Young Writers Society

This is my story. Duh. anyway, it's supposed to be colonial US set, so yeah. It's about this kid, Luke, who all these different things happen to and there are a bazillion conspiracy theories against him...I'll be making up a ton of US/UK history but that's OK. I've done my research. Now it's time to have fun.

Do tell me if it's clunky or boring, 'cause of the history thing.

Dear God
I know you think I am
Just another
Sinner
Claiming to be god-fearing and
Righteous
But
I need you to listen to my
Endless cadence of pleadings
Begging you to get me out of this life
This body
I hate this feeling of
Being incomplete so
Dear God, help me…

My fingers are bleeding, small, scarlet drips that fall onto the paper with a rhythmic pitter-patter and spread in tiny, spidery crimson branches from the pool from whence it began. Sweat courses down my forehead, running in jagged rivulets down my face, and the ink-soaked parchment starts to shred, I’m pressing the quill down so hard into it. My head pounds with confusion and hate and complete disgust and so many different things I can’t explain. God, Luke, you need to cry…I try forcing the tears but they won’t come, won’t come because I’ve convinced myself respectable boys don’t cry, but now I know I need to or I’m going to explode; all these different feelings inside of me compressed into one tiny, underdeveloped heart waiting to combust, leaving me…gosh, I don’t know where. I am so completely tired of everything, I just want to leave, get out of this place. I want a life where I can walk down the street without any cares, no worries…I bear the scars of attempting to do this, raised snakes that run down my arms and slash across my chest. I just want to be me, just want to be Luke Irwing…

I am exhausted.

And I know I should go home but I don’t want to, although Mother will be worried sick.

Do I care?

Probably not.

It doesn’t matter to me anymore.

HAH! I JUST REALIZED! I'M OUT OF MY WRITER'S BLOCK!!! YEAH!!! GO ME!

*whoops. drastic moment. something IS rotten in the state of Denmark.*

Wow this is great, and your right, your out of your writers block!!!
I love your imagry.

My fingers are bleeding, small, scarlet drips that fall onto the paper with a rhythmic pitter-patter and spread in tiny, spidery crimson branches from the pool from whence it began.

That paragraph is great and also this one.

Sweat courses down my forehead, running in jagged rivulets down my face, and the ink-soaked parchment starts to shred, I’m pressing the quill down so hard into it.

Beutiful. I can't wait to read more! (if there is anymore)

working on it...

amazing, Sam...yes, I know this is ancient, but I had to start at the beginning....kept me reading

It's good...boy, do I know what that feeling is like, and...boy, did this bring me back there!

Is there more?

WW

'bout 12 further posts

Wow, what's with the sudden posting boom, people? tehee

Wow, that was beautiful.

My fingers are bleeding, small, scarlet drips that fall onto the paper with a rhythmic pitter-patter and spread in tiny, spidery crimson branches from the pool from whence it began.

I love that bit. Very vivid.

You're a much better writer than me ... and you're the same age as my little sister. I don't think I could even hope to be that good.

Oh, this is an old piece ... oh well. It's Saturday night and I'm bored. So I was fossiking around, hunting for things to read and found this ... by the looks of the date on it, it's old. But I couldn't not comment, it was too beautiful.

Fossiking...that's a good word...

My fingers are bleeding, small, scarlet drips that fall onto the paper with a rhythmic pitter-patter and spread in tiny, spidery crimson branches from the pool from whence it began. Sweat courses down my forehead, running in jagged rivulets down my face, and the ink-soaked parchment starts to shred, I’m pressing the quill down so hard into it. My head pounds with confusion and hate and complete disgust and so many different things I can’t explain.

I'm not fond of the over description in this paragraph. Also, there are a couple of corrections involving syntax and grammar I'd like to suggest. "My fingers are bleeding, small, scarlet drips that fall..." the "scarlet drips that fall..." makes it sound like your fingers are scarlet drips. "My fingers are bleeding; small, scarlet drops fall onto the paper..." sounds much better. Well, it makes more sense, because you've seperated the scarlet drops from the fingers...Did I make that too convoluted? Sorry if I did, I'm just trying to be helpful.

I love "spidery crimson branches." *applauds* But I don't like "whence it began" at all. Well, for one, it shouldn't be "it," as "drips" is plural. It should be "whence they began." But "where they began" is so much less complicated and much more in sync with the rest of the piece.

"And the ink-soaked parchments starts to shred, I'm pressing..."

There shouldn't be a comma between "shred" and "I'm." It should read: "And the ink-soaked parchment starts to shred I'm pressing..." See?

I adored the rest of the story. Short and simple and to the point. And beginning it with the prayer was very strong.

Good luck with this piece! It's got so much potential, and it's already so good!

-Sarah