Young Writers Society

This has neither the letter "a" nor the word "the". It's called constrained writing. I am not racist at all by writing this, it's just what came out of my mind as I was writing.

You'll know why it's R once you finish it.
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The Letter N

Lenore strolled down her street. Her feet followed her mind, to her house, to her bed, to her delusions. Her purse swung over her shoulder, scorching whirls of sunlight coiling from muddy concrete. Sirens drifted by, sturdy echoes full of silence. She wiped spit from her mouth, suddenly wishing to be somewhere else, where nobody minded her looks, her color, things she could not revise.

She struggled up hilly slumps to her home. While stepping in, she noticed nervously two of her settees overturned.

She turned into her kitchen. There she stood, touching her nose, her cheeks, her mouth, just to confirm everything still there. She seized one knife from her sink to cut her food when she detected noises from behind her.

Suddenly, she felt fingers climb onto her, gripping her chest, clutching her bottom, but when she cried out in shock, one more went for her mouth, to silence her. Swiftly, those ebony bones picked her up, three men under her body, which they lugged in procession, shouting, hooting, snorting. Their fingertips felt stiff touching her dress. She tried to slit them with her knife, but she didn’t even come close. Those wretched men, she thought, how she wanted to kill those wicked men!

They lifted her into her own restroom, pounding her while she shrieked. Scents of blood fluttered from her feeble body, sweet yet pungent, while one by one they took turns on her, so when they mounted off, she felt suffering, so much terrible suffering. They left. Then she dropped onto her knees, sobbing, until puddles formed under her.

Her knife still inside her insipid knuckles, she looked into her own reflection. Her snowy curves, her light legs, her ivory wrists. She hoisted her knife, silver plunging deep into silver, feeling sluggish sting, obscured, despondent sting. Why weren’t I soot, why colorless, why not…why not, why not obsidiiiiiiiiiiiiii…

She fell into murky pit, eyes still rolling in their sockets.

You have some interesting ideas in here, I hope you explore the new metaphors you have here, I really like "insipid knuckles". Not a fan of the ivory, it's overused as an adjective for skin. Also, I noticed your heavy on your visuals. Smell, touch and taste are the strongest triggers for strong imagery, so keep that in mind. Perhaps if you liked constrained writing you can attempted some without using any visual imagery at all.

I'm glad you like the excercise, it actually has a lot of cred with post modernists. If you're interested, check out Oulipo:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Oulipo

Hey. Startling idea. Not saying it hasn't been done before, but I'll critique.

LINE EDITS

Lenore commenced strolling down her street.

Certainly not a good way to start it off. "Commenced" is an especially bad word.

where nobody minds her skin color, eye color, gender…

should be "minded." And this is a bit cliche.

She struggled up hilly slumps until she found her home.

I don't think she "found" it, of course she already knew where it was.

just to confirm everything is still there, she is still there.

should be "was still there."

Those wretched men, she thought, those wicked men!

Eep. Eep. Bad wording. Nobody talks like that, Not really.

Why weren’t I soot, why colorless, why not…why not, why not obsidiiiiiiiiiiiiii…

She fell into murky pit, eyes still rolling in their sockets

Wowwwwwww...Powerful.

So, GENERAL NOTES

It's strange how she gets raped, but it's still an issue of color. Why would rape have anything to do with ethnicity?

It's still a good idea. The last sentence is haunting.

I think you shoud read Sula by Toni Morrison. This reminds me a bit of that. Read it. It's on Oprah's book list. ^_~