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Craving
Aug 13, 2012 14:19:34 GMT -5
Post by scribbliz on Aug 13, 2012 14:19:34 GMT -5
that almost seems too wordy??? Maybe "The setting sun stained the textured plaster a vivid deep magenta" ? I'm not sure? LOL! hugs freedom, and remember, this is your story, you can totally disregard anything I say and I will not be offended!
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Craving
Aug 13, 2012 20:24:21 GMT -5
Post by readilygrey on Aug 13, 2012 20:24:21 GMT -5
In the South Western US stucco inside a house is almost a fixture. I lived in a pueblo rancher for a while that had stucco walls inside to make it look like it was made of adobe. ;D
I feel like we are prodding you to death over this, but your wording is so close to perfection we can't resist!
I mean this solely for the sake of inspiration and I deeply apologize if I am over stepping my bounds, but I rearranged the first three of your paragraphs with all my favorite elements. I was hoping it might show you what I love and see in the imagery at the beginning of your story and that would help you see if that's the effect you wanted the reader to have and so you could revise it in your own way. I do not mean for this to be a substitution or a correction!
I came into his apartment and saw what I could not do without.
It took place on the wall opposite the door. The setting sun stained the stucco a deep magenta. A river of lights lived in the mirrored door of a tin cabinet, a vivid moving picture on a black square. Lights in clustered pairs topped the skyline only to slip down and down the slope and make the turn to glide silently across the bottom and away. Ever moving, ever changing, always new, always the same. I knew that in daylight I would see the chrome wink and the glass flash; and that all through the black nights, after the color had gone, I still would see the lights slide endlessly down the curve.
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Craving
Aug 13, 2012 23:51:16 GMT -5
Post by Freedom on Aug 13, 2012 23:51:16 GMT -5
Thank you, thanks so much -- you give me such a good feeling Liz, yep, too wordy, getting those cloggy syllables outta there ... ;D Readily -- big yes to separating out the first sentence; processing on the rest, and I see what you're saying ... ;D #huggingsmiley# #beatingheart#
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Craving
Aug 16, 2012 15:23:39 GMT -5
Post by Freedom on Aug 16, 2012 15:23:39 GMT -5
I made quite a few changes, though smallish ones. I came into his apartment and saw what I could not do without. It took place on the wall opposite the door. The setting sun stained the stucco a vivid deep magenta and on a black square slid a river of lights over a black horizon under a flaming sky. I looked and saw that a tin cabinet hung there and the river of lights lived in the mirrored door. I knew that the mirror reflected a window and that outside, the highway topped the black shoulder of the hill beyond his building. In the living square the clustered pairs of lights rose at the skyline to slip down and down the slope, and turn silently, and slide across the bottom of the picture and away. Ever moving, ever changing, always new, always the same. I knew that in the day I would see the chrome wink and the glass flash under the sun; and that all through the black nights, after the color had gone, I still would see the lights slide down their never-ending curve. He could not see this. He was a blind man. Yes, a blind beggar, the classic figure tapping through our history and our nightmares, stick in one hand and the other out to catch a coin or our guilt. He'd caught mine. I was here, in his place, where he lived, to help him. No sneak-thief I -- not yet. He feared me not at all. My voice is gentle, womanly -- he had nothing, so he thought, to steal. "... tea?" he was saying and I knew he'd asked before. "Please." He smiled to display his prowess in his own kitchen, how he could reach down his teapot, set his kettle to boil and his cups on the counter, and all by touch, me watching. I watched the lights move down the mirror on the magenta wall, a shade darker now. The window reflected there was in his kitchen, to the left through a flat-topped arch, and his head occluded it as he passed and re-passed. I crossed to look through the glass but the angle was not so favorable -- it was the mirror that made the picture. "I've got it." He thought I was behind him to help him. "Just another minute." "Nice place." I moved away from him, walked across his living room, sat on his sofa. Watched the wall deepen to violet. These are my favorite colors. The light pairs, brighter in the dimness, glided around the curve and along the bottom of the picture on the wall. "I like it," he said. "I'm lucky to have it. Thank the good Lord for rent control." He came balancing a tray with two cups on it, placed the tray quite precisely on his little coffee table, found a cup with his fingers and sat down with it in his comfortable-looking chair. "Rent control. Explain that to me." "Means just what it says -- where you from? Means they can't raise my rent or evict me or tear this place down 'til I'm gone." "That's what I thought." That's what I was afraid of. "Good tea." That was a year ago. I come and go. I carry a cane -- his cane, actually. I wear his black glasses. I wear his clothes and it took me forever to get his smell out of them; a person's smell is very like his ghost, it -- you know -- lingers. I buried him in the yard, in the dark. He wasn't very big. He'll never be found, they don't allow dogs in this building. No one missed him, no one ever came looking for him. No one misses me. I disappeared from my apartment and my job and no one ever found me. What I bring home from the sidewalk, from the guilt of others just like me, pays my rent. And every night the sun stains the wall a deep and vivid magenta for me, and the river of lights slides over the black horizon.
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Craving
Aug 16, 2012 22:18:04 GMT -5
Post by scribbliz on Aug 16, 2012 22:18:04 GMT -5
I like this, Freedom. The character feels a little more human to me, a little less "other" and makes her easier to relate to. The line "That's what I was afraid of" makes a little more sense to me this time too...it seems that she was afraid that she wouldn't be able to get the place until he was dead...so since she couldn't do without the wall of colours, she had to get rid of him
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Craving
Aug 16, 2012 22:34:59 GMT -5
Post by readilygrey on Aug 16, 2012 22:34:59 GMT -5
I love it! I think you should enter this in a contest or try to publish it, I really do. ;D ;D ;D
The line about what she was afraid of makes complete sense now. She feels just a tad more greedy in this version and I like that effect. Makes her more predatory.
I have one tiny suggestion (eek! Please don't ask scribbliz to devise a terrible fate for me! It's the last one, I promise!) and the story is fine without it, I just think it's an opportunity to add something awesome.
In this line:
"Means just what it says -- where you from?"
If you replaced the dash with a beat of action/description to show his mood, it would help the readers see this scene fully. Your story is fine without it though.
Great job!!!
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Craving
Aug 16, 2012 22:56:07 GMT -5
Post by scribbliz on Aug 16, 2012 22:56:07 GMT -5
readily, I'm sure I could come up with a very descriptive fate for you, but I highly doubt I could come up with a terrible one...you've done nothing to deserve it! LOL. Actually, I think your point is good; Freedom, you could put something like "Means just what it says," he said, puzzled, "where you from?" could give a bit more description there, and you could change puzzled for, irritated, confused, impatient, ect...just a thought to expound on readily's thought
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Craving
Aug 16, 2012 23:37:57 GMT -5
Post by readilygrey on Aug 16, 2012 23:37:57 GMT -5
I'd love to see him do something like turn his face sharply toward hers even though he can't see (worded in some witty manner of course) or something to display his puzzlement/irritation without actually saying it. I can't think of anything, but you are much more awesome with description than me though, so you can come up with something much better ;D It would go well with the subtlety you've woven into this story.
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Craving
Aug 16, 2012 23:57:10 GMT -5
Post by Freedom on Aug 16, 2012 23:57:10 GMT -5
I'd love to see him do something like turn his face sharply toward hers even though he can't see (worded in some witty manner of course) or something to display his puzzlement/irritation without actually saying it. I can't think of anything, but you are much more awesome with description than me though, so you can come up with something much better ;D It would go well with the subtlety you've woven into this story. Readily, believe it or not, this is what I was thinking of. Validation! Thank you, ladies, I will proceed!
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Craving
Aug 17, 2012 0:05:47 GMT -5
Post by readilygrey on Aug 17, 2012 0:05:47 GMT -5
I'd love to see him do something like turn his face sharply toward hers even though he can't see (worded in some witty manner of course) or something to display his puzzlement/irritation without actually saying it. I can't think of anything, but you are much more awesome with description than me though, so you can come up with something much better ;D It would go well with the subtlety you've woven into this story. Readily, believe it or not, this is what I was thinking of. Validation! Thank you, ladies, I will proceed! I told you our creative bugs are related (or at least are the same species)
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Craving
Aug 17, 2012 0:12:06 GMT -5
Post by scribbliz on Aug 17, 2012 0:12:06 GMT -5
We're different enough that we see things the others miss, or would word some things differently, and yet, we are similar enough that we can see what each is trying to say; I love this group, ladies, you are amazing. I am honoured to be able to work with you.
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Craving
Aug 17, 2012 0:17:31 GMT -5
Post by readilygrey on Aug 17, 2012 0:17:31 GMT -5
It's a blast. I love the mix of creativity Well, I've stayed up way too late again, so I need to go to bed. Good night all!
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Craving
Aug 17, 2012 0:18:22 GMT -5
Post by scribbliz on Aug 17, 2012 0:18:22 GMT -5
night readily, (btw, I created a skin just for you! it's called Grey's; and one for Freedom called Richness, because purple always feels like the richest colour)
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Craving
Aug 23, 2012 13:50:00 GMT -5
Post by Freedom on Aug 23, 2012 13:50:00 GMT -5
I came into his apartment and saw what I could not do without.
It took place on the wall opposite the door. The setting sun stained the stucco a vivid deep magenta and on a black square slid a river of lights over a black horizon under a flaming sky. I looked and saw that a tin cabinet hung there and the river of lights lived in the mirrored door.
I knew that the mirror reflected a window and that outside, the highway topped the black shoulder of the hill beyond his building. In the living square the clustered pairs of lights rose at the skyline to slip down and down the slope, and turn silently, and slide across the bottom of the picture and away. Ever moving, ever changing, always new, always the same.
I knew that in the day I would see the chrome wink and the glass flash under the sun; and that all through the black nights, after the color had gone, I still would see the lights slide down their never-ending curve.
He could not see this. He was a blind man. Yes, a blind beggar, the classic figure tapping through our history and our nightmares, stick in one hand and the other out to catch a coin or our guilt. He'd caught mine. I was here, in his place, where he lived, to help him. No sneak-thief I -- not yet. He feared me not at all. My voice is gentle, womanly -- he had nothing, so he thought, to steal.
"... tea?" he was saying and I knew he'd asked before.
"Please."
He smiled to display his prowess in his own kitchen, how he could reach down his teapot, set his kettle to boil and his cups on the counter, and all by touch, me watching.
I watched the lights move down the mirror on the magenta wall, a shade darker now. The window reflected there was in his kitchen, to my left through a flat-topped arch, and his head occluded it as he passed and re-passed. I crossed to look through the glass but the angle was not so favorable -- it was the mirror that made the picture.
"I've got it." He thought I was behind him to help him. "Just another minute."
"Nice place." I turned away, walked across his living room, sat on his sofa. Watched the wall deepen to violet. These are my favorite colors. The light pairs, brighter in the dimness, glided around the curve and along the bottom of the picture on the wall.
"I like it," he said. "I'm lucky to have it. Thank the good Lord for rent control." He came balancing a tray with two cups on it and placed it quite precisely on his little coffee table.
"Rent control. Explain that to me."
He scared me by turning his face straight at mine. "Where you from?" I thought the black glasses were dark windows with a watcher behind. Then he stooped and felt for a cup with his fingers and I liked him again, blind after all. "Means just what it says. Means they can't raise my rent or evict me or tear this place down 'til I'm gone."
"That's what I thought." That's what I was afraid of. "Good tea."
That was a year ago. I come and go. I carry a cane -- his cane, actually. I wear his black glasses. I wear his clothes and it took me forever to get his smell out of them; a person's smell is very like his ghost, it -- you know -- lingers. I buried him in the yard, in the dark. He wasn't very big.
He'll never be found, they don't allow dogs in this building. No one missed him, no one ever came looking for him. No one misses me. I disappeared from my apartment and my job and no one ever found me.
What I bring home from the sidewalk, from the guilt of others just like me, pays my rent. And every night the sun stains the wall a deep and vivid magenta for me, and the river of lights slides over the black horizon.
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Craving
Aug 23, 2012 13:56:24 GMT -5
Post by PaperGrace on Aug 23, 2012 13:56:24 GMT -5
He scared me by turning his face straight at mine. "Where you from?" I thought the black glasses were dark windows with a watcher behind. Then he stooped and felt for a cup with his fingers and I liked him again, blind after all. I like this whole revision, but especially what this part in bold says about the narrator. *shivers*
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