had a wedding ring on the appropriate finger. I think you introduced, by accident, a faulty reference here... I can't grasp the image of a pupil with a wedding ring on it's finger  The story is hard to get into, and I'm not sure if that is because of the dreamy subject, or your writing style (short sentences, description of details, but never giving away the full picture of the environment - nice!). The move from meeting the two girls to the men in the river seems a bit of a long leap. It might help the reader if you add some more on 'your' thoughts or what the lot of you see and do while walking through the woods. Remind me to read it again in a few days, so that it can sink in - maybe it's like prog, and needs a while to grasp. Keep on writing! ------------- http://www.iskcrocks.com" rel="nofollow - ISKC Rock Radio I stopped blogging and reviewing - so won't be handling requests. Promo's for ariplay can be sent to [email protected] |
Posted By: NutterAlert
Date Posted: February 02 2007 at 17:16
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I once wrote a poem called "Grandma's Knickers". It goes: Rose's are Red, Violet's are blue Ethel's are green. I thank you ------------- Proud to be an un-banned member since 2005 |
Posted By: BaldFriede
Date Posted: February 02 2007 at 17:32
Slightly reminds me of one of the stories in Michael Ende's book "Der Spiegel im Spiegel", "The Mirror in the Mirror". It is a book of absurd stories that are all somehow connected with each other. There are certain themes from one story that appear in another, for example. Or say that in one story a fireman is one of the main protagonists, then in another story a fireman may be a marginal one. The stories someho form a whole, like a hologram. In one of the stories a groom wants to get together with his bride on the day of the wedding, and for that he just has to get to the other end of the room, but it turns out that the "shortest" way across the room is incredibly long, leading through a large desert. When he finally reaches the bride, he is an old man, while she is still young. And just before he dies he remembers that when he went on his way an old woman had approached him just like he now approaches his bride. And the end of the story seems to suggest that this will happen again and again... The stories are in a way all like that; all about some kind of failure. But what exactly this "failure" is can be completely different. -------------  BaldJean and I; I am the one in blue. |
Floydian42 wrote:Posted By: Floydian42
Date Posted: February 03 2007 at 10:24
Thanks! BTW, I edited it slightly at the introduction in question |
Posted By: Chicapah
Date Posted: February 03 2007 at 11:04
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You certainly have talent. I write, too, and the best advice I ever got was to (1) write every day no matter what the subject matter and (2) if you get turned down by a publisher pay it no mind. They are the last ones to recognize anything unique. Also pay close attention to your spelling and grammar. Those are the tools that separate you from the mundane. ------------- "Literature is well enough, as a time-passer, and for the improvement and general elevation and purification of mankind, but it has no practical value" - Mark Twain |
Posted By: Jim Garten
Date Posted: February 05 2007 at 03:23
Curious piece - I enjoyed reading it, but don't ask me to explain it  
One small piece of pedantry, though; the thread title... Any writer's Here? Lose the apostrophe & drop the capitalisation of H!
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Jon Lord 1941 - 2012 |
Posted By: Floydian42
Date Posted: February 05 2007 at 15:56
Haha, yeah, sorry; grammar isn't my best area. (*capitalization* ) |
Posted By: Angelo
Date Posted: February 05 2007 at 16:16
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Reread your changes a couple of times- it gets easier to get into after a few times, probably because I know what's coming. Some spooky atmosphere you create - I no longer miss the piece in between the meeting and the end of the trip through the forest now. Leave it out, it's not necessary.
------------- http://www.iskcrocks.com" rel="nofollow - ISKC Rock Radio I stopped blogging and reviewing - so won't be handling requests. Promo's for ariplay can be sent to [email protected] |
Posted By: Christine
Date Posted: March 06 2007 at 10:40
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I write a lot of poetry but I usually end up hating everything within the same week that I've written it.The one thing that comes of it is that I know that I can always improve though. ------------- catsfootironclaw |
Posted By: Vompatti
Date Posted: March 06 2007 at 11:38
| I try to write stories, but I rarely manage to finish them before I realize how bad they are. |
Posted By: clarke2001
Date Posted: March 06 2007 at 11:54
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Write a page or two or one hundred if you want, than put the story in the locker (or on hard disk). Re-read it again tomorrow. While writing new things in the meantime, re-read it after a week - you will catch many (previously unnoticed) mistakes and weak parts. So, if the story is alright after a week time, it's good. Read a lot, but write more than you read. Regardless of your style, try not to confuse a reader. Both idea and implementation matters - if your idea is not totally original and unique, you must excel in style and implementation. If you have an unique idea, just be careful not to spoil it. Stay focused and balanced. Don't change your narration style during the story. Start writing now, never give up. Do not expect anything, except to die young, infamous and poor. I wish you a good luck. ------------- |
Posted By: Trademark
Date Posted: March 06 2007 at 14:47
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Putting an apostophe in "writers" doesn't do much for your credibility as a writer. It is not possesive in this instance.
Yikes! |
Posted By: darksinger
Date Posted: March 06 2007 at 23:46
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normally not into putting writing up, but i'll do this one:
The Dwarf King’s Requiem By Jen Williams Something nameless caught Rhiannon’s heart about the requiem her cousin Roger played as she sat in his parlor. It was as if a spirit had been brought into being by the piano and tried to possess her soul with its icy presence. Her mind was held in place and sang to her in lyrics that did not exist. When the song finally ended, she felt a craving to hear it again. “So,” Roger hit the rewind on his cassette player with a large finger, “What do you think?” “It must be the most beautiful thing I have ever heard,” she barely spoke, “You said his name is Dafydd Hallkell?” “Yes,” her ox of a cousin sat next to her, “Mysterious little fellow. He was the reason for my recent trip to Oslo. His wife died-tragic thing.” “Oh, my,” Rhiannon found it odd how she felt an ache of concern for this unseen stranger. “She drove off of a cliff. You would think living all of her life in Scandinavia that she would be able to negotiate a mountain road better.” Rhiannon’s blue eyes lit up like a fire, “How cold!” “Cold as in sending one’s mother-in-law a shipment of prawns on her birthday,” Roger folded his bear-like arms and gave his cousin a raised eyebrow. She narrowed her eyes at him, “I did not know she was allergic to shellfish.” “Whatever, Rhiannon. Anyway, it was odd. I always thought he was devoted to her, yet he never cried the entire time I was there.” ------------- 
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