Living on the Edge

Hello everyone. My name is Brian de Lint, I'm from Holland and I like to write, a lot. Though I don't write in my native language, I write stories in the best English that I can convey. I don't know if it's a smart decision to do this regarding the publishing of books being more difficult, but I've always felt that my native language has a lot of restrictions and just isn't as emotionally transferrant. I'd like to share with you one of my latest concoctions that isn't part of the novel I am currently writing and I'd like to hear pointers, i.e. constructive criticism, as to how to write better, more fluent pieces of literature.

Without further ado here is the short story: Living on the Edge.

Drops of water desperately cling to my stray hairs, trying to postpone the inevitable drop to their impending doom. As am I, clinging to the railing of the tallest building in this godforsaken city, postponing my seemingly inevitable demise. A chugging sound echoes through my ears as I swallow my fear and loosen my grip, my pale hands turning a reddish blush as the blood rushes back into my veins. Though this is the end of my times, I have never felt this alive, my pupils dialated to their very maximum. The wind carrying the distinct smell of gasoline and nicotine to my nostrills. The sound that same wind also carries with it vaguely resembling the crashing of waves on a beach. I shuffle closer to the edge, boots squaking as I move forward. I loosen my grip on the railing even further untill the faint feeling of safety has disappeared completely. I let go, the tips of my boots now suspended in mid-air, my heels still safely on the ground. I put my arms straight at the side of my body and after a few seconds recollecting my thoughts I spread them out as far as I can. I take a deep breath, pull back my head and close my eyes. On the inside of my eyelids I see the pavement littered with people watching, watching as another human being takes control of its own destiny. Uttering sounds like: "Oooh" and "Aaah" in disbelief, some screaming up at me to think about what I'm doing, what I'm throwing away.

To no avail.

I am perfectly aware of what I am throwing away, I wouldn't have come here if it wasn't sufficiently crap. I tilt my head down and whisper: "My only friend the end." My left foot breaks the invisable barrier surrounding the top floor of the building, throwing off my center point. I push off with my right foot and for a brief moment, time stands still.

This is it, no more backing out of this.

I stay suspended in the air for a few brief milliseconds, those milliseconds lasting an eternity. Everything I have ever done in my life, everything others have ever done in my life, flashing before my eyes. My arms still spread as wings and my feet pointing straight down, I fall. The soothing crashing of waves turns into the rushing sound of a whirlpool. The flutter of my clothes in the wind sounding like a million cracking whips lashing out at me. The adrenaline ridden blood rushing through my veins. As I fall a smile cracks on my face, and as I decend further and further the smile turns into a slight chuckle, and from a slight chuckle into a blustering laugh. I open my eyes and as the pavement below comes closer I can read the faces of people standing there, looking sheepishly at the horrific scene. Death is the end of life, but it's the only time I felt it was worth living.

As you can see it's a pretty depressing tale of a person ending his/her life. I hoped to shed some light on the emotional struggle on the inside of this person, but also the dedication to this one last act, their seemingly inevitable demise. I hope you liked it.

Hello, Triskiller! I'm jb and I'll be reviewing your work today. I can see that I'm the first to review. My comments will be in pinkish font.

Triskiller wrote:H

Spoiler

ello everyone. My name is Brian de Lint, I'm from Holland and I like to write, a lot. Though I don't write in my native language, I write stories in the best English that I can convey. I don't know if it's a smart decision to do this regarding the publishing of books being more difficult, but I've always felt that my native language has a lot of restrictions and just isn't as emotionally transferrant. I'd like to share with you one of my latest concoctions that isn't part of the novel I am currently writing and I'd like to hear pointers, i.e. constructive criticism, as to how to write better, more fluent pieces of literature.

Without further ado here is the short story: Living on the Edge.

Drops of water desperately cling to my stray hairs, trying to postpone the inevitable drop to their impending doom. As am I, clinging to the railing of the tallest building in this godforsaken city, postponing my seemingly inevitable demise.As you were what? =| That seems a bit--left, hanging? A chugging sound echoes through my ears as I swallow my fear and loosen my grip, my pale hands turning a reddish blush as the blood rushes back into my veins. Wow, nice description. Though this is the end of my times, I have never felt this alive, my pupils dialated to their very maximum. The wind carrying the distinct smell of gasoline and nicotine to my nostrills.That wasn't a sentence, it was just a subject clause. The sound that same wind also carries with it vaguely resembling the crashing of waves on a beach. Another clauseI shuffle closer to the edge, boots squaking squake? or squeak? =|as I move forward. I loosen my grip on the railing even further untill the faint feeling of safety has disappeared completely. I let go, the tips of my boots now suspended in mid-air, my heels still safely on the ground. I put my arms straight at the side of my body, and, after a few seconds, recollecting my thoughts, I spread them out as far as I can. I take a deep breath, pull back my head and close my eyes. On the inside of my eyelids I see the pavement littered with people watching, watching as another human being takes control of its own destiny. Uttering sounds like: "Oooh" and "Aaah" in disbelief, some screaming up at to?me to think about what I'm doing, what I'm throwing away.

To no avail.

I am perfectly aware of what I am throwing away, I wouldn't have come here if it wasn't sufficiently crap. I tilt my head down and whisper: "My only friend the end." My left foot breaks the invisable invisiblebarrier surrounding the top floor of the building, throwing off my center point. I push off with my right foot and for a brief moment, time stands still.

This is it, no more backing out of this.

I stay suspended in the air for a few brief milliseconds, those milliseconds lasting an eternity. Everything I have ever done in my life, everything others have ever done in my life, flashing before my eyes. My arms still spread as wings and my feet pointing straight down, that comma is probably better with an em-dashI fall. The soothing crashing of waves turns into the rushing sound of a whirlpool. The flutter of my clothes in the wind sounding like a million cracking whips lashing out at me. The adrenaline ridden blood rushing through my veins. As I fall a smile cracks on my face, and as I descend further and further the smile turns into a slight chuckle, and from a slight chuckle into a blustering laugh. I open my eyes, and, as the pavement below comes closer, I can read the faces of people standing there, looking sheepishly at the horrific scene. Death is the end of life, but it's the only time I felt it was worth living.

Spoiler

As you can see it's a pretty depressing tale of a person ending his/her life. I hoped to shed some light on the emotional struggle on the inside of this person, but also the dedication to this one last act, their seemingly inevitable demise. I hope you liked it.

Hello again, Tris! I was a bit confused with your sentences. I believe you are confused with verb participles and gerunds? A review of verbs will be helpful for you work. I also have some sentence structure suggestions. Some sentences can be rearrange for a more dramatic effect, for example:

I take a deep breath, pull back my head and close my eyes.

You can rewrite that as:

Taking a deep breath, I pull back my head and close my eyes.

You know, I was just left confused with the tenses. I'm sorry if I wasn't much of a help with the tenses. You see, I myself am confused. *laughs* I can see your problem, but I can't point it out to you. Gah...

Anyway, on with your story. It was a bit short. =| I've read a lot of short stories like this, and I would always tell them that a short story needs a plot and blah blah blah... This, for example, is just a scene. It would have been better if you told us why this person had attempted suicide. You can throw in there a lot of other stuffs for a plot. This is just an ending. =| It really isn't a short story. =|

Hope I've helped. Keep writing, Tris!

~~ Jash ♥

P.S. It's okay if you want to concentrate in English, but never set aside your native language. I myself am bilingual by the way. =)

Thank you very much for the review. I write these kind of 'scenes' to practice, not really to convey a story, but I see what you mean by it being too short. Thank you for pointing out the mistakes to me, I will most certainly take the things you've said into concideration when writing my next piece.