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I'm entirely new to CC, but I figured I'd try my hand a crit and a submission. Here goes!:InMyHighCastle posted:“When the cart comes, son, it doesn’t go away empty,” they told me. I didn’t want to leave them behind, my family, my friends, my neighbors, This feels oddly general. Perhaps I'm just being nitpicky, but it's something anyone would say, and it lacks any specificity that would give the reader a clue as to what the narrator values. but adults often don’t care much for the wishes of children, especially during wars. We have to do as we are told. So, as I clambered off the packed train, and began to make my way down to the station’s exit, I knew that, whether I liked it or not, I’d have to get into the man’s cart and be ferried off to whichever family was generous enough to host me until things calmed down back home. This sentence goes on for quite a long time and, as a consequence, loses some of its impact of an anxious youngster. He sounds a little too calm and removed, in other words As you said you're looking for a critique of voice, what mainly jumps out at me is that I have no idea what to make of the narrator. We know that he's a child, and that's about it. I realize that this is a very short excerpt, but even then, I don't get a feel at all for what this character's responses are. In the first paragraph you say he doesn't want to leave his life behind, but then in the following one he leaves behind the "sheepish" children. It's hard to make out if your character is supposed to be stoic, remorseful, wise, or whatever, since lots of little bits of these states crop up, but not really coherently. I'm sorry if that sounded harsh, because it's not a bad piece by any means, I just think you need to hammer down more clearly defined traits and emotional states of the narrator. Anyway, here's my own contribution: Dress Up (718 words) I slide the shirt on and before I’ve even gotten to buttoning it up I look over to you still in your underwear (the fancy, lacy, look-but-don’t-really-look-too-long-‘cause-then-it’s-creepy kind) and you’re staring at me without making a word, not even forming the beginnings of one on your lips, and then I know we’re gonna be late. I mean, yeah, sure, fair point, there’s a red wine stain, right near the heart (it’s actually on the underside of my tit but I said that once and you said it sounded crass so now I just agree and say the heart as well) and you think that it’s a bad sign. Okay. But it’s my favourite shirt. I’ve had it since I was in high school, when I was looking at you from afar and wondering if you even knew I existed (you didn’t, obviously, since I was too busy hiding from you and peering around corners. Somehow I had never really clued in). And sometimes I like to even imagine that I was wearing this shirt the day you first said hi to me even though I know that’s a bit of creative license and I was actually probably wearing one of my gauche sweater vests that I used to think were the height of fashion. There are alternatives, you say factually. This is true. I don’t dispute it. But really? The white silk one? Is that how you see this relationship? Sometimes, I fear it is. And come on! Aside from that tiny, insignificant little stain that you can barely even see anyway ‘cause it’s a dark loving shirt, it’s the best one I own. The collar hasn’t wilted like some dying flower, and the sleeves stop at my wrist instead of hiding my fingers inside them like snakes in a can of fake nuts. I speak in similes which you think is simultaneously sweet and condescending, and so you just roll your eyes from the inertia. When it gets like this I want to sulk and cross my arms and say it doesn’t even really matter anyway, no one’s gonna care because it’s me and not them. At the very worst they’ll think I’m a bit clumsy when I’m holding a drink which is the truth anyway so better that they think that right off the bat. But I know it’s defeating to even try that. I just can’t understand why you hate that shirt so much. And you look sad and you say that it’s because it looks like I’m bleeding right through the cloth which is kind of ridiculous because whose blood is even that colour or consistency? I suppose that’s not the point, though. So now I’m sitting down and the shirt is still unbuttoned, and my tummy is peeking out unflatteringly from the cloth that’s really shoddily festooning it, and it’s like Schroedinger’s Dress Shirt now, where I’m both wearing it and not at the same time. But with the way I’m sitting now the cloth is wrinkled and it’s actually covering up the stain and I jump up and say see! See! It’s a perfectly fine shirt. When you look up at me it’s just so staggeringly lonely that I can barely stand it and you say that you’ll always know it’s there and that’s what ruins it for you. You’re still in your frilly underwear and nothing else and it’s getting dark now but it’s still bright in the room because the streetlights have come on outside like we needed the extra boost to help navigate our way. I am still slumped sitting on the bed and you come over, standing tall above me and I say how many times are we going to have this same goddamned argument and you don’t reply so I start to break down and cry, sobbing in the most embarrassing way, with deep breaths that just facilitate bigger and louder gasps because I know the answer and so I lie down and shut my eyes. After a while I feel the bed sink a bit as you sit down next to me on it, and then I feel your fingers followed by your head resting on my chest, listening without words to the origin of my sobs as they’re filtered through a thin sheen of fabric.
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# ¿ Aug 3, 2014 21:22 |
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# ¿ Apr 29, 2024 14:14 |