miyako73
05-21-2009, 05:28 PM
I am new in writing short stories. Lately, I have been writing two-page, double-spaced, short stories. I am not confident though if I could really write since English is my second language. Please critique my work. I think a good criticism will definitely help me improve if I want to be a writer. Thanks. I am miyako.
Sunset Hostel
Miyako I.
"Ringggg! Ringgg! Ringgg!" It woke him up, but he did not bother to answer. He knew who was on the other line—the same foreign-accented lady from his bank who had been calling him since last month. He had maxed out his credit card, and his bill was way past due. His overdrawn bank account would also be closed soon.
Squinting at first to the beam coming through the uncovered window, he slowly opened his eyes. "Damn! I overslept again." It was almost ten on the wall clock.
He got up and stretched his arms while yawning, "I hope there's still some left." After doing a round of push-ups, he fixed his bed that was still moist from his sweat last night. The ceiling fan did not work, and it had been above eighty degrees that week.
Hungry, he checked the fridge. There was nothing but an almost empty carton of milk and a piece of hard muffin dotted with grayish molds. He opened the cupboard. The cereal box was empty, and the pancake mix, old. He just drank a glass of water. The last meal he had was last night's. The Church across the street only opened its soup kitchen for dinner every Thursday. He knew no place to go for free lunch.
He grabbed the towel hanging inside the closet and smelled it. It was still usable. He had already used the quarters he found under the dusty cushion of the salvaged sofa chair, so he did not think of doing his laundry. After taking off his clothes, he went to the bathroom to relieve himself and then to take a shower, a morning habit in that order. "****!" He ate three servings last night to cover the meals he would be missing.
His hunch was right. He was out of toothpaste. After gurgling repeatedly, he brushed his teeth with nothing. "This is damn sad," he said to himself, his toothbrush in his mouth. He looked at himself on the mirror above the sink and flexed his biceps. His skin was turning pale yellow, and he needed some tan. Moving closer to the mirror, he checked his face. He had a zit on his forehead. "It must be from the dust."
After popping the zit, he stepped in the tub and turned the shower knob. The shampoo bottle was empty, and the soap, just enough to lather on his face. He decided to continue taking a bath. The light sprinkle from the clogged up nozzle slowly wet his hair.
"Do you wanna see me crazy!" It was just a maniacal dialogue from the script he had been writing since he moved to Hollywood two months ago from the Midwest. He delivered it convincingly. Instead of singing in the shower, he preferred acting out what he was writing. He liked the quality of his modulated voice inside the bathroom.
Done washing up and debating himself, he settled on turning his boxers inside out and wearing it again. "It's better than having nothing on," he assured himself. His jeans and shirt were still wearable. All he needed was his Speed Stick to remain fresh all day.
He was about to start writing on his laptop he placed on his bed when he heard a loud knocking. Tiptoeing towards the door, he peeped on the hole. It was the fat face of the ageing manager he had been avoiding. He had not yet paid his rent for three weeks.
The grumpy manager gone, he sat on the chair by the side table where the phone was. He pulled his wallet from his back pocket and took out the business card of the flashy stranger he met the other day while walking along Sunset Boulevard. Shaking and apprehensive, he dialed the number, but he put the phone back before he could hear its ring. He could not do it. Sure now, he crumpled the card and tossed it into the trashcan.
He logged off, closed his laptop, pulled the mouse, and unplugged the cord. "How much is Greyhound?" He stepped out carrying his computer near his chest.
Sunset Hostel
Miyako I.
"Ringggg! Ringgg! Ringgg!" It woke him up, but he did not bother to answer. He knew who was on the other line—the same foreign-accented lady from his bank who had been calling him since last month. He had maxed out his credit card, and his bill was way past due. His overdrawn bank account would also be closed soon.
Squinting at first to the beam coming through the uncovered window, he slowly opened his eyes. "Damn! I overslept again." It was almost ten on the wall clock.
He got up and stretched his arms while yawning, "I hope there's still some left." After doing a round of push-ups, he fixed his bed that was still moist from his sweat last night. The ceiling fan did not work, and it had been above eighty degrees that week.
Hungry, he checked the fridge. There was nothing but an almost empty carton of milk and a piece of hard muffin dotted with grayish molds. He opened the cupboard. The cereal box was empty, and the pancake mix, old. He just drank a glass of water. The last meal he had was last night's. The Church across the street only opened its soup kitchen for dinner every Thursday. He knew no place to go for free lunch.
He grabbed the towel hanging inside the closet and smelled it. It was still usable. He had already used the quarters he found under the dusty cushion of the salvaged sofa chair, so he did not think of doing his laundry. After taking off his clothes, he went to the bathroom to relieve himself and then to take a shower, a morning habit in that order. "****!" He ate three servings last night to cover the meals he would be missing.
His hunch was right. He was out of toothpaste. After gurgling repeatedly, he brushed his teeth with nothing. "This is damn sad," he said to himself, his toothbrush in his mouth. He looked at himself on the mirror above the sink and flexed his biceps. His skin was turning pale yellow, and he needed some tan. Moving closer to the mirror, he checked his face. He had a zit on his forehead. "It must be from the dust."
After popping the zit, he stepped in the tub and turned the shower knob. The shampoo bottle was empty, and the soap, just enough to lather on his face. He decided to continue taking a bath. The light sprinkle from the clogged up nozzle slowly wet his hair.
"Do you wanna see me crazy!" It was just a maniacal dialogue from the script he had been writing since he moved to Hollywood two months ago from the Midwest. He delivered it convincingly. Instead of singing in the shower, he preferred acting out what he was writing. He liked the quality of his modulated voice inside the bathroom.
Done washing up and debating himself, he settled on turning his boxers inside out and wearing it again. "It's better than having nothing on," he assured himself. His jeans and shirt were still wearable. All he needed was his Speed Stick to remain fresh all day.
He was about to start writing on his laptop he placed on his bed when he heard a loud knocking. Tiptoeing towards the door, he peeped on the hole. It was the fat face of the ageing manager he had been avoiding. He had not yet paid his rent for three weeks.
The grumpy manager gone, he sat on the chair by the side table where the phone was. He pulled his wallet from his back pocket and took out the business card of the flashy stranger he met the other day while walking along Sunset Boulevard. Shaking and apprehensive, he dialed the number, but he put the phone back before he could hear its ring. He could not do it. Sure now, he crumpled the card and tossed it into the trashcan.
He logged off, closed his laptop, pulled the mouse, and unplugged the cord. "How much is Greyhound?" He stepped out carrying his computer near his chest.