#1
I doubt that'll be the title if this becomes anything. It's the start to a short story or short novel I seem to have started. Wish me luck.


It was sometime in the afternoon and the sunlight was skimming across the wooden floor of my sitting room. The room was empty except for me and my sister accompanied by the dog, who was sitting underneath my metal stool. He likes to site there, I believe it gives him strength. My sister was reading through one of her favourite magazines (they all seem the same to me) the first one of a large pile rounding sixteen or seventeen variable pieces of rubbish. She’s always loosing herself in those plastic toned pages, I don’t understand it. It all seems the same to me: the same distorted photos, the same celebrities, the same yachts, the same beaches, the same topless women in the backgrounds. The only things that change are the heads on top of the shoulders.

I’m looking through the old photo albums my mother put together. They all had a fine layer of dust on both the covers and the spine. They were non-descript up to a point that many times I couldn’t tell the front from the back and found myself turning them around once open, since I had started from the end or the photos were looking at me upside down. I didn’t mind. They were perfect, the bound leather, the gold flourishes around the side. I didn’t realize back then, but inside those short seconds before opening each album were some of the most beautiful seconds I’d spend on my holiday.

I remember glancing at those photos, one by one. There were so many, four full albums. My favourites were those that had pictures of my father when he was young. Those bushy eyebrows winking back at my own. I recall one photo in which he was wearing a pinstripe suit. He must have been around 30, I’m not sure. It was definitely from the 70s, his hair and his side-burns gave him away. I’d never seen him with that much hair on his head, except from photos when he was a young boy, in which it was cropped short. I smiled and stared at that photo for quite a while, I wouldn’t know how long, maybe twenty minutes. Everything about it struck out as perfect to me. The slightly unshaven chin, the messy hair, the side-burns, those eyebrows, the reflections off the horn-rimmed glasses, it was all so fresh, yet it was reminiscent of all those things I missed, and the boys and girls born after me will have missed too. It’s nice, to look at my dad now, bald, with white bushy eyebrows rather than anthracite black and to remember the photo every time I see him.

Though that wasn’t the only photo that stood out to me in that album. There were several of my step-sister when she was only a child. She must have been about five in the photos. They were all from years back, when people still used film. They had been shot by my father when he was first married. I’m not sure when that was, it seems like centuries to me. She was beautiful, my step-sister. She had medium length hair, not as long as most girls her age would wear, but long enough. Very fine and straight hair accompanied by a huge smile of childhood innocence. It’s sort of like the Mona Lisa. You wonder what she’s smiling at. There was one photo in which she is sniffing a flower. I don’t think she’d noticed my father taking the picture, she looked so natural, and so lively yet so still. My father could really shoot good photos back then; I don’t know what happened to him. I guess it’s the old age that’s getting to him.

There were photos of my own childhood, with my different hair cuts, my various periods of missing teeth, my overall charm as a baby and young boy followed by my overall disappointment as a teenager. People used to gawk at my eyes all day long when I was a kid, you know? I had those intense green eyes, now they’re a rather odd shade of greyish green and the gawkers are generally looking past my shoulder. I guess we all have our ups and downs. I like looking at those photos, it makes me feel like a worn out actor watching his first films or a poet reading his first lines, only they probably had an ascending progression.

It’s funny though, I’m not sad about those photos. They warm my heart. I had been sitting there for a while and I stumbled across one of my step-sister, now a bit older, looking on at the camera while she held the bundle I used to be as a baby. She was a young woman by then, with hair that was stepping between curly and wavy. She had wide eyes. They’re also green. It’s funny how someone you see so seldom can feel so close when you look at photos like that,

I closed the last album and looked over at my sister. There were piles of magazines at each side of her, one slightly larger than the other. She’s a quick reader, if you can call that reading. I picked up the photo albums and put them away in the cupboard clumsily and looked at her. She glanced over at me and then looked back down at the magazines. I chuckled slightly and walked towards the door. At the time I didn’t realize but it’s curious how all the photos are perfect for remembering the past, but there are no photographs for our futures. I guess we’re lucky.




-I'll return. If I don't badger me because I know this is a long read so it's not fair if I don't return everything.-
Last edited by confusius at Jul 17, 2008,
#3
Quote by confusius
I doubt that'll be the title if this becomes anything. It's the start to a short story or short novel I seem to have started. Wish me luck.

Good Luck!

It was sometime in the afternoon and the sunlight was skimming across the wooden floor of my sitting room. The room was empty except for me and my sister accompanied by the dog, who was sitting underneath my metal stool. He likes to site there, I believe it gives him strength. My sister was reading through one of her favourite magazines (they all seem the same to me) the first one of a large pile rounding sixteen or seventeen variable pieces of rubbish. She’s always loosing herself in those plastic toned pages, I don’t understand it. It all seems the same to me: the same distorted photos, the same celebrities, the same yachts, the same beaches, the same topless women in the backgrounds. The only things that change are the heads on top of the shoulders.

Nice...very descriptive and well written...But you put "all seems the same to me, twice in there, I don't think the first one was really necessary as the emphasis was there after the second when you described the magazines...just my opinion

I’m looking through the old photo albums my mother put together. They all had a fine layer of dust on both the covers and the spine. They were non-descript up to a point that many times I couldn’t tell the front from the back and found myself turning them around once open, since I had started from the end or the photos were looking at me upside down. I didn’t mind. They were perfect, the bound leather, the gold flourishes around the side. I didn’t realize back then, but inside those short seconds before opening each album were some of the most beautiful seconds I’d spend on my holiday.

Another nice paragraph....well written and very descriptive

I remember glancing at those photos, one by one. There were so many, four full albums. My favourites were those that had pictures of my father when he was young. Those bushy eyebrows winking back at my own. I recall one photo in which he was wearing a pinstripe suit. He must have been around 30, I’m not sure. It was definitely from the 70s, his hair and his side-burns gave him away. I’d never seen him with that much hair on his head, except from photos when he was a young boy, in which it was cropped short. I smiled and stared at that photo for quite a while, I wouldn’t know how long, maybe twenty minutes. Everything about it struck out as perfect to me. The slightly unshaven chin, the messy hair, the side-burns, those eyebrows, the reflections off the horn-rimmed glasses, it was all so fresh, yet it was reminiscent of all those things I missed, and the boys and girls born after me will have missed too. It’s nice, to look at my dad now, bald, with white bushy eyebrows rather than anthracite black and to remember the photo every time I see him.

Nice paragraph, too...good mood and tone...but one part didn't feel right..."...I’d never seen him with that much hair on his head, except from photos when he was a young boy, in which it was cropped short." You should replace the in which because you refer to him as a young boy having short hair after you described him having long hair as a kid....or putting "in which his latter days..." or something on those lines

Though that wasn’t the only photo that stood out to me in that album. There were several of my step-sister when she was only a child. She must have been about five in the photos. They were all from years back, when people still used film. They had been shot by my father when he was first married. I’m not sure when that was, it seems like centuries to me. She was beautiful, my step-sister. She had medium length hair, not as long as most girls her age would wear, but long enough. Very fine and straight hair accompanied by a huge smile of childhood innocence. It’s sort of like the Mona Lisa. You wonder what she’s smiling at. There was one photo in which she is sniffing a flower. I don’t think she’d noticed my father taking the picture, she looked so natural, and so lively yet so still. My father could really shoot good photos back then; I don’t know what happened to him. I guess it’s the old age that’s getting to him.

Another good paragraph, but I couldn't help but feel some repetition of words that can be gapped out(although I'm definitely guilty of it too), Such as step-sister on the seventh sentence and use 'with' to replace it conjoining sentence seven and eight....step-sister is already understood since it is the topic of the paragraph...and get rid of the 'she had...' in sentence eight. On the last two sentences 'him' is repetitive too... Get rid of the 'to him' on the second to last sentence is all I could say....Other than that, it was still a good piece to read..

There were photos of my own childhood, with my different hair cuts, my various periods of missing teeth, my overall charm as a baby and young boy followed by my overall disappointment as a teenager. People used to gawk at my eyes all day long when I was a kid, you know? I had those intense green eyes, now they’re a rather odd shade of greyish green and the gawkers are generally looking past my shoulder. I guess we all have our ups and downs. I like looking at those photos, it makes me feel like a worn out actor watching his first films or a poet reading his first lines, only they probably had an ascending progression.

Awesome paragraph...I could definitely relate

It’s funny though, I’m not sad about those photos. They warm my heart. I had been sitting there for a while and I stumbled across one of my step-sister, now a bit older, looking on at the camera while she held the bundle I used to be as a baby. She was a young woman by then, with hair that was stepping between curly and wavy. She had wide eyes. They’re also green. It’s funny how someone you see so seldom can feel so close when you look at photos like that,

Another nice paragraph...

I closed the last album and looked over at my sister. There were piles of magazines at each side of her, one slightly larger than the other. She’s a quick reader, if you can call that reading. I picked up the photo albums and put them away in the cupboard clumsily and looked at her. She glanced over at me and then looked back down at the magazines. I chuckled slightly and walked towards the door. At the time I didn’t realize but it’s curious how all the photos are perfect for remembering the past, but there are no photographs for our futures. I guess we’re lucky.

Another good paragraph...but I didn't quite get the chuckling part...I guess he's laughing at his sister cuz she probably just looks at the pictures



-I'll return. If I don't badger me because I know this is a long read so it's not fair if I don't return everything.-



Overall, this was an intriguing read...good job
Vivamus mea Lesbia, atque amemus,
rumoresque senum seueriorum
omnes unius aestimemus assis!
#4
No link eaglestalon?


I'm getting to yours right now akikobleu.
Last edited by confusius at Jul 18, 2008,
#5
remind me to get back to this.

quick notes:
-consistency of voice?
-consistency of word choice?
-varying syntax?
-so what? (again with voice)
-why now?
-telling, not showing?
-"to be" verb overuse?
-punctuation overuse?

just a couple things to look at and keep in mind that I will explain whenever I get back to this piece.

edit: in the mean time can you leave a quick comment on my last blog post. i'm not sober and i don't know what to think about it.
Last edited by #1 synth at Jul 18, 2008,
#8
quick notes:
-consistency of voice?
-consistency of word choice?
-varying syntax?
-so what? (again with voice)
-telling, not showing?
-"to be" verb overuse?

All things one picks up when they've written many thousands of words of prose. All in good time, Dylan. But they're valid points, too.

It was definitely worth the click, and the read each day since you posted it. It's a decent early prose piece, and it's something I think you should keep writing. My only qualm was I prefer a bit of action, a bit of tension or character. This read like a lot, a heck of a lot of exposition building up for the "ahh well that's a cute thought" ending, if you get what I mean.

I really wanted to give you something better but doing the nitty gritty on every word choice just wouldn't help. I suggest you dabble in this for a while, maybe do a short piece or something like this a week, to keep it going. Idk.

A pleasure, Kyrl.
#10
Quote by confusius
I doubt that'll be the title if this becomes anything. It's the start to a short story or short novel I seem to have started. Wish me luck.


It was sometime in the afternoon and the sunlight was skimming across the wooden floor of my sitting room. The room was empty except for me and my sister accompanied by the dog, who was sitting underneath my metal stool. He likes to site there, I believe it gives him strength. My sister was reading through one of her favourite magazines (they all seem the same to me) the first one of a large pile rounding sixteen or seventeen variable pieces of rubbish. She’s always loosing herself in those plastic toned pages, I don’t understand it. It all seems the same to me: the same distorted photos, the same celebrities, the same yachts, the same beaches, the same topless women in the backgrounds. The only things that change are the heads on top of the shoulders.

Nice stuff. I don't know the word for it, but it's something I've wanted to get better at. Everyday things in poetic perspective (or prose, in this case).

I’m looking through the old photo albums my mother put together. They all had a fine layer of dust on both the covers and the spine. They were non-descript up to a point that many times I couldn’t tell the front from the back and found myself turning them around once open, since I had started from the end or the photos were looking at me upside down. I didn’t mind. They were perfect, the bound leather, the gold flourishes around the side. I didn’t realize back then, but inside those short seconds before opening each album were some of the most beautiful seconds I’d spend on my holiday.

Didn't like this as much. I thought is was a silly thing to focus on. Sorry.

I remember glancing at those photos, one by one. There were so many, four full albums. My favourites were those that had pictures of my father when he was young. Those bushy eyebrows winking back at my own. I recall one photo in which he was wearing a pinstripe suit. He must have been around 30, I’m not sure. It was definitely from the 70s, his hair and his side-burns gave him away. I’d never seen him with that much hair on his head, except from photos when he was a young boy, in which it was cropped short. I smiled and stared at that photo for quite a while, I wouldn’t know how long, maybe twenty minutes. Everything about it struck out as perfect to me. The slightly unshaven chin, the messy hair, the side-burns, those eyebrows, the reflections off the horn-rimmed glasses, it was all so fresh, yet it was reminiscent of all those things I missed, and the boys and girls born after me will have missed too. It’s nice, to look at my dad now, bald, with white bushy eyebrows rather than anthracite black and to remember the photo every time I see him.

I liked this. Made me think of change and past. "Those bushy eyebrows winking back at my own" was a good one.

Though that wasn’t the only photo that stood out to me in that album. There were several of my step-sister when she was only a child. She must have been about five in the photos. They were all from years back, when people still used film. They had been shot by my father when he was first married. I’m not sure when that was, it seems like centuries to me. She was beautiful, my step-sister. She had medium length hair, not as long as most girls her age would wear, but long enough. Very fine and straight hair accompanied by a huge smile of childhood innocence. It’s sort of like the Mona Lisa. You wonder what she’s smiling at. There was one photo in which she is sniffing a flower. I don’t think she’d noticed my father taking the picture, she looked so natural, and so lively yet so still. My father could really shoot good photos back then; I don’t know what happened to him. I guess it’s the old age that’s getting to him.

The step-sister part was pretty good, but it didn't really get me emotionally attached. I don't know if that was your objective, but that's what I think.

There were photos of my own childhood, with my different hair cuts, my various periods of missing teeth, my overall charm as a baby and young boy followed by my overall disappointment as a teenager. People used to gawk at my eyes all day long when I was a kid, you know? I had those intense green eyes, now they’re a rather odd shade of greyish green and the gawkers are generally looking past my shoulder. I guess we all have our ups and downs. I like looking at those photos, it makes me feel like a worn out actor watching his first films or a poet reading his first lines, only they probably had an ascending progression.

I liked this. It painted the picture well, of the avergae youth.

It’s funny though, I’m not sad about those photos. They warm my heart. I had been sitting there for a while and I stumbled across one of my step-sister, now a bit older, looking on at the camera while she held the bundle I used to be as a baby. She was a young woman by then, with hair that was stepping between curly and wavy. She had wide eyes. They’re also green. It’s funny how someone you see so seldom can feel so close when you look at photos like that,

I closed the last album and looked over at my sister. There were piles of magazines at each side of her, one slightly larger than the other. She’s a quick reader, if you can call that reading. I picked up the photo albums and put them away in the cupboard clumsily and looked at her. She glanced over at me and then looked back down at the magazines. I chuckled slightly and walked towards the door. At the time I didn’t realize but it’s curious how all the photos are perfect for remembering the past, but there are no photographs for our futures. I guess we’re lucky.




Overall, this is what I felt. The piece had a quaint, slow style, that allowed you to dwell in places you normally couldn't. That's partially why prose worked so natually. There are times where you could go into more detail, but PERSPECTIVE of detail is critical. All the details have to be from the narrators perspective.

Good job, and thanks for the crit.