Young Writers Society

This is the beginning of something I have a novel size idea for. It's pretty choppy, this is the first draft.

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It’s her again.
A little different then last time we met -- she seems always to be changing the way she looks; but it’s her unmistakably.

I wear the early warm morning sun, it drowns us and I don’t think I’m breathing. It passes through the stained glass windows and into understanding. But not really. The walls are painted with the sunlight my thin curtains filter. A dark bland red wine. I’m not sure how I know of the colors of the walls, since I haven’t looked away from her once. I haven’t even blinked, blinking is wasteful in such moments.

I am God. Here right now, whilst dreaming anyway. I am everywhere, everything is born of me, and what I see now is Dea, my goddess. This time she comes to me with the most fair of skin. In purple ink it is written, ‘My Lover is Mine and I Am His,’ down her left arm.

Dove like eyes mirror the car crash sunrise aflame in the East. I move my head closer to hers, my lips press against her cheek imitating rose. My teeth gently close and clamp around a pedal of her flesh, and I begin to pull away. With taffy like resistance the skin stretches out half an arms length. Release. And the skin gently slithers back into form.

The skin is kind of floating -- she must have done way with gravity. I repeat this again on her forehead and the skin again resolves. Well, most of gravity. As my turn arises I watch her eyes close and head lean in. She must be of whom Solomon sang.

I feel her moist lips touch me. She pulls away and the lower part of my jaw’s skin comes into view. Dea releases, but before my skin has come back into me, she does this again to my upper cheek, and even again halfway up on the opposing cheek. I’m not bleeding but if I were, it would resemble that of Christ’s. I am, absolute divine ecstasy. Watching her, and my skin stretched out and pulled, floating, this moment seems not ever to end. To go on without limit, and only to grow stronger.


Disoriented.

For some reason I’m considering which alternate route I should take to avoid the plethora of cars; the swelling blood blister that’s in a state of turgescence every single morning and afternoon. Ready to pop and ooze its dark red blood and bodily fluid onto the surrounding houses and streets. Fucking freeway.

I decide I’m not even going to move. Just lay here with her. I am in the in between transitioning state. Like of which when you are reading a book and you flip to the next page. In between the pages. Full of wonder, curiosity, and vulnerability. You are not inside the book, but not engaging in the reality of the world. I flip the page and open my eyes and realize there’s no more words to be read.

I look through an almost empty bottle of Vox and stare at the tv. I’m told of the traffic laying ahead for me from the man in the helicopter on the morning news. I sit up from my bed of debauchery and pour myself a drink. I’m not an alcoholic, I just drink like one.

The camera goes back to the studio and I see a women and man shuffling threw papers. For a second, the women resembles Dea. Then she opens her mouth, speaks, and I immediately take back the thought. I close my eyes and relive my dream. Here, nothing matters. No time, nor distraction. I think my only sense is sight. Complete rapture.

I was now in my car, driving. I don’t really remember getting here. Sometimes my legs have a mind of their own. Sometimes I want to cut them off.

I’m listening to some morning talk show.

Murmurs. The guy says something laughing. This kind of stuff keeps me informed of what’s happening in the world. My friend says how she hates everyone. People suck and we should all die. Except you she tells me. I think she likes me though, so it’s a little bias. But even then, to some, to love is to despise. I don’t object to this premise, people sucking and deserving to die, but I don’t know, I love people. Their interactions with other people. Their thought process. Even this dumb ass radio show host. My friend, she also seems to almost always be bored. I haven’t been bored in years. Almost everything seems to entertain me. Every day is a gift that to often we waste. I take a swig of Irish whiskey.

“A new text, believed to be inspired of Bin Laden...”. I’m not listening, but this catches my ear because I thought he said “a new sex tape discovered with Bin Laden in it...”. I was wrong. I hate disappointment.

The radio sends me into a bore; I tune out and go back to my dream. It blows me away, the way something so real, so infinite, can just come to an end. It probably feels like dying.

the dream is based on an actual one.

You need to divide up you paragraphs, it's really hard to read (probably partly because its late) Put a double space between each paragraph to make it easier.
I'll crit more tommorrow, its too late now.

*laughs* Another absolutely crazy story!

What do you eat before you go to sleep!?!?!?

Thanks for a laugh!

Cheers.

- jai -

Um, I don't know what's so funny about it...? O.o

Anyways, ditto Jerikas. In the first paragraphs, I was a bit confused...I didn't understand if the sentence was part of the paragraph.

Kudos on the description. You did pretty good with all that.

But for some reason, I feel like this is all...plastic. Fake. Like a forced voice, for some reason I feel like all you did was piece together a couple of pretty words, and made this into a short story/sampler. Is this truly personal? Is this really your voice? Or are you trying to imitate someone else's to make your own? Ask yourself these questions.

Also, this is really abstract. There's not anything wrong with abstract, but it's a writing element that's really hard to control. To me, I guess the point of abstract writing is that it's so structurally flexible, that it almost doesn't have a structure. Then we call it sequencing. A pattern or order of events. You don't have it.

That's why getting dreams down are so iffy. I feel like you're skipping around, and it's pretty confusing. Here, there, come back to here, and now we're focusing on something altogether different. Focus on a little pattern or something, and lead your reader gently through the story, uncovering little pieces of information throughout each piece of the puzzle.

Don't be afraid to exaggerate. That's what writers do. One famous writer said that if you can't exaggerate, you can't tell a story. No one will know if you rearranged your dream or fabricated some pieces of the story, because with this very, very basic draft, you're going to need to make up some more background to complement the present.

If you need clarifications, feel free to PM me.

--Seree.

Hmm...I really liked this, and I don't know why. I wish I did, because then I could give suggestions, but I don't. Perhaps if I read it when i'm more awake, or don't have so much on my mind...either way, good job.

MERRY WRITING

~Bella~

The name of this is ReAlLy interesting. How did you come up with this story?

You may want to work on word usage, y'know, when you said "a man shuffling threw papers"? (or something like that) It should have been 'through', not 'threw'.

Nice job, though. It's written almost like a dream, with the way it all blends together.

Hello! I noticed I had a critique for you sitting around, so I thought I’d post it.

A little different [s]then[/s] than last time we met -- she [s]seems[/s] always seems to be changing the way she looks; but it’s her unmistakably.

I wear the early warm morning sun, [period instead] [s]it[/s] It drowns us and I don’t think I’m breathing.

Makes the description too wordy. I’d delete it.

I’m not sure how I know of the colors of the walls, [no comma] since I haven’t looked away from her once. I haven’t even blinked, [dash or semicolon] blinking is wasteful in such moments.

Here, right now, whilst dreaming anyway.

I am everywhere, [period instead] everything is born of me, and what I see now is Dea, my goddess.

In purple ink it is written, ‘My Lover is Mine and I Am His,’ down her left arm.

In purple ink, it is written ‘My Lover is Mine and I am His’ down her left arm. Watch the capitalization in the tattoo, if you will. The verbs is and am should be the same capitalization, or lower cased in this instance.

With taffy-like resistance, the skin stretches out half an arms length.

Halfway up? Half…something, and I can’t figure it out.

As my turn arises, I watch her eyes close and head lean in.

I’m not bleeding, but if I were, it would resemble that of Christ’s.

I am, [no comma] absolute divine ecstasy.

Watching her, [s]and[/s] my skin stretched out and pulled, floating, this moment seems not ever to end. To go on without limit, and only to grow stronger.

This word seems a bit randomly inserted. I would get rid of it for sentence smoothness.

For some reason, I’m considering which alternate route I should take to avoid the plethora of cars; [colon or dash] the swelling blood blister that’s in a state of turgescence every single morning and afternoon. [comma instead] Ready to pop and ooze its dark red blood and bodily fluid onto the surrounding houses and streets. Fucking freeway.

I am in the [s]in between[/s] transitioning state.

I flip the page, [s]and[/s] open my eyes, and realize [s]there’s[/s] there are [there’re] no more words to be read.

I look through an almost empty bottle of Vox and stare at the [s]tv[/s] TV.

It’s an abbreviation, not a word to itself.

The camera goes back to the studio, and I see a [s]women[/s] woman and man shuffling [s]threw[/s] through papers. For a second, the [s]women[/s] woman resembles Dea.

No time, [s]nor[/s] no distraction. I think my only sense is sight. Complete rapture.

The guy says something, laughing.

People suck, and we should all die. Except you, she tells me.

I don’t object to this premise, people sucking and deserving to die, but I don’t know, [semi?] I love people.

Every day is a gift that too often we waste.

“A new text, believed to be inspired of Bin Laden...”. [no period] I’m not listening, but this catches my ear because I thought he said “a new sex tape discovered with Bin Laden in it...”. [no period] I was wrong. I hate disappointment.

It [s]probably[/s] feels like dying.

Overall, this was very…unique, lol. It took me the longest time (as you’ve probably noticed) to figure out your writing style. You have a lot of sentences that grammatically cannot stand alone. I stopped catching those halfway through.

I got a bit confused when it was switching from God/Dea to the driver listening to the talk radio show and all. I’m thinking, Why is God driving a car? Lol, guess it wasn’t God.

Overall, very interesting. I kind of liked it. Not entirely sure, ‘cause it was very different, lol. And different can be good.

Keep writing!

Jabber, the One and Only!