Little Secrets, Big Burdens!

There was no where I could go as she began to question the motives for which I participated in this ostensibly ingenious plan, my underlying aim and the basis in which I followed through with this seemingly unforgivable task. Her tireless queries, hoping, praying that sooner or later, I would crack, however, little did she know, the truth was coming. I felt its struggle to break free from my mouth; I felt every intricate detail screaming to be released. The electric impulses rushing around my body, the neurons in my brain growing tired and uneasy; I knew that this unforgivable sin could not remain concealed inside this vibrant organ located only millimetres under my skull, this was not a place to hold such thoughts.

“You feel guilty about it, don’t you?” She assiduously questioned me as if she was certain the answer was a mere centimetre away.

I felt her spirits emerging and I could not deny the fact any longer, the simple fact that I would not be able to keep this secret much longer. I stared at the ground, yet continued to feel the burning sensation on the top of my head. Her eyes were not visible to me, yet I knew that she was glaring at the crown of my skull. Those dark brown eyes which continued to mount pressure on my dry, flaky scalp had undoubtedly experienced similar scenarios to the one in which I had unfortunately trapped myself in.

“I- I- I didn’t...” I stammered, lost for words.
She almost instantly replied in a sort of curious manner, “You didn’t what?”

A game was all it was to her and it would not have been difficult to acknowledge that I was lost in her tactically orchestrated game plan. She was the queen and I was a pawn, the often useless and ineffective piece of the game, unsure of which move to make and whether it was worth my while to continue playing.

I wanted to tell her, to release this jagged and painful burden off my back; I was a simple pilgrim journeying for the sole purpose of relieving my soul from this insidious lumber. And the realisation that crimes could not be committed without consequences was dawning upon me. I am not cruel, only truthful; I did not intend this deed to cause trouble for those I thought dear, only for it to benefit me. My mind made no thought for others, it was a selfish act which I now realise will not be forgotten, however, I am not convinced that I should be punished for this act. I cannot accept that this is my destiny, all that it was and all that it is was a dim-witted act performed upon impulse, a mistake which the world now knew.

“You weren’t meant to find out! I thought you’d never know!” I protested.
Almost surprised that she had broken me so easily she forcefully said, “So you admit it!”

Had I just admitted it? Had I just fallen into her simple trap? I lowered my head as a rush of blood arrived violently at the top of my body and it was at this moment that it came to my attention that my train of thought no longer functioned. One passing reflection would enter through one ear and leave through the other as I no longer had control over my own body. It was no use denying what had already been said. It was over.

Ashamed and bewildered that I had faulted so easily I silently breathed what seemed to be such a terrible act into my mother’s ear. And with that, the dust-devils of sin city deserted my eight year old soul.

I know. You ate the chocolate pudding and then asked what happened to it. Good post.

This is an interesting study in child psychology I suppose - guilt complex and denial. Of course, the line between truth and fabrication is rather blurred when you're only eight years old. But the writer did a great job of racking up the tension and portraying the sensation of impending crisis once the protagonist admits to his crime (which is a foregone conclusion of course).

But I have two problems with this:

Firstly it's a first person narrative that comes across as if it was written shortly after the event. We get a clear sensation that the shame of confession (and sin) is still very fresh in the writer's mind - we can almost feel the heat of shame not yet cooling upon his cheeks.
So would an eight year old use words like 'ostensibly', 'ingenious', 'intricate', 'scenarios' and so on?
Obviously not, so whose voice are we actually hearing? For the piece to be believable the voice has to be contextually authentic (or the task of telling the story should be passed to the omniscient author who is obviously at liberty to display his breadth of vocabulary). Having an eight year old speak like a thirty year old isn't going to cut it.

Secondly, along the same lines, this is dreadfully over-written in places - to such an extent that we begin to conclude that the writer is showing off rather than telling a story. Is it really necessary to use expressions like 'this vibrant organ located only millimetres under my skull' instead of 'brain'?

One takes account of the writer's real age (Year 12 - is that late teens?) so youthful exuberance and enthusiasm are forgiven because the writer does display a high degree of skill. But wordiness rarely equals readability. It's a case of promoting clarity rather than dumbing down - keep it simple whenever you can.

H

I got the sense that the word usage in this did not match the story itself. You have a great vocabulary but sometimes simple is the most effective, especially when you consider the diverse audience who will view the story. I trust the feedback that Hill provides to writers and poets and one day - maybe I'll do some arty farty course in critiquing but for now, rely on those who know and how to get the message across.

The other thing? Don't hold a poll. It's can never be as rewarding or valuable as written feedback.

Good luck and welcome to Lit-Net.