Young Writers Society

I’m not entirely sure why it is that people insist that success smells sweet. What I must rank as my greatest success did not smell sweet. It smelt of salted tears, and nothing beyond that.


I remember the autumn when my story began. Or rather, I shall use that autumn as a starting point as it was so beautiful as to warrant a mention. The leaves seemed to be changing colour much more slowly than usual, taking their time over their rubies and gold before embarking on that last thrilling flight, the flight which would inevitably see them laid to rest on the footpath. They would be free, that much is true, but only free to be kicked and trampled on, or tossed around by the breeze. Maybe that autumn did have significance. Yes, it can serve as a mirror.


Autumn was coming to a close on the night that I first saw him. I was glad. It was true that it was beautiful, but it brought too much change, and was far too flighty. He said that autumn was his favorite season.


The bar was packed that night, mostly college students. I was not impressed. Why couldn't they go back to all of their glitzy clubs and leave me my one dingy bar? My shadowed corner at the far side of the counter was so much less effective when there were people surrounding me. They were so close that their elbows banged against me as they carried their drinks to their seats, so close that I could smell their sweat and cologne and perfume.


‘Cheer up Shanna!” smiled Michael, the barman, wiping down the counter. “It might never happen!.”

I shook my head darkly, drawing my glass closer to me. “You’re right, Michael. And it hasn't’t happened, now has it? That’s why I’m sitting here with all these…” I cast around for the word, but couldn't find it. “Young people bashing into me!” I shook my head.


“Young people!” He laughed. “You don’t fit into that category then?”


He was right. I wasn't’t much older than they were. “Fine.” I snapped, rolling my eyes. “College students. Lucky brats. Whatever.”


“Bitterness is sad in one so young, Shan.” He told me, pressing his lips together pityingly, which did nothing to improve my mood. His remorseful look hadn't quite faded when the door swung open. I cringed, waiting for the overly excited babble which would surely follow, but it didn't come. Instead, a tall, dark-haired man walked in and begun weaving his way to the bar. His hat was down so low over his eyes that his face was in shadow.


He ordered his drink, and scanned around quickly for a stool. One of the kids must have left mere seconds before, because there was an empty stool right beside me which hadn't’t been the case before Michael and I had started talking. He sat down next to me, smiling slightly, and took a gulp from the pint which Michael had set before him.


“Ahhhh!” He gasped, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and grinning. I scowled. I wasn't’t in the mood for such blatant displays of cheerfulness. It was downright obscene!


“Ray of sunshine, you are.” He noted, with a nod in my direction. “What’s your name, Sunshine?”


I sighed impatiently. “Shanna.” I told him. I didn't ask him his. It would only encourage him. It turned out that he didn't need any encouragement.


“Shanna.” He repeated, tossing it around in his mouth, exploring the flavors. “Lovely. Never heard that one before. And how are you today, Shanna sunshine?”


“Great.” I responded dryly, then added under my breath, “but you won’t be able to say the same if you keep calling me sunshine.” Something in his eyes flickered so I knew that he had heard, but he pretended that he hadn't. I took a long swig from my drink, hoping he had tired of me. But the man just wouldn't give up! He was completely undeterred by my obvious lack of interest and my curt responses to his relentless flow of questions, his tiresome cheer. My tone became more scathing. I rolled my eyes. I sighed often. Sometimes I pretended that I couldn't hear him. Why couldn't he understand that I just wasn't in the mood to talk to anyone?


Still, once he accepted that I wasn't going to say much, he was perfectly happy to prattle on himself. His name was Colin, he was 26, he was a bus driver (he’d wanted to be a carpenter, but he’d failed woodwork and gotten his driving test on the first go, and it had all progressed from there. Fascinating stuff.) I tried to block his words out. I watched the way he absently wiped the condensation from his glass, and how, every so often, he’d stop talking, frown, pat his shirt pocket, smile with relief, and carry on. No rings on his fingers, but there was a scar on the back of his left hand.
He bought me a drink, hoping that it would make me more favorably disposed towards him, and I accepted it less than graciously. And still he talked to me, telling me his stories, asking for mine.


Gradually, some mixture of the alcohol, and his charm and dogged persistence (and the fact that he was the only non-college-student there besides Michael and myself), began to enchant me, and when he scrawled his number on the back of a coaster after I had declined his offer of a lift home, I pocketed it.


I forgot all about it until a week later when I was emptying the pockets of my jeans before throwing them into the washing machine. It was tearing along the fold lines, and it proved difficult to interpret the numbers. I called him, not sure why exactly I was doing so. He didn't’t even bother saying hello once I’d identified myself, saying instead, “Ahhh! Success! Though I must admit, I knew you’d call!” I could practically hear him smiling down the phone.


I wanted to demand to know how he’d known that, how he could have made such an unfounded presumption (I was sure that I’d been far from friendly), but I didn't. I smiled and laughed and arranged a meeting. And, although I knew that I was going out of my mind completely, and out of my self, I felt a little thrill of accomplishment, as if it had been a success, as if something deep inside of me had changed for the better. It had changed, I discovered. I was happy and obliging and weak.

****

Three months later, my “success” had been so badly eroded and warped by tears that I could hardly bear to define it as such. When he eventually (inevitably) left for the last time, my heart began to rise, only to plummet back down when it realized that a part of it was missing.

Well, it's nice. I enjoyed the roundabout way you approached a rather simple story.

couldn't’t

Why did that keep happening?

What [s]I[/s] must rank as my greatest success did not smell sweet.

"What must rank as my greatest success did not smell sweet." has better flow.

I remember the autumn when my story began. Or rather, I shall use that autumn as a starting point, as it was so beautiful as to warrant a mention. The leaves seemed to be changing colour much more slowly than usual, taking their time over their rubies and gold before [s]taking[/s] embarking on that last thrilling flight, the flight which would inevitably see them [s]splattered[/s] laid to rest on the footpath. They would be free, that much is true, but only free to be kicked and trampled on, or tossed around by the breeze.[b/] [s]or fate, or some other power.[/s] Maybe that autumn did have significance. [s]Yes,[/s] [b]Perhaps it can serve us as a mirror.

Now this is the most important part of the story, I think. And such, it's important that you rework this. I've added commas for flow, and new words where old ones didn't fit. You don't need to take all of these sugegstions, but give them some thought, this paragraph should be silky smooth, and it isn't quite.

- Now, after an interesting metaphor in the begining, you don't follow it up. I'd like to see this metaphor crop up again (if it is there, pardon me, you'll need to make it more obvious) in the story. Repeat your adjectives and descriptions from the opening, later on in the story.

Instead, a tall, dark-haired man walked in and begun weaving his way to the bar. His hat was down so low over his eyes that his face was in shadow.

Deja Vu here. To be honest, I'd cut the original mention of the man from the third paragraph. Otherwise, I feel like I've heard this for a second time, and it isn't interesting. I glossed over the description of the man on first read through.

I was happy and obliging and weak.

*****

Three months later, my “success”...

I wanted more then just the usual space between these two paragraphs. Because you've got a real narrator voice, I feel like someone is in the room telling me the story, you need a pause here that would signify to me a sob, or a deep reflective breath...


Other then my edits, a fine job I think. It doesn't really stand out, -so I encourage you to try for something a little more groundbreaking- but it was nice, and it worked.

Hey! Thanks for posting in, "Need a Crit?"

Well, this story was good. It held my interest and it was well written.

It just doesn't seem realistic.

I called him, not sure why exactly I was doing so.

Why would she call him? She was in a terribly foul mood, and I'm sure that I wouldn't want to call someone that bugged me. I would discard the phone number. Unless she did like him to begin with, and that would make everything a bit more interesting... gah! I'm babbling!

So, to make a long story short, this was good. Really good. Are there more parts? Probably. I'm just too dang lazy to go and scroll to the top.

The first scene where they were at the bar was really good. Man, I'm being really picky today:

Cheer up Shanna!” smiled Tom, the barman, wiping down the counter. “It might never happen!.”

How is it that almost ever single bartender is named Tom? If Tom isn't really a major character, I would change his name into something not so cliche. I know that this may sound a little odd, but it's these little details that make the story.

But of course, that's your own opinion.

Thanks for posting on Need a Crit and continue to do so! This was a good story, and I'll look for more.

BBB

I really liked this story a lot. And I mean a lot! It was very well written, had excellent voice, and, although the main character was cynical and pessimistic, it wasn't depressing at all, it was really entertaining.

I do agree with bigbadbear that the part where she called him and "didn't know why" was a bit cliche. I mean, nobody really does that in real life.

Other than that I really, really enjoyed this story!

Hiya! I agree with others here about calling someone and not knowing why. Its an easy way around a weak storyline. Make this a bit stronger, give her a reason why.

It seems a bit unrealistic in parts, but this was really good, so carry on!

~Keep writing~

~D'Aedomir~

I’m not entirely sure why it is that people insist that success smells sweet. What I must rank as my greatest success did not smell sweet. It smelt of salted tears, and nothing beyond that. [A shorter sentence would provide more contrast with the other two and be more dramatic so why not simply 'It smelt of salted tears' or possibly 'It smelt of salted tears; nothing more.']
I remember the autumn when my story began. Or rather, I shall use that autumn as a starting point [s]as[/s] because it was so beautiful as to warrant a mention. The leaves seemed to be changing colour much more slowly than usual, taking their time over their rubies and gold before embarking on that last thrilling flight, the flight which would inevitably see them laid to rest on the footpath. They would be free, that much is true, but only free to be kicked and trampled on, or tossed around by the breeze. Maybe that autumn did have significance. Yes, it can serve as a mirror.
Autumn was coming to a close on the night that I first saw him. I was glad. It was true that it was beautiful, but it brought too much change, and was far too flighty. He said that autumn was his favorite season.
The bar was packed that night, mostly college students. I was not impressed. Why couldn't they go back to all of their glitzy clubs and leave me my one dingy bar? My shadowed corner at the far side of the counter was so much less effective when there were people surrounding me. They were so close that their elbows banged against me as they carried their drinks to their seats, so close that I could smell their sweat and cologne and perfume.
‘Cheer up Shanna!” smiled Michael, the barman, wiping down the counter. “It might never happen!.” [You don't need a full stop beside that exclamation mark.
I shook my head darkly, drawing my glass closer to me. “You’re right, Michael. And it hasn't’t happened, now has it? That’s why I’m sitting here with all these…” I cast around for the word, but couldn't find it. “Young people bashing into me!” I shook my head.
“Young people!” He laughed. “You don’t fit into that category then?”
He was right. I [s]wasn't’t[/s] wasn't much older than they were. “Fine.” I snapped, rolling my eyes. “College students. Lucky brats. Whatever.”
“Bitterness is sad in one so young, Shan.” [Comma rather than full stop and a small letter for he.] He told me, pressing his lips together pityingly, which did nothing to improve my mood. His remorseful look hadn't quite faded when the door swung open. I cringed, waiting for the overly excited babble which would surely follow, but it didn't come. Instead, a tall, dark-haired man walked in and begun weaving his way to the bar. His hat was down so low over his eyes that his face was in shadow.
He ordered his drink, and scanned around quickly for a stool. One of the kids must have left mere seconds before, because there was an empty stool right beside me which [s]hadn't’t[/s] hadn't been the case before [s]Michael and I had started talking[/s]. Maybe I offended someone. He sat down next to me, smiling slightly, and took a gulp from the pint which Michael had set before him.
“Ahhhh!” [A small h for he. Een after exclamation marks or question marks. If they're inside dialogue, it makes no difference.] He gasped, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and grinning. I scowled. I [s]wasn't’t[/s] wasn't in the mood for such blatant displays of cheerfulness. It was downright obscene!
“Ray of sunshine, you are.” [Comma and small h.] He noted, with a nod in my direction. “What’s your name, Sunshine?”
I sighed impatiently. “Shanna.” Comma.] I told him. I didn't ask him his. It would only encourage him. It turned out that he didn't need any encouragement.
“Shanna.” [Comma and small h.] He repeated, tossing [I think you should choose a more gentle word. This sounds like he was being careless with her name. Unless that's the image you want to give?] it around in his mouth, exploring the flavors. “Lovely. Never heard that one before. And how are you today, Shanna sunshine?” [Capitalise sunshine. He's saying it as if it's a name: Shanna Sunshine.]
“Great.” [Comma.] I responded dryly, then added under my breath, “but you won’t be able to say the same if you keep calling me sunshine.” Something in his eyes flickered so I knew that he had heard, but he pretended that he hadn't. I took a long swig from my drink, hoping he had tired of me. But the man just wouldn't give up! He was completely undeterred by my obvious lack of interest and my curt responses to his relentless flow of questions, his tiresome cheer. My tone became more scathing. I rolled my eyes. I sighed often. Sometimes I pretended that I couldn't hear him. Why couldn't he understand that I just wasn't in the mood to talk to anyone?
Still, once he accepted that I wasn't going to say much, he was perfectly happy to prattle on himself. His name was Colin, he was 26, he was a bus driver (he’d wanted to be a carpenter, but he’d failed woodwork and gotten his driving test on the first go, and it had all progressed from there. Fascinating stuff.) I tried to block his words out. I watched the way he absently wiped the condensation from his glass, and how, every so often, he’d stop talking, frown, pat his shirt pocket, smile with relief, and carry on. No rings on his fingers, but there was a scar on the back of his left hand.
He bought me a drink, hoping that it would make me more favorably disposed towards him, and I accepted it less than graciously. And still he talked to me, telling me his stories, asking for mine.
Gradually, some mixture of the alcohol, and his charm and dogged persistence (and the fact that he was the only non-college-student there besides Michael and myself), began to enchant me, and when he scrawled his number on the back of a coaster after I had declined his offer of a lift home, I pocketed it.
I forgot all about it until a week later when I was emptying the pockets of my jeans before throwing them into the washing machine. It was tearing along the fold lines, and it proved difficult to interpret the numbers. I called him, not sure why exactly I was doing so. He [s]didn't’t[/s] didn't even bother saying hello once I’d identified myself, saying instead, “Ahhh! Success! Though I must admit, I knew you’d call!” I could practically hear him smiling down the phone.
I wanted to demand to know how he’d known that, how he could have made such an unfounded presumption (I was sure that I’d been far from friendly), but I didn't. I smiled and laughed and arranged a meeting. And, although I knew that I was going out of my mind completely, and out of my self, I felt a little thrill of accomplishment, as if it had been a success, as if something deep inside of me had changed for the better. It had changed, I discovered. I was happy and obliging and weak.
****
Three months later, my “success” had been so badly eroded and warped by tears that I could hardly bear to define it as such. When he eventually (inevitably) left for the last time, my heart began to rise, only to plummet back down when it realized that a part of it was missing.

A lovely little story, Jas. I think I'd have liked more physical description, particularly of Colin and of the bar. Is the stool she's sitting on uncomfortable? Is there a heady smell of alcohol in the air, a beating of music? Does Shana feel a little self conscious around the people? Does she hold her hand-bag or purse tighter?

Also, don't lose Michael so entirely. Have him throw her looks every now and then while Colin talks. Have him throw some unspoken glance that asks if she wants him thrown out or that says give him a chance. Have him comment on her pocketing the number, have them banter more. I'd love more description of him and more interaction with him. Your piece is short, you have only three main characters and you need to be sure that each of them is used to their entirety.

When Shanna calls Colin, it's a little sudden. Have her hesitate. It's been some time remember and she doesn't want to seem foolish. Have her think about it a little.

I love the ending by the way. It's good, even though the reader is expecting it. And I don't have any further comments so until next we talk my love,

Heather xx

Wow, your writing style is fantastic! I love how real your characters are and the humor in this story ^-^ The first sentence really hooked me into your story. I can't find any noticable errors in it. Although, at the end, I hope there'll be a second chapter to explain the narrator's heart break (as in, what happened to her and Colin's relationship?)

HEyy

I thought it was pretty good
there was a few spelling mistakes
but it was overly good
and srry but i need points to post m y story


I remember the autumn when my story began. Or rather, I shall use that autumn as a starting point as it was so beautiful as to warrant a mention. The leaves seemed to be changing colour much more slowly than usual, taking their time over their rubies and gold before embarking on that last thrilling flight, the flight which would inevitably see them laid to rest on the footpath. They would be free, that much is true, but only free to be kicked and trampled on, or tossed around by the breeze. Maybe that autumn did have significance. Yes, it can serve as a mirror.



Autumn was coming to a close on the night that I first saw him. I was glad. It was true that it was beautiful, but it brought too much change, and was far too flighty. He said that autumn was his favorite season.



The bar was packed that night, mostly college students. I was not impressed. Why couldn't they go back to all of their glitzy clubs and leave me my one dingy bar? My shadowed corner at the far side of the counter was so much less effective when there were people surrounding me. They were so close that their elbows banged against me as they carried their drinks to their seats, so close that I could smell their sweat and cologne and perfume.



‘Cheer up Shanna!” smiled Michael, the barman, wiping down the counter. “It might never happen!.”


I shook my head darkly, drawing my glass closer to me. “You’re right, Michael. And it hasn't’t happened, now has it? That’s why I’m sitting here with all these…” I cast around for the word, but couldn't find it. “Young people bashing into me!” I shook my head.



“Young people!” He laughed. “You don’t fit into that category then?”



He was right. I wasn't’t much older than they were. “Fine.” I snapped, rolling my eyes. “College students. Lucky brats. Whatever.”



“Bitterness is sad in one so young, Shan.” He told me, pressing his lips together pityingly, which did nothing to improve my mood. His remorseful look hadn't quite faded when the door swung open. I cringed, waiting for the overly excited babble which would surely follow, but it didn't come. Instead, a tall, dark-haired man walked in and begun weaving his way to the bar. His hat was down so low over his eyes that his face was in shadow.



He ordered his drink, and scanned around quickly for a stool. One of the kids must have left mere seconds before, because there was an empty stool right beside me which hadn't’t been the case before Michael and I had started talking. He sat down next to me, smiling slightly, and took a gulp from the pint which Michael had set before him.



“Ahhhh!” He gasped, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and grinning. I scowled. I wasn't’t in the mood for such blatant displays of cheerfulness. It was downright obscene!



“Ray of sunshine, you are.” He noted, with a nod in my direction. “What’s your name, Sunshine?”



I sighed impatiently. “Shanna.” I told him. I didn't ask him his. It would only encourage him. It turned out that he didn't need any encouragement.



“Shanna.” He repeated, tossing it around in his mouth, exploring the flavors. “Lovely. Never heard that one before. And how are you today, Shanna sunshine?”



“Great.” I responded dryly, then added under my breath, “but you won’t be able to say the same if you keep calling me sunshine.” Something in his eyes flickered so I knew that he had heard, but he pretended that he hadn't. I took a long swig from my drink, hoping he had tired of me. But the man just wouldn't give up! He was completely undeterred by my obvious lack of interest and my curt responses to his relentless flow of questions, his tiresome cheer. My tone became more scathing. I rolled my eyes. I sighed often. Sometimes I pretended that I couldn't hear him. Why couldn't he understand that I just wasn't in the mood to talk to anyone?



Still, once he accepted that I wasn't going to say much, he was perfectly happy to prattle on himself. His name was Colin, he was 26, he was a bus driver (he’d wanted to be a carpenter, but he’d failed woodwork and gotten his driving test on the first go, and it had all progressed from there. Fascinating stuff.) I tried to block his words out. I watched the way he absently wiped the condensation from his glass, and how, every so often, he’d stop talking, frown, pat his shirt pocket, smile with relief, and carry on. No rings on his fingers, but there was a scar on the back of his left hand.

He bought me a drink, hoping that it would make me more favorably disposed towards him, and I accepted it less than graciously. And still he talked to me, telling me his stories, asking for mine.



Gradually, some mixture of the alcohol, and his charm and dogged persistence (and the fact that he was the only non-college-student there besides Michael and myself), began to enchant me, and when he scrawled his number on the back of a coaster after I had declined his offer of a lift home, I pocketed it.



I forgot all about it until a week later when I was emptying the pockets of my jeans before throwing them into the washing machine. It was tearing along the fold lines, and it proved difficult to interpret the numbers. I called him, not sure why exactly I was doing so. He didn't’t even bother saying hello once I’d identified myself, saying instead, “Ahhh! Success! Though I must admit, I knew you’d call!” I could practically hear him smiling down the phone.



I wanted to demand to know how he’d known that, how he could have made such an unfounded presumption (I was sure that I’d been far from friendly), but I didn't. I smiled and laughed and arranged a meeting. And, although I knew that I was going out of my mind completely, and out of my self, I felt a little thrill of accomplishment, as if it had been a success, as if something deep inside of me had changed for the better. It had changed, I discovered. I was happy and obliging and weak.


****


Three months later, my “success” had been so badly eroded and warped by tears that I could hardly bear to define it as such. When he eventually (inevitably) left for the last time, my heart began to rise, only to plummet back down when it realized that a part of it was missing.