Atnis

Share some short stories, I have another one that is finished that I will post up soon. This is my newest one which is far from being anywhere near finished. I just wanted to know if it is good enough to grab your attention, or a stinker. You decide. I'm only going to take criticism from those who write, because my instincts tell me that the rest of you philers will be crude. I warn you, the story ends abruptly. I'm still tinkering with what I want next.

Share your writing!

Raindrops

His mind raced, a thousand different scenarios sparked to life. As if there were a thousand different versions of him all attempting to achieve one ending in a thousand different ways. But not one succeeded. He made a decision to not give up. Not yet because he despised the outcome. One outstanding characteristic about him stood out from the rest. He was fickle.
Greg Sanders was at the early adulthood age of twenty-one. And he used to live in a home. But he has quit that place, for now.
In his mind he entered that house once again. On a desk in a deserted room rested a letter, handwritten by and for only one person:

In an unrealistic attempt to change my life, I will force myself to do what I am afraid of. I will put myself into situations where self-logic will ultimately fail.
I believe that if I had said those words aloud that people would label me insane. But then again, innovation and great things can come from insanity: From switching angles of perspective, even slightly.
My personal goal is to find happiness. And to find the person who has eluded me for so long.

He could remember every word he wrote. It was etched on his mind. A sudden cold breeze caused him to stir. He was hearing a familiar sound again. Traffic. All around him was traffic. He could not escape the sound if he tried. It was beside him, it was under him. Without any warning he was pulled back into the real world.
Greg was encased in a Plexiglas structure, a bus stop. What was odd about this bus stop was its location. Ironically it was in a place where no bus could actually stop. It was resting atop a concrete structure twenty feet above ground level and the only way to scale yourself up was with use of the built-in ladder, which were metal poles imbedded into the concrete.
It came with quite a view as well. In every direction laid streets. Highways and exits interspersed around him. To Greg it was now mundane, yesterday it was beautiful. The realization of this stirred him up inside. A moment of weakness engulfed him and he gave in. Now that note he had wrote was foolish, a silly child’s game. He wasn’t a child anymore. It was time for him to concede to society.
He lived in America, the land of freedom. He wasn’t so sure of that anymore. A barely noticeable noise interrupted the buzzing of the vehicles. It was his cell phone. He regretted not leaving it back at his old home. He recognized the number on the ID to be his friend Matt and answered despite his current mood.
“Hello?” Greg opened.
“Hello?” His friend paused and sounded confused, “Hello?”
Greg hung up. There wasn’t a possibility of carrying a conversation with the nearby calamity. He decided that when he found a quieter environment he would call back.
He thought of Matt while laying back on the bench at the bus stop. He was abandoning a lot of things, but he couldn’t do that to his friend.

Crunchy

I like to write, but I don't do it as often as I should.

Atnis

My writing comes in small patches. I love to do it but finding motivation is quite difficult for me. I don't know why that is exactly...

Neo Atlantis

I can relate Atnis. While I do possess a passion for writing, I am more or less at a loss whenever I wish to actually go about writing something. What topic should I address? What style should I employ? Love-hate is the only way I can sufficiently describe my passion for writing.

Also, your story is fine. With some tweaking in regards to phraseology and so forth, it could be something special. I will try to write something later.

p-0man

I've got this killer idea for the life of Paul Tagliabue a la GoodFellas. I'm trying to develop t now.

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Pandas_UNITE

i wrote that coconut was gay once.

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Fidelis Hodié

tell me bout this "story"...

Coconut

Which inspired me to create the alter ego of Neo Atlantis.

Green Crayons

Atnis: You might want to elongate your sentence structure. (Admittedly) skimming it over, almost each sentence is merely a snippit of thought and idea and it gives the whole piece a very blocky, forced read. You generally want the exposition and story to flow from one thought and description to the next. Quick example:
Greg Sanders was at the early adulthood age of twenty-one. He used to live at home, but he has quit that place for now.

As a side note: "adulthood age?" I don't see the point of adding "adulthood" in that it doesn't really fit or make much sense in terms of use - you wouldn't use adulthood, but adult - so maybe you were going for something else here and it just isn't coming across correctly; but even then, adult seems to be a bit redundant.. as if you were simply looking for any adjective to spice up the writing but sort of just missing the mark.

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Pandas_UNITE

i love to write my name in the snow...with my urine.

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p-0man

After reading it, I must say that it has a unique premise. Also, why is there a bus stop on the roof of a building? You should immediately explain that or make its mysterious location more important.

As Green Crayons said, spice up your sentence structure; you're not writing a film noir story. And don't use 2nd person with a 3rd person perspective ever

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gunshow21

Writing is an elusive form of language that has, unbeknowst to its supporters, evolved nearly every year of its existence. It's fragility is taken for granted as words are led to their gallows before the leaves have changed their fluctuating color. Yet, our ammunition is rapidly withering, exquisite and eloquent descriptions are missed in a world of simplicity and unsophistication.


Meh, writing sucks ball dude.

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No one is born full of wisdom and knowledge
You have to earn it

A preoccupied vegan named Hugh
picked up the wrong sandwich to chew.
He took a big bite
before spitting, in fright,
"OMG, WTF, BBQ!"

KeyserSoze

Cellar door

Paul Weller

I'm a writer. Here's a piece of flash fiction I wrote. It's all I could write about the situation in ten sentences.

Rippled by a Finished Glass
By Christian Rovou
“I’ve lost it.”
He lay there on his mattress with a blade as he fell deeper, sinking into his own loneliness and isolation. Excitement filled his eyes and adrenaline dripped from his mouth. This complemented the fear (which brought his soul here in the first place) just as dragging some slut off and having a taste of the goods complemented his spirits on one of the many weeknight binges out in the concrete jungle.
He took a breath and proceeded to sit up, placing the blade on the scuffed dresser that held his collection of CD’s, various pieces of currency scattered about, a few glass pipes, letters from his long-ago lady, photographs with his father, as well as his father’s copy of The Beatles self-titled album, autographed by the one and only George Harrison.
“Is this all a ****ing dream or what?” he asked out to the open-air in a shallow sigh, but nobody was listening anyway, so why bother speak louder?
He poured some low-grade whiskey into a glass, took a sip, and placed it into his lap. A tear fell from his eye creating a ripple in his drink— he finished the glass.
“This is for you God,” he said with a minor chuckle, as he picked the blade back up.
He hesitated and stared at the reflection of his eyes before he closed them and finally let his hopes flow out of his arm until he fell into an unconscious daze that he found necessary to make his mind infinite.
- the end


I also wrote a villanelle to complement the work too. The narrator is the same.

Red All Over
By Christian Rovou

In this black and white world my soul glows red
Like blood flowing quickly and with delight
The rushing, gushing, shedding from my head

How do I answer a question that’s dead?
I could try forever, I won’t be right
In this black and white world my soul glows red

I’ve been told that the way is straight ahead
What I see, though, has only helped incite
The rushing, gushing, shedding from my head

Dreams are unreal, mine best remain unsaid
Reality: Kill, compete, win the fight
In this black and white world my soul glows red

Is he watching? Should I be blind instead?
No, **** it, who’s to say he’s the white light?
The rushing, gushing, shedding from my head

My mind is hungry and my soul’s unfed
Although all seems apparently alright
In this black and white world my soul glows red
The rushing, gushing, shedding from my head

__________________
We're all just hapless victims of knowledge and learning and such
The man you thought you licked 'em but you choked in the clutch
Brent Black, you said it yourself it's an ethereal kind of flu
A Mac virus reveals the plot of the fiendish Fu Man Chu

Pandas_UNITE

here is an exerpt of a story ive been writing.



Words could not explain the pain he felt at that moment. So I want you to pretend they do, because this is a story, and its supposed to convey emotion very well. But it can’t, that’s how in pain he was as he saw Fast and the Furious 3 TOKYO DRIFT.

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matz8916

your such a liar pandas this is not your writing

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el3ctronight.blogspot.com

Pandas_UNITE

wat the hell, quit calling me a liar, i wrote that months ago, its apart of my series of stories called "THE VIN DIESEL CHRONOCLES"

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matz8916

i'll stop calling you a liar when you start telling the truth. Your words of treason disgust me.

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el3ctronight.blogspot.com

Paul Weller

For the record, my writing usually is more humorous. Rarely that dark

__________________
We're all just hapless victims of knowledge and learning and such
The man you thought you licked 'em but you choked in the clutch
Brent Black, you said it yourself it's an ethereal kind of flu
A Mac virus reveals the plot of the fiendish Fu Man Chu