Young Writers Society

I'd forgotten how the bells sound in the morning. Seven times they creep into my head with the sober, pale sun and my head throbs with it. I get to my feet and find that I am not an angel, have no wings as I pull on my shirt and fumble the buttons and fold down the collar. I am not an angel as I comb back my hair, because I swear at God all the while in my head in, vile, twisted words like the teeth of the comb as they catch on a knot. God has woken me and left me in my dark room, with not enough sun, not enough angels to answer the prayers I made in my hushed night last night, my drunken slurs-- I am sure I was hammered. It's the only time I pray.

My head aches with God's given pulse and I wonder if I should go to Church today. Instead, I resolve to bitch out from religion, find a bench in the park, toss some birds some bread. Pigeons, despite the white collars I occasionally find bound around their necks, don't look at me differently than they do anyone else. They have that one eyed inspection, head cocked sideways, sizing me up, but they watch everyone like that-- not like the priests who sniff and watch the confessional mesh like it were some fascinating text to scan their eyes across, a gospel to read and weep over with their big, innocent, liars' eyes. Not the pigeons. They strut, eat, shit, peck at people and don't judge me. I take bread stale as faith from a paper bag and toss them crumbs. In response, they crowd around me like I were God, follow me in hops and skips and jumps and they molt. I want to shed my skin like them, follow a God who feeds me, but I sit on the bench and rustle my paper bag, find more bread crumbs at the folds in the bottom.

I go home that night, and get shitfaced, mumble some prayers. Sitting in the dark, I wonder how long it will be until God brings back the sun.

The parts where you introduce alcohol seem sort of forced, to the point where it is not very realistic.

I'm not the best reader, so I don't really understand what the entire point of this is.

I understand that the MC is religious, although he seems to have some issues with the church and the priests in it? I'm confused. It'd be sweet if you PM'd me and explained this more.

xoxo
Lena

I am not an angel as I comb back my hair, because I swear at God all the while in my head in, vile, twisted words like the teeth of the comb as they catch on a knot

This sentence lost itself around the "all the while" part. I've read it over and over multiple times, and while I can see how it was intended to mean, that meaning does not make itself easily apparent or even comprehensible unless you break down the sentence almost word-by-word. It's also at odds with the more straightforward phrasing of the rest of the piece, so I suggest you try simplifying this sentence.

All-in-all though, this was a pretty solid vignette. You painted a vivid picture of this character's disillusionment, even as you showed how he still wanted to believe, without being too heavy-handed. Nice job.

catscratch wrote:I'd forgotten how the bells sound in the morning.

Not strong enough start, considering how short this is. I want to remember the first line when I finish. I don't want to read it and automatically find myself thinking of stronger ways this could have begun.

they creep into my head with the sober, pale sun and my head throbs with it.

This is really clumsy. They (the bells) creep into my head (a poor and bizzare image, creeping is slow and lethargic, repetitive ringing of a bell isn't a creeping sound if you are sleeping in my opinion) with the sober, pale sun and my head throbs with it. You shouldn't repeat yourself. Don't repeat 'my head.'

The story is pretty decent. I think the ending is too blunt. You can be subtle and softly weave in a little bit of hope. I think you would also do well to tighten the entire piece up across the board. Try not to repeat yourself and also avoid clichés.

Anyway I wanted to do a line by line but I ran out of patience and I'm too sleepy.

Well done and thanks for the read.

JP