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 Posted: Tue Mar 23, 2010 11:32 am
It Gave Me Paper Wings
By B.T.B / Tory
Chapter One:
The sound of the road wasn't what it used to be. The roaring, fruitless cry of sputtering, newfangled engines rumbling down the holey pavement was a wonderful remedy for unwanted thoughts. It reduced the brain to simply the roar of waves on a beach, or grass under the running feet, or whatever satisfied the individual at hand. Now, the cars zipped down the road with nothing but the slightest frictional buzz and all the thoughts were perfectly comfortable in their current place inside the overfilled skull. Money had been worth more, people had been kinder, and the atmosphere had been perfectly whole and complete. No bothersome holes threatening every day to blow our lazy rumps to a land for us to lay to sleep. At least the female clothing was much more comfortable, the lack of corsets and too many petticoats in the summer air helping a bit in that department.
I discussed all these issues with the modern world with the tattered, brown journal sitting in the lap of me, my pencil replacing my mouth. The only disappointment was the fact no response came from the lifeless pages. But a small sense of joy came from this, even though I tried deeply to suppress it. I wasn't sure I wanted anyone interrupting my lovely rant. Still, this journal was all the physical things that had stayed with me throughout my travels. Many things I would regret saying aloud were splattered across these pages, permanent. I always wrote in pen, because my thoughts couldn't be erased, so why should they be taken from the pages? I had kept this since 1610. Exactly four-hundred years behind where I was now. It had seemed much shorter through my eyes, but quite a long time all the same. I was surprised the journal had enough pages for me.
As I thought of this, I absently checked how many pages I had left. My violet blue eyes widened as my mind counted over and over again the dreadfully small number. Only twenty-two more pages. Dread washed over me as I again remembered my deal with Inventor K. Number the pages, they number your years. He was the one who had given me the time machine, and the journal, the one who could destroy me, as well as the machine who gave me rants; gave me life. I had never bothered to count them; the book looked too infinitely big to even try to worry. But as I tried to realize how awfully short twenty-two years was, little salty buggers sprang into my eyes. My life was quite over already.
You may be wondering where in the world I was, at the time I discovered how short a life I had. Frankly, it wasn't where I would like to be, but I was certainly there, and not about to get out. I was in one of those frustratingly quiet, modern vehicles, the ones that were all public and had a driver that was paid by the mile. There was only air rushing below my feet, and everything was uncomfortably silent. I was in the back seat, and other strangers sat in the other leather upholstery with nothing to do. One of them almost looked over my shoulder at what I was writing, but a little glare from my violet blue eyes quickly brought them back to their own business. We were driving towards the grocery market, where my new portal awaited. But now, after counting my yearly pages, I was beginning to think I should abandon it, and stay where I was. Then, my last twenty-two years would at least be long enough. The decision was quickly made, and nothing stopped me. I wasn't about to wait any longer, we were minutes away from the portal.
"Stop the car," I said to the driver, and he gave me a raised eyebrow, but shrugged, and obeyed my command. He pulled the car onto the side of the road, and I grabbed my journal, and bag, stepping quietly into the warm afternoon. Everything seemed different now, now that it was all going to be gone soon, my eyes had unable to see the trees, the stars, or the clouds. Now it was clearer than ever. I wanted to breathe it in, and never let it go. So possibly, when I finally lay to rest, in exactly twenty - two years, I would know what I was missing.
"Hey! Hey! Hey!" A voice called behind me, it seemed to be growing stronger, angrier. It took me a long moment to realize it was directed at me. I whipped around to face the bothersome tone, and found a man to be right up in my face. I stumbled back in shock, feeling quite mundane, quickly gathering by equilibrium, and my dignity as best I could from the dirty sidewalk. The rather infuriated man didn't move, and was waving a suitcase in my face.
"This yours, lady?" He asked, his accent resembling that of a true-bred New Yorker. I looked at him for a moment, trying to find a memory of him from my head, for somehow I knew it was there, in my mind. His soft features, eyes the color of night, surprisingly skinny and tall, tousled raven hair. It all seemed familiar.
"N-no. Sorry," I stumbled over my words, as I tried to juggle thinking and talking about different subjects, it was hard. The man, or boy, I couldn't tell, with his angry expression making him look quite the age of a man, groaned in exasperation, turning away for a moment, but quickly fixing his gaze back on me. I felt like a little brown sparrow with his raven-like appearance staring me down. So I stared him up bravely, keeping my dignity intact this time.
"Sorry about that." He said, turning away now for good, and getting back in the crowded, but impatient modern vehicle. I had the odd sense I was going to see him again, but he wasn't going to see me. I would be invisible to his midnight eyes. Somehow, that seemed impossible, what with me being a time traveler, and that being rather spectacular. But then I remembered my little brown sparrow beauty, and my inability to tell anyone of this spectacular feat. I had never taken the time to realize that through a modern human's eyes, I was utterly and completely normal. No amazing sparrow, was I. These would be hard years, they would.
_ - _ - _
The pale pathway of cement unraveled beneath my sneakers, which were horrible in the sense they had leather in their soles, and the animal skin was pounding the unnatural ground. But the cotton wrapping around my feet comforted the screaming leather, keeping it all a balance of natural and fabricated. Balance was exactly what I needed a lot of now, since the looming threat of death still hung like a fat, lazy cat in my mind. The spring season was happy and bright, and it kept the dark cloud over my head calm, keeping the nasty rain drops in their wispy home. The maelstrom of fear and sadness was subsided, and contained. For now, of course.
I thought about the familiar boy, who’s appearance was still haunting every thought, everything going back to him. I wracked and wracked, but no memory came to me. Until, I resorted to the innermost, darkest part of my mind, my childhood. My unnatural, terribly ancient birth. And I found his face, there in the dim, bulky clouds that covered every inch of this plane of my mind. I could only see his raven, tousled hair, and night hued eyes. Everything else was pale, and blurry. He was leaning over me, for some reason or another, his lips moving, telling me something. I couldn’t find what, my eyes seemed to have been the only working part of me at that time – not working well, frankly - and no sound could be processed. There was a pulsing in the corner of my vision then, but the memory was all focused on the boy.
At this point, I was headed, with my eyes focused inwardly on my thoughts, towards the grocery store. The market was outdoors, while the store was comfortably placed inside motherly walls, protecting her children from the cold outside. Plus, I needed nutrition. I may be simply an invention, a time traveler, but I was a human being. Human beings needed food, and water. But they also needed innocence, not knowing the future, not knowing was what kept all these ignorant children of the Earth sane. As for me, I knew exactly when and how I was going to die. In twenty two years I would burst into a cloud of sparks, and fly away into the air. No one would miss me, I wouldn’t get a kiss goodbye, and it would be quick, silent, and sudden. This was what made be inhuman. As I contemplated this, I asked myself a question. Well, if I’m not human, what in the world am I?
Note: The title is going to make more sense later, believe me. Do not, I repeat, do not jut give me empty reasons that this is amazing. It is a rule of the guild, but just thought I would remind you.
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Posted: Tue Mar 30, 2010 6:25 am
I will do critique or amendments in blue. II Bob-The-Blob II
It Gave Me Paper Wings
By B.T.B / Tory
Chapter One:
The sound of the road wasn't what it used to be. The roaring, fruitless cry of sputtering, newfangled engines rumbling down the holey pavement was a wonderful remedy for unwanted thoughts. It reduced the brain to simply the roar of waves on a beach, or grass under the running feet, or whatever satisfied the individual at hand. Now, the cars zipped down the road with nothing but the slightest frictional buzz and all the thoughts were perfectly comfortable in their current place inside the overfilled skull. Money had been worth more, people had been kinder, and the atmosphere had been perfectly whole and complete. No bothersome holes threatening every day to blow our lazy rumps to a land for us to lay to sleep. At least the female clothing was much more comfortable, the lack of corsets and too many petticoats in the summer air helping a bit in that department. It's a good start. Lots happening but not too much in descriptions. The only thing I would say is the narrative sounds too colloquial: "newfangled", "rumps", "helping a bit" etc. Is this intentional?
I discussed all these issues with the modern world with the tattered, brown journal sitting in the lap of me my lap,(personally I'd use a semi-colon here) my pencil replacing my mouth. The only disappointment was the fact no response came from the lifeless pages. ButI would delete the conjuction "but" at the start of a sentence. A small sense of joy came from this, even though I tried deeply to suppress it. I wasn't sure I wanted anyone interrupting my lovely rant. Still, this journal was all the physical things that had stayed with me throughout my travels. Many things I would regret saying aloud were splattered across these pages, permanent. I always wrote in pen, because my thoughts couldn't be erased, so why should they be taken from the pages? I had kept this since 1610. Exactly four-hundred years behind where I was now. (Your narrative sounds much more modern with words like "splattered" - research old speech or read novels by older authors so you can insert words that would be appropriate. Don't over do it as you want your reader to still follow but use enough so it sounds authentic.) It had seemed much shorter through my eyes, but quite a long time all the same. I was surprised the journal had enough pages for me.
As I thought of this, I absently checked how many pages I had left. My violet blue eyes widened as my mind counted over and over again the dreadfully small number. Only twenty-two more pages. Dread washed over me as I again remembered my deal with Inventor K. Number the pages, they number your years. He was the one who had given me the time machine, and the journal, the one who could destroy me, as well as the machine who gave me rants; gave me life. I had never bothered to count them; the book looked too infinitely big to even try to worry. But as I tried to realize how awfully short twenty-two years was, little salty buggers (Again, "little salty buggars" seems to colloquial for a narrative.) sprang into my eyes. My life was quite over already.
You may be wondering where in the world I was, at the time I discovered how short a life I had. Frankly, it wasn't where I would like to be, but I was certainly there, and not about to get out. I was in one of those frustratingly quiet, modern vehicles, the ones that were all public and had a driver that was paid by the mile. There was only air rushing below my feet, and everything was uncomfortably silent. I was in the back seat, and other strangers sat in the other leather upholstery with nothing to do. One of them almost looked over my shoulder at what I was writing, but a little glare from my violet blue eyes (You already mentioned in the previous paragraph the colour of your eyes, does this add anything further to the piece? The colour of a person's eyes doesn't generally mean anything. It's good to know in passing what your character looks like but odd bits of information is sufficient unless it's crucially important.) quickly brought them back to their own business. We were driving towards the grocery market, where my new portal awaited. But now, after counting my yearly pages, I was beginning to think I should abandon it, and stay where I was. Then, my last twenty-two years would at least be long enough. The decision was quickly made, and nothing stopped me. I wasn't about to wait any longer, we were minutes away from the portal.
"Stop the car," I said to the driver, and (personally, I feel it's an unnecessary conjuntion which interrupts flow.) he gave me a raised eyebrow, but shrugged, and obeyed my command. He pulled the car onto the side of the road, and ; I grabbed my journal, and bag, stepping quietly into the warm afternoon. Everything seemed different now, now that it was all going to be gone soon, my eyes had unable to see the trees, the stars, or the clouds. (address sentence structure as it doesn't seem to flow right.) Now it was clearer than ever. I wanted to breathe it in, and never let it go. So possibly, when I finally lay to rest, in exactly twenty - two years, I would know what I was missing.
"Hey! Hey! Hey!" A voice called behind me, it seemed to be growing stronger, angrier. It took me a long moment to realize it was directed at me. I whipped around to face the bothersome tone, and found a man to be right up in my face. I stumbled back in shock, feeling quite mundane, quickly gathering by equilibrium, and my dignity as best I could from the dirty sidewalk. (lots of adverbs here, the sentence seems quite heavily laden. Consider amending?) The rather infuriated man didn't move, and was waving a suitcase in my face.
"This yours, lady?" He asked, his accent resembling that of a true-bred New Yorker. I looked at him for a moment, trying to find a memory of him from my head, (memories are typically from the head/mind, yes?) for somehow I knew it was there, in my mind. His soft features, eyes the color of night, surprisingly skinny and tall, tousled raven hair. It all seemed familiar.
"N-no. Sorry," I stumbled over my words, as I tried to juggle thinking and talking about different subjects, it was hard. The man, or boy, I couldn't tell, with his angry expression making him look quite the age of a man, groaned in exasperation, turning away for a moment, but quickly fixing his gaze back on me. I felt like a little brown sparrow with his raven-like appearance staring me down. So I stared him up bravely, keeping my dignity intact this time.
"Sorry about that." He said, turning away now for good, and getting back in the crowded, but impatient modern vehicle. I had the odd sense I was going to see him again, but he wasn't going to see me. I would be invisible to his midnight eyes. Somehow, that seemed impossible, what with me being a time traveler, and that being rather spectacular. But then I remembered my little brown sparrow beauty, and my inability to tell anyone of this spectacular feat. I had never taken the time to realize that through a modern human's eyes, I was utterly and completely normal. No amazing sparrow, was I. These would be hard years, they would.
_ - _ - _
The pale pathway of cement unraveled beneath my sneakers, which were horrible in the sense they had leather in their soles, and the animal skin was pounding the unnatural ground. But the cotton wrapping around my feet comforted the screaming leather, keeping it all a balance of natural and fabricated. Balance was exactly what I needed a lot of now, since the looming threat of death still hung like a fat, lazy cat in my mind. The spring season was happy and bright, and it kept the dark cloud over my head calm, keeping the nasty rain drops in their wispy home. The maelstrom of fear and sadness was subsided, and contained. For now, of course.
I thought about the familiar boy, who’s appearance was still haunting every thought, everything going back to him. I wracked and wracked, but no memory came to me. Until, I resorted to the innermost, darkest part of my mind, my childhood. My unnatural, terribly ancient birth. And I found his face, there in the dim, bulky clouds that covered every inch of this plane of my mind. I could only see his raven, tousled hair, and night hued eyes. Everything else was pale, and blurry. He was leaning over me, for some reason or another, his lips moving, telling me something. I couldn’t find what, my eyes seemed to have been the only working part of me at that time – not working well, frankly - and no sound could be processed. There was a pulsing in the corner of my vision then, but the memory was all focused on the boy.
At this point, I was headed, with my eyes focused inwardly on my thoughts, towards the grocery store. The market was outdoors, while the store was comfortably placed inside motherly walls, protecting her children from the cold outside. Plus, I needed nutrition. I may be simply an invention, a time traveler, but I was a human being. Human beings needed food, and water. But they also needed innocence, not knowing the future, not knowing was what kept all these ignorant children of the Earth sane. As for me, I knew exactly when and how I was going to die. In twenty two years I would burst into a cloud of sparks, and fly away into the air. No one would miss me, I wouldn’t get a kiss goodbye, and it would be quick, silent, and sudden. This was what made be inhuman. As I contemplated this, I asked myself a question. Well, if I’m not human, what in the world am I?
Note: The title is going to make more sense later, believe me. Do not, I repeat, do not jut give me empty reasons that this is amazing. It is a rule of the guild, but just thought I would remind you.
In summary, I'd say overall it's a really interesting piece with lots of potential. It's quite clear you're a gifted writer but in some parts it seems you're trying a little too hard and the writing almost seems pretentious due to the number of words your trying to cram into one sentence. Maybe start with a basic sentence and add only what you feel is really needed. If it adds nothing to the actual story then maybe it is best left out.
Descriptions are wonderful but sometimes adding too much information makes it seem too contrived.
In terms of the nitty-gritty details, I'd just watch over usage of conjunctive words like "and" and "but" etc, as well as the use of commas. Try and be a little more selective as to when you use them. In some cases, the sentences have become very long and the commas seem almost haphazard in use. Try mixing things up a bit, using semi-colons and such or actually starting a new sentence. A lot of that you'll probably see once you re-read and be a little more critical with their structure.
All in all though, a very good piece. Look forward to seeing more <3
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