Young Writers Society

The pages were stained with fingerprints, each marking the years of treasured usage and nights spent in a sea of blankets, listening to the pattering of rain on her window pane. They were constant reminders of the childish delight in which she caressed the thin sheets as if lulling herself into the mess of ink where all her worries would dissipate. And the stories gave her a taste for life. A taste for adventure which she craved.

He lifted the book to his lips, the feel of each letter a warm, familiar sensation. The spine was cracked now, and the cover breaking. Time worn, as was the skin of his callused fingers that handled it with a tender care he had once spent on pushing the loose strands of hair behind her ears. The wide-rimmed glasses up her fragile little nose which she held so high in her conquests for greatness, whether that be hunting down the finest of dandelions, or seeing how high she could climb the corkscrew willow in their backyard.

And he loved the way she moved. The way she was so nimble and quick, as he had once been. A slight, slip of a girl that took a plunge into the comfort of piled up leaves during fall. Each slender arm would fling snowballs for greater distances than he could have imagined, her powerful legs giving way to unimaginable heights as she flipped about the trampoline like a fish out of water.

Oh the stories she would tell, as if each passing moment meant something new and beautiful and that the simplest of pleasures was brought on by the brightest of imaginations. She could carry the world away with her wonder. Her excitement.

The chair in which he sat had been her favourite those long winter nights, when it was too dark and too cold to play, but to early to sleep. So read, she would, and soak in every passing hope and dream, shaping her world by believing in others. To believe was her greatest strength, even when the colour began to fade from her sallow cheeks, and the tufts of blond curls fell in patches on the floor.

Maybe it was the way in which the branches never seemed to bear fruit anymore that brought him to his silent reverie, or maybe the emptiness where sound once resided. And he crept to that armchair as is pleading for a voice in the darkness of night without chance of a morrow.

But the pages were black and white, like the eulogy spoken in a stumbled, contrived mess of emotion that came out in sobs rather than impassioned remembrance. For words were only words. Not her. Not life. They could not, no matter how hard he tried, bring the colour back into his world or into her eyes. They were cold and told stories without the real quake of blood or sharp inhale of breath.

The rustle of pages bayed him to sleep but her fading smile kept him awake, so he promised never to rest again.

~~

Hello

Seriously, I have to admit that I think this is incredible. I read this once through, enjoyed it so much I instantly re read and enjoyed it even more second time round. Your range of words is, well impressive to say the least. I can’t find any fault. Great work.

Ben

Hey Walker!

You know I love your writing, eh?

I mean, it was so sad! At first I thought the girl he was describing was a small child. I thought the same when you mentioned climbing trees. I'm still not quite sure whether the two characters are partners or father and daughter, something that might want to be made a little clearer, but I liked the way you told it anyhow. I decided on them being partners, soul mates to makes the piece have even more meaning when it comes to the ending, and I think it works well that way. For me anyway

The plot's been done before, but the way you write makes it completely original. I really am jealous of your ability to write a story without dialogue, that's just as powerful as a story with it.

He lifted the book took his lips

'took' should be 'to'

it with a tender care he had once spent

I'm feeling that the word 'like' would go nicely after 'care' but you can choose to ignore me

comfort of a piled up leaves

No need for 'a'

The chair in which he sat had been her favourite those long winter nights

I had to read this part a couple of times to get what you meant by it. Maybe adding a comma after 'favourite' would make things clearer.

Rereading the piece again only confirms my confusion about their relationship.

The way she was so nimble and quick, as he had once been.

This makes me think they're a generation apart. He's had time to grow old while she's still young. I don't want to read too much into the story, but it's something that I need cleared up.

I loved the end part -

But the pages were black and white, like the eulogy spoken in a stumbled, contrived mess of emotion that came out in sobs rather than impassioned remembrance. For words were only words. Not her. Not life. They could not, no matter how hard he tried, bring the colour back into his world or into her eyes. They were cold and told stories without the real quake of blood or sharp inhale of breath.

The rustle of pages bayed him to sleep but her fading smile kept him awake, so he promised never to rest again.

It was just... great. So full of emotion. I loved the reference to books. It was so personal to the character and it made me feel closer to her. Like I could have known her. Seen her reading book after book.

My confusion aside, well done. I adore your work.

xDudettex

Hey ho, Walker!

Like dudette, I tihnk the main problem I have here is defining the relationship between the he and the she. Some of the descriptions, the glasses at the end of her little nose, being able to climb high up a willow tree (My grandparents had a willow, not a corkscrew on admittedly, but I've always thought of willows as being the kind of tree with thin supple brances that don't incline themselves towards climbing as much as something such as an oak might), and blonde curls brings to mind ringlets which are, again, something assicoated with young girls. But at the same time, some of the language you use is to tender and heartfelt that it feels as though it could only be speaking of something akin to a romantic relationship.

Maybe it was the way in which the branches never seemed to bear fruit anymore

The only tree you've mentioned so far is the willow, and they don't bear fruit, only seeds. Unless this is supposed to my symbology -- I'm a tad dense and don't tend to notice that unless it's beaten around my head -- and repeatedly so -- and so if that's the case, feel free to ignore me~

I have to admit, this isn't the sort of thing that I'd usually enjoy. Considering how emotional I am in real life I don't tend to like fiction that's heavily based it in and more often than not I find myself rolling my eyes or holding my head in my hand. But, it must be said, that perhaps you are on your way to converting me. There's something about this that's so light and easy to consume but at the same time holds such great depth. Depsite the short length of this and the lack of dialogue and the fact that it reads in a very passive and yester-year manner,you've still created characters that I find myself caring for.

In short: lovely.


- tinny