well it looks like i have a double positive for you guys today. firstly it seems as though i have recovered from my flu. secondly, if you remember i posted a really rough version of a story that i was working on, a week or two ago, i have now finished this story, i think. and yes i am going to post it in the hope of getting some feedback.
so here you all go, the 19th of august 2005 version of "mary"
She wakes up. Her bed clothes are roughly drawn around her, sun shines in through the window which is nailed shut across the other side of the loft; it is 3 pm. She wakes up but she does not rise, instead she lies there a moment or two enjoying the warmth of the afternoon sun. Her left arm extends beyond her head and tenses in a much enjoyed stretch. When it returns it brings with it a silvery plate retrieved from just beyond the extremity of the mattress.
There is a boy who sometimes comes to see her. He tells people that he is a kitchen-hand, but everyone knows that he helps his brother cook amphetamines. Sometimes he brings her tickets to a show, or passes to a party; sometimes he simply comes over to hang out. Sometimes they use each other, sometimes they dont. Their relationship is no more complex than this, and this suits them both.
She sits up and draws out a sizeable and very rough line on the mirrored surface of the plate. Her throat burns as it works its way down but she has previously learnt not to let this bother her. Finally she rises to her feet, crosses the recently warmed bare boards of the floor, and makes her way to the bathroom.
There was a time when she felt that the pink wallpapered partitions of her room were closing in on her, much like her stifling life; a time before she broke out from her pastel cell. It was a rule of hers now not to think too long on such things. After all freedom is a strange and often misunderstood thing.
In the bathroom mirror she styles her dark hair into greasy little pigtails, which make her look even younger. Her face is pale and sunken, not yet emaciated however, just the look the photographer told her he was looking for. She thought for a second how proud her father would have been of her yesterday. Its hard for an empty stomach not to get the better of ones better moral judgment but at least she had managed to maintain her dignity one day longer. She notices tears starting to form in the dark and reddened corners of her eyes. No more thoughts of her father. No more thoughts. She lifts a razor draws another line and washes it all away.
When everyday is a struggle, when situations, thoughts, temptations, seem to get the better of her she remembers one thing; her name is Mary. Someone named her Mary, and someone will tenderly call her this name again.
so here you all go, the 19th of august 2005 version of "mary"
She wakes up. Her bed clothes are roughly drawn around her, sun shines in through the window which is nailed shut across the other side of the loft; it is 3 pm. She wakes up but she does not rise, instead she lies there a moment or two enjoying the warmth of the afternoon sun. Her left arm extends beyond her head and tenses in a much enjoyed stretch. When it returns it brings with it a silvery plate retrieved from just beyond the extremity of the mattress.
There is a boy who sometimes comes to see her. He tells people that he is a kitchen-hand, but everyone knows that he helps his brother cook amphetamines. Sometimes he brings her tickets to a show, or passes to a party; sometimes he simply comes over to hang out. Sometimes they use each other, sometimes they dont. Their relationship is no more complex than this, and this suits them both.
She sits up and draws out a sizeable and very rough line on the mirrored surface of the plate. Her throat burns as it works its way down but she has previously learnt not to let this bother her. Finally she rises to her feet, crosses the recently warmed bare boards of the floor, and makes her way to the bathroom.
There was a time when she felt that the pink wallpapered partitions of her room were closing in on her, much like her stifling life; a time before she broke out from her pastel cell. It was a rule of hers now not to think too long on such things. After all freedom is a strange and often misunderstood thing.
In the bathroom mirror she styles her dark hair into greasy little pigtails, which make her look even younger. Her face is pale and sunken, not yet emaciated however, just the look the photographer told her he was looking for. She thought for a second how proud her father would have been of her yesterday. Its hard for an empty stomach not to get the better of ones better moral judgment but at least she had managed to maintain her dignity one day longer. She notices tears starting to form in the dark and reddened corners of her eyes. No more thoughts of her father. No more thoughts. She lifts a razor draws another line and washes it all away.
When everyday is a struggle, when situations, thoughts, temptations, seem to get the better of her she remembers one thing; her name is Mary. Someone named her Mary, and someone will tenderly call her this name again.
That's reading better
so. there is my two cents