Chilly
09-05-2010, 07:01 PM
Alright, now that the latest round of the competition is over and I can resubmit my story, I would like some tips and advice on how to improve my writing. What parts of my story really needed improvement? Should the last sentence say something different, depending on what the narrator decided (and in my opinion be less anti-climatic), or is it fine how it is? Is it wrong that a big chunk of the plot-line hinges on a misunderstood word? Are there any grammar or style problems?
Anthony
After leaving my dad’s Chevy, I hurriedly enter the school, and, approaching the door I see my reflection on the glass window. Yet, inside, on a bench next to the doorway, a kid in my grade immediately catches my eye. He’s alone, no one is 5-feet near and no one will come to him either; he sits there, as he will again at lunch and after school, with a stark quietness and, if I may say so, a carelessness for the world around him. With his earphones dug deep in, both of his sides being scratched by his fists, ‘hood at his ‘brows and head at his knees, it’s like he’s in auxiliary while his mind is in a comfortably ideal world of lonely self-reliance. His locker smells, his taste in fashion is nonexistent, and he sees daily hygiene as a waste of time. Having no social life, he never does anything but play video games, World of Warcraft probably being his favourite. He rarely talks and when he does, it’s blunt and snappy, as if he’s permanently cranky and simply does not want to be noticed ever. Frankly, he’s a gargoyle.
In a “rush to get to my locker”, I walk straight past him without even the slightest acknowledgement of his existence. I’m not the only one. He’ stands in front of the entrance where he would get noticed most-which I don’t quite understand; by the way, he acts, he doesn’t want to be seen. He doesn’t want to talk to us, what more could be clearer, so why should we try to communicate with him. To communicate is to use up my time, and if I don’t get some verbal repayment, then why should I bother; thus I ignore him, as I do every day. Somehow, though, his image glues itself to my mind.
My math class is first block. It’s a democratic class with no seating plan-we sit where we want as long as we’re not disruptive yet we have our chosen spots, those desks that we unofficially claim as ours. This kid is in my spot. I see him and don’t quite mind but I don’t say anything either; I take the seat to the left of mine, where my friend Eddy usually sits. A minute goes by in silence. Then another buddy, Stephen, comes in and takes his spot in front of me. He’s similar to me in his attitude and the music he likes, plus we’re on the same soccer team.
“Why did you take Eddy’s desk?” he laughs as he turns around to inquire on any mischief of mine.
I direct towards the kid on my right side and shrug. “He took my seat.”
“Man, take it back.”
I shuffle uncomfortably; he’s listening. “Why? I don’t care about a seat. It’s not a big deal.”
A few seconds go by. I have this tight-lipped smirk portraying my sudden sense of awkwardness, Stephen only laughs off my comment. Neither of us has even glanced at the kid to my right.
“Lol, we should have big signs on each desk with big bubble letters to make it clear who sits where.”
I forcibly widen my smirk, mumble my ‘yeah’ in return and fake-chuckle a bit. Stephen doesn’t feel this same level of delicacy, apparently, or maybe he’s just dumb. The kid is listening to us, though; I can sense it as I stare at him through my peripherals. I’m having this sense of ineptitude around the introvert, it makes me uncomfortable as my mind tries to run away and my hands bustlingly play through my papers.
Eddy now comes in at full speed and abruptly halts when he spots me.
“Get out of my seat, Colton,” he says yet clearly doesn’t mind me being there; he sits to the right of Stephen, in front of the gargoyle kid-whom he has only just noticed.
“What’s up,” he motions to him before quickly rotating towards us. In his hand is an IPod with a thick white covering over it. “I have a new case.”
“That’s cool,” Stephen responds, “So did my brother give you a discount?”
I’m not listening to them; instead the guy next to me still has my attention. I realize I don’t even know his name-even after a year and a half of being in the same grade at the same school. Brushing the thought off, I try to re-enter my friends’ conversation.
Five minutes go by; the boy has been in silence the entire time, but it’s not so much quietness in its whole but a verbal calmness with a heavy undertone of mental burden. He turns to us then turns away only to look instantly back in nervous hesitation. His lips move a few times, his shoulders twitch, and his moth-like eyes dart sporadically from place to place; a pencil-case is in his hands and he’s searching all through it and around everywhere. It’s as if he lost an eraser and frenetically wants it, but he has reopened the case, looked through it and zipped it closed, at least five times.
Finally, as the teacher looks up from his desk to begin talking, the boy mumbles an inaudible, faint, fish-sounding inquiry.
“Co-could I...borrow a pencil?”
Manoeuvring my head around to stare at him, I hardly look him in the eyes. “Sure,” I say as I pull out a pencil from my binder, “What’s your name again?”
“Anthony.”
I now realise he has an English accent, and I would have investigated further but instead we lapsed back into silence. Finding it hard to communicate with him, and shocked we had a conversation, I see myself unable to continue, and luckily, the class has already started anyways. Oh, and my friends, they nearly didn’t notice the interruption; it was merely a bee flying nearby.
As the teacher gleefully explains to us a “secret, better way” to solve complex trinomials, I motionlessly ponder this Anthony kid. There’s more to him than I thought, maybe an entire ocean’s worth. I don’t go much further, he’s too unknown for me to comprehend, really; if he does more and says more, then I may learn a bit. Seeing that I’m missing the lesson though, I push him out of my thoughts.
Later, it’s lunch-time and I’m in the bathroom washing my hands. As usual, the place reeks like a manure farm, the counters are soaked and some moron clogged the furthest sink with paper towels. It’s a crowded place, half the urinals are taken and two of the stalls, the third one being out of order, are busy; I don’t know who’s here but I certainly couldn’t care less either. Suddenly, Anthony is next to me washing his hands as well.
“Hello,” he mutters timidly.
“Hey,” I respond surprised, “did you do the French homework?”
It takes him a few moments to respond. Via the mirror I see he’s genuinely smiling, but a very light smile as if he’s suppressing it, and his cheeks have turned rosy-coloured.
“No, I...didn’t quite...understand...”
I glance at him again as I dispense paper towels; he’s looking at me timorously.
“Well get help then, if you want. Ty could help you.”
“Yeah...you could, I guess.” His eyes are begging for help, I’m sure. My mind shoots back to years ago when I saw my brother trying to admit that he stole that one tiny candy from the superstore yet couldn’t express himself, couldn’t push out those emotions into coherent words that really expressed what he felt. It’s the same eyes, the very same eyes, as if they were stolen and placed on another person; they’re gleaming and bulging- only for a few seconds, but in those seconds I have an epiphany. He wants my help, maybe not even French help, but rather, aid in general, the same need I’m feeding when I hang out with my friends. This idea, this revolution, it only lasted a tiny second, and entirely in my deepest sub-conscious, and then it was gone. It hardly clicked in my mind, until it was forgotten, shattered, perhaps, by a hammer in my brain, and all I had were the complex pieces of this idea that I now had to reassemble.
Now my mind, jumping ahead of itself, acts irrationally and steeply dives head-forward away from the rest of me, before I have a chance to catch it.
“Sure, talk to me later, in class even.”
“Ok.” He’s wearing that same strangely content smirk.
Looking at him in the mirror, I then glimpse at myself and walk away. I suddenly regret saying yes; it’s just uncomfortable to think about but then think about it more; what’s done is done and I should be more kind to him anyways. I wonder if he will even do anything, if he’ll come and improve or if things will stay the same. I wonder what I would do if he did, I might assist, but what if I change my mind and at the last minute turn him down. I may just do that, knowing myself, and...that’s what worries him most.
Anthony
After leaving my dad’s Chevy, I hurriedly enter the school, and, approaching the door I see my reflection on the glass window. Yet, inside, on a bench next to the doorway, a kid in my grade immediately catches my eye. He’s alone, no one is 5-feet near and no one will come to him either; he sits there, as he will again at lunch and after school, with a stark quietness and, if I may say so, a carelessness for the world around him. With his earphones dug deep in, both of his sides being scratched by his fists, ‘hood at his ‘brows and head at his knees, it’s like he’s in auxiliary while his mind is in a comfortably ideal world of lonely self-reliance. His locker smells, his taste in fashion is nonexistent, and he sees daily hygiene as a waste of time. Having no social life, he never does anything but play video games, World of Warcraft probably being his favourite. He rarely talks and when he does, it’s blunt and snappy, as if he’s permanently cranky and simply does not want to be noticed ever. Frankly, he’s a gargoyle.
In a “rush to get to my locker”, I walk straight past him without even the slightest acknowledgement of his existence. I’m not the only one. He’ stands in front of the entrance where he would get noticed most-which I don’t quite understand; by the way, he acts, he doesn’t want to be seen. He doesn’t want to talk to us, what more could be clearer, so why should we try to communicate with him. To communicate is to use up my time, and if I don’t get some verbal repayment, then why should I bother; thus I ignore him, as I do every day. Somehow, though, his image glues itself to my mind.
My math class is first block. It’s a democratic class with no seating plan-we sit where we want as long as we’re not disruptive yet we have our chosen spots, those desks that we unofficially claim as ours. This kid is in my spot. I see him and don’t quite mind but I don’t say anything either; I take the seat to the left of mine, where my friend Eddy usually sits. A minute goes by in silence. Then another buddy, Stephen, comes in and takes his spot in front of me. He’s similar to me in his attitude and the music he likes, plus we’re on the same soccer team.
“Why did you take Eddy’s desk?” he laughs as he turns around to inquire on any mischief of mine.
I direct towards the kid on my right side and shrug. “He took my seat.”
“Man, take it back.”
I shuffle uncomfortably; he’s listening. “Why? I don’t care about a seat. It’s not a big deal.”
A few seconds go by. I have this tight-lipped smirk portraying my sudden sense of awkwardness, Stephen only laughs off my comment. Neither of us has even glanced at the kid to my right.
“Lol, we should have big signs on each desk with big bubble letters to make it clear who sits where.”
I forcibly widen my smirk, mumble my ‘yeah’ in return and fake-chuckle a bit. Stephen doesn’t feel this same level of delicacy, apparently, or maybe he’s just dumb. The kid is listening to us, though; I can sense it as I stare at him through my peripherals. I’m having this sense of ineptitude around the introvert, it makes me uncomfortable as my mind tries to run away and my hands bustlingly play through my papers.
Eddy now comes in at full speed and abruptly halts when he spots me.
“Get out of my seat, Colton,” he says yet clearly doesn’t mind me being there; he sits to the right of Stephen, in front of the gargoyle kid-whom he has only just noticed.
“What’s up,” he motions to him before quickly rotating towards us. In his hand is an IPod with a thick white covering over it. “I have a new case.”
“That’s cool,” Stephen responds, “So did my brother give you a discount?”
I’m not listening to them; instead the guy next to me still has my attention. I realize I don’t even know his name-even after a year and a half of being in the same grade at the same school. Brushing the thought off, I try to re-enter my friends’ conversation.
Five minutes go by; the boy has been in silence the entire time, but it’s not so much quietness in its whole but a verbal calmness with a heavy undertone of mental burden. He turns to us then turns away only to look instantly back in nervous hesitation. His lips move a few times, his shoulders twitch, and his moth-like eyes dart sporadically from place to place; a pencil-case is in his hands and he’s searching all through it and around everywhere. It’s as if he lost an eraser and frenetically wants it, but he has reopened the case, looked through it and zipped it closed, at least five times.
Finally, as the teacher looks up from his desk to begin talking, the boy mumbles an inaudible, faint, fish-sounding inquiry.
“Co-could I...borrow a pencil?”
Manoeuvring my head around to stare at him, I hardly look him in the eyes. “Sure,” I say as I pull out a pencil from my binder, “What’s your name again?”
“Anthony.”
I now realise he has an English accent, and I would have investigated further but instead we lapsed back into silence. Finding it hard to communicate with him, and shocked we had a conversation, I see myself unable to continue, and luckily, the class has already started anyways. Oh, and my friends, they nearly didn’t notice the interruption; it was merely a bee flying nearby.
As the teacher gleefully explains to us a “secret, better way” to solve complex trinomials, I motionlessly ponder this Anthony kid. There’s more to him than I thought, maybe an entire ocean’s worth. I don’t go much further, he’s too unknown for me to comprehend, really; if he does more and says more, then I may learn a bit. Seeing that I’m missing the lesson though, I push him out of my thoughts.
Later, it’s lunch-time and I’m in the bathroom washing my hands. As usual, the place reeks like a manure farm, the counters are soaked and some moron clogged the furthest sink with paper towels. It’s a crowded place, half the urinals are taken and two of the stalls, the third one being out of order, are busy; I don’t know who’s here but I certainly couldn’t care less either. Suddenly, Anthony is next to me washing his hands as well.
“Hello,” he mutters timidly.
“Hey,” I respond surprised, “did you do the French homework?”
It takes him a few moments to respond. Via the mirror I see he’s genuinely smiling, but a very light smile as if he’s suppressing it, and his cheeks have turned rosy-coloured.
“No, I...didn’t quite...understand...”
I glance at him again as I dispense paper towels; he’s looking at me timorously.
“Well get help then, if you want. Ty could help you.”
“Yeah...you could, I guess.” His eyes are begging for help, I’m sure. My mind shoots back to years ago when I saw my brother trying to admit that he stole that one tiny candy from the superstore yet couldn’t express himself, couldn’t push out those emotions into coherent words that really expressed what he felt. It’s the same eyes, the very same eyes, as if they were stolen and placed on another person; they’re gleaming and bulging- only for a few seconds, but in those seconds I have an epiphany. He wants my help, maybe not even French help, but rather, aid in general, the same need I’m feeding when I hang out with my friends. This idea, this revolution, it only lasted a tiny second, and entirely in my deepest sub-conscious, and then it was gone. It hardly clicked in my mind, until it was forgotten, shattered, perhaps, by a hammer in my brain, and all I had were the complex pieces of this idea that I now had to reassemble.
Now my mind, jumping ahead of itself, acts irrationally and steeply dives head-forward away from the rest of me, before I have a chance to catch it.
“Sure, talk to me later, in class even.”
“Ok.” He’s wearing that same strangely content smirk.
Looking at him in the mirror, I then glimpse at myself and walk away. I suddenly regret saying yes; it’s just uncomfortable to think about but then think about it more; what’s done is done and I should be more kind to him anyways. I wonder if he will even do anything, if he’ll come and improve or if things will stay the same. I wonder what I would do if he did, I might assist, but what if I change my mind and at the last minute turn him down. I may just do that, knowing myself, and...that’s what worries him most.