#1
Hey. This is a story I wrote for English class. It's a little lengthy, but if you want, feel free to read.

He beckoned me over. As I moved accordingly, my dirt-stained face became suddenly bathed in a rare tessellation of light projected from the utmost window. I could finally see. I knew vaguely of the merciless torture which I would soon be the victim of. I also knew of the “fairy-tale”-like story which I would soon be forced to re-enact, disclosing the recent events and unveiling my innermost secrets. Steadying myself upon the wintry marble fortification, I managed to regain my conscience. I was captured struggling fruitlessly to do the best for myself, and now remained concealed behind metallic bars. “Go!” proclaimed a figure, unclear behind a mask of billowing cloaks and unkempt locks. “Recount your story.”
I ran, eloquently evading the shrubs which had for so long concealed my identity. My infamous name tarnished and smothered with the reputation of a killer, a thieve, and a poor, poor entity living amongst the riches, starved me of food, of social activity, and of a home. Well, sort of. A place to call home, for me, was not that of a warm, welcoming structure, but rather of a filthy, infested ditch – a burrow painstakingly hollowed with my bare hands. I lead the life of a scavenger – a heartbroken wild-man. I did not kill. I did not thieve. I was killed. I was thieved. My happiness was killed. My happiness was thieved.
Desperate to satisfy my hunger, I sprinted hastily towards a beautiful stench: the sweet, sweet aroma of freshly cooked bread. I was so eager to devour it, so eager to stay alive and healthy. As my instincts lead me to the city centre like a dog striving to seek a much-wanted object, I saw that the bread was guarded, concealed from the outside world by a guard minute in stature, but of intolerably intimidating demeanour. Only allowing myself to marvel for an instant, I readied myself, slowly inhaling and exhaling, my lungs filling not solely of oxygen, but of hope and confidence. I could die, or I could steal. Consequently, I chose the latter. Obviously inept and inexperienced in his craft, the guard turned his back to the bread, and blissfully conversed with his counterpart laden with swords and knives. Oblivious to all risks, I extended my hand, reached as far as I could, and successfully pried open the box in which the bread was secured. Gracefully, I swept the bread from its warm basin like a cleaner in a hurry to complete his late-night shift. Then I ran. Alone and defenceless, I forced one foot before the other. I was alone? Like always. I was fleeing from myself – who I once was, and feeling from the guard, my vindictive oppressor. Instantly, I encountered a plethora of guards, each rotating fiercely to intimidate me, their swivel of coats like that of a fiery inferno. A symphony of instructions polluted the air as one by one they restrained me. Bleakly, I felt the bread’s irregular and crusty contour (the antidote for my world of pain), seep from my hand. They pulled my hair, forcefully wrenching my head downward, and a man with sharp features wielded a knife centimetres from my throat. “Hello”...
I lay petrified, immobilized by my incredulous fear, and empowered by a world of pain. The man in charge abruptly turned to his crew and spoke in a whisper barely audible. On my back, futile and unrepentant, I stared astonished. My incandescent eyes fixed upon a figure, then another, and then reverted briskly, seeming to penetrate the shroud of darkness to which we were all now accustomed. The knife, held calmly above my throat, glittered with a fusion of my innocence, and the fury of my attacker’s hatred. The knife lowered. Like a weak snake slithering from a predator, I unsuccessfully attempted escape. The knife lowered. My whimpers grew louder than the guard’s malevolent laughter. The knife lowered. ‘CUT!” exclaimed the man in charge. Suddenly, light conquered the original darkness. The blunt knife was raised, and I sat up, satisfied with my performance. “Well cone”, spoke the director, beaming. “This is why we hire only the best quality actors and actresses for our theatre plays. Want to have another run though?”
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#4
You pretentious tit. Writing a good story isn't about using as many long words as you possibly can.
The DNA results show that Jeremy Kyle is a nob.


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#5
I liked the story, but the language was a bit too flowery and excessive. Good job though *thumbs up*
FUNK IS THE WAY



you can be in my dreams if i can be in yours
#6
I used to think I was a good writer. This thread makes me think otherwise, nice story.

I made a creative writing thread a while ago. It's been dead for a while but feel free to check it out:

https://www.ultimate-guitar.com/forum/showthread.php?t=1155684&page=5&pp=20&highlight=the+creative+writing+thread
R.I.P. Ronnie James Dio. Supplied amazing music to both me and my mother.

He will be missed.
#7
Quote by larrytheguitar
I used to think I was a good writer. This thread makes me think otherwise, nice story.

I made a creative writing thread a while ago. It's been dead for a while but feel free to check it out:

https://www.ultimate-guitar.com/forum/showthread.php?t=1155684&page=5&pp=20&highlight=the+creative+writing+thread


I killed it, as there is evidence.
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Quote by titsmcgee852
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ollollolollol


^
#8
^ aw yeah you did kill it
R.I.P. Ronnie James Dio. Supplied amazing music to both me and my mother.

He will be missed.
#9
A bit superfluous, as others noted, but well-written.
Catch me,
heal me,
Lift me back up to the Sun
I choose to live
#10
Thanks heaps for the replies. I'll definitely try to learn from them.

Quote by Ed Hunter
You pretentious tit. Writing a good story isn't about using as many long words as you possibly can.

I was trying to do well in the "vocabulary" criteria.
My Last.fm
USA Fender Stratocaster | Roland Cube 60 | VOX ToneLab LE
#12
Quote by RinestoneCowboy
Why is it bad to have a good vocabulary? What the ****?

Good read.



It's bad to shoehorn as many long words in as possible. Sounds forced and really quite unintentionally funny. There's good vocabulary, then there's forcing it into a sentence, style or story which simply doesn't need it. Unfortunately that's what's happened here.

I ran, eloquently evading the shrubs which had for so long concealed my identity. My infamous name tarnished and smothered with the reputation of a killer, a thieve, and a poor, poor entity living amongst the riches, starved me of food, of social activity, and of a home.


I mean... eloquently? Seriously?