#1
creative writing draft. C4C. Enjoy and tear it apart please. The capitalization of the pronouns are intentional.

His Daughter.

His Daughter was on Her knees, mouth agape. It had been forever since She had last tried to pray.

She had big blue eyes, big pale lips, and cheeks that shone with bright pink blush. She was average height with a slight overbite and Her hands were the perfect size. She was dressed in a pink slip that strapped across Her shoulders and rode down to just above Her inner-thigh. No underwear, just dark red lip-gloss and dark red mascara. It was all the cover She needed. The night was cold though, and She shivered, ever so slightly. Her long brown ringlets moved with each bounce of Her hips, big broad hips, right on the edge of adulthood.

Tonight’s one AM was exactly like yesterdays: dark, dank, and beautiful. The moon shone bright over the city bridge, over the neighborhoods, over the cul-de-sacs, power lines, and chimneys. A clean white cut of the world.

I was 5’7 and an average guy in Her class, I sent Her notes through Her locker; a box the perfect height for Her. I watched every day to make sure She received them. They told Her things about me: my favorites, my turn-offs, my aspirations, and She always came back for more. There was a noticeable excited jump in Her step every Friday after lunch on Her way home. In many of the letters I told Her to meet me Sunday night at one.

I happened to know Her life story, from beginning to end. She was born in Cleveland in 1989 to two parents. Her mother left the family to pursue a career in traveling far away Her father worked as a priest for the local Unitarian movement in town. She now lived in a slightly smaller city, though it was much bigger than a town. It was still big enough that very few people knew Her name, except for the guys She slept with. She had lost count after eighth grade. Sex was Her calling card, Her nom de plume. People knew what She gave and took it, all of it.

She didn’t drink though, that was sinful.

Tonight was a picture in national geographic, a scantily clad underage girl sitting on a bridge in the moonlight. She knew Her Father was asleep; She didn’t want him to worry anyway. She had walked here, one step quickly after the other.

My notes had gotten more obscure. Instead of just lists they began to be requests. First, Her locker combination, so I could give Her gifts. Then, pictures of Her in different positions, completely clothed. And finally, a key to Her house. She was always so giving, I felt I had to give back. I couldn't ever reveal myself to her though. Truth be told, I was scared. Scared that once my identity had been found out our thrill would be over. Scared that once I had done it, the heavens would swallow me up and my life would be without a purpose.

A ruffle in the trees to Her left, but it was nothing. A ruffle in the trees to Her right just to balance out those of the left. A squirrel, a leaf, a raccoon, all being blown around in the wind, in the air, in Her mind. They itched Her brain. She needed something to jump out at Her, She needed someone. An awkward step later I came from the right, kissing His Daughter with so much force She had no choice but to respond.

She couldn’t think. In the night. In His arms, squeezing Her closer and closer. Her heart pulsed. She couldn’t think. Drip, drip, drip, Her blood level rose, shivers starting from Her chest and moving inward. She couldn’t breath. And into the night arose a scream that woke the moon and brought the sun. A scream coupled with the clanging of sharpened tools, the soft drip of cotton and blood.

The picture perfect Daughter on Her knees, mouth agape, eyes made of glass. The picture perfect lover, on Her knees. It had been forever since She had last prayed and another forever until She would again. Do you think it would have saved Her?

I always did wonder. And who knows what happened after She fled from me to when Her name was found in the school paper. Maybe Her father’s preaching had finally gotten to Her.
#2
Hmmm good idea and a nice perspective, but your constant use of simple sentences strangles your work, I know it may seem like it builds mystery and stuff but it just limits your descriptive abilities into what eventually just feels like a list. Sometimes opening your clauses out will build tension more than you think. Also i think the whole captilization of personal pronouns thing is a nice idea, but in this case it's ineffectual as we already know how important the subject is to the other characters involved. Good ideas though, aside from the slight cheesiness its a well written piece and a **** of alot better standard than half the articles on this site, feel proud
Last edited by Atreideslegend at Nov 16, 2007,
#3
Quote by #1 synth
The capitalization of the pronouns are intentional.

Uh, God Dylan. I do wish you'd snap out of some things.

His Daughter.

His daughter was on her knees, mouth agape. It had been forever since she had last tried to pray.
Agape is a really, ugly word, and I don't think you want to portray that.

She had big blue eyes, big pale lips, and cheeks that shone with bright pink blush. The blue/pink combinations just don't work for me. It doesn't reinforce anything that I can see. It just seems odd, you'd go with the blue/pale thing and then go pink. She was average height with a slight overbite and her hands were the perfect size. This was a good line. She was dressed in a pink slip that strapped across her shoulders Awkward, "strapped across" I feel. and rode down to just above her inner-thigh. No underwear, just dark red lip-gloss and dark red mascara. It was all the cover she needed. The night was cold though, and she shivered, ever so slightly. Her long brown ringlets moved with each bounce of her hips, big broad hips, why the repetition? It doesn't do anything for the piece. right on the edge of adulthood. this was good. A simple, clean-cut comment.

Tonight’s one AM was exactly like yesterday's: dark, dank, and beautiful. The moon shone bright over the city bridge, over the neighborhoods, over the cul-de-sacs, power lines, and chimneys. A clean white cut of the world.

I was 5’7 and an belowaveragely-hung guy in her class, I sent her notes through her locker; a box the perfect height for her. I watched every day to make sure she received them. They told her things about me: my favorites, my turn-offs, my aspirations, and she always came back for more. There was a noticeable excited jump in her step every Friday after lunch on her way home. In many of the letters I told her to meet me Sunday night at one.

I happened to know her life story, from beginning to end. She was born in Cleveland in 1989 to two parents. Her mother left the family to pursue a career in traveling far away and her father worked as a priest for the local Unitarian movement in town. She now lived in a slightly smaller city, though it was much bigger than a town. It was still big enough that very few people knew her name, except for the guys she slept with. She had lost count after eighth grade. Sex was her calling card, her nom de plume. People knew what she gave and took it, all of it.

She didn’t drink though, that was sinful.
You should expand this, a bit. It's also rathr ambigous - is the non-drinking sinful, or is drinking sinful? clear it up.

Tonight was a picture in national geographic, That was quite clunky. a scantily clad underage girl sitting on a bridge in the moonlight. She knew her Father was asleep; she didn’t want him to worry anyway. She had walked here, one step quickly after the other.

My notes had gotten more obscure. Instead of just lists they began to be requests. First, her locker combination, so I could give her gifts. Then, pictures of her in different positions, completely clothed. And finally, a key to her house. She was always so giving, I felt I had to give back. I couldn't ever reveal myself to her though. Truth be told, I was scared. Scared that once my identity had been found out our thrill would be over. Scared that once I had done it, the heavens would swallow me up and my life would be without a purpose.

A ruffle in the trees to her left, but it was nothing. A ruffle in the trees to her right just to balance out those of the left. A squirrel, a leaf, a raccoon, all being blown around in the wind, in the air, in her mind. They itched her brain. She needed something to jump out at her, She needed someone. An awkward step later I came from the right, kissing his daughter with so much force that she had no choice but to respond.

She couldn’t think. In the night. In his arms, squeezing her closer and closer. Her heart pulsed. She couldn’t think. Drip, drip, drip, her blood level rose, shivers starting from her chest and moving inward. She couldn’t breath. And into the night arose a scream that woke the moon and brought the sun. A scream coupled with the clanging of sharpened tools, the soft drip of cotton and blood.

The picture perfect daughter on her knees, mouth agape, eyes made of glass. The picture perfect lover, on her knees. It had been forever since she had last prayed and another forever until she would again. Do you think it would have saved her?

I always did wonder. And who knows what happened after she fled from me to when Her name was found in the school paper. Maybe her father’s preaching had finally gotten to her.

Alright, Dylan.

your usual pretensions aside, I found most of this quite enchanting and interesting. how you showed the character getting ever more closer to the girl, with getting the key to the locker etc. I felt that part of the character development was conveyed very well, with a good sense of atmosphere and timing.

However, towards the end you tailed off into a complex and, honestly, a plot that turned me off, and in the end swayed me into feeling negative about this one. It just didn't have the timing or execution of the earlier paragraphs, and felt rushed. Because of this, most things you were trying to say went straight over my head, and I was lost.

Once again, I found myself envious of some of your talents, but pleased that I don't write like you




Rose in my sig is asking for a tearing apart after that. I do hope you get to it, Dylan, because I'd love to hear your thoughts.

Hope your good mate.

#4
So, I owe three now.


I promise to have a crit. I have a lot to give back for all your helpfulness over the last few weeks.
#5
this is okay. its like typical high school prose so its got topics of sex and sadness and melodrama. it lacks realism and thats what i like so you kind of are ****ed from that perspective. like he said, the intro is pretty good and then it kind of just falls off. it seems like you wrote the beginning and ending in your mind and then you just filled in the middle on the spot. so the beginning is good, the ending is stupid just in idea and the middle seems like it could use a little more thoughtfulness to make sure it runs through the piece timely and intelligently. maybe i'm just old and bitter because it reminds me of what i was writing in 10th grade though. who knows.
#6
I dont like agape either.
And ur a great writer. I hate critiquing ur stuff cuz i got nothing to say. but that one sentence "a picture in national geographic" I dont like at all. Maybe i just dont get it. And that one-sentence paragraph i feel could be put into the paragraph before it, i dont like it by itself like that.
The second to last paragraph, i loved the last sentence there. the question. really good. and the last paragraph was a good end to it.
k thats all i can say

if u can u crit back, in my sig, plz