So I've been experimenting with stream of consciousness writing where I literally just write anything that comes to me as it comes to me. It sort of forms a story with characters, perspectives, and plots that flow around each other. As such, it's not going to make much sense and is pretty much just weird as all hell. It follows no structure at all other than the sections indicated by asterisks. If you feel like reviewing it just keep that in mind.
Anyway, here is is. 18+ for some strong language and dem sessual situacions.
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“Who the fuck are you?”
“Well, nobody really. Or everybody if you prefer to look at it that way.”
Jeremy Schott had been dead for eight hours and he did not appreciate riddles.
“Don’t be afraid, Jeremy. We’re one and the same.”
Jeremy was afraid.
*
It was falling down seasontide and the leaves were gold and the sky was so blue it hurt to look at it until it was a casual grey again. The sun was so bright that her eyes hurt and there was salt in her mouth. Trees, she had always been afraid of the trees. She wanted to see Melanie but there was no sound save for the leaves and the wind in the branches and the acorns falling and falling and of course, of course, the sound of her own voice as she screamed and nobody answered. Nobody ever answered.
“And nobody will.”
*
Lemonade weather and the two stayed together and who was to say what was real?
The line wasn’t hers originally but it sure as hell was now.
*
The lines in my hand are worn down to the pulp and I don’t mean to say that they hurt. It’s far past that now. It’s just that thousands of pages and forks and fountain pens have reduced me to nothing and I wonder sometimes if I exist at all.
They have different names for me in different cultures, but I most prefer the Sandman. I’ve known many people and lives and gods and times and it’s so that now the time runs like water and means nothing at all. That’s the price of immortality, in the end. You forget the days and the months and the years are quite suddenly liquid and running together and blurring your vision and you are alone in the world and you are tumbling through a universe that hates you to pieces because nobody really wants you there.
They have said I can speak, but I say I can dream. My tongue is lead in a mouth that has moved nonstop for time untold, and if I speak it is from a slumber too deep to register fully. Such seems to be the way with sleep, and I remember now another name.
The Sleep Lord, they have called me. They call me now.
*
Run on in a world that has long since let you go, run on to the night and the day after tomorrow. Run on to next Wednesday and Sunday dinners and your sixteenth birthday. Run on to the day that you first say I love you and mean it and really mean it, and run on to the second miscarriage and the soup getting cold and wondering when he’ll be home finally. Run on to the day when they knock on your door and say they have some bad news and run on to the grandchildren asking you Who Was She and run on to the end. Run on to the final chapter. Run on until you can’t run anymore and your blisters have burst and splintered your bones and your shoes have grown roots and you reach for the end of the road.
*
“Remember Joseph? Joseph Keeney?”
“Yeah, yeah, that son of a bitch. Senior year. He still owes me twenty bucks.”
“He died last night.”
Beat.
“That son of a bitch.”
*
The table was quiet and Melanie said “Pass the salt.”
“Who the hell do you think you are living under this roof you’re a freak, it’s unnatural. Why would you choose such a disgusting life it’s because of those movies you’re always watching, isn’t it well consider them gone. Consider this whole thing gone because I am calling your therapist back up and we are fixing this problem you little slut, and you are never saying that word again under this roof or saying anything like that to anyone ever young lady. Can we even call you that?”
“Call me whatever you want. I love her. And this meatloaf tastes like shit. This whole town tastes like shit.”
The plate broke and who knew how fast you could break four ribs and a nose with a belt?
*
“I hope you don’t feel uncomfortable. It’s just that you’re a very attractive woman.”
“Uh… thanks. Thanks, I guess.”
“You guess?”
He fucked her on top of the graded papers and she only cried a little bit this time.
*
I always prided myself on having a great imagination. It was how I lived life when the real world was too dull or too scary or hurt too much. When I was a kid, every night before bed was imagination time. I would lie down and create stories, worlds; people in my head. I would insert myself into my favourite books and movies and television shows. I would relive the day’s events as a different person, or create situations where things went differently. I was a superhero, usually, or an all-powerful wizard or fairy or whatever the magic of the day seemed to favour. The one commonality was that I was always the ultimate power. If I was a superhero, I had every single power. I was immortal, unbeatable, and still loved by all. I had a fantasy where I would sit on the piles of snow that the plows heaped up during winter recess when all the other kids were playing. Suddenly a magical blue tornado would appear and sweep me up and bestow all of its magical properties unto me. I would emerge a superhero, fly around and impress everybody. I wouldn’t be the kind of chubby little kid with no friends and a god complex—I was a god. When I was a little older life outside of my mind seemed worthless and my nighttime imagination sessions became my sole release. Dreams and imaginary worlds were all I had to hope for.
Then it happened, as it always will: I grew up. When I closed my eyes at night there was no longer any recess or blue tornadoes. Sex became the nightly fantasy, elaborate and unholy scenarios played out in detail. Then fantasy became something closer to reality with my discovery of internet porn. Eventually, there was no imagination anymore. There was only the screen, the headphones hidden carefully under the covers, carefully deleting the internet history before falling asleep. I stopped dreaming altogether.
Then there was last week. I finished the last episode of a television show and my chest hurt in a funny way that I vaguely recognised. It was a longing, I realised, to live the life those characters were living. The hurt became a twinge and suddenly I was in my own head and I wasn’t myself any more. It was the first time I had imagined anything since my childhood and I fell asleep crying at how good it felt to be back. I had my first nightmare in five years and I woke up shivering, sobbing, and weirdly content.
It was how one feels, I imagine, when they’ve been hopelessly lost and finally found their way home.
*
You are tired, so tired, and the bags under your eyes are pulling you down into the months and years and every moment you’ve wasted here. You are watching the windows and wishing it was raining and hating the LED display that tells you nothing will ever change. You are hating yourself and the heat and the heat is oppressive, it’s pulling you down and you’re heavy. Heavier than you’ve ever been. You’re relatively sure that if you close your eyes they’ll fog up and life will stay blurry forever. But you think, really, life is a blur as it is.
You’re waiting to go home and sleep all the feelings away.
*
Dear Watson,
I’m sure you don’t know this, but here’s hoping you’ll learn. I’ve personally been sure that the train leaves at eight o’clock sharp every morning, and it seems so it’s been that way for twenty-odd years now. As such, I implore you not be holding myself personally accountable you know how I handle these things. Upset I have been now recalling eight oh-one and the tracks running late. He jumped, that I swear and I’m swearing. I’ve never pushed a man in my life. Admittedly, though, I’ve been wanting to.
- Schott
*
“Let me ask you a question, Jeremy.”
Jeremy was not in a questioning mood.
“Open your eyes, Jeremy.”
It was the most beautiful thing Jeremy had ever seen.
“Let me ask you this, and you will come to understand: What was the last dream you had? And please stop crying.”
Jeremy could not stop, but he tried.
“I can’t remember. I… no. No, I do. There was… my brother was there.”
“Very good. Tell me about him, please.”
“We haven’t talked in years.”
“That’s not a very good answer, Jeremy.”
Jeremy thought for a minute.
“He’s a sick bastard. And I fucking hate him.”
“Open your eyes again, please.”
“I didn’t close them.”
“Yes, you have. They’ve been closed for a very long time.”
*
Lemonade weather, that summer was better, and August came in with a frost. But whether the season had any good reason was blown away, borne away; lost.
*
Today we blew you away and I cried. I wasn’t sure why, exactly, because I haven’t held you in two years now. I suppose it’s just final, now, that I never will again. Near the end I cried at night, sometimes, when nobody saw, because I couldn’t bear the thought of you leaving. I cried that day you tried to hide yourself away but your legs had stopped working and they said there was nothing they could do but kill you. And I’m still crying now, two years later. I suppose I never really stopped.
You knew me well, better than anyone else. You knew that I only let you see me when I got so down I couldn’t stand anymore. Sometimes I take out your picture and wonder if I should burn it. Seems to be the only way of letting go of what I had. But I can’t.
I love you, and I will always love you. I do not use those words casually so you should know that I mean it.
I love you and I am so sorry. So sorry.
*
She bought her first pair of jeans that sagged down, and she knew they were more than just pants. She knew that the message was clear and that everything changed the minute she put them on. But she did it anyway because she was lonely, and they needed to know the she was looking for love.
She was surprised when they first saw her and the world kept turning. She was surprised when he took her in his arms and kissed her and she watched from across the room, because she couldn’t be him.
To clarify: She had waited for three years and the pants changed nothing. Her name was Melanie and She was a wallflower.
*
End of chapter
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I liked the story, whilst there were points I did not entirely understand I still enjoyed it. In future may I suggest you start setting the scene. The story would become a lot clearer then.
Well i couldnt grasp what the story is fully about but it was in all an intense, riveting story. It stimulates my sense i actually felt theoppressing heat and when you august came in with frost i felt a sense of chilly cold because august is rarely cold. I do however suggest you fix the grammar mistakes and revise it with more editing because i have to admit I didnt get the whole story. Start the story with the setting and mood.
Hey Tori,
In most cases I would agree with Griffinkeeper however in your case I have to disagree. Stream of Consciousness can be a way of writing with out any editing, there is in fact a book which is written entirely in stream of consciousness. It can often be very hard to follow, so much so that the reader just gives up but I think you've managed to capture just enough sense of a story to keep the reader interested. I can honestly say I would be happy to read more of this. There is obviously work to be done on the grammar side of things and although I understand that you may have done some of this deliberately it doesn't all work. True, it speeds up the pace and gives the sense of flitting thoughts which is good and you shouldn't take that away but there are parts which need a bit more control in order for the reader to be able to follow what you are saying.
I think the parts with the dialogue in work best and the letter is really good too, in other places I think the sections could do with being a bit shorter- the one that starts 'I always prided myself' the topic is good but it goes on for too long.
If you were going to make a book or longer story out of this then you would need to add a bit more structure to it or maybe just link the sections together more.
Another thing you might want to consider, when you are thinking thoughts generally lead on from one thing to another and you can see a link. I know this is not always the case but to make your writing seem more like this adding a few more links between the different sections might improve the way the narrative progresses.
Overall I think that this is a very effective piece of stream of consciousness. In fact I want to write some stream of consciousness for a section in a book I am writing and this has really given me a good idea of how to do it well! So thank you and well done!
Wakegirl x
Thanks! Yeah, I'll work on my grammar stuff. I'll definitely try to tie the sections together, too. Nice to actually get a helpful review XD.
Hey Tori, this is a review.
Stream of consciousness writing is useful when you have no idea what to write, or when you need to get something down. It is a technique which can help you brainstorm.
That being said, there is more to writing than just typing down whatever pops into your brain. It is unbelievably easy to write complete and utter garbage. Sometimes that is what a writer has to do. However, once they finish the stream of consciousness section, they're not done. Far from it. This is where brain-storming ends and editing begins.
The editing process is where you go through the nonsense you've written and figure out what is complete garbage and what is salvageable. It's where you connect those random scenes together to form a cohesive story, or start over from scratch. This is how you make full use of the stream of consciousness technique.
Saying "I'm experimenting with the stream of consciousness technique" doesn't excuse you from editing your work.
Well, I mean, this wasn't intended to be a finished work. I just write for fun and wanted to know what other people thought. But if it's utter garbage, then I suppose I'll stop writing it. Thanks for the advice.
Don't stop writing it! It may not be a finished work but it will definitely give you lots of ideas and keep your imagination strong.
It is utter garbage, only because you haven't gone through and refined it via the editing process. My advice never involves a cessation of writing, only how what you've written can be improved further. In this case, that involves sorting through the random scenes you've written and deciding what story you're trying to write.
The story I'm trying to write will come together in time, at which point I'll go back and edit it.
Personally, I don't think calling someone's work utter garbage is ever appropriate unless the work is offensive. There's a difference between being harsh and constructive and putting other people down. I realise you support your point, but it really wasn't necessary to state it in the first place. If you really think my writing is inexcusably bad, then maybe you should look into spending your time reading something else that isn't so terrible. I appreciate and respect your opinions, but I do not appreciate being insulted.
It isn't utter garbage, and I don't think Griff is right to say that. I happen to like stream of consciousness as a style. If it needs editing, well, fix apostrophes and such, but you don't have to do anything else if you don't want to. It's yours, and others' opinions don't matter when it comes to content. If it's good, it's good; if it's bad, it's bad, and this is not bad. At all. It's quite lovely, actually.
You could expand upon the ideas, make them into longer stories, tie them together into one, but you don't have to. It's beautiful as is.
The work is a series of unconnected scenes and characters. It doesn't make any sense at all. There is no theme, no message, and no plot. You have written words, but they lack any meaningful content. They don't lead anywhere, they don't enlighten anyone, and they don't contribute to anything that I can see.
When I say that this is utter garbage, it is the sense that it has no coherent structure of any kind. When I speak of editing it, I mean editing the structure to become more coherent. I couldn't care less about grammar and spelling at this stage. Critiquing the spelling and grammar on this submission is like giving advice on the paint color for a bridge which is about to collapse for lack of structural integrity.
I understand that different people have different writing styles, but that's not what has happened here. All writing, regardless of its form or style, has one thing in common: it attempts to coherently express something of value or interest. This work is notable for not communicating anything.
I do not think it is harsh to call a work that is devoid of substance, "utter garbage."
If you want to see a good stream of consciousness in action, I would refer you to "The News from Lake Woebegone." This is a good example of a stream of consciousness. It is smooth, it is interesting, and while it may digress, it doesn't interrupt the story.
Spelling Suggestions
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Did you mean...: been now [suggestions: no]
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Your usage of sophisticated vocabulary words used is LESS than average vocabulary builder would be of great asset to you. good job an your righting, there is need for improvement but good job. keep up the good work and keep writing.
I have no idea what you're talking about, but... thanks??