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Started to write before and this is what came out - enjoy, if you wish...
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Slowly, Charlie sat down at his dresser and pulled out his make up bag. The time was only 3 o' clock, 4 hours before the show was planned to start, but he knew that if he left getting ready for the show any later he'd been too drunk to remember and there would be a repeat of last summers indecent exposure fiasco, and the Lord knew that was the last thing anybody at the Russian Circus wanted. He reached out to unzip the worn bag which contained the face-paints that he was forced to wear every single night whilst on the road. As his eyes lay sight upon the deteriorating carrier, memories of his youth started to trickle back to him - days spent doing nothing but playing in the grass in his parents back garden, not caring about anything other than what he was going to have for dinner and everything else that has been made a cliché by thousands of Hollywood movies about childhood. Faded by time, his memories of the day he unwrapped the now grubby bag were now nothing more than a series of blurred pictures in the mind of the lonely, middle-aged man.
Suddenly, the ageing Yorkshireman's arm stopped, as if an invisible barrier had been put in front of his make-up. However much he tried to force his way past that blockade, his arm wouldn't budge, and attentions soon turned towards his second draw, which contained a bottle of whisky bought the night before. He tipped it's dregs into a glass and sipped, slowly, as if he knew that he wouldn't be enjoying the company of his alcoholic friend for a long time.
---
Got any comments on writing style? How I could improve? Confused?
Just abuse me in general, okay?
----
Slowly, Charlie sat down at his dresser and pulled out his make up bag. The time was only 3 o' clock, 4 hours before the show was planned to start, but he knew that if he left getting ready for the show any later he'd been too drunk to remember and there would be a repeat of last summers indecent exposure fiasco, and the Lord knew that was the last thing anybody at the Russian Circus wanted. He reached out to unzip the worn bag which contained the face-paints that he was forced to wear every single night whilst on the road. As his eyes lay sight upon the deteriorating carrier, memories of his youth started to trickle back to him - days spent doing nothing but playing in the grass in his parents back garden, not caring about anything other than what he was going to have for dinner and everything else that has been made a cliché by thousands of Hollywood movies about childhood. Faded by time, his memories of the day he unwrapped the now grubby bag were now nothing more than a series of blurred pictures in the mind of the lonely, middle-aged man.
Suddenly, the ageing Yorkshireman's arm stopped, as if an invisible barrier had been put in front of his make-up. However much he tried to force his way past that blockade, his arm wouldn't budge, and attentions soon turned towards his second draw, which contained a bottle of whisky bought the night before. He tipped it's dregs into a glass and sipped, slowly, as if he knew that he wouldn't be enjoying the company of his alcoholic friend for a long time.
---
Got any comments on writing style? How I could improve? Confused?
Just abuse me in general, okay?
Melancholy wrote:
> The screenname gives it away
Like a Star.
> The screenname gives it away
Like a Star.
The screenname gives it away
Melancholy wrote:
> The writing's fine, just make a fairly decent plot. THe story of a
> yorkshireish clown did not appeal to me.
Yorkshire Clowns rule - how can you not enjoy a good old yorkshire clown? Are you Insane?
> The writing's fine, just make a fairly decent plot. THe story of a
> yorkshireish clown did not appeal to me.
Yorkshire Clowns rule - how can you not enjoy a good old yorkshire clown? Are you Insane?
The writing's fine, just make a fairly decent plot. THe story of a yorkshireish clown did not appeal to me.
Started to write before and this is what came out - enjoy, if you wish...
----
Slowly, Charlie sat down at his dresser and pulled out his make up bag. The time was only 3 o' clock, 4 hours before the show was planned to start, but he knew that if he left getting ready for the show any later he'd been too drunk to remember and there would be a repeat of last summers indecent exposure fiasco, and the Lord knew that was the last thing anybody at the Russian Circus wanted. He reached out to unzip the worn bag which contained the face-paints that he was forced to wear every single night whilst on the road. As his eyes lay sight upon the deteriorating carrier, memories of his youth started to trickle back to him - days spent doing nothing but playing in the grass in his parents back garden, not caring about anything other than what he was going to have for dinner and everything else that has been made a cliché by thousands of Hollywood movies about childhood. Faded by time, his memories of the day he unwrapped the now grubby bag were now nothing more than a series of blurred pictures in the mind of the lonely, middle-aged man.
Suddenly, the ageing Yorkshireman's arm stopped, as if an invisible barrier had been put in front of his make-up. However much he tried to force his way past that blockade, his arm wouldn't budge, and attentions soon turned towards his second draw, which contained a bottle of whisky bought the night before. He tipped it's dregs into a glass and sipped, slowly, as if he knew that he wouldn't be enjoying the company of his alcoholic friend for a long time.
---
Got any comments on writing style? How I could improve? Confused?
Just abuse me in general, okay?
----
Slowly, Charlie sat down at his dresser and pulled out his make up bag. The time was only 3 o' clock, 4 hours before the show was planned to start, but he knew that if he left getting ready for the show any later he'd been too drunk to remember and there would be a repeat of last summers indecent exposure fiasco, and the Lord knew that was the last thing anybody at the Russian Circus wanted. He reached out to unzip the worn bag which contained the face-paints that he was forced to wear every single night whilst on the road. As his eyes lay sight upon the deteriorating carrier, memories of his youth started to trickle back to him - days spent doing nothing but playing in the grass in his parents back garden, not caring about anything other than what he was going to have for dinner and everything else that has been made a cliché by thousands of Hollywood movies about childhood. Faded by time, his memories of the day he unwrapped the now grubby bag were now nothing more than a series of blurred pictures in the mind of the lonely, middle-aged man.
Suddenly, the ageing Yorkshireman's arm stopped, as if an invisible barrier had been put in front of his make-up. However much he tried to force his way past that blockade, his arm wouldn't budge, and attentions soon turned towards his second draw, which contained a bottle of whisky bought the night before. He tipped it's dregs into a glass and sipped, slowly, as if he knew that he wouldn't be enjoying the company of his alcoholic friend for a long time.
---
Got any comments on writing style? How I could improve? Confused?
Just abuse me in general, okay?