A story I started today. I would appreciate criticism. Are there any spelling errors? What do you think? What is wrong? What is missing?
I do have an idea of how the story is going to play out, but it's very loose.
Chapter 1
A recollection of facts—I guess that is where to begin. But there’s so much more; so many detailed observations, imprinted pictures, words abstract and real, the line begins to fade on what is true and what I just remember.
I do, however, remember the last winter well. The snow began to fall in late October, early for South Dakota, but appreciated just the same. A soft, flickering snowfall, the kind one can look straight up at and watch as time fades away. There’s just something about snow that brings to light what has been covered by the ambiguous leaves for so long. A veil is lifted and the Earth made sense to me again. I sat on the porch, and watched the snowflakes fall to the ground, slowly building up strength until they could collect together and flourish. A nonliving effort, predetermined where to fall, where to join, where to melt. A snowflake has no choice; it is compelled by the clouds, the wind and the ground to fall where it ought, complete it’s existence, and then to never be seen again.
At the blast of an engine to the port, I look over. Another helicopter taking off, maybe two kilometers down, has interrupted my glimpse of nature. Nothing good can stay? I suppose, but at that time I had thought there would always be another snowfall, another moment of appreciation, that I may reoccupy the porch and let the snow reoccupy my mind.
I was never one for technology. Born in Seattle, I felt awkward in the city where I spent my first 18 years of life. The rapidness of it all left me astounded. Isolated, yet surrounded, I spent most of my early days walking in the outskirts, searching for nothing, because I would rather see that than everything.
But then I loved my dog. I received Bagel when I was 11, the solo Christmas gift from my uncle. He was more than enough. Bagel was everything I was not: fast, courageous, and curious. A bitter reminder of what was so good.
I’m not really keen on talking about myself that much to begin with. I know who I am, or at least who I was, and I suppose that is all that matters. Things have changed; the past can’t tell you anything about the future in a world where almost everything can change in a less than a blink of an eye. To have anything constant is rare. My hopes have faded exactly like the snow, gaining no height before being ultimately destroyed.
I had a hope in that summer before. I had just dropped out of university, realizing that true education lies in the minds of others, not a computerized text program teaching endless knowledge. I was crazy to them, I suppose, forfeiting my multi-grand tuition to go off and live the wrong way. I was a hole in the function, a boulder on the beach, a mural of graffiti in their solid, clear wall. But the drive west out of Pierre was fulfilling. The highways had never been so empty to me, not abandoned, but clean. A fresh start, yes, that’s what I was going to have. I was going to be the best. The best. Bagel gazed and smiled at me, he knew.
Building the shop was the easiest part after I had purchased the land. An over-priced deal, that was for sure, but such was the cost of wanting to live on the preserve. I had acquired some tools from a generous local resident, and did not mind taking the couple mile bike ride to retrieve what I needed. Simplicity was key. Two stories, no more, I told myself. As few metal springs and locks and gears and building gel and glass as possible. I was sick of glass. I had stared at glass and metal and rubber for 18 years. It had cut out the clouds and stolen the life from the air. I wanted it natural, so it would blend in with the world, so that thousands of years from that moment another person like myself who came across what I had built would not see it as a scar of the landscape.
In three weeks it was completed. I suppose I had a gift for building even back then. It was simple, just as I had wanted it. Living quarters were on the top, and my general store, empty but ready, was there on the ground. The porch lay on the back, fit with a swing and a good book; oh, it was grand! There wasn’t exactly a need for my store; the local mall-shop was a quick drive away, so I suppose the niche I was filling was not in the local economy, but in myself.
And so for the next three months of summer I lived. I hunted real game, fished in real waters, built real fires, and discovered what I had only read about while sitting in my glass house was very real. I learned more in that time than I had since I started my education. It was as if I was not even living on Earth until then. I had triumphed over civilization; I was free.
That winter. Last Winter. Perfection coupled with destruction. My memories seem clouded, but I remember a few details. It was the about two weeks after the first snowfall. It was cloudy, dark, maybe 5:30, and I had just started preparing dinner for Bagel and I. I looked outside. Flashes of light, repeatedly. There was no rain, no lightning, no thunder, no storm—no, that would be too simple of an explanation. I scrambled outside, ladle still in hand (strange the things you remember, but I was making soup), and collapsed into the soft snowy ground as soon as I opened the door. No pain, just a shock, as if I was being pushed back. The flashes were everywhere, totally encompassing the sky. Infrequent at first, but regular intervals, they were slowly gaining speed. Seconds? Minutes? I could not tell how long I kneeled there in the cold October night. A strobe light, yes, it was like a strobe light. Blinding, persistent, almost deadly, yet oddly comforting…
I woke up on the floor of my house. Confused, shocked, I glanced out my open door. Daylight and heat—a lot of heat—that’s what I remembered most. My stove was on; the soup had boiled away.
Bagel?
No answer. My brave dog was gone. I crawled outside because I felt strangely weak, overpowered to the point of pain now. It was burning, scorching—not my pain, but the sun.
The snow was gone, gone forever, yet I did not know that then. The canopy of the forest was shriveled, the ground was cracked, the river was dry, the lakes were empty, Bagel was gone—the world had died in a single night.
That was very nicely written. Some of the verb tense seems a bit off to me in the third stanza so you might want to fix that. Also, since the character has lived and grown up in America, I recommend you substitute "university" for "college". It's just one of those little details. One last thing, I think whenever numbers are involved in writing, they're supposed to be written out instead of just the actual number. I'm referring to when the character is talking about their age in the fourth stanza. Overall though, very nicely done.
That was very nicely written. Some of the verb tense seems a bit off to me in the third stanza so you might want to fix that. Also, since the character has lived and grown up in America, I recommend you substitute "university" for "college". It's just one of those little details. One last thing, I think whenever numbers are involved in writing, they're supposed to be written out instead of just the actual number. I'm referring to when the character is talking about their age in the fourth stanza. Overall though, very nicely done.
Thanks, man. I think the number thing is if it's below ten you do that, but above 11 you don't.
I do have an idea of how the story is going to play out, but it's very loose.
Chapter 1
A recollection of facts—I guess that is where to begin. But there’s so much more; so many detailed observations, imprinted pictures, words abstract and real, the line begins to fade on what is true and what I just remember.
I do, however, remember the last winter well. The snow began to fall in late October, early for South Dakota, but appreciated just the same. A soft, flickering snowfall, the kind one can look straight up at and watch as time fades away. There’s just something about snow that brings to light what has been covered by the ambiguous leaves for so long. A veil is lifted and the Earth made sense to me again. I sat on the porch, and watched the snowflakes fall to the ground, slowly building up strength until they could collect together and flourish. A nonliving effort, predetermined where to fall, where to join, where to melt. A snowflake has no choice; it is compelled by the clouds, the wind and the ground to fall where it ought, complete it’s existence, and then to never be seen again.
At the blast of an engine to the port, I look over. Another helicopter taking off, maybe two kilometers down, has interrupted my glimpse of nature. Nothing good can stay? I suppose, but at that time I had thought there would always be another snowfall, another moment of appreciation, that I may reoccupy the porch and let the snow reoccupy my mind.
I was never one for technology. Born in Seattle, I felt awkward in the city where I spent my first 18 years of life. The rapidness of it all left me astounded. Isolated, yet surrounded, I spent most of my early days walking in the outskirts, searching for nothing, because I would rather see that than everything.
But then I loved my dog. I received Bagel when I was 11, the solo Christmas gift from my uncle. He was more than enough. Bagel was everything I was not: fast, courageous, and curious. A bitter reminder of what was so good.
I’m not really keen on talking about myself that much to begin with. I know who I am, or at least who I was, and I suppose that is all that matters. Things have changed; the past can’t tell you anything about the future in a world where almost everything can change in a less than a blink of an eye. To have anything constant is rare. My hopes have faded exactly like the snow, gaining no height before being ultimately destroyed.
I had a hope in that summer before. I had just dropped out of university, realizing that true education lies in the minds of others, not a computerized text program teaching endless knowledge. I was crazy to them, I suppose, forfeiting my multi-grand tuition to go off and live the wrong way. I was a hole in the function, a boulder on the beach, a mural of graffiti in their solid, clear wall. But the drive west out of Pierre was fulfilling. The highways had never been so empty to me, not abandoned, but clean. A fresh start, yes, that’s what I was going to have. I was going to be the best. The best. Bagel gazed and smiled at me, he knew.
Building the shop was the easiest part after I had purchased the land. An over-priced deal, that was for sure, but such was the cost of wanting to live on the preserve. I had acquired some tools from a generous local resident, and did not mind taking the couple mile bike ride to retrieve what I needed. Simplicity was key. Two stories, no more, I told myself. As few metal springs and locks and gears and building gel and glass as possible. I was sick of glass. I had stared at glass and metal and rubber for 18 years. It had cut out the clouds and stolen the life from the air. I wanted it natural, so it would blend in with the world, so that thousands of years from that moment another person like myself who came across what I had built would not see it as a scar of the landscape.
In three weeks it was completed. I suppose I had a gift for building even back then. It was simple, just as I had wanted it. Living quarters were on the top, and my general store, empty but ready, was there on the ground. The porch lay on the back, fit with a swing and a good book; oh, it was grand! There wasn’t exactly a need for my store; the local mall-shop was a quick drive away, so I suppose the niche I was filling was not in the local economy, but in myself.
And so for the next three months of summer I lived. I hunted real game, fished in real waters, built real fires, and discovered what I had only read about while sitting in my glass house was very real. I learned more in that time than I had since I started my education. It was as if I was not even living on Earth until then. I had triumphed over civilization; I was free.
That winter. Last Winter. Perfection coupled with destruction. My memories seem clouded, but I remember a few details. It was the about two weeks after the first snowfall. It was cloudy, dark, maybe 5:30, and I had just started preparing dinner for Bagel and I. I looked outside. Flashes of light, repeatedly. There was no rain, no lightning, no thunder, no storm—no, that would be too simple of an explanation. I scrambled outside, ladle still in hand (strange the things you remember, but I was making soup), and collapsed into the soft snowy ground as soon as I opened the door. No pain, just a shock, as if I was being pushed back. The flashes were everywhere, totally encompassing the sky. Infrequent at first, but regular intervals, they were slowly gaining speed. Seconds? Minutes? I could not tell how long I kneeled there in the cold October night. A strobe light, yes, it was like a strobe light. Blinding, persistent, almost deadly, yet oddly comforting…
I woke up on the floor of my house. Confused, shocked, I glanced out my open door. Daylight and heat—a lot of heat—that’s what I remembered most. My stove was on; the soup had boiled away.
Bagel?
No answer. My brave dog was gone. I crawled outside because I felt strangely weak, overpowered to the point of pain now. It was burning, scorching—not my pain, but the sun.
The snow was gone, gone forever, yet I did not know that then. The canopy of the forest was shriveled, the ground was cracked, the river was dry, the lakes were empty, Bagel was gone—the world had died in a single night.
Thanks, man. I think the number thing is if it's below ten you do that, but above 11 you don't.
Ah. Okay. Well, you are welcome good sir.