Breaking the mould

Good Morning/Afternoon/Evening/Night(whichever one it is in your part of the world),

Hi! I'm Knight Hardy here on a mission to ensure that all works on YWS has at least two reviews. You will probably never see this but....Imma do this anyway.

First Impression: Well this was a pretty sad story with some truly horrifying depictions in it. Its definitely presenting a very interesting scenario quite well. I was certainly hooked and I would have kept right on reading if you posted more of it.

Anyway let's get right to it,

Life, to me it is the dizzying affect you feel during an altercation with a loved one, It is the feeling of the wind, scratching at your clothing, pulling you away from your goals. It is a Childs eighth birthday, when her own Mother forgets to purchase a cake, it is disappointment, knocking on you’re front door at seven thirty every morning, waking you from a slumber filled with haunted dreams and recollections of missed opportunities; a reminder of your lacking qualities, the bindings that hold you to reality. To me, life is a cruel punishment, in place to satisfy some higher beings fantasies of crying schoolgirls, Dreams torn and discarded, life is but a joke.

Being a simple adolescent, one of which leads a sheltered life I am yet to experience any meaning in my life, having memories of only snarling school mates and a mother hurtling instructions in my direction I have yet seen any reason for existence. I see only my face, pink with embarrassment and calendars falling off walls year after year, completely unmarked, no movie dates scrawled in ink, no birthdays to remember etched in red bordered by hearts.

Everything about my being cries my Mothers name, My locks, the colour of copper hang wilted around my face, framing my great green eyes, they never seem to glisten, always swimming with disgust.

“It’s not considered day dreaming when your still in bed” I called back, rolling over and running my hand across the bed-side table, searching for my watch, or the half empty bottle of gin that sat constantly beside my bed, a solider awaiting my arrival into another day.

I gazed around my bedroom willing my eyes to function once again; the same sad and lonely room I awoke in every morning greeted me. Its discoloured yellow wallpaper flaking at the corners, my clothes strewn around the closet, its door leaning against a wall, I can’t remember when it came off the hinges. The large bay window, its red home made curtains pulled shut, blocking out minimal sunlight.

“Didn’t I tell you to get up? Come on you slime ball, stop slacking” She spat, I felt so intimated, her soaring over me, if she had been in a separate room; snarling through walls like she had become accustomed to I would have screamed back. I was a lot stronger when there was a sturdy door separating us.

“Well? What the hell are you waiting for little bitch, get out of bed, now!” But still I sat, like a possum caught in headlights. My Mothers words have a different effect on everybody, some people twitch, others shudder, I stop functioning.

“What the fuck have you done to yourself?” she screamed, an extremely rational question I felt, that was until she started yanking on the bar, pulling this way and that. I was in agony and the stream of warm blood that ran down my body was no comfort.

She flicked the bar on the floor and watched as it bounced under the bed before leaving again. I could scarcely stand let alone leave, my body throbbed with pain and I collapsed onto my bed, one hand resting on my midriff, drowning in a pool of Luke warm blood.

I thought you had a good storyline here, with plenty of scope for more about the girl and her life. There were quite a few errors though - mostly punctuation and spelling.

I'll go through it and add in any missing punctuation I think should go there, and other comments but all in square brackets.

Life[:] to me it is the dizzying affect you feel during an altercation with a loved one, It [it] is the feeling of the wind, scratching at your clothing, pulling you away from your goals. It is a Childs [child's]eighth birthday, when her own Mother forgets to purchase a cake[;] it is disappointment, knocking on you’re front door at seven thirty every morning, waking you from a slumber filled with haunted dreams and recollections of missed opportunities; a reminder of your lacking qualities, the bindings that hold you to reality. To me, life is a cruel punishment, in place to satisfy some higher beings['] fantasies of crying schoolgirls, Dreams [dreams] torn and discarded [-] life is but a joke.

Being a simple adolescent, one of which leads a sheltered life[,] I am yet to experience any meaning in my life[;] having memories of only snarling school mates and a mother hurtling instructions in my direction[,] I have [not] yet seen any reason for existence. I see only my face, pink with embarrassment and calendars falling off walls year after year, completely unmarked, no movie dates scrawled in ink, no birthdays to remember etched in red[,]bordered by hearts. [I liked this last sentence a lot - particularly good imagery with the calendars]

My name is Ariana [-] not that it matters [-] people never call me by my name. They snarl vulgar nicknames after me, whisper vindictive lies behind cupped hands. I live the life my Mother moulded for me, Created [created]with her own cruel intentions of gripping me to a life tarnished with her name, holding me to an existence stained with her creation.

Everything about my being cries my Mother[']s name[.] My locks, the colour of copper hang wilted around my face, framing my great green eyes [-] they never seem to glisten, always swimming with disgust.

Disgust at my Mother, My Family, disgust at myself but most of all disgust at life[;] the life surrounding me from morning till night, the small children, running through the streets barley [barely] clothed, the Fathers letting chores fall by the waist side [I didn't understand this: 'letting chores fall by the waist side' - did you mean 'wayside'?]. The mothers like my own that sit, legs spread, a bottle of cheap liquor in one hand, an equally cheap smile spread across their face, a fag hanging out one corner. Screaming for the men to take them away, seduce them, have their way with them and show them the least bit of compassion and care before leaving again, maybe returning every once in a while for a quickie while the kids are at school.

With this consideration I am still yet to understand what sets me apart[.] My Mother [-] yes a malicious construction [-] but must I carry her gauntlet? Her life is set apart from mine, one canvas angry with destruction mine beside her own, left with remnants of her life yet blank, still awaiting its own story. [Again - good imagery with the canvas]

“You better not be day dreaming again[,]” Mother screamed, right on time[.] I get the feeling she can sense when my mind wanders, even in the slightest. One thought off task and her voice rings through the house, breaking me of my one treasured place, my one sanctuary, my dreams.

“It’s not considered day dreaming when your still in bed” I called back, rolling over and running my hand across the bed-side table, searching for my watch, or the half empty bottle of gin that sat [sits] constantly beside my bed, a solider awaiting my arrival into another day.

“You still in bed? Hurry up you lazy Shit[, or !]” She [she] screeched back, crashing about the kitchen[.] My Mother [(]the hypocrite[)] she may have been out of bed, stumbling through the 70’s style kitchen but she was yet to wake up to the day[.] her hair still hung limp at her sides, refusing to spring to life, her eyes still displaying the world with a slight clouded film. At least I had been to bed that night; I didn’t doubt she had never made it that far.

My hand still desperately searched the bed-side table, my fingers running over the smooth polished wood[.] I didn’t response [respond]. She didn’t mind, just kept crashing around, swearing as her knees and feet connected with the kitchen.

“Come on you little Mutt, get the hell out of bed and help me in the kitchen[!]” she panted, finding it almost exhausting completing a sentence. With that I rolled my eyes and pulled back the faded pink and purple blanket with one swift motion, exposing my body to the chill of the early morning air.

I gazed around my bedroom willing my eyes to function once again; the same sad and lonely room I awoke in every morning greeted me. Its discoloured yellow wallpaper flaking at the corners, my clothes strewn around the closet, its door leaning against a wall [-] I can’t remember when it came off the hinges [-] the large bay window, its red home made curtains pulled shut, blocking out minimal sunlight.

“Are you up yet? Bloody ingrate[,]” She [she] hurled in my direction, followed by a stamped [stamp] of feet[.] The door to my room ripped open and she stood, her green eyes ablaze with anger, her flaccid hair swinging around her face, as if caught in a winter storm.

I sat[,] spellbound[,] as she dropped her fag on the floor and crushed it with one of her cheap red heals [heels]. Her entire body twisted in my direction [and] her eyes locked on my own [-] I could feel them boring through me, looking straight past me.

“Didn’t I tell you to get up? Come on you slime ball, stop slacking[!]” She [she] spat[.] I felt so intimated, her soaring over me[.] If she had been in a separate room[,] snarling through walls like she had become accustomed to[,] I would have screamed back. I was a lot stronger when there was a sturdy door separating us.

“Well? What the hell are you waiting for little bitch, get out of bed, now!” But still I sat, like a possum caught in headlights. [makes a welcome change from rabbit] My Mother[']s words have a different effect on everybody, some people twitch, others shudder, I stop functioning.

“I’m not leaving this room till you are out of bloody bed!” she threatened, I willed my legs to leave the safety of my bed [-] if she gave me a beating now it would be tamer than the one I would receive after ten minutes more of her precious time.

Me [My - if you want to have it as 'me' - sort of as a slang then it doesn't really fit in with the narrator's voice so far] feet touched the cold[,] harsh[,] wooden floor and a shoot of iciness raced through my body, finally reaching my head. But I had done it [-] I was out of bed. My petite pyjama pants hung lose around my waist [petite and loose? A bit of a contradiction], my pyjama top stopping short of my navel, which last term I had pierced, without Mothers authorization.

I stood, in silent prayer as she surveyed my body [but] the glimmering artificial diamond caught her eye and she sprung on it, clutching it between finger and thumb, her long red nails digging into my skin.

“What the fuck have you done to yourself?” she screamed, an extremely rational question I felt, that was until she started yanking on the bar, pulling this way and that. I was in agony and the stream of warm blood that ran down my body was no comfort.

“Look, I’ll take it out[!]” I cried[.] The pain grew and finally I let out an echoing [not sure about 'echoing' - the room would have to be bigger for it to echo, I think] screech, in her hand she held my belly bar, intact, caked with blood and flesh. It felt so surreal, watching her hold it up for all too [to] see, a colossal smile working its way across her face.

She flicked the bar on the floor and watched as it bounced under the bed before leaving again ['again' is unnecessary - when has she left before?]. I could scarcely stand[,] let alone leave[.] my body throbbed with pain and I collapsed onto my bed, one hand resting on my midriff, drowning in a pool of Luke [luke] warm blood.

I hope that's helped. As for the story itself, it looks like it could go far - I certainly enjoyed reading it up to this point. All it needs is a bit of polishing, but it's got some great images already - I could really picture it in my head.

Well done!