Young Writers Society

My first memories were of pain, not of mommy and daddy, bright sunny days playing in the backyard, or of gentle lullabies coaxing me to sleep.

Sleep… even today the word wakens a sort of bitter amusement inside of me. There was no sleep for me during those times, so strange a concept I thought it ludicrous that people gained such a thing on a daily basis. My only rest came when the continuous stream of pain would lapse, and even that was fitful and plagued with nightmares, because even when the pain stopped it didn’t stop. Pain seeped into my brain, haunted my dreams and turned them sour. I was always screaming.

The best times were when I would finally faint from exhaustion, when the cool darkness would wash over me and I would go numb, when I couldn’t even dream, when I was simply nothing. But I soon came to fear those long rests, because in the world of nothingness time moves quicker than it should, leaving you in its dust and struggling to remember where you are, exactly, and what you’re doing. Time teases you, in that blackness, and messes with your brain. I once went to bed at ten years old and woke up at sixteen. I swore never to sleep again.

They cut me open until I smiled at the blade. To the point where to be without the constant tug and pull of my skin was a punishment, and the blood running down my chest and arms was a relief to the built up anxiety raging around inside of me. To be without the pain that was a constant since the moment of my birth was too foreign, it left me empty and hollow. Like taking a baby away from its mother, like isolating a boy, keen to nothing but the jungles, inside the catastrophe of New York City; I was lost and scared. I still remember the day of the change, can recall it like yesterday. It feels as if it was yesterday, because I’ve been living in the blackness ever since my release, walking in a state of acute unconsciousness, looking on with a blank face as time runs circles around my frozen body.



It’s been too long since they’ve been here. I haven’t felt the blade for longer than I’m supposed to be without it, I know because my cuts are starting to heal completely, and they never let me heal. I look down at the spiraled patterns littering my back chest and arms, they seem to mend their selves together in a sort of twisted fast forward, doing in minutes what usually takes hours. It’s funny, yes, or rather interesting. Amusing, in a way, to see my skin without blood, but without the silver stains of liquefied life my skin is not my skin that I know. It is a stranger’s skin, and I don’t want it. Where is the knife to rip these patterns apart? Where are the hands to lather my opened wounds in burning medicine? Where are the fingers to dig into the faintly glowing jar at the top of the cabinet and the spread contents over my raw flesh until I both cry and thank them? Where is my pain? It’s been so long.

(I appreciate any reviews to help me better my writing. I would like very much to get suggestions and comments. Hope you enjoyed this.)

Reise!

Now, I see this is a first chapter of sorts; a bit rough in the sense that you've done a decent job in describing some of what your story is about, but not much. All I gather really is that the main character is accustomed to living their life in pain. Apart from this though, I honestly have gathered nothing of solid significance. Which can be a bit of a problem.

Now, first of all, what I did like about this piece is the way you've already begun to mold your character into something personal and capeable of deeper thought and feeling. But I fear you may have neglected thinking of unraveling this story from every possible important angle there is to consider.

The audience needs to be able to read and take something of significance to your story. Whether it be a setting or the cause of a conflict that occurs, just give out something. When I read this, all I could really gather was the vaguest of information. Try and be a little more elaborate. Unless of course this was more of a prologue type itroduction to your story. In that case, I feel you might need to do a neater job of forshadowing what your story is about.

As of right now, I have to say I'm a little clueless as to why this character experiences so much pain. Does he or she have a medical condition? Or am I off and is it something completely supernatural? I really have no idea. You don't have to be blunt when divulging certain information. You can still maintain the style you have going on here, for sure. :] I quite like your approach for it has its own unique morbidity about it. I would just like to see you offer a bit more to the reader. I'm already intigued by what you've written, there just doesn't seem to be any solidity to it standing on its own as is.

I suppose that was my only main concern with this piece. I don't feel the need to get nitpicky on you when your writing is decent enough first draft; it's just the loose ends you've created here in not being more open about explanations in the narration that concerns me. I don't feel like you've begun to delve into any sturdy facts -- be less vague and you're golden, Reise!

Hope this helps.

-Smylin'

It’s been too long since they’ve been here. I haven’t felt the blade for longer than I’m supposed to be without it, I know because my cuts are starting to heal completely, and they never let me heal. I look down at the spiraled patterns littering my back chest and arms, they seem to mend their selves together in a sort of twisted fast forward, doing in minutes what usually takes hours. It’s funny, yes, or rather interesting. Amusing, in a way, to see my skin without blood, but without the silver stains of liquefied life my skin is not my skin that I know. It is a stranger’s skin, and I don’t want it. Where is the knife to rip these patterns apart? Where are the hands to lather my opened wounds in burning medicine? Where are the fingers to dig into the faintly glowing jar at the top of the cabinet and the spread contents over my raw flesh until I both cry and thank them? Where is my pain? It’s been so long.

This was really amazing. I just loved how it was so thoughtful and touching it was in relation to the previous words.

You're really talented and I can't wait to see more of your work!

NightWriter x