Young Writers Society

I don't suppose you'll believe that it all started with a can of coke. But then again, for quite some time, no one has really believed what ever I've said much.
Last summer changed all that.
And I'm going to tell you why.
For sixteen years of my life, I've felt hard done by. If you haven’t already guessed by now, the world, along with the two key elements designed for adolesant disaster by the name of 'My Parents' have screwed me up. Let me paint you a nice little picture of myself, so that you can all frown, and turn away, mildly disgusted. I'm the kid you see standing on the street corner on a Saturday night, as well as all the other nights of the week- smoking, drinking, out of my mind on things you'd rather not hear. Pale skin, tall, dark eyes staring mutinously from overgrown brows and premature wrinkles.
And that's just what you see.
Crime is a dirty, petty job, but somebody's gotta do it. And I assure you, I've got no airs or graces when it comes to getting a little blood on my hands.
Easy as breathing, once you've done it enough times.
But enough about me.
Because I'm not writing it for my own self esteem. Nor am I writing it because I ended up in some secure place where they like you to write down all your feelings. God knows I'm not doing for my parents.
This is for the street children of Romania.
Because without them, there would be no amazing metamorphosis of me- the 'doomed youth'.
And without them, there would be no story.
Want to hear more?

I actually quite likes that. Not fantastic, but really like the way you get by with such little description, and pull it off so brilliantly.

I really like the character developlent, the POV that you write from is very conivcing and I love the way you use similies and metahpors to get the point across.

Genreally, your descriptions are very good, and you don't overuse them, which is major problem today. You have strong sentences I really like it.

What to hear more?

YES YES YES!!! pm me when you write more

ps: could you space out lines to make it easier to read please!

I liked this story a lot, it was really quite believable, although I would have liked it to be a little bit longer; I would have liked to hear more! You painted a great image in my head.

And yes, I would like to hear more, too!

Thought it was interesting, too lazy to go all into the whole critiquing grammar and such, unless you want that? You can PM me, and I will. I am very intrigued by this girl. The only advice I have to give at the moment is to please doublespace your sentences. =] Other than that, good job. I LOOK FORWARD TO MORE.

--JF.

Wow, this is a really well written piece. I would definately like to read on. Your strong sentence struction and writers voice are intriguing, yet don't overpower the story.

Hey guys, thanks for the comments.
On closer inspection your right about the piece being too short, so I'm gonna add a bit on.

If my accent dips a little in this, I swear I’m only doing it to show off.

I’m afraid the story of how I arrived at the Can of Coke incident isn’t exactly clichéd as you’re all probably well used to….drunk Fathers, missing Mothers...

Intelligent siblings, blah, blah, another drunken father and a sudden jerky plot twist that shows you that the main character is actually the great grandson’s niece of the supreme emperor of the universe named Ikea or something stupid like that.

My Father, Alan, was born in Oslo, Norway in 1968 and lived there until the tender age of seventeen when he arrived a little late to the hippie era in America and had the misfortune to meet my Mother, Rebecca, who, by a happy mistake, was still too stoned to realize that it was over.

They married after three years of humanitarian course in the NY University, and worked all over the world until 1991, after globe trotting away like a pair of Mother Teresas on speed, my mother had me. I bet she jumped for joy.

I was a sickly little pale thing with black hair and bloodshot eyes and not very pleasant to the least. My good old dad took one look at me, and well, legged it.

So that left us together.

Poor Rebecca, despite all her work with underprivileged children couldn’t hack it much.
But she got me to where I am today, and we’ll leave old Becky’s mothering skills at that.

So I grew up tough and I grew up mean, hanging out till late, drag races, girls, laughing at people who studied or tried to make anything of themselves.

I got away with murder.

Categorically speaking of course, because I never actually got as far as that. But let me tell you for free that I was heading there fast, and with a first class ticket.


So what happened? I’ll tell you. There I was in the good old broken suburb in New York City, just popping into a store to grab a coke, when I realised I had no money. So, of course, I stole one.


Hardly a cardinal sin, when it comes to a harden criminal like myself


But Mr. Magorina, sick and tired of me and my ‘gang’ of hoodlums was waiting for me at the door with a sawn off shotgun and a smile that suggested he’d just won Miss America.
I smiled and all.


‘I don’t know where we went wrong with you’ my Mother sighed, taking another drag of her cigarette and glaring back at me in the police station behind a hazy mist of smoke.


‘Me neither’ I sighed, thoroughly disappointed by the interior of the small so called interrogation room which consisted of a table, a bare light bulb and a sick bucket. I’d been here an hour and already I felt like I was getting the Folsom blues.

‘Well?’ Mom demanded, obviously waiting for me to elaborate.

I simply smiled.

‘I didn’t hear you come in last night, how is Steve?’


She merely swore under her breath and stared behind my head at the fitly wall, fantasying about her life if she didn’t have me. I could almost hear the cogs in her mind clicking and whirling around.


‘What about school?’ she protested at last, her graying hair shining under the light ‘you told me it was only temporary- either you would get a job or go back. And you’ve done neither. I can’t sit back and watch you throw your life away anymore’

‘That makes a change’ I snapped back, satisfied by the reaction on her face ‘Nice to see you’re taking an interest for once.’

‘I’ve always taken an interest, but sometimes you’re just so dam difficult, son’ she answered, more to herself than me.

I chewed my stale gum morosely.

My Mother did something very strange then. Have you ever watched someone trying to work out a math problem and then they suddenly get the answer? It’s like a moment of epiphany when hope flashes across their eyes.


‘That’s it.’ She straightened up triumphantly ‘You’re coming home with me, and packing your bags. This time tomorrow you’ll be on a plane to eastern Europe with me and the ‘New Beginings’ group. If this doesn’t straighten you out, I don’t know what will. Up you
get.’


Her new motivated self scared me.

‘What? No way! I’m not even ga-’

But she had caught me in a vice- like grip by the shoulder and proceeded to march me from the room and out of the station, her jaw clenched tight

‘Mom! Get off me!’

Step one on my bloody journey of self discovery, all for a can of coke.

Good old Dilian Knudsen.

Guilty as charged.

Cool how "it all started with a can of coke" I like how simple things can become poems and rhymes. Good one. Hope I can read more of what you write

Cool how "it all started with a can of coke" I like how simple things can become poems and rhymes. Good one. Hope I can read more of what you write

Hey, thanks for all the great responses, especially the constructive criticism as this is my first attempt at writing this piece.
Eimear

I quite liked it. Although it was the same old "dark style" if you will, it was done in a different way. Very to the point in the beginning but leaves room for expansion. It's intriguing and I would love to hear more.

so wait... all of this site is done in forum form? did you just post more story? anyway.. i tripped up on some of the sentences... other than that.. its good for what it is.

This is absolutely fascinating.
It seems like you've fully shaped the persona of the bad kid in every teenager.
True, some are worse than others.
And it is true again that, some teenagers seem to be goody little two-shoes..es, but inside we all wanna have fun and party.

I love it so far.

Strange it's as if you wrote a book about me... Stalker!!

I like wher your going with it, it makes me wonder whats going to happen next and keeps me focused on it.

Like someone said, this book could refer to nearly every teenager.

Can't wait for next bit.

I don't suppose you'll believe that it all started with a can of coke. But then again, for quite some time, no one has really believed what ever I've said much. 1

Last summer changed all that.

And I'm going to tell you why.

For sixteen years of my life, I've felt hard done by. If you haven’t already guessed by now, the world, along with the two key elements designed for adolesant disaster by the name of 'My Parents' have screwed me up. Let me paint you a nice little picture of myself, so that you can all frown, and turn away, mildly disgusted. I'm the kid you see standing on the street corner on a Saturday night, as well as all the other nights of the week- smoking, drinking, out of my mind on things you'd rather not hear. Pale skin, tall, dark eyes staring mutinously from overgrown brows and premature wrinkles.2

And that's just what you see.

Crime is a dirty, petty job, but somebody's gotta do it. And I assure you, I've got no airs or graces when it comes to getting a little blood on my hands.

Easy as breathing, once you've done it enough times.

But enough about me.

Because I'm not writing it for my own self esteem. Nor am I writing it because I ended up in some secure place where they like you to write down all your feelings. God knows I'm not doing for my parents. 3

This is for the street children of Romania.

Because without them, there would be no amazing metamorphosis of me- the 'doomed youth'.

And without them, there would be no story.

Want to hear more?

I actually liked this. It was short but interesting, and I don't know why, but it was perfect This was good, I can't really say any more So, not a very good critique but it was good xD


1. I really like the first sentence.
2. Nice description.
3. Good description, again.

So overall this was really good. I enjoyed it, well done
~Lostxxx

Let me paint you a nice little picture of myself, so that you can all frown, and turn away, mildly disgusted. I'm the kid you see standing on the street corner on a Saturday night, as well as all the other nights of the week- smoking, drinking, out of my mind on things you'd rather not hear. Pale skin, tall, dark eyes staring mutinously from overgrown brows and premature wrinkles.

You're no Da Vinci--work on your painting. It doesn't exactly convey "disgusting."

Crime is a dirty, petty job, but somebody's gotta do it. And I assure you, I've got no airs or graces when it comes to getting a little blood on my hands.

I completely disagree. No one has to do crime--especially not without some reasoning behind it. Now, if he said something like "Crime's a dirty job, but someone has to keep the cops on their toes," or "Crime's a dirty job, but someone has to keep the security companies in business," that'd be funny. This joke just falls flat--on its face.

Want to hear more?

Nice hook--make everything leading up to it equally interesting.

--D