SirArtemis
07-15-10, 02:34 AM
I would like to post something I wrote, and it would be nice to get some general feedback. This is going to sound absurd but... judge it by the rubric if possible. This is something personal, but I'd like to see how something truly emotionally impactful for me influences the reader.
I ask because my writing often lacks emotion and imagery.
I want to paint a picture. This picture is from the view of a bartender. The bartender is looking at a customer who is sitting behind the counter, and this customer is me. I have my elbows on the counter, holding my head, and in front of me is a teacup. I have cracks through me, as if my entire body is shattered glass. To the left side of the painting is a table in the background with a couple having some elegant dinner, holding hands over the table. The woman is wearing a red dress. She has dirty blond curls. A man in a suit sits across from her, a candle burning behind them. A painting hangs over them of some beautiful beach sunset, perhaps a perfect honeymoon location. To the right side of the painting, a man is sitting, legs crossed, glasses, balding, a cat in his lap that he pets as he reads a book. A candle just like that of the couple glows on a small table beside him. Above him hangs a painting as well, this one being of some beautiful architecture. On his table is a single beer. On the couple’s table sits a bottle of wine. Next to me is a pot of tea. Holding my head, a tear in my eye is barely visible. A tear on the counter has frozen upon impact.
You have me sitting there in front of you, shattered and unsure of what to do, trying to understand life. Contemplating pursuing the absurdity of love that is happening on one side of my life, or accepting the cruel fate of being alone and becoming that lonely old man who has only the love of his cat; a cat who will die long before he does. Refusing to pick up the bottle to cope, I sit there, drinking my tea, my alternate addiction, convincing myself that “it’s not as bad.” Yet all the pieces that make up who I am, held in place by the stoppage of time, are ready to collapse. This alternate realm within my mind holds this image up to the light, before that very light turns into fire. Time starts again, the glass shatters, pieces fall to the ground, and my world catches alight. Everything ends, my decisions irrelevant, and the remnants of who I once was drift off into the wind. Little flecks of ash drifting away like bits of burnt paper, fading from existence, as another face in the crowd disappears, the only memory of them ever existing fading from the minds of those around them. The world shatters, the cracking of glass reverberating through the minds of every living creature, and everything collapses into nothingness. Time stops, and everyone is where I was, taking a brief moment to register who they are, who they were, and who they will be.
The answer becomes frighteningly simple. Who we are… is a choice.
I ask because my writing often lacks emotion and imagery.
I want to paint a picture. This picture is from the view of a bartender. The bartender is looking at a customer who is sitting behind the counter, and this customer is me. I have my elbows on the counter, holding my head, and in front of me is a teacup. I have cracks through me, as if my entire body is shattered glass. To the left side of the painting is a table in the background with a couple having some elegant dinner, holding hands over the table. The woman is wearing a red dress. She has dirty blond curls. A man in a suit sits across from her, a candle burning behind them. A painting hangs over them of some beautiful beach sunset, perhaps a perfect honeymoon location. To the right side of the painting, a man is sitting, legs crossed, glasses, balding, a cat in his lap that he pets as he reads a book. A candle just like that of the couple glows on a small table beside him. Above him hangs a painting as well, this one being of some beautiful architecture. On his table is a single beer. On the couple’s table sits a bottle of wine. Next to me is a pot of tea. Holding my head, a tear in my eye is barely visible. A tear on the counter has frozen upon impact.
You have me sitting there in front of you, shattered and unsure of what to do, trying to understand life. Contemplating pursuing the absurdity of love that is happening on one side of my life, or accepting the cruel fate of being alone and becoming that lonely old man who has only the love of his cat; a cat who will die long before he does. Refusing to pick up the bottle to cope, I sit there, drinking my tea, my alternate addiction, convincing myself that “it’s not as bad.” Yet all the pieces that make up who I am, held in place by the stoppage of time, are ready to collapse. This alternate realm within my mind holds this image up to the light, before that very light turns into fire. Time starts again, the glass shatters, pieces fall to the ground, and my world catches alight. Everything ends, my decisions irrelevant, and the remnants of who I once was drift off into the wind. Little flecks of ash drifting away like bits of burnt paper, fading from existence, as another face in the crowd disappears, the only memory of them ever existing fading from the minds of those around them. The world shatters, the cracking of glass reverberating through the minds of every living creature, and everything collapses into nothingness. Time stops, and everyone is where I was, taking a brief moment to register who they are, who they were, and who they will be.
The answer becomes frighteningly simple. Who we are… is a choice.