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“I was walking down the street…”
I’ve always hated stories that start in such a cliché. I suppose it’s the ultimate irony that a defining moment in my story-writing career should start in such a sentence. But then again, what is story writing if not a little pocket of self loathing? Staring past our reflections and picking away at our very essence; as is life, in fact. Every story is an accolade to the judgement of ourselves.
But it’s true. I was, and still am, ambling down the cobble-laden back alley, down and down until I reach another descent. Metal-capped shoes brushing over the stones beneath, soothing me with its gentle monotone, never pausing for a moment until my eyes fall shut of their own accord. Yet I always end up where I started. Looking down upon the place that makes me so unhappy, staring from an unknown pub balcony at an all too well known picture. I must be carried back here every time my eyelids grow heavy. No matter how far I travel, the guardians who protect me from inevitable escape drift by as shining starlets, blinding me for such a short time I barely notice, then once I grow weary, once my legs begin to weigh me down, I collapse into their grip.
As beautiful as this familiar place is, beauty is lost unto the routine and to me is nothing more than a prison. To more than just myself a prison, in fact, rusty steel bars block more than just me. I can see the silvery brown on their hands, where they too have tried to break free of this place. The scars where obtrusive metal dug deep into their flesh as they tried to squeeze through the lumbering metal pillars, decaying beneath the weight of the moon.
There is one of them. Sitting happy, smile painted across his face. You can see the sadness in his eyes, though.
All he cares for is himself. He wishes he could care for more, he prays that one day a darling angel could descend from the heavens and love him dearly. But he knows that could never happen here. He knows he has to go, but he can't.
He spends all his time working. Testing himself, forcing himself to become stronger, reaching out to perfection, yet every time he gets closer to his goal, it moves further away. Sets a new challenge. He grows tired. Still he goes on, though. If he were to halt then that shining light would never meet him in the darkest of lights. Or so he thinks. Deep down he knows the truth, the leathery remnants of deep wounds prove that.
On he goes. More he builds. Less he loves himself.
Then there's another like me. A 'seeker'. Even from here, at such a distance, you can see the passion in her eyes as she clutches onto her lover. Glinting in the sun, emotion streaming down her face, soft skin quivering behind the searing heat. Only when her partner leaves does the fake sheen of happiness wash over her presence. Because she knows that he doesn't share the same love she does. But no matter what he does, she needs it. Needs it more than life itself, to her, love goes beyond life.
She is forever searching for the man she truly loves. She stopped tricking herself long ago that whom she was with would never vow to lock in eternally, spiral entwined through reality unto death. She would try to escape this place every night in search of someone new, someone who could fulfil her, brimming over her passion with his own. But, like me, she would wake up in her own bed, that familiar face staring from her left. Every morning I can see peering out of her window. Both staring through each other, knowing we share the same desires yet doing nothing but mould our eyes together from afar. All I give to her are smiles, all she gives to me is lust.
On she goes. More he loves. Greater she needs a saviour.
As my eyes pan around it finally comes to her; fixated for moments at her fairytale cottage far upon the hill ahead, away from this place and all it represents. She has breached this land, she has scaled all the cobbled walkways and all the frozen gleeful faces and all the beauty that seeps through this hell forsaken place. In the distance I can see her figure; hanging up her clothes in the breeze, nothing more than her own skin touching her body, like a fabled beauty in a utopia of true happiness.
I sometimes see her smile at me from afar. To her I am but a dot, but I know she is. I know she wishes me to be whisked away to her. As do I. But I can't. Deep cuts and forgotten guardians and heavy eyelids, no matter how hard I try I cannot reach her.
On I go. Less I grow. More I loathe myself.
I’ve always hated stories that start in such a cliché. I suppose it’s the ultimate irony that a defining moment in my story-writing career should start in such a sentence. But then again, what is story writing if not a little pocket of self loathing? Staring past our reflections and picking away at our very essence; as is life, in fact. Every story is an accolade to the judgement of ourselves.
But it’s true. I was, and still am, ambling down the cobble-laden back alley, down and down until I reach another descent. Metal-capped shoes brushing over the stones beneath, soothing me with its gentle monotone, never pausing for a moment until my eyes fall shut of their own accord. Yet I always end up where I started. Looking down upon the place that makes me so unhappy, staring from an unknown pub balcony at an all too well known picture. I must be carried back here every time my eyelids grow heavy. No matter how far I travel, the guardians who protect me from inevitable escape drift by as shining starlets, blinding me for such a short time I barely notice, then once I grow weary, once my legs begin to weigh me down, I collapse into their grip.
As beautiful as this familiar place is, beauty is lost unto the routine and to me is nothing more than a prison. To more than just myself a prison, in fact, rusty steel bars block more than just me. I can see the silvery brown on their hands, where they too have tried to break free of this place. The scars where obtrusive metal dug deep into their flesh as they tried to squeeze through the lumbering metal pillars, decaying beneath the weight of the moon.
There is one of them. Sitting happy, smile painted across his face. You can see the sadness in his eyes, though.
All he cares for is himself. He wishes he could care for more, he prays that one day a darling angel could descend from the heavens and love him dearly. But he knows that could never happen here. He knows he has to go, but he can't.
He spends all his time working. Testing himself, forcing himself to become stronger, reaching out to perfection, yet every time he gets closer to his goal, it moves further away. Sets a new challenge. He grows tired. Still he goes on, though. If he were to halt then that shining light would never meet him in the darkest of lights. Or so he thinks. Deep down he knows the truth, the leathery remnants of deep wounds prove that.
On he goes. More he builds. Less he loves himself.
Then there's another like me. A 'seeker'. Even from here, at such a distance, you can see the passion in her eyes as she clutches onto her lover. Glinting in the sun, emotion streaming down her face, soft skin quivering behind the searing heat. Only when her partner leaves does the fake sheen of happiness wash over her presence. Because she knows that he doesn't share the same love she does. But no matter what he does, she needs it. Needs it more than life itself, to her, love goes beyond life.
She is forever searching for the man she truly loves. She stopped tricking herself long ago that whom she was with would never vow to lock in eternally, spiral entwined through reality unto death. She would try to escape this place every night in search of someone new, someone who could fulfil her, brimming over her passion with his own. But, like me, she would wake up in her own bed, that familiar face staring from her left. Every morning I can see peering out of her window. Both staring through each other, knowing we share the same desires yet doing nothing but mould our eyes together from afar. All I give to her are smiles, all she gives to me is lust.
On she goes. More he loves. Greater she needs a saviour.
As my eyes pan around it finally comes to her; fixated for moments at her fairytale cottage far upon the hill ahead, away from this place and all it represents. She has breached this land, she has scaled all the cobbled walkways and all the frozen gleeful faces and all the beauty that seeps through this hell forsaken place. In the distance I can see her figure; hanging up her clothes in the breeze, nothing more than her own skin touching her body, like a fabled beauty in a utopia of true happiness.
I sometimes see her smile at me from afar. To her I am but a dot, but I know she is. I know she wishes me to be whisked away to her. As do I. But I can't. Deep cuts and forgotten guardians and heavy eyelids, no matter how hard I try I cannot reach her.
On I go. Less I grow. More I loathe myself.
Excellent, but had sod all to do with smoke
Felt slightly disjointed, but the imagary of the content was great. It's nice to read so many different types of story, that's why I like these things.
I always like the take on 'story within a story' though.
I always like the take on 'story within a story' though.
I liked the paragraph that began "She is forever searchin...". Although there were occasions when I lost the flow of the story I liked it all, muchly.
Not one of your best. I felt some of the over-intricate description veiled the piece slightly too much. I think that you couldn't decide whether it was going to be abstract or not, and along the way it got caught in between.
It still shows your incredible way with words, though, so don't worry, you've still got it.
It still shows your incredible way with words, though, so don't worry, you've still got it.
I thought the opposite I thought the start was original, but I didn't really like the rest. Seems like I've read all before. The way it was written was pure greatness, but it didn't really do anything for me.
Not sure about the start - but the rest I loved.
A lot. Rickoss stuff always makes happy.
A lot. Rickoss stuff always makes happy.
That had an "enchanting" quality which slowly drew me in and kept me reading.
I liked the last line. Poetic and well delivered, it was a good idea to end with it. You also skirted around a few interesting ideas, for example why we write stories - is it mild escapism or deeper rooted? Aside from that however, I have to say I really didn't like this.
It was less of a story and more of a monologue from a character I didn't care about - I had no empathy for him. I think the problem was that your overly complex use of adjectives and metaphors created a barrier between the character and the reader. As such, I didn't connect with any of it - they were just words, nothing particularly gripping or interesting.
I also think you could do with removing or replacing the third sentence. I had spotted the irony, and so I don't think it's necessary to spell it out for me - it would be nicer to keep it subtle; infer it, show it, don't tell it.
It was less of a story and more of a monologue from a character I didn't care about - I had no empathy for him. I think the problem was that your overly complex use of adjectives and metaphors created a barrier between the character and the reader. As such, I didn't connect with any of it - they were just words, nothing particularly gripping or interesting.
I also think you could do with removing or replacing the third sentence. I had spotted the irony, and so I don't think it's necessary to spell it out for me - it would be nicer to keep it subtle; infer it, show it, don't tell it.
“I was walking down the street…”
I’ve always hated stories that start in such a cliché. I suppose it’s the ultimate irony that a defining moment in my story-writing career should start in such a sentence. But then again, what is story writing if not a little pocket of self loathing? Staring past our reflections and picking away at our very essence; as is life, in fact. Every story is an accolade to the judgement of ourselves.
But it’s true. I was, and still am, ambling down the cobble-laden back alley, down and down until I reach another descent. Metal-capped shoes brushing over the stones beneath, soothing me with its gentle monotone, never pausing for a moment until my eyes fall shut of their own accord. Yet I always end up where I started. Looking down upon the place that makes me so unhappy, staring from an unknown pub balcony at an all too well known picture. I must be carried back here every time my eyelids grow heavy. No matter how far I travel, the guardians who protect me from inevitable escape drift by as shining starlets, blinding me for such a short time I barely notice, then once I grow weary, once my legs begin to weigh me down, I collapse into their grip.
As beautiful as this familiar place is, beauty is lost unto the routine and to me is nothing more than a prison. To more than just myself a prison, in fact, rusty steel bars block more than just me. I can see the silvery brown on their hands, where they too have tried to break free of this place. The scars where obtrusive metal dug deep into their flesh as they tried to squeeze through the lumbering metal pillars, decaying beneath the weight of the moon.
There is one of them. Sitting happy, smile painted across his face. You can see the sadness in his eyes, though.
All he cares for is himself. He wishes he could care for more, he prays that one day a darling angel could descend from the heavens and love him dearly. But he knows that could never happen here. He knows he has to go, but he can't.
He spends all his time working. Testing himself, forcing himself to become stronger, reaching out to perfection, yet every time he gets closer to his goal, it moves further away. Sets a new challenge. He grows tired. Still he goes on, though. If he were to halt then that shining light would never meet him in the darkest of lights. Or so he thinks. Deep down he knows the truth, the leathery remnants of deep wounds prove that.
On he goes. More he builds. Less he loves himself.
Then there's another like me. A 'seeker'. Even from here, at such a distance, you can see the passion in her eyes as she clutches onto her lover. Glinting in the sun, emotion streaming down her face, soft skin quivering behind the searing heat. Only when her partner leaves does the fake sheen of happiness wash over her presence. Because she knows that he doesn't share the same love she does. But no matter what he does, she needs it. Needs it more than life itself, to her, love goes beyond life.
She is forever searching for the man she truly loves. She stopped tricking herself long ago that whom she was with would never vow to lock in eternally, spiral entwined through reality unto death. She would try to escape this place every night in search of someone new, someone who could fulfil her, brimming over her passion with his own. But, like me, she would wake up in her own bed, that familiar face staring from her left. Every morning I can see peering out of her window. Both staring through each other, knowing we share the same desires yet doing nothing but mould our eyes together from afar. All I give to her are smiles, all she gives to me is lust.
On she goes. More he loves. Greater she needs a saviour.
As my eyes pan around it finally comes to her; fixated for moments at her fairytale cottage far upon the hill ahead, away from this place and all it represents. She has breached this land, she has scaled all the cobbled walkways and all the frozen gleeful faces and all the beauty that seeps through this hell forsaken place. In the distance I can see her figure; hanging up her clothes in the breeze, nothing more than her own skin touching her body, like a fabled beauty in a utopia of true happiness.
I sometimes see her smile at me from afar. To her I am but a dot, but I know she is. I know she wishes me to be whisked away to her. As do I. But I can't. Deep cuts and forgotten guardians and heavy eyelids, no matter how hard I try I cannot reach her.
On I go. Less I grow. More I loathe myself.
I’ve always hated stories that start in such a cliché. I suppose it’s the ultimate irony that a defining moment in my story-writing career should start in such a sentence. But then again, what is story writing if not a little pocket of self loathing? Staring past our reflections and picking away at our very essence; as is life, in fact. Every story is an accolade to the judgement of ourselves.
But it’s true. I was, and still am, ambling down the cobble-laden back alley, down and down until I reach another descent. Metal-capped shoes brushing over the stones beneath, soothing me with its gentle monotone, never pausing for a moment until my eyes fall shut of their own accord. Yet I always end up where I started. Looking down upon the place that makes me so unhappy, staring from an unknown pub balcony at an all too well known picture. I must be carried back here every time my eyelids grow heavy. No matter how far I travel, the guardians who protect me from inevitable escape drift by as shining starlets, blinding me for such a short time I barely notice, then once I grow weary, once my legs begin to weigh me down, I collapse into their grip.
As beautiful as this familiar place is, beauty is lost unto the routine and to me is nothing more than a prison. To more than just myself a prison, in fact, rusty steel bars block more than just me. I can see the silvery brown on their hands, where they too have tried to break free of this place. The scars where obtrusive metal dug deep into their flesh as they tried to squeeze through the lumbering metal pillars, decaying beneath the weight of the moon.
There is one of them. Sitting happy, smile painted across his face. You can see the sadness in his eyes, though.
All he cares for is himself. He wishes he could care for more, he prays that one day a darling angel could descend from the heavens and love him dearly. But he knows that could never happen here. He knows he has to go, but he can't.
He spends all his time working. Testing himself, forcing himself to become stronger, reaching out to perfection, yet every time he gets closer to his goal, it moves further away. Sets a new challenge. He grows tired. Still he goes on, though. If he were to halt then that shining light would never meet him in the darkest of lights. Or so he thinks. Deep down he knows the truth, the leathery remnants of deep wounds prove that.
On he goes. More he builds. Less he loves himself.
Then there's another like me. A 'seeker'. Even from here, at such a distance, you can see the passion in her eyes as she clutches onto her lover. Glinting in the sun, emotion streaming down her face, soft skin quivering behind the searing heat. Only when her partner leaves does the fake sheen of happiness wash over her presence. Because she knows that he doesn't share the same love she does. But no matter what he does, she needs it. Needs it more than life itself, to her, love goes beyond life.
She is forever searching for the man she truly loves. She stopped tricking herself long ago that whom she was with would never vow to lock in eternally, spiral entwined through reality unto death. She would try to escape this place every night in search of someone new, someone who could fulfil her, brimming over her passion with his own. But, like me, she would wake up in her own bed, that familiar face staring from her left. Every morning I can see peering out of her window. Both staring through each other, knowing we share the same desires yet doing nothing but mould our eyes together from afar. All I give to her are smiles, all she gives to me is lust.
On she goes. More he loves. Greater she needs a saviour.
As my eyes pan around it finally comes to her; fixated for moments at her fairytale cottage far upon the hill ahead, away from this place and all it represents. She has breached this land, she has scaled all the cobbled walkways and all the frozen gleeful faces and all the beauty that seeps through this hell forsaken place. In the distance I can see her figure; hanging up her clothes in the breeze, nothing more than her own skin touching her body, like a fabled beauty in a utopia of true happiness.
I sometimes see her smile at me from afar. To her I am but a dot, but I know she is. I know she wishes me to be whisked away to her. As do I. But I can't. Deep cuts and forgotten guardians and heavy eyelids, no matter how hard I try I cannot reach her.
On I go. Less I grow. More I loathe myself.