Posted January 9, 2011 So I'm writing in my sleep. Y'know; you're drifting off and you're telling yourself a story and you realise you can't sleep because the story is taking you elsewhere. It's only a few paragraphs but it's pretty much the first thing I've written in months and, as always, it's unedited. ____ Your eyes open, then abruptly stammer to compensate for the volume. A high-frequency, gazing flourescency curls your cheeks up and lowers your brow the more you try to see it. There is a dark echo that passes periodically yet regularly, an invisible thumpumpump ... thumpumpump that passes for time here. The quiet shades of difference in what you see slowly lose their soft intertwined murmur and distinct elements speak to you. Your vision slows its spin. The naked, painful fissures spreading across your retinas calms and allows you to see colour again; a red, wet wall, rippling slightly. One half of the area below your eyes does not feel like its twin does beneath the other eye and automatically you go to reach up and touch-- the wet wall shoots forwards and smashes with a colourful and loud thwack as a brief realisation hits you before the surge of pain does -- you remember which way is down. A deeper noise grows from below the cold spot of your cheek and your now reddening forehead. The dripping tap fades out of focus as your ears attune to the whimpering sound you have offered yourself, but that, too, is overtaken by the hurtling throb your reunion with the tiled floor makes. But at least it kicked your senses back into touch. Your mouth gives up communicating, spare the snap snap as your tongue begins to unsavorily feel out what must've been a seriously heavy trip to the bottom of a fair few glasses of most distasteful waters. Besides the sheepskin cheeks that offer that horrible half-smell half-touch sensation of damp mould to you as you run your teeth across your tongue. There are gaps here. You twinge as an open nerve is touched. There are new gaps here. The notion of weight, very recently brought back to you with your short fall to the ground, dawns on you as you begrudgingly attempt to find a new centre of gravity in a more useful position. The pins and needles all up your right side and its extremities provides you with a fresh sense of exhilerent pleasure, shamefully unearned but equally pricklish enough to keep your reposturing at a slow, abashed pace. A door. Slits. Engravings on the walls. Scarred characters and shapes with sporadic bland etchings criss-crossing. The walls were green but are now also mottled with white triangles of various sizes and shapes, all textured like clouds. Most are smooth on two edges and ruffled on the third. A vapid whistle of hinges and a quick inrush of bustle then thabang... a door closes. You hear no footsteps. You've been focussing too close, but that quickly jolts you. Raising yourself up the object next to you you see something (a coat?) that must be hanging on the door. Ceramic floor. The walls -- graffitti and torn sticker marks! -- THe object next to you is a toilet and the red wall-floor... that's your blood. 3:50am. ___ The premise is from an old story I wrote pre-GCSE years about a detective who wakes up in a locked bathroom stall, his jacket hanging in front of him with a badge and a gun with a round missing. Anyway - it's not a proper story or anything yet, but we've been lacking a proper writing thread for a while. If anyone has any constructive crit then fire away -- if anyone has any short piece to share then I'm happy to crit you up too Share this post Link to post Share on other sites
Posted January 11, 2011 This has just reminded me of something I thought of writing yesterday, possibly whilst I was drifting off (or at the very least day dreaming). Will possibly put it onto a blog of sorts. Not sure. I thought of something ages ago, but never even started it. I never seem to start any writing ideas I come up with. Share this post Link to post Share on other sites
Posted January 11, 2011 (edited) Intriguing as always Jay. Didn't care for the 'kicked your sense back into touch' bit. To me, it just doesn't seem right within the context of everything else but then, I'm not writing it. Not really sure how you'd reword it though. Everything else was great as it drew you in to the uncertainty of the surroundings and quickly gets you questioning what is/has happened here. Haven't written anything in over a year. I have been thinking about starting again but I've been questioning why I should do it and ultimately who it'd be for seeing as I'm not studying English and don't want to be, or desire to be, a writer. But I feel I should write something as I've been tossing ideas around for a while now. One based around a film student in a dystopian society and having a sense of urban alienation. A few others which are interesting but whether they translate to a short story or something long, I'm unsure of. I don't know. Perhaps I should just sit down and write and see where it takes me. Edited January 11, 2011 by Ganepark32 Share this post Link to post Share on other sites
Posted January 11, 2011 Intriguing as always Jay. Very intriguing. Great suspense. I like it, and I'd love to read more. I've always wanted to write a story. It's actually one of my dreams: Write a story, preferably in English. The thing is: I'm not English and I don't study English. Is there anyone here who knows some good literature about "How to write"? I have written several poems (not really good ones, though), but haven't done so in quite some time. I don't think they're good enough to be released here, I won't do it :p Share this post Link to post Share on other sites
Posted January 11, 2011 Cheers for the comments guys, I'll bear them in mind. Dr4khon; you may as well post things regardless of how you feel about them - I'm sure we'll all give you some positive feedback. There are a million and one sites out there that offer you the road to literary success, ultimately you wanna be proactive, jot things down all the time. Or so I hear :P Share this post Link to post Share on other sites
Posted January 11, 2011 I actually took the initiative and sat down and did some writing earlier. Had a power nap and throughout, I played out an idea in my head and just had to write it down. Did about 1200 words in an hour or so. I've tagged a portion of it if anyone wants to read it, and ideas how to clean up the first paragraph would be greatly appreciated as I kind of abandoned it. Raising herself out of her chair, with the strenuous effort which is more commonly showcased by an elderly person, she moved towards the heavily lined curtains and threw them open. The immediacy, the intensity of the light hitting her eyes caused her to raise her hands and shield them, all the while straining to catch a glimpse at the world beyond. It was as though she has never experienced the morning sun before in her entire life, as she stood fighting with the light to catch just a semblance of normality in her sight. She struggled to lift her eyelids beyond her outstretched hand, the light seemingly weighing them down and making them feel impossibly heavy. The golden morning light poured out and around her hand, blinding her to even the most common of appendages. Unable to bear the direct assault on her visual senses, she retreated to her seat and resumed the reading of the morning paper. With the room now flooded with light, and having dispelled the darkness which had ruled prior, she could finally read the print before her eyes. She gazed sleepily at the headline adorning the front page: ‘Blaze ravages family home.’ She muttered something incomprehensible in her still dreaming state and proceeded to scan the front page. But as she did so, her weariness vanished almost in an instance as her eye line feel upon the picture of the house which had been at the centre of the blaze. The charred remains which stared back at her looked so alien, yet utterly familiar. She knew that house, more so than her brain was letting on. She had been there, many a time, and remembered the big oak door with oversized brass knocker which greeted those waiting on the front step, now hanging limply and charred beyond repair. But from where? Staring at the picture wasn’t helping and attempting to read the corresponding report alongside did nothing but bring the onset of a headache forward. Her awakening mind simply couldn’t comprehend the information she was receiving. Escaping the grasp of her seat, she proceeded to the kitchen to make some coffee. Yes, coffee would restore her to her normal self and hopefully instil some peace within the mind which was now firing at an alarming rate trying to figure out where or what this house had to do with her. With the kettle filled and place on the lit stove, she gathered the various accoutrements required to make her morning coffee. But, as she was withdrawing her favourite mug from one of the cupboards, it finally hit her. The sound of ceramic smashing on the tiled kitchen floor proved only to highlight the shocking realisation which had entered her head. She now remembered the house, in every minute detail. She now remembered those that lived there, how she knew them and of what relevance they were to her being. The memories came flooding back, spilling out in front of her eyes as though she was reliving every single memory of this house in that short instance of realisation. She just stood there trying to comprehend the situation. A glint in her eye signalled the first of many tears streaming their way down her cheeks. Got a vague idea where I'm going with it (although I feel a bit repetitive in my grammar) but if I'm honest, I'm hoping that through sleep I'll be able to flesh it out. Need to work out how I'm going to introduce the main character as I didn't write this as the start of a story, but I don't want to introduce early on. Rather, give name and other details later. Share this post Link to post Share on other sites
Posted January 11, 2011 Raising herself out of her chair, with the strenuous effort which is more commonly showcased by an elderly person, she moved towards the heavily lined curtains and threw them open. She was quickly made to shield her eyes from the over-eager intensity of the morning sunlight, all the while straining to catch a glimpse at the world beyond. She stood fighting with the light to catch just a semblance of normality in her sight. She struggled to lift her burdened eyelids beyond her outstretched hand, blinding her to even the most common of appendages. (I don't understand the last bit about appendages tbh. I took away some of the 'telling' bits. No point using clever descriptions of what's going on when you're just going to follow them up with "and by that, I meant this," if you know what I mean. A tear fell down sally's cheek too quickly for her to snap at it. She hurried a look at Mark, but luckily he didn't see it. OR. A tear fell down sally's cheek because she was sad. It was too fast for her to catch! She quickly looked at mark. She is crying about something, and if mark knew then he would be angry. Hyperbolic, maybe, but there's a point Share this post Link to post Share on other sites
Posted January 11, 2011 Thanks for that. Don't know what I was doing with that first paragraph. It was the first thing I tried to write (after having not written anything for over a year) and I just couldn't get it worded right and just abandoned it for the mess it was. I was trying to create a conflict between the morning sunlight after opening the curtains and the character/her eyes and couldn't quite nail it which was annoying as the more I thought about it, the more eyes became a part of the character (something explained at a different point and something which sounds very Dorian Gray but isn't really). About the tear/crying part, she's the only one in the house and I was/am trying to be vague about the character so haven't/won't give a name or description of her until later so that people could look at how she's acting and form an opinion which is either confirmed or destroyed by a formal introduction at a later point. Share this post Link to post Share on other sites
Posted January 11, 2011 The tear/crfying thing wasn't meant to be related to your thing in anyway Yeah, the more you write, the better, eh! Share this post Link to post Share on other sites
Posted January 12, 2011 Written two more parts to my story; You clunk the swipecard on his desk. "Again?" he politely sighs, not even needing to look up from his table. He momentarily stops tapping away at the screen to adjust the focus on his glasses. It makes you remember your mother's old, tired argument about how 3D TVs were bad for your eyes. You dread to think what she'd think of today's tech. "just do your thing and I'll be on my way." Neither of you have time for this. "Katrina, this is the third time this week you've brought me your ID. Most people don't encounter two issues in a card's lifetime." "Most people don't work in our office," you point out, waving distractedly at the furniture around you as if they represent Public Interest Initiative accurately. A smile flickers over his face, but it is gone before it could've caused you both problems. "Hmm, indeed. Leave it with me, I'll have it in your inbox by mid-afternoon." He performs a few gestures for his desk, it whirrs, then he hands you a temporary substitute freshly charged from a slot at the side of his desk. "Good day, Agent." You push your glasses up to the bridge of your nose, and he does the same. "Good day, Sir." As you return to your cubicle at the other end of the long, LED-lit hall of a room you flick on your portable HUD, out of habit as much as anything because you know full well you'll find nothing unusual in here. It sweeps the room and stammers a list of the tagged contents which, for an agency such as yours, is a long list of green - non-flagged - entities. A few tags are marked as 'Of Interest' to you, but seeing as you're not a Bitch you don't see it as your job to ensure nobody has brought in any forbidden items. Everyone knows McCulloch has chocolates in her drawer. Nobody minds the biscuis in yours. On Big-Wig day, however, it is always a different matter. beurocracy takes precedence over ease of living, to paraphrase the Institute's slogan. You smile politely at anyone who looks up from their desks, even if their glasses are still in a Zone setting associated with whatever area they are accessing with their desks. Better to be safe than sorry. And yet, you think as you tap the pocket with the Newborn swipecard; it never feels any riskier. Ok. Coat. Go. Grab it, just... get up and grab. Why is this so hard for you? Ok. Seat. Sit! Sitting. Right. Done. Good. You still feel pretty drunk - at least, you hope that's the correct name for this condition you've found yourself in. From the throne, you are able to reach into the coat's pockets. It's a trenchcoat, sandy-grey with an assortment of buttons clearly useless aside from whatever fashionesta reasons they may hold. You feel a little sick at your clear lack of taste. The left pocket holds a wallet; empty. your head maintains a constant throb that tells you where the wallet's contents went. A The other front pocket... Oh dear. Shit, actually. Maybe that should even extend to a _holy fuck_? Let's take the good news first. You've found some form of ID! It has a picture of a person, presumably you, but we'll wait and see. "Best Detective in the West" is emblazoned alongisde some numbers and a hologram. You sense some sort of recognition with it, but you don't quite feel up for checking to see if this public restroom has a mirror to certify it. Now for the bad news. An archaic colt .45, 5 rounds in the chamber, one vacant slot. It's hard to tell whether this is really bad news, or just quite bad news. Looking back at the picture you realise that you're hatless - and this really bothers you. Re-acquiring headware quickly becomes one of your primary objectives for the day. Feeling steadier, you conclude that exiting this cubicle is probably a good idea, if not, at the very least, an inevitability if you are to forward your quest. The door swings open easily enough, and there are no other people in teh room. A cracked mirror congratulates you with confirmation that you are indeed Private Investigator, registered with the East Sussex County Courts, personal reference number 0136A. No name just yet. Instinctively you brush at your face and the two-day grizzled texture immediately feels completely wrong. You draw yourself closer to your reflection and try to take in your pocks and your wrinkles but you already know that this is a futile gesture; like when you meet a new person at a party or an important meeting, and their name has already fluttered away the instant you hear it. This face will take some getting used to. Adjusting the jacket, you see the rest of your appareil; some mildly scuffed, squared-off shoes that once had a friend called Black Polish. They must've lost touch with each other about teh same time you last changed your shirt. Old sweatstains are hollering at your nostrils as well as seeping at your armpit in a tone that is borderline agitative. if you ever wore aftershave then you're pretty certain you cut out the middle man and just plain rubbed a skunk on your face. The soap dispenser bubbles apologetically, insinuating you'll have to make your own way from here. You wash your hands regardless, and quickly shoot your fingers a look of contempt when they offer you a few half-moons of dirt behind long-lost lengths of fingernail that will bug you for the rest of the day. The sort of locked-in grime that make you conscious when you sit on a train and there's a pretty girl sitting opposite you and you beg, you pray, you hope she doesn't cast her eyes down at your fingernails and pin you for the cleanless batchelor that you are. Batchelor? You sure? Well, there ain't no ring on these fingers, that's a given, but you sure don't feel any longing or regret or any such emotion you'd imagine a married or taken man would have. This time isn't given for such useless rambling thoughts. You consider your options. You can't go back to the bathroom stall and simply sit there. You gotta go forward. Find out the What The Fuck. The towel dispenser refused to communicate. It stares at you open mouthed. As you consider which derogatory phrase to use, you go ahead and dry yourself off on your newly (re-)claimed jacket, deciding to forgo any string of four-letter words. Hey-- that ain't no button... What is that your fingers straddled? Reaching into a newly-discovered inner pocket... A key. It's labelled -- "Office..." Yet somehow, you're really not in the mood for work. Your occasional hiccup gives you that well-being feeling that you're most likely not in any shape for it, either. A spit in the sink and a stare at the reflection leads you to this fun-time fact; what else have you got to do today? Share this post Link to post Share on other sites
Posted January 13, 2011 (edited) Again, interesting Jay. Liked part 3 better than part 2. Just couldn't get my head around part 2 for whatever reason. Perhaps it was the last part, and I just need to read it again. Part 3 was good as a continuation of the first part, although I did think the swearing in the first paragraph was a little unnecessary/perhaps could have been implemented differently to evoke what is happening more strongly. But one point: the Colt .45, is it one of the old 'six shooters' or one of the modern handgun type things? I'm guessing the latter but if not, then it should be "4 rounds in the chamber, one vacant slot" as six shooters were/are only ever loaded with 5 bullets so that the hammer isn't resting on one, rather an empty chamber, for safety reasons as there's no safety on them. Just a very minor point. Edit: Had another go at the opening. Don't think it's too bad. It's at least better than the first bits I wrote previously. Tagged below: The eyes of the morning sun pry through half drawn curtains, exposing the excesses of a young woman for the entire world to see. But these are excesses which will go unnoticed for those out and about at this hour, at dawn, share the same burdens; they are people returning from their nights of excess hoping to creep back home undetected by the masses and save face with family, with friends or with loved ones. Those few in numbers who are not returning take little notice as they go about breathing life into another commercial day in the world. The faint sound of lorries backing up and down alleys reverberates through the many streets, the sound finding its way to the ears of the young woman being roused from her shallow slumber. But it is not the only backing track to this most earliest of mornings, as the not-so-distant hiss of a television failing to turn its received signals into anything other than static was carried around the room on the stuffiest of air currents. Finding the young woman’s recently roused ear, the sound caused her to jerk out of her feeble attempts to return to the realm of dreams with a shrill gasp for air, leaving her sitting upright in bed with the most alarming look of uncertainty strewn across her face. Her eyes darted around the room, trying their hardest to perceive their surroundings. Her pulse was elevated, marching along like a company of soldiers. She struggled to catch her breath, as though the very air she seeked had be sucked out of the room moments earlier. It was as though she has awoken suddenly from a nightmare she was trying to escape, only to be returned to it with the opening of her eyes. Searching over and over, her eyes finally hit upon the pictures adorning her bedside table. Gazing deeply into pictures of herself, of family and of friends quickly instilled a sense of calm in her and made her certain of her surroundings. She was in her own house, in her own bed yet she knew not how she had come to be there. Turning away from the pictures, she was met with the monochromatic stare of the TV and began to wonder why it remained on still, firmly believing she had turned it off before she had left for her night of pleasure on the town. She didn’t linger long on the thought, instead falling back into her pillow and thinking how lucky she was that she had returned home safely. Yet the barrage of thoughts as to how she had returned continued and no matter how hard she tried, it was no use. She wasn’t going to find out, at least not in this dreary and groggy state of wakefulness. Thinking better than to simply continue to pry, she opted to leave it for now, hoping that she’d get her answers once she was awakened further. Stretching out, she brought her arm across her face and rubbed her eyes, only something didn’t feel right. Looking at her arm, she saw the distinct smudge marks of mascara and eye liner, the remnants of her escapades last night still apparently clinging to her unwashed face. She couldn’t understand it. Even in her most drunken of states, she would always manage to at least remove her makeup. Lying there was getting her nowhere. All it did was bring up more unanswerable questions about the previous night’s events, and seeing as though she wasn’t finding her answers, she shook herself down and climbed out of the bed to start the process of tidying herself up. Stumbling into the bathroom, she hit the lights and caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. The smudged makeup she expected. After all, she did it herself moments earlier. What she didn’t expect to see was the crumpled and black stained red dress. She had slept in what she had worn out, again something she would never do, yet the black stains puzzled her. They didn’t look like anything had been spilled on her, rather the material where they stood felt coarse, as though directly affected by whatever had caused the marks. Too tired to deal with them at the moment, she went on with cleaning herself up, grabbing the wash cloth and face wash so as to remove the caked makeup. The clang of the letterbox and the thud of something hitting the floor echo up the stairwell and cause her to hurriedly take her leave, still wearing the clothes of the night previous. As expected, the mail greeted her, with the usual mixture of bills, junk as well as the morning paper awaiting her descent. Having reached down and gathered up all of the correspondence waiting for her, she threw aside the unwanted and hastily opened the rest, her demure attitude suggesting that anything of impending importance would be pushed aside and dealt with only at the latest possible moment. Her fleeting glance over the mail finished, she headed for the sitting room, placing the letters precariously at the edge of the hallway table as she went, where she hoped she could both jog and excise her memory of the events of the previous night which led her to sleep as she did. Edited January 13, 2011 by Ganepark32 Share this post Link to post Share on other sites
Posted February 1, 2011 I've posted the following a long time ago, but maybe I'll get some criticism this time :p Not entirely happy with it, but it's my first writing of this kind. So yeah, here goes... Natural Science Greyish rocks leave coldest eyes looking for the greatest prize while walking roads of simple stones paved with rocks and death-hushed bones. She rests on metallic silky leaves, dreams of rocky cottony jeans. The mirror seems just like a gate behind her back it starts to change. Water drops inside her mind wanting her to touch and find the calming beauty outside the town which rests upon a tired down. Now let's imagine what she sees. Fire, bricks and bumble-bees. Join her truly fantastic journey, I passed by an infected gurney. Open and close, right and left alternating feet are the way's theft. East and south and north and west, find the direction suited best. Places, routes and courses settled, time tick-tocks in speedy battles. Choose the hands' positions wisely. When it's done, it warms the icy. She did it well and what she did: opend the door and closed her lid. Right and left walked with control, she pointed fingers, compassed the whole. Time was checked, the sun's erased. Moonlight shadows reveal the pace. Hands tick, hands tock, even her own. She starts to walk to the unknown. Mankind, cars and an intrusion. Neon lights, but not the fusion of hydrogen into high-pitching helium, voices keep on itching. She felt at ease with nightly visions, dark and cold, complete incisions. Down the street into the clear, none of them seems to come near. "Did you know I cannot talk?" Looked at him, eyes like a hawk's. "Well, did you know, what do you say?" He answered - plain and simple - "Ney. The question's awkward, don't you think?" "What do you mean, get me a drink." She sipped the Jack quite rapidly. After some more she's on her knees. Outside the pub she can get up. "I cannot talk!", loud noises dub the scream she screams while violins are crying and absolving sins. "Can we help you?" asks the carbon. Response came fast: "I beg your pardon?" "We carbon twins and hydrogens as well as hydroxyl origins?" They did their work, then she was done. In and out, they start to run. Cleared her brain of darkest waves, pain and sorrow gone for days. A little light was able to wake what appeared to be a lively ape. Climbing through the treetops' heights, it carried two large golden crates. Inside these "almost treasure chests" was nothing else than what was left of a girl's soul and of her love for nature's beauty touched by gloves. She woke under organic matters heard some birds' suspocious chatter. Waterfalls reflect the spectrum. Reached the place called "Nature's Kingdom". Share this post Link to post Share on other sites
