Shore (a short story for English)
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It's dedicated to the victims of the Australian bushfires. I handed it in today, and it's not very good, but...yeah. *** Shore To offset the ever-climbing temperature of another warm day, the beach was reasonably crowded. I like the feeling of being surrounded by people without having to interact with them - immersion without drowning. But with too many people I run the risk of being kicked in the head or sprayed with sand. And as it stood, I’d much prefer to leave with as many blood vessels intact as when I arrived. I didn’t notice the boy at first. There were probably a thousand children within the scope of my vision, either chasing each other about or splashing in the cool water, and he was hardly doing anything to attract attention to himself. He was asleep on the warm sand, a tree bowing majestically to shade him from the sun. From what I could tell, he looked about 12 years old, barely dipping his toes into adolescence – the short but tempestuous journey to becoming an adult. He would be tested, he would have bad days and worse days, his heart crushed and broken and reworked into something far grander. He would forge powerful memories from tender moments, be helpful to some and helpless to others. He would grow into somebody that far exceeded expectations. But all that was for later. For now he napped peacefully, his eyelids fluttering and his mouth slightly open, lost in a world all his own. This wasn’t a boy I’d ever seen or spoken to before, but I felt a connection between us – we were breathing the same salty air, and the sand on my skin felt the same on his. I felt a part of his world. An awful squealing behind me yanked me back to this world: a little girl had misplaced her favourite dolly and her parents were futilely attempting to marshal the willpower to put down their books and do something about it. They were obviously unfit to take care of even themselves, let alone a small child – I could see the doll straight away. I was always a better parent than that: my son came before some mass-produced romance novel swallowed on a blistering beach. Oliver never liked beaches anyway - we didn’t live on the coast, so he didn’t have to. We lived in a small rural town, a place to get acquainted with the birds and the koalas and the pretty flowers. It’ll be his seventeenth birthday in eleven days, though, so it’s been many years since his last kookaburra laugh or barefoot clamber up a tree. I could feel the tingle of the coastal sun on my skin, notwithstanding the sunscreen I’d
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It's dedicated to the victims of the Australian bushfires. I handed it in today, and it's not very good, but...yeah. *** Shore To offset the ever-climbing temperature of another warm day, the beach was reasonably crowded. I like the feeling of being surrounded by people without having to interact with them - immersion without drowning. But with too many people I run the risk of being kicked in the head or sprayed with sand. And as it stood, I’d much prefer to leave with as many blood vessels intact as when I arrived. I didn’t notice the boy at first. There were probably a thousand children within the scope of my vision, either chasing each other about or splashing in the cool water, and he was hardly doing anything to attract attention to himself. He was asleep on the warm sand, a tree bowing majestically to shade him from the sun. From what I could tell, he looked about 12 years old, barely dipping his toes into adolescence – the short but tempestuous journey to becoming an adult. He would be tested, he would have bad days and worse days, his heart crushed and broken and reworked into something far grander. He would forge powerful memories from tender moments, be helpful to some and helpless to others. He would grow into somebody that far exceeded expectations. But all that was for later. For now he napped peacefully, his eyelids fluttering and his mouth slightly open, lost in a world all his own. This wasn’t a boy I’d ever seen or spoken to before, but I felt a connection between us – we were breathing the same salty air, and the sand on my skin felt the same on his. I felt a part of his world. An awful squealing behind me yanked me back to this world: a little girl had misplaced her favourite dolly and her parents were futilely attempting to marshal the willpower to put down their books and do something about it. They were obviously unfit to take care of even themselves, let alone a small child – I could see the doll straight away. I was always a better parent than that: my son came before some mass-produced romance novel swallowed on a blistering beach. Oliver never liked beaches anyway - we didn’t live on the coast, so he didn’t have to. We lived in a small rural town, a place to get acquainted with the birds and the koalas and the pretty flowers. It’ll be his seventeenth birthday in eleven days, though, so it’s been many years since his last kookaburra laugh or barefoot clamber up a tree. I could feel the tingle of the coastal sun on my skin, notwithstanding the sunscreen I’d
Wow. You should develop this talent further.
Knowledge is knowing that the tomato is a fruit. Wisdom is not putting it in fruit salad!! Booger Mobile - Camp Quality esCarpade 2010
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It's dedicated to the victims of the Australian bushfires. I handed it in today, and it's not very good, but...yeah. *** Shore To offset the ever-climbing temperature of another warm day, the beach was reasonably crowded. I like the feeling of being surrounded by people without having to interact with them - immersion without drowning. But with too many people I run the risk of being kicked in the head or sprayed with sand. And as it stood, I’d much prefer to leave with as many blood vessels intact as when I arrived. I didn’t notice the boy at first. There were probably a thousand children within the scope of my vision, either chasing each other about or splashing in the cool water, and he was hardly doing anything to attract attention to himself. He was asleep on the warm sand, a tree bowing majestically to shade him from the sun. From what I could tell, he looked about 12 years old, barely dipping his toes into adolescence – the short but tempestuous journey to becoming an adult. He would be tested, he would have bad days and worse days, his heart crushed and broken and reworked into something far grander. He would forge powerful memories from tender moments, be helpful to some and helpless to others. He would grow into somebody that far exceeded expectations. But all that was for later. For now he napped peacefully, his eyelids fluttering and his mouth slightly open, lost in a world all his own. This wasn’t a boy I’d ever seen or spoken to before, but I felt a connection between us – we were breathing the same salty air, and the sand on my skin felt the same on his. I felt a part of his world. An awful squealing behind me yanked me back to this world: a little girl had misplaced her favourite dolly and her parents were futilely attempting to marshal the willpower to put down their books and do something about it. They were obviously unfit to take care of even themselves, let alone a small child – I could see the doll straight away. I was always a better parent than that: my son came before some mass-produced romance novel swallowed on a blistering beach. Oliver never liked beaches anyway - we didn’t live on the coast, so he didn’t have to. We lived in a small rural town, a place to get acquainted with the birds and the koalas and the pretty flowers. It’ll be his seventeenth birthday in eleven days, though, so it’s been many years since his last kookaburra laugh or barefoot clamber up a tree. I could feel the tingle of the coastal sun on my skin, notwithstanding the sunscreen I’d
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It's dedicated to the victims of the Australian bushfires. I handed it in today, and it's not very good, but...yeah. *** Shore To offset the ever-climbing temperature of another warm day, the beach was reasonably crowded. I like the feeling of being surrounded by people without having to interact with them - immersion without drowning. But with too many people I run the risk of being kicked in the head or sprayed with sand. And as it stood, I’d much prefer to leave with as many blood vessels intact as when I arrived. I didn’t notice the boy at first. There were probably a thousand children within the scope of my vision, either chasing each other about or splashing in the cool water, and he was hardly doing anything to attract attention to himself. He was asleep on the warm sand, a tree bowing majestically to shade him from the sun. From what I could tell, he looked about 12 years old, barely dipping his toes into adolescence – the short but tempestuous journey to becoming an adult. He would be tested, he would have bad days and worse days, his heart crushed and broken and reworked into something far grander. He would forge powerful memories from tender moments, be helpful to some and helpless to others. He would grow into somebody that far exceeded expectations. But all that was for later. For now he napped peacefully, his eyelids fluttering and his mouth slightly open, lost in a world all his own. This wasn’t a boy I’d ever seen or spoken to before, but I felt a connection between us – we were breathing the same salty air, and the sand on my skin felt the same on his. I felt a part of his world. An awful squealing behind me yanked me back to this world: a little girl had misplaced her favourite dolly and her parents were futilely attempting to marshal the willpower to put down their books and do something about it. They were obviously unfit to take care of even themselves, let alone a small child – I could see the doll straight away. I was always a better parent than that: my son came before some mass-produced romance novel swallowed on a blistering beach. Oliver never liked beaches anyway - we didn’t live on the coast, so he didn’t have to. We lived in a small rural town, a place to get acquainted with the birds and the koalas and the pretty flowers. It’ll be his seventeenth birthday in eleven days, though, so it’s been many years since his last kookaburra laugh or barefoot clamber up a tree. I could feel the tingle of the coastal sun on my skin, notwithstanding the sunscreen I’d
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Wow. You should develop this talent further.
Knowledge is knowing that the tomato is a fruit. Wisdom is not putting it in fruit salad!! Booger Mobile - Camp Quality esCarpade 2010
Thanks! :) But I don't know about 'talent' - every time I read through it, I always felt like there was something majorly wrong with it, but I could never quite figure it out.
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It's dedicated to the victims of the Australian bushfires. I handed it in today, and it's not very good, but...yeah. *** Shore To offset the ever-climbing temperature of another warm day, the beach was reasonably crowded. I like the feeling of being surrounded by people without having to interact with them - immersion without drowning. But with too many people I run the risk of being kicked in the head or sprayed with sand. And as it stood, I’d much prefer to leave with as many blood vessels intact as when I arrived. I didn’t notice the boy at first. There were probably a thousand children within the scope of my vision, either chasing each other about or splashing in the cool water, and he was hardly doing anything to attract attention to himself. He was asleep on the warm sand, a tree bowing majestically to shade him from the sun. From what I could tell, he looked about 12 years old, barely dipping his toes into adolescence – the short but tempestuous journey to becoming an adult. He would be tested, he would have bad days and worse days, his heart crushed and broken and reworked into something far grander. He would forge powerful memories from tender moments, be helpful to some and helpless to others. He would grow into somebody that far exceeded expectations. But all that was for later. For now he napped peacefully, his eyelids fluttering and his mouth slightly open, lost in a world all his own. This wasn’t a boy I’d ever seen or spoken to before, but I felt a connection between us – we were breathing the same salty air, and the sand on my skin felt the same on his. I felt a part of his world. An awful squealing behind me yanked me back to this world: a little girl had misplaced her favourite dolly and her parents were futilely attempting to marshal the willpower to put down their books and do something about it. They were obviously unfit to take care of even themselves, let alone a small child – I could see the doll straight away. I was always a better parent than that: my son came before some mass-produced romance novel swallowed on a blistering beach. Oliver never liked beaches anyway - we didn’t live on the coast, so he didn’t have to. We lived in a small rural town, a place to get acquainted with the birds and the koalas and the pretty flowers. It’ll be his seventeenth birthday in eleven days, though, so it’s been many years since his last kookaburra laugh or barefoot clamber up a tree. I could feel the tingle of the coastal sun on my skin, notwithstanding the sunscreen I’d
That's a beautiful story there Ravel. You have a gift with evoking imagery.
"WPF has many lovers. It's a veritable porn star!" - Josh Smith
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That's a beautiful story there Ravel. You have a gift with evoking imagery.
"WPF has many lovers. It's a veritable porn star!" - Josh Smith
Ahhhh, thank you!!! :-D :-D :-D :-D I know it sounds dumb, but I was actually really terrified about posting it. It's like...completely baring your heart to the world. It's scary. I thought I was just cold. ;P .
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Thanks! :) But I don't know about 'talent' - every time I read through it, I always felt like there was something majorly wrong with it, but I could never quite figure it out.
Ravel H. Joyce wrote:
I could never quite figure it out.
It's possibly that the protaganist doesn't feel like a female until you mention it at the end. A very minor quibble.
"WPF has many lovers. It's a veritable porn star!" - Josh Smith
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Ravel H. Joyce wrote:
I could never quite figure it out.
It's possibly that the protaganist doesn't feel like a female until you mention it at the end. A very minor quibble.
"WPF has many lovers. It's a veritable porn star!" - Josh Smith
It's a good point, that. I also sometimes repeat words that I shouldn't, like 'drive'.
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It's dedicated to the victims of the Australian bushfires. I handed it in today, and it's not very good, but...yeah. *** Shore To offset the ever-climbing temperature of another warm day, the beach was reasonably crowded. I like the feeling of being surrounded by people without having to interact with them - immersion without drowning. But with too many people I run the risk of being kicked in the head or sprayed with sand. And as it stood, I’d much prefer to leave with as many blood vessels intact as when I arrived. I didn’t notice the boy at first. There were probably a thousand children within the scope of my vision, either chasing each other about or splashing in the cool water, and he was hardly doing anything to attract attention to himself. He was asleep on the warm sand, a tree bowing majestically to shade him from the sun. From what I could tell, he looked about 12 years old, barely dipping his toes into adolescence – the short but tempestuous journey to becoming an adult. He would be tested, he would have bad days and worse days, his heart crushed and broken and reworked into something far grander. He would forge powerful memories from tender moments, be helpful to some and helpless to others. He would grow into somebody that far exceeded expectations. But all that was for later. For now he napped peacefully, his eyelids fluttering and his mouth slightly open, lost in a world all his own. This wasn’t a boy I’d ever seen or spoken to before, but I felt a connection between us – we were breathing the same salty air, and the sand on my skin felt the same on his. I felt a part of his world. An awful squealing behind me yanked me back to this world: a little girl had misplaced her favourite dolly and her parents were futilely attempting to marshal the willpower to put down their books and do something about it. They were obviously unfit to take care of even themselves, let alone a small child – I could see the doll straight away. I was always a better parent than that: my son came before some mass-produced romance novel swallowed on a blistering beach. Oliver never liked beaches anyway - we didn’t live on the coast, so he didn’t have to. We lived in a small rural town, a place to get acquainted with the birds and the koalas and the pretty flowers. It’ll be his seventeenth birthday in eleven days, though, so it’s been many years since his last kookaburra laugh or barefoot clamber up a tree. I could feel the tingle of the coastal sun on my skin, notwithstanding the sunscreen I’d
Nicely written. I like the way the images you describe are at discord with the emotions and memories of the subject untill finally, piece by piece, they all come to one. You could add somehting about a melted blue plastic firsbee on your front lawn, perhaps, you know, tie a few more images and threads together. But its good. A few of your phrases are a little clichéd. "a tree bowing majestically to shade him". Its a bit over donw no? You could replace it with "a tree sagged torpidly nearby, shadingly him a little". You want convey the impression of heat, and dont forgwet he has to be in the sun to warrant the subject getting up to put lotion on him. SO he cant be in full shade otherwise there is no point. Also, I would avoid educating, or telling the reader what you think, you as a man, because the subject is a girl, and also because being spoken to directly by the author seperately to the story is jarring. For example; "into adolescence – the short but tempestuous journey...", those are your sentiments, not hers, take all this section out IMO. But its good. I can see a few weaknesses, but I read a lot so I am used to the way imagery such as you portray are often constructed, but I doubt I could write anything as good myself so consider yourself complimented and not criticised by what I write.
Morality is indistinguishable from social proscription
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Nicely written. I like the way the images you describe are at discord with the emotions and memories of the subject untill finally, piece by piece, they all come to one. You could add somehting about a melted blue plastic firsbee on your front lawn, perhaps, you know, tie a few more images and threads together. But its good. A few of your phrases are a little clichéd. "a tree bowing majestically to shade him". Its a bit over donw no? You could replace it with "a tree sagged torpidly nearby, shadingly him a little". You want convey the impression of heat, and dont forgwet he has to be in the sun to warrant the subject getting up to put lotion on him. SO he cant be in full shade otherwise there is no point. Also, I would avoid educating, or telling the reader what you think, you as a man, because the subject is a girl, and also because being spoken to directly by the author seperately to the story is jarring. For example; "into adolescence – the short but tempestuous journey...", those are your sentiments, not hers, take all this section out IMO. But its good. I can see a few weaknesses, but I read a lot so I am used to the way imagery such as you portray are often constructed, but I doubt I could write anything as good myself so consider yourself complimented and not criticised by what I write.
Morality is indistinguishable from social proscription
fat_boy wrote:
You could add somehting about a melted blue plastic firsbee on your front lawn, perhaps, you know, tie a few more images and threads together.
I don't think that that's realistic. It would also be entirely expected, and wouldn't really enhance the narrative.
fat_boy wrote:
A few of your phrases are a little clichéd. "a tree bowing majestically to shade him". Its a bit over donw no? You could replace it with "a tree sagged torpidly nearby, shadingly him a little". You want convey the impression of heat, and dont forgwet he has to be in the sun to warrant the subject getting up to put lotion on him. SO he cant be in full shade otherwise there is no point.
The tree is supposed to show the significance of him to her - underneath it, he's kind of segregated from everyone else, put on a stage made of shadow. It'd be no good if it was a wilting, dehydrated tree. Later on she 'sees' everyone else disappear. Also, he'd most likely still burn even in the shade of a tree, if he was there for long enough. Additionally, sometimes cliches work because everyone has already created an image in their mind for it.
fat_boy wrote:
Also, I would avoid educating, or telling the reader what you think, you as a man, because the subject is a girl, and also because being spoken to directly by the author seperately to the story is jarring. For example; "into adolescence – the short but tempestuous journey...", those are your sentiments, not hers, take all this section out IMO.
The idea was that she was connecting to her dead son through him, which was why he was asleep, kind of like a blank canvas for her to project onto. She's imagining Oliver's life, his future, although that isn't very clear I admit. I'm going to bed. :zzz:
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It's dedicated to the victims of the Australian bushfires. I handed it in today, and it's not very good, but...yeah. *** Shore To offset the ever-climbing temperature of another warm day, the beach was reasonably crowded. I like the feeling of being surrounded by people without having to interact with them - immersion without drowning. But with too many people I run the risk of being kicked in the head or sprayed with sand. And as it stood, I’d much prefer to leave with as many blood vessels intact as when I arrived. I didn’t notice the boy at first. There were probably a thousand children within the scope of my vision, either chasing each other about or splashing in the cool water, and he was hardly doing anything to attract attention to himself. He was asleep on the warm sand, a tree bowing majestically to shade him from the sun. From what I could tell, he looked about 12 years old, barely dipping his toes into adolescence – the short but tempestuous journey to becoming an adult. He would be tested, he would have bad days and worse days, his heart crushed and broken and reworked into something far grander. He would forge powerful memories from tender moments, be helpful to some and helpless to others. He would grow into somebody that far exceeded expectations. But all that was for later. For now he napped peacefully, his eyelids fluttering and his mouth slightly open, lost in a world all his own. This wasn’t a boy I’d ever seen or spoken to before, but I felt a connection between us – we were breathing the same salty air, and the sand on my skin felt the same on his. I felt a part of his world. An awful squealing behind me yanked me back to this world: a little girl had misplaced her favourite dolly and her parents were futilely attempting to marshal the willpower to put down their books and do something about it. They were obviously unfit to take care of even themselves, let alone a small child – I could see the doll straight away. I was always a better parent than that: my son came before some mass-produced romance novel swallowed on a blistering beach. Oliver never liked beaches anyway - we didn’t live on the coast, so he didn’t have to. We lived in a small rural town, a place to get acquainted with the birds and the koalas and the pretty flowers. It’ll be his seventeenth birthday in eleven days, though, so it’s been many years since his last kookaburra laugh or barefoot clamber up a tree. I could feel the tingle of the coastal sun on my skin, notwithstanding the sunscreen I’d
Very moving, Ravel. :rose: Australia has always had a special place in my heart. My heart goes out to the people affected by this all-too-avoidable tragedy. :((
Cheers, Vıkram.
I've never ever worked anywhere where there has not been someone who given the choice I would not work with again. It's a job, you do your work, put up with the people you don't like, accept there are probably people there that don't like you a lot, and look forward to the weekends. - Josh Gray.
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Very moving, Ravel. :rose: Australia has always had a special place in my heart. My heart goes out to the people affected by this all-too-avoidable tragedy. :((
Cheers, Vıkram.
I've never ever worked anywhere where there has not been someone who given the choice I would not work with again. It's a job, you do your work, put up with the people you don't like, accept there are probably people there that don't like you a lot, and look forward to the weekends. - Josh Gray.
I agree with your sentiment entirely. Although I'm not sure that it is totally avoidable, in the long term. Some fires at some times have natural causes.
Henry Minute Do not read medical books! You could die of a misprint. - Mark Twain Girl: (staring) "Why do you need an icy cucumber?" “I want to report a fraud. The government is lying to us all.”