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Craving
Aug 23, 2012 14:07:01 GMT -5
Post by Freedom on Aug 23, 2012 14:07:01 GMT -5
Help me here -- there's something wrong with the last sentence.
"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.
"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. In the black mirror the paired lights grew brighter in the dimness and silently slid down the curve and out of the picture.
"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. In the black mirror the paired lights brightened in the dimness and moved through their silent curve.
"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. In the black mirror the paired lights brightened in the dimness and slid along their silent curve.
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Craving
Aug 23, 2012 14:12:13 GMT -5
Post by Freedom on Aug 23, 2012 14:12:13 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. In the black mirror the paired lights brightened in the dimness and slid along their silent curve.
"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 14:19:14 GMT -5
Post by Freedom on Aug 23, 2012 14:19:14 GMT -5
Thank you guys so much *hugs PaperGrace* *hugs Scribbliz* *hugs ReadilyGrey*
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Craving
Aug 23, 2012 23:36:25 GMT -5
Post by readilygrey on Aug 23, 2012 23:36:25 GMT -5
Yay! You did more with this! ;D ;D ;D ;D I am attempting (we'll see how this works on a forum, heh) a full beta with this, as if you were polishing it for publication, because this is worthy of sharing with the world ;D ;D I'm being as nitpicky as I possibly can so that if there is anything that might confuse a reader, it will be found now rather than at that point. If this is too nitpicky just let me know and I won't do it again. *hugs* Please feel free to ignore as many of my suggestions as you see fit! This is YOUR story after all, I'm just one of the readers who is lucky enough to get to offer my feedback Purple is what I really loved. Blue is my nitpicking. Teal is a comment.I came into his apartment and saw what I could not do without. This is a great opening sentence. Makes the reader curious.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 think the "under" sounds odd right after the "on" and "under," like too many ups and downs, maybe an "in the" or even "and beneath" would sound a bit smoother. 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 love this whole part so much!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. This is great. 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 The tense feels off. Maybe was? 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 Maybe "smiled, displaying" or something would be a little smoother. 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.I like how you keep drawing our attention to the obsession, great foreshadowing! The window reflected there I would switch this around to "the reflected window" was in his kitchen, to my left through a flat-topped arch, and his head occluded it as he passed and re-passed. Even better foreshadowing! haha he's in the wAY, how dare he? I love it ;D I crossed to look through the glass but the angle was not so favorable -- it was the mirror that made the picture. Nice obsessive end here."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. with "violet" being singular and then the plural "favorite colors" I had to read this twice. You could just have "My favorite color" as a whole sentence (remove the "these are," as if the narrator is appreciating the wall's thoughtfulness ;D Or "violets," either would work. In the black mirror the paired lights brightened in the dimness and This feels like it needs more of a pause to me, maybe a comma, or a comma and then "sliding," it's a beautiful sentence and deserves more time to be spent on it! slid along their silent curve. "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 It would be stronger here to show the narrator being scared rather than to state it. The concept of the sudden presence of a "watcher" behind the glasses is excellent, eerie. You might consider moving that part up and joining it with this sentence. 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, Brilliant! I love this! ;D blind after all. This isn't needed, sentence is awesome without it. "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." Right here a tiny, brief bit of foreshadowing, would be nice. One sentence would be enough, just something a little dark. Maybe about the window. This is optional of course, just a thought I had. Maybe i just want the story to be longer because I like it so much.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. I still grin every time I read this.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, It would be so cool if you ended the story by moving the "for me" to be a sentence by itself. Or following a dash. Like a punchline ;D I really like the concept that it's all hers now, very creepy. What a thing to kill for. *shivers* and the river of lights slides over the black horizon. This story would sound so good as a recording ;D ;D ;D ;D ;D ;D
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Craving
Aug 24, 2012 0:19:32 GMT -5
Post by Freedom on Aug 24, 2012 0:19:32 GMT -5
You are wonderful *heart*
Thank you so much -- I'm off now to sleep on your wonderful words.
*hugs*
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Craving
Aug 24, 2012 12:09:16 GMT -5
Post by scribbliz on Aug 24, 2012 12:09:16 GMT -5
"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.just a quick thought, but what about "Watched the magenta wall deepen to violet. These are my favorite colours." (Forgive the canadian/british spelling of colour) I love the idea that it's more than the violet at the end that's her favorite colour...that it's all the purples that make her so obsessive.
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Craving
Aug 25, 2012 0:21:40 GMT -5
Post by Freedom on Aug 25, 2012 0:21:40 GMT -5
I came into his apartment and found 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, inside a black square, a river of lights came sliding over a black horizon beneath 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, a 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 displaying 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 reflected window 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 magenta wall darken to violet. These are my favorite colors. In the black mirror the paired lights, brighter in the shadowed room, slid along their silent curve.
"I like it," he said. "I'm lucky to have it." He came balancing a tray with two cups on it and placed it quite precisely on his little coffee table. "Thank the good Lord for rent control."
"Rent control. Explain that to me."
He scared me by turning his face straight at mine. "Where you from?" Were the black glasses really dark windows, with a watcher behind? But 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. Nobody misses him, nobody 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, pays my rent. And every night the sun stains the wall a deep and vivid magenta and the river of lights slides over the black horizon.
For me.
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Craving
Aug 25, 2012 0:41:08 GMT -5
Post by scribbliz on Aug 25, 2012 0:41:08 GMT -5
I knew that the mirror reflected a window and that, outside, a 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 maybe instead of and, try to; and makes this sentence feel choppy to me 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 , (comma needed here, I believe) displaying 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. Freedom, I really, really enjoy this! Every time I read it, I still enjoy it! Thank you for sharing it with us, and I love to see all the updates to it!
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Craving
Aug 25, 2012 13:20:13 GMT -5
Post by flesheater on Aug 25, 2012 13:20:13 GMT -5
I believe this story is far to artistic for me...I am not comprehending the beginning of this story. Is there somewhere in this thread where the meaning has been discussed? I really like the ending but I am completely lost when it comes to the wall, the mirror and the colors.
Aside from my confusion (which is not your fault, obviously, since everyone else gets it hahaha!) my only suggestion would be not to use "black" so often; unless that is a recurring theme that was intentional.
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Craving
Aug 25, 2012 23:27:29 GMT -5
Post by readilygrey on Aug 25, 2012 23:27:29 GMT -5
I really, really love this story. I like the latest revisions ;D
Flesheater: The protagonist is obsessed with the way the view of the city is reflected onto the mirror and the wall in the man's apartment. Kind of like a cat and a shiny object. I like it because it's such a bizarrely little thing to kill for.
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Craving
Aug 25, 2012 23:55:26 GMT -5
Post by Freedom on Aug 25, 2012 23:55:26 GMT -5
Thank you, thank you again! Liz, that's just what I did I'm leaving the 'and ... and ...' because I like the way it slows the reader there. I'm spurning that comma. Readily, I had to leave that 'blind after all' sentence just as it was, with PaperGrace I do think that's about the creepiest thing she says. ;D PaperGrace! Validation! flesheater, yeah, the 'black' thing is on purpose, also I replaced 'deep' with 'dark' for the same reason -- and, what Readily said -- like a cat and a shiny object -- exactly lol ;D
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Craving
Aug 26, 2012 8:17:01 GMT -5
Post by flesheater on Aug 26, 2012 8:17:01 GMT -5
Ok, I sensed the obsession over the mirror but I wasn't sure if it was a metaphor or if it was literal. I suppose imagining a dream like atmosphere with story makes it much easier to comprehend. When a story takes me to and fro through a room I isually get lost and I hate that but it's just how my mind works I guess.
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