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Young Writers Society



Nameless

by Razcoon


Okay guys, to clarify, I'll write the background in the near future, 'kay? x3

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You're nameless. You have no place here.

As my hand gently brushes aside the red satin curtain, I imagine it's a sheet of blood that I'm lifting to its golden painted holder. The moonlight reflects off of the scarlet fabric, holding my gaze momentarily before I allow it to slip through my fingers. Like my life; I'm letting it slip away.

What life? You hate it here. The life you have is miserable.

Where had that thought come from? Certainly it must have rode the wind through my window. My fingers still feel the pressure of pulling the heavy glass-filled frame up to reveal the night air.

That thought was correct, however. I had given this town too many chances, each wasted away as though it had never been offered. The way I am living now is something I simply can't continue. Far from bearable. My solution is outside the window, now. Far from where I stand.

This is your last chance.

My decision was difficult, but rather than taking the easy way out, I'm straying from the ever-so-popular resolve of death. I'm giving life another chance, away from here. Turning my back on the window, I drop to my knees and reach far beneath my bed until my fingertips meet the rough material of my backpack. They curl around a strap, pulling it out from hiding. For months, it had been hidden.

It's the only piece of home you'll have left.

If I can call this place a home. The familiar warm, sweet scents of various flowers reach me, sending a wave of nostalgia through my core. It makes my heart ache, and very nearly makes me want to stay. With my backpack hanging over one shoulder, I slip one leg through the windowsill, then the other, allowing the warm, soft, floral air to engulf them.

I twist my body so that my lungs are crushed by the windowsill as my legs act as deadweights, dangling. Gripping the edge, I ease myself down further until I drop abrubtly, fingers still holding me up, only just. After a moment I let myself drop, the wooden porch rattling as I land. As I lope tdown the steps to the grass, my eyes turn to the cloudy sky. As though on cue, a drop of water touches my nose, followed by a sprinkling that soon erupts into a downpour.

When you're gone, you'll leave the rain behind.

In a matter of seconds, I'm soaked through. I'm grateful for the rain, however; it placed a metaphor in my mind, as well as a sense of peace. My nerves were soothed by the water, and I was awakened, ready. Often I would come out here to meditate in the rain, so I associated serenity with the falling water against my skin. The grass was rough and wet beneath my feet. I began to run.

This isn't home.

Here, I'm nobody. Just a shadow, a puppet for their purposes. Worthless.

I'm nameless.

You have no place here.


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362 Reviews


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Sun Apr 17, 2011 5:06 am
wonderland wrote a review...



Alright, so, woah.
That was pretty fantastic. I enjoyed how you set up the narration, it felt to me like it was two different people narrating. I'm not exactly sure that's what what you were going for, but that's what it felt like for me.
Now, what wasn't was strong was the normal narration. It just felt a little too wordy for me. What I mean is that some of your description kind of overpowered everything italic. It was good, I just didn't like how wordy it was.
However, you had strong and lovely emotion, something I love. I really felt like I was there, and I enjoyed that.

It was a very good work.
~Wickedwonder




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Sun Apr 17, 2011 2:58 am
WhiteWolf wrote a review...



I thought it was a bit different than things i normally read, but it could still use some work. Is that voice the narrator or is it the characters deep thoughts, what's unbearable about their life, is there a reason why the character likes the rain and other questions that the readers might have. Maybe foreshadow some things, or give hints if you don't want to give it away yet. You would have to answer these questions sooner or later, and if you just keep giving more and more questions without information about the other question it might not keep the readers attention. Good luck writing !




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Sun Apr 17, 2011 1:30 am
Razcoon says...



Thanks for the feedback! That second semicolon in the fifth-to-last paragraph was supposed to be a comma, but I'll look into that for the first semicolon.




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Sun Apr 17, 2011 1:08 am
Emerson wrote a review...



Hello there! Time for a review.

I can feel hiding in all these words that you have a good voice, waiting to break out. Despite being in first person, you're not too trapped inside the narrators head. So, as I proceed with the actual criticism, keep these positive comments in mind - I can see that you could take this somewhere good with improvement.

The most obvious flaw of this piece is the lack of conflict and therefore my lack of caring about the character or the situation. It's a short enough piece to read in a few moments... but why not give up after the first paragraph? You need to grab your reader by the throat and demand they read. This has a good vibe to it. I was sincerely hoping it wasn't another soppy, suicide story, and I'm ever so glad it wasn't. But, then, what IS it about? Who is this character? Why are they nameless and why are they leave? What is the story, and what the heck IS going on?

It's fun to write and easy to get by with trying to encapsulate a single moment and call it a work of art but in reality, it takes a lot of work to actually pull it off and make something good. I know so little about what is actually going on and who this person is that I can't, for the life of me, care about them. And if I don't care about them, why will I keep reading?

Ground yourself in what you're really trying to write, come back, and punch it with that good voice. Don't just try to write an emotional moment, build an emotional moment, an emotional human being, for your reader to associate and live through.

As a side note, your usage of semi-colons is pretty wonky. You should look into how to use those. Best of luck!





Sometimes my life just sounds like surrealistic fiction being sold on clearance at the book store.
— J. G. Hammersmith