The start of a story. Feel free to critique.

There's a body below me. And no, I didn't kill him, though I felt like I did.

Some of the dirt started to fall from between my fingers and onto my $700 designer Mezlans. I didn't care though. A few months ago, I'd probably would've decided to throw such an inexpensive pair away for so much as a spec. But, something in the back of my neck told me to do something special today.
Something special often revolved around picking up an 'escort' or dropping a few grand on a new luxury Lexus. Something special often meant going out and completely obliterating myself on ancient, Chteau Margaux wine with a woman who didn't love me.

But as a mound of dirt started to pile up on my foot, I finally got the good mind to throw the clump of Earth in my hand. The wind blew most of it away, letting the dirt drift uselessly in the wind. This must be the final '**** you' from father. Mustering all his ghostly powers to reject me, to say that, No, I don't accept your apalogy. Thanks for coming, but you're just a dead man too late.

"Rest in peace, Dad," I said to the shoddy wooden coffin 6 feet below me. The grave digger leaning on his shovel beside me, my only witness, groaned.

"You done, sir?" but before I could respond he had already started to shovel dirt onto the grave.

I watched him for a moment. Where had he gotten his pants? Wal-mart? Look at that morning shadow and unruly hair! Throw $15 away and go to Super-cuts at least. How much money was he getting paid for doing this? $10, maybe $15 dollars? I get paid the same amount for just standing here. This guy pissed me off. He was rude and poor, something ugly straight from the bottom of the pit hole.

But what bothered me the most, more than his acne scars and his nose hair, was that he was given the privilege. He was the last person to say goodbye to him. The last person to finally shut the door on his life and bury him into the Earth. My father didn't deserve this man, and this man didn't deserve to finally extinguish my father's connection to the world.
But as he worked, letting his sweat pour into his grave, he dropped more than few sorry specs of dirt onto my father's coffin.

The gravedigger stopped working, finally aware that he had an audience.
"**** man, I'm trying to work here. It's bad enough I gotta work in a grave yard. Don't need no spooky relatives trying to pry with me their eyes."

Who gave this man the privilege?
"Do you have another shovel?"

"It's back at the shed, but damn, you sure you want to ruin that spiffy suit of yours?"

"Wears the shed?"

He pointed out into the distance and I set off.
As soon as I returned the grave digger looked up at me.
"Christ, you're not kidding," and he went back to work.

Wordlessly, I started shoveling.
"Where's everyone else?" he asked.

Of all my siblings, I was the only one who bothered to show up.
"Gone."
He didn't say anything after that.

I liked it. The beginning two sentences reminded me Edgar Allan Poe. But who put the coffin down into the grave if only two people were there? I don't have any experience in grave digging or anything, but to my knowledge the grave is usually dug before the funeral. And there's usually a pastor there, even if only one family member shows up. I'm probably just nit-picking, but it sort of detracted from the believability of the situation. Either way, looking forward to see the rest.

Edit: I just realized, you didn't even write about digging the grave anyway, so my bad. Still, to all the funerals I've been to a grave digger was not present.

Hello
I liked the style you used for the story. But I have to say, my favorite part was the start. The first sentence was great. It caught my attention right away and probably would catch most people's attention. I'm not sure what else to say but good job. Yay.
Good luck with writing and thanks for sharing.
-Dusk Muse

An interesting beginning. I guess you'd want to jump time a bit after this section and move onto something else, right? The section is also good in that it makes me think about what the father did to make his children turn away from him, and why the son came to the funeral to try and connect with his deceased father. It presents the numbness of the son well.

I'll put my black hat on for a bit, if you want criticism.

I've seen some areas you could improve:

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by aBIGsheep

A few months ago, I'd probably would've decided to throw such an inexpensive pair away for so much as a spec.

Chteau Margaux

specs of dirt

Mustering all his ghostly powers to reject me, to say that, No, I don't accept your apalogy.

"Wears the shed?"

.

---

1.Do you mean 'I probably would have..' . I'd is usually 'I would' or 'I had'. Otherwise you would be saying 'I would probably would have..' Also, I don't know what a spec is. Maybe its a American thing.

2. typo

3. Is it 'specks' ?

4. spelling

5. spelling+ grammar

Just a few minor points though.

Respect,
Silas

Thanks a lot for the feedback guys, I just updated it and highlighted some of the changes to cut some of the time it takes in rereading the whole thing.
I really appreciate it guys!

Quote:

---

There's a dead body below me. And no, I didn't kill him, though I felt like I did. The priest had already done his duty a few hours ago when no one else had bothered to show up. Bow your head, say a few words -- the life of a priest must be so easy. Some of the dirt started to fall from between my fingers and onto my $700 designer Mezlans. I didn't care though. A few months ago, I'd throw such an inexpensive pair away for so much as a speck. But, something in the back of my neck told me to do something special today.

Something special often revolved around picking up an 'escort' or dropping a few grand on a new luxury Lexus. Something special often meant going out and drinking Chteau Margaux with a woman who didn’t love me. Something special meant jabbing a syringe into a vein until I was completely obliterated.

But as a mound of dirt started to pile up on my foot, I finally got the good mind to throw the clump of earth in my hand. I scrunched my face up like an actor, trying to look pensive for the sake of looking pensive.This is about as special as it’s going to get, dear boy, so please, do it right. I tossed my hand up into the air but the wind blew most of the dirt away, letting it drift uselessly in the wind. This must’ve be the final '**** you' from my old man. Mustering all his ghostly powers to reject me, to say that, no, I don't accept your apology. Thanks for coming, dear boy, but you're just a few years too late.

"Rest in peace, Dad," I said to the shoddy wooden coffin 6 feet below me. The grave digger leaning on his shovel beside me groaned. I’d arrived half an hour earlier, barley catching the lone spade from beginning to bury the body.

"You done, sir?" but before I could respond he had already started to shovel dirt into the grave. Where had he gotten his pants? Wal-mart? Look at that morning shadow and hair! Christ Almighty, give him some sense to throw $15 away and go to Super-cuts at least. How much money was he getting paid for doing this? $10, maybe $15 dollars? I get paid the same amount for just standing here. This guy pissed me off. He was rude and poor, something ugly straight from the bottom of the piss hole.

But what bothered me the most, more than his acne scars and his nose hair, was that this stranger was given a privilege. He was the last person to say goodbye to my father. He didn’t know that he was saying goodbye, sure, but as his sweat trickled off his forehead and dropped into the grave, his efforts were much more than the sorry speck of dirt that I’d failed to toss. For all his problems, dad deserved better than this.

"**** man, if you‘re just gonna stand there you might as well grab a shovel."

Who gave this man this sort of liberty? Did he know who he was talking too? I’m Ryan freakin’
Thomas God damn it.

"Do you have another shovel?"

"It's back at the shed, but damn, you sure you want to ruin that spiffy suit of yours?"

"Where's the shed?"

“Christ you’re not kidding.” He pointed out into the distance. I turned around and started the trek.

As soon as I returned the grave digger looked up at me, a bit bewildered from my return. Wordlessly, I started shoveling.

"Where's everyone else?" he asked.

Of all my siblings, I was the only one who bothered to show up.

"Gone."

He didn't say anything after that. Where had we been? Gone. I got that memo. But seriously, now, all of us? The Thomas siblings? Where were we these last few years? Right at that moment, I was scooping dirt into my father’s grave, I knew that much. But where was Charlie or Renee? Where had they been these last five ****ing years? Why hadn’t they taken care of dad? **** them for having a party but leaving me with the mess.

---

You've definitely lost a little, but gained more. They certainly add to our understanding of the section, but by adding some words you've lost some of the isolation in the original story. Take for example, the line 'I turned around and started the trek' . Is it necessary, since you start a new paragraph with the line 'As soon as I returned...' ? The phrase 'a bit bewildered from my return' is also a little long. Maybe you could say: '...looked up at me, bewildered.'

I like the first two sentences having their own paragraph in the original. They beg questions which you start to answer in the next lines.


It's Chateau Margeaux, I think, though I'm not sure about the Margeaux part.

The sentence: 'barley....body' is a little confusing. Can 'barley' bury a body? Is there some sort of metaphor here?

These are just my ideas. Feel free to reject them.

Respect
Silas

I don't like the revelation at the end ABS about his siblings. The first ending had this lonely isolation which was so powerful and solitary. It's almost like a camera zooming out at the end of a film. It somehow takes you down a peg or two from the place and the space you were occupying when he adds on about his siblings. I don't know how to explain it but you story portrayed this figure of strength holding up under the circumstances and that one line really emphasised and encompassed it beautifully. I hope you don't think I'm nitpicking.

Thanks, guys. I like your suggestion Delta, so I actually moved the red part down into a new paragraph.

Thanks Silas, I appreciate people being nit picky. That means progress. Barley and barely was just a typo and my sister changed it a while ago and I hacked some of the 'returns' at your suggestions. But I don't agree with Chteau Margaux. Look it up, it's one of the most expensive wines in the world.

Quote:

---

Where had we been? Gone. I got that memo. But seriously, now, all of us? The Thomas siblings? Where were we these last few years? That moment earlier this evening, I was scooping dirt into my father’s grave -- I knew that much. But where was Charlie or Renee? Where had they been these last five ****ing years? Why hadn’t they taken care of dad? **** them for having a party but leaving me with the mess.

I sat down in my high ceiling mahogany office, draped with nothing but a silk robe. After my solo-performance at the funeral I was more than anxious to take a shower. Gotta get that **** off me, quick, before I get an infection.

I’ve never been one to talk about my family. When a broad would ask me about my parents, I’d say that they were 6 feet under and better left as memories. Now that there was some truth to the excuse, I promised never to use that pick-up line again. I made it a point to myself that the only time a person should hear about my family was when I was lying. I could show them some respect, right?

I looked at the blank flat screen in front of me -- so sleek and modern. What a shame you’re not being put to better use. I pulled open a drawer and got a ball point pen and some paper. Something about writing a letter has so much more impact than the direct-to-you 20th century bull crap that they call the internet. And plus, I wasn’t in that much of a hurry. It’s not like I was all that anxious to see my siblings. After all that they had put me through since mom had died, after all that dad had put me through, you’d think I’d be the last of us to be standing over old man Thomas’ tombstone.

I glared at the paper, and it glared right back. For being so blank and empty, paper sure is bright.

Christ, where to start? Charlie or Renee? Renee or Charlie? I had so many options to choose from and I didn’t like either. I held the shaft of my pen firmly, and closed me eyes, trying to get my mind to immerse itself within its subconscious and produce something deep and provoking.

To my dear beloved sister Renee:
Well, that was a start. Gold star, ol‘ chap. For a lack of anything else to do, I clamped my eyes together extra tight and bared my teeth. I don‘t know what I was rewarded with for flashing my pearly whites, but I saw people in movies do it all the time when they were trying to concentrate -- it always worked for them, so why not me?

I want to shove a stake into your heart and burn your body to make sure you stay dead.

I opened my eyes. Well, at least the fruit of my labors were a bit more delicious. But what would you think when it was the first form of contact, hell, probably the first sign of life from big brother? If I was her I might actually be insulted. I’m Ryan Thomas: millionaire. But to her, I might be Ryan Thomas: punk.

I miss you

Lying wouldn’t do. I crossed that out as well.

I forgi-

No. I’m not even going to finish that.

You not only betrayed me, but destroyed everything I ever held dear in my life.

I put the pen down. That’ll do, dear boy, that’ll do.

---

Sorry, haven't got time to look at the rest now. Will look at it later today.

About Chteau Margaux, my spelling was incorrect for the second word, but I'm not sure why it seems to have two alternate spellings: Chteau and Chateau (I can't do marks over the letters sorry). I have only seen words with Cht that come from Greek into English, like Chthonic, refering to under the earth.

I don't have great knowledge of wines, as you see. ;)

I'll ask the question about the wine in another thread.

Update

Quote:

---

There's a dead body below me. And no, I didn't kill him, though I felt like I did.

The priest had already done his duty a few hours ago when no one else had bothered to show up. Bow your head, say a few words -- the life of a priest must be so easy. Some of the dirt started to fall from between my fingers and onto my $700 designer Mezlans. I didn't care though. A few months ago, I'd throw such an inexpensive pair away for so much as a speck. But, something in the back of my neck told me to do something special today.

Something special often revolved around picking up an 'escort' or dropping a few grand on a new luxury Lexus. Something special often meant going out and drinking Chteau Margaux with a woman who didn’t love me. Something special meant jabbing a syringe into a vein until I was completely obliterated.

But as a mound of dirt started to pile up on my foot, I finally got the good mind to throw the clump of earth in my hand. I scrunched my face up like an actor, trying to look pensive for the sake of looking pensive. This is about as special as it’s going to get, dear boy, so please, do it right. I tossed my hand up into the air but the wind blew most of the dirt away, letting it drift uselessly in the wind. This must’ve be the final '**** you' from my old man. Mustering all his ghostly powers to reject me, just to say that, no, I don't accept your apology. Thanks for coming, dear boy, but you're just a few years too late. Who am I kidding?

"Rest in peace, Dad," I said to the shoddy wooden coffin 6 feet below me. The grave digger leaning on his shovel beside me groaned. I’d arrived half an hour earlier, barely catching the lone spade from burying the body.

"You done, sir?" but before I could respond he had already started to shovel dirt into the grave. Where had he gotten his pants? Wal-mart? Look at that morning shadow and hair! Christ Almighty, give him some sense to throw $15 away and go to Super-cuts at least. How much money was he getting paid for doing this? $10, maybe $15 dollars? I get paid 10 times that amount for just standing here. This guy pissed me off. He was rude and poor -- something ugly straight from the bottom of the piss hole.

But what bothered me the most, more than his acne scars and his nose hair, was that this stranger was given a privilege. He was the last person to say goodbye to my father. He didn’t know that he was saying goodbye, sure, but as his sweat trickled off his forehead and dropped into the grave, his efforts were much more than the sorry speck of dirt that I’d failed to toss. For all his problems, dad deserved better than this.

"****, if you‘re just gonna stand there you might as well grab a shovel."

Who gave this man this sort of liberty? Did he know who he was talking too? I’m Ryan freakin’ Thomas God damn it.

"Do you have another shovel?"

"It's back at the shed, but damn, you sure you want to ruin that spiffy suit of yours?"

"Where’s the shed?"

“Christ you’re not kidding.” He pointed out into the distance.

As soon as I returned the grave digger looked up at me, bewildered. Wordlessly, I started shoveling.

"Where's everyone else?" he asked.

Of all my siblings, I was the only one who bothered to show up.

"Gone."

He didn't say anything after that.



Later that night I was sitting naked on the edge of my king sized bed, looking out into the world from the glass window that was my wall. After my solo-performance at the funeral I was more than anxious to take a shower. Gotta get that **** off me, quick, before I get an infection. But something about the view caught my eye tonight. I’d been living in this penthouse for more than a month and it felt like I’d just noticed the vista today. I was towering over the sky line -- me, the pinnacle of the city. I was so far high up that I could barely hear the grunge of city-life 50 stories below me. The sound of sirens and car horns sometimes creeps up into the high-rise and I almost find them comforting. The night air must be so refreshing -- that is, until I remembered it was Dallas. City lights gleamed in the darkness and the cars of lesser beings lined up, rear-end-red against the streets. Heaven is only heaven if you can look down at the world below.

A naked blond with fake jugs crawled towards me from the other half of the bed. She’d been waiting for me to finish my shower for a quarter of an hour and now she’s on her knees behind me, fiddling with my nipples and trying to get freaky -- trying to coax me into sex so I might buy her a pair of ruby studded earrings or smuggle her a few pain killers. She’s one of those lonely, well-refined whores that has this convoluted hope that someday she might be able to make something of herself by sleeping with as many business suits as she could. Usually, I’d be right there along for the ride but tonight I felt like keeping my hands to myself.

“Come on baby, usually you’re so much more fun than this.”

“I’m your doctor,” I said, my eyes fixed firmly on the city lights, “not your play-thing.”

She giggled, trying to seem innocent and playful, and moved her hand closer down past my waist band. I grabbed her wrist before she could descend any farther. She squeaked -- surprised that someone could spurn the advances from such a harlot as herself. I shoved her away and she shot me an angry glare.

Do you not know who I am? I’m just another faceless hussy with a knack for old men and pain pills.

“I told you, not tonight.”

I could feel her laser beams trying to burn a hole in the back of my head. Too bad I’m made of kryptonite, *****. There was shuffling, loud footsteps, eventually a door slam, and then calm. Not really. It was calm in the darkness of my bedroom, but my head was pandemonium.

Where had we been? Gone. I got that memo. But seriously, now, all of us? The Thomas siblings? Where were we these last few years? That moment earlier this evening, I was scooping dirt into my father’s grave -- I knew that much. But where was Charlie or Renee? Where had they been these last five ****ing years? Why hadn’t they taken care of dad? **** them for having a party but leaving me with the mess.

I’ve never been one to talk about my family. When a broad would ask me about my parents, I’d say that they were 6 feet under and better left as memories. Now that there was some truth to the excuse, I promised never to use that pick-up line again. I made it a point to myself that the only time a person should hear about my family was when I was lying. I could show them some respect, right? After all that they had put me through after mom had died, after all that dad had put me through, you’d think I’d be the last of us to be standing over old man Thomas’ tombstone.

I sat down in my high ceiling mahogany office, draped with nothing but a silk robe.

I glared at the paper, and it glared right back. For being so blank and empty, paper sure is bright.

Christ, where to start? Charlie or Renee? Renee or Charlie? I had so many options to choose from and I didn’t like either. I held the shaft of my pen firmly, and closed me eyes, trying to get my mind to immerse itself within its subconscious and produce something deep and provoking.

To my dear beloved sister Renee:

Well, that was a start. Gold star, ol‘ chap. For a lack of anything else to do, I clamped my eyes
together extra tight for effect.

I want to shove a stake into your heart and burn your body to make sure you stay dead.

I opened my eyes. Well, at least the fruit of my labors were a bit more delicious. But what would you think when it was the first form of contact, hell, probably the first sign of life from big brother? If I was her I might actually be insulted. I’m Ryan freaking Thomas: doctor, but to her, I might be Ryan Thomas: punk.

I miss you

Lying wouldn’t do. I crossed that out.

I forgi-

No.

You not only betrayed me, but destroyed everything I ever held dear in my life.

I put the pen down. That’ll do, dear boy, that’ll do.

---

Hiya! Had a look at your story. I love the style. Will this turn into a detective novel, by any chance? It sort of fits that vein to me.

I think the line breaks are much better. They have impact. Yes, I think Delta was right, moving the info about the siblings to the section later on is more powerful.

I wanted to quote your message and respond to individual sections, but since you were quoting in your update, I couldn't do that, so I'll do the best I can.Just a little, mind you...

'by sleeping with as many business suits as she could' ...Maybe 'suits' ?

'She squeaked -- surprised that someone could spurn the advances from such a harlot as herself.' I'm not sure about the 'squeak' thing here, and would this character use the word 'harlot' ? And if you are taking her perspective here for a second here, I doubt she would use the word to descibe herself.

'draped with nothing but a silk robe.' draped in?

'trying to get my mind to immerse itself within its subconscious and produce something deep and provoking.' How can your mind immerse in its own subconscious. 'Immerse' is normally for when you put something into water.

Great stuff, by the way. Just looking for things that I feel can be improved.

Again, just my own opinion.

I don't know what I'm doing with it as of now. I have a vague outline, but it's still very much open to change.

I'm sorry Silas, but I don't really agree with any of your suggestions.

Ok , it's up to you anyway. :)

Part two

He's staring at my boobs. They're pretty luscious aren't they? Petite, perky, and just big enough to fit them in his big, strong hands. Good luck, buddy.

"Hit me again Renee," he says and slams an empty shot glass down on the bar counter. He smiles something sleazy, breathing hard and staring at my tits. The liquor smells rank on his breath.

"Why not?" I pour him another and he throws his head back and downs the drink in a single, loud gulp. He looks up at me stupid-satisfied and his hair greasy slick under the lamp light. I smile at him, taking the time to bow my head a bit, like I'm trying to hide something -- like I'm an uneducated school girl in need of a lesson in love.

He's breathing heavy, growling like a panther ready to set his teeth into something fresh and tender -- poor, defenseless ol' me.

"What're you doing tonight Renee?"

I watch him wipe some drool dripping off of the side of his mouth.

"Probably just going to close this place down."

The corners of his mouth pull back against his cheeks. I see the aftermath of cavities and mishandled razors.

"Well baby, if you're not all that busy I could keep you, uh," his stare darts side to side, "some company."

I smile at him, taking the time to bow my head a bit -- like I'm trying to hide something.

"Why not?"




We're in his pick-up driving along a road somewhere obscure in the outskirts of Dallas. I can see the lights of the city trickling from the tops of the canopy -- artificial and beautiful even against his rough, leathery skin. His eyes are off the road and he sometimes dives in and off the curb, but he doesn't seem to notice. He's too busy watching me part my legs and lick my lips.

He's cat calling and whistling at me. I can see it in his eyes -- the anticipation, that shallow sense of victory when he hasn't even fought for something. He pulls over to the side of the road, slamming the brakes and unzipping his fly. Can't even wait now, the animal. He's struggling to get his pants off, writhing like an insect. I watch him as I keep one hand close to my face -- a finger between my teeth-- as my other hand moves slowly down the side of my thigh.

"Hold up b-baby," he blubbers, kicking his jeans off. What an animal.
My hand moves lower and lower down my hip before the tips of my fingers fondle the butt of the rubber handle.

His shirt is pulled over his face as he struggles to get it off. It’s suffocating –he’s wheezing through the fabric. I might not even be able to enjoy myself if the bastard keeps this up.

He finally gets his shirt off, throwing the rag to the back seat and throwing himself on top of poor little ol’ me. His mouth is open, slurping and sucking anything it can get a hold of. I can taste the liquor when he thrusts himself on me. He’s too busy groping me to hear the sound of the blade cutting against the sheath. He’s too busy gnawing at face before he feels the serrated teeth bite into his skin.




He stopped squirming a few minutes ago. It’s silent save for some gurgling from the gash through his jugular. He’s staring lifelessly at me, stupid-scared and his hair greasy slick from the blood. Dumb brute. You couldn’t wait, could you, animal?

Great writing!:) I like the depiction of the drunken man as an animal throughout.

I can see he's a regular, by the way he called her by name. Do you think you might need to describe the bar a little, to say how full the bar was at that time (it may have been really dead), or how empty the streets were when they left? By the way she deals with him (and the ready blade) , she's killed before, but what precautions does she take to make sure the murder doesn't get connected to her, as she left with a regular ? But maybe you don't need any more detail, it could be OK as it is. Maybe it works better too with the possibility that she could have been seen, I don't know.

I wasn't sure about the expression 'keep you some company' but I guess this is American English, with the 'some'. I don't think I could use this in British or NZ English.

Respect,
Silas.

I have to say, I liked the first approach to the theme as a short-story, when it gave a total different impression of the situation. It was a perfect short-story, except for the few grammar and spelling problems, I'd say.

And when the extension of the story adopted a completely different turn, I said to myself-'I liked the first one better. The first part brought a kind of sympathy for the protagonist, and the passive continuation of the story was what satisfied my expectation of it. But by the time I finished 'Part-two', I felt none-the-less than I did while the first piece of the story.

A story isn't a story until at least one of its lines or dialogue hits the reader. This story had some much striking lines, I'd like to quote one of them, cause this one I will remember for a long time-

'Heaven is only heaven if you can look down at the world below.'

Thank you for sharing this writing with us. Great job.

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by firewrathed

And when the extension of the story adopted a completely different turn, I said to myself-'I liked the first one better. The first part brought a kind of sympathy for the protagonist, and the passive continuation of the story was what satisfied my expectation of it. But by the time I finished 'Part-two', I felt none-the-less than I did while the first piece of the story.

---

We don't see what his younger sister is really like until the second piece though. I think the style needs to be different because one part's about the brother, the other about the sister. Their perspectives are different.

Thanks. Those pretty hefty compliments you got there. Part Two needs A LOT of work.
Knowing me, I'm going to hack part two apart and try and make it ten times better, which probably wouldn't be all that hard. I've already had some compliments about part two and how they liked part one more. The edits will be up soon.
AND I GOTTA CHANGE THE NAMES NOW!!!! F!
Charlie and Renee are the names of the parents in Twilight. Now I need to change them. Ugh.

I really appreciate your comments Silas, you always have something to say. We need more people like you in the world.

Thank you silas for noting my remarks about the story. Yes, I understand that the story is still left nowhere, needs a lot of re-thinking by the writer, but what I meant by saying 'I felt none-the-less than I felt while reading the first piece...' was that the captivity and the style of the writer seized my interest none-the-less it did in the first piece.

And to the writer now,don't you think you should shape the theme a bit in your mind and then start writing it? I know that inconsistency can be a good thing for a writer, but I think, if you straightened up the ideas about what you'd really like the story to come off as, it would be easier for you to accomplish it. I'll be eagerly waiting for the update of the story.

And to silas again- I really liked your critical comments about the story. It would be very nice of you if you read my upcoming story and put a few comments for it.

You know, I have a name.

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by firewrathed

And to the writer now,don't you think you should shape the theme a bit in your mind and then start writing it? I know that inconsistency can be a good thing for a writer, but I think, if you straightened up the ideas about what you'd really like the story to come off as, it would be easier for you to accomplish it. I'll be eagerly waiting for the update of the story.

---

You think I haven't? I'd be a fool not too.

Of course I know, bigsheep.

It's good that you have, cause your earlier updates suggested that you didn't really make any outline for the story. waiting for the second part. it has taken a quite interesting turn.

Quote:

---

There's a body below me. And no, I didn't kill him, though I felt like I did. Good hook; doesn't feel like you're trying to hook me even though you are. The fact that you use 'no' indicates a conversational feel, always good to make a instant connection with the reader quick. (y)

Some of the dirt started to fall from between my fingers and onto my $700 designer Mezlans. I didn't care though. A few months ago, I'd probably would've decided to throw such an inexpensive pair away for so much as a spec. But, something in the back of my neck told me to do something special today. Looks like we have a materialistic ****. Awesome.
Something special often revolved around picking up an 'escort' or dropping a few grand on a new luxury Lexus. Something special often meant going out and completely obliterating myself on ancient, Chteau Margaux wine with a woman who didn't love me. Prose has continued well in this second paragraph, if you are to repeat a word, special feels seedy to me. Is that the intention?

But as a mound of dirt started to pile up on my foot, I finally got the good mind to throw the clump of Earth in my hand. The wind blew most of it away, letting the dirt drift uselessly in the wind. This must be the final '**** you' from father. Mustering all his ghostly powers to reject me, to say that, No, I don't accept your apalogy. Thanks for coming, but you're just a dead man too late. You seem to use a lot of blunt words here. 'mound', 'pile' 'clump' 'drift' 'mustering' I know they're all relevant and appropriate, and yes you've accomplished a level of competence, but if you want to take your prose up a notch, strive for the words that stretch it further. Dynamic. Vivid. Sharp words.

"Rest in peace, Dad," I said to the shoddy wooden coffin 6 feet below me. The grave digger leaning on his shovel beside me, my only witness, groaned.

"You done, sir?" but before I could respond he had already started to shovel dirt onto the grave.

I watched him for a moment. Where had he gotten his pants? Wal-mart? Look at that morning shadow and unruly hair! I understand what you're doing with the character, but the way you've worded it comes off as corny. Throw $15 away and go to Super-cuts at least. How much money was he getting paid for doing this? $10, maybe $15 dollars? I get paid the same amount for just standing here. This guy pissed me off. He was rude and poor, something ugly straight from the bottom of the pit hole.

But what bothered me the most, more than his acne scars and his nose hair, was that he was given the privilege. He was the last person to say goodbye to him. The last person to finally shut the door on his life and bury him into the Earth. My father didn't deserve this man, and this man didn't deserve to finally extinguish my father's connection to the world.
But as he worked, letting his sweat pour into his grave, he dropped more than few sorry specs of dirt onto my father's coffin.

The gravedigger stopped working, finally aware that he had an audience.
"**** man, I'm trying to work here. It's bad enough I gotta work in a grave yard. Don't need no spooky relatives trying to pry with me their eyes."

Who gave this man the privilege?
"Do you have another shovel?"

"It's back at the shed, but damn, you sure you want to ruin that spiffy suit of yours?"

"Wears the shed?"

He pointed out into the distance and I set off.
As soon as I returned the grave digger looked up at me.
"Christ, you're not kidding," and he went back to work.

Wordlessly, I started shoveling.
"Where's everyone else?" he asked.

Of all my siblings, I was the only one who bothered to show up.
"Gone."
He didn't say anything after that.

---

With reference to the certain bluntness in your lexis, I challenge you to use a noun in the role of a verb, at least once, shake things up. Think of odd word connotations, let the words take on the role of the story.

Perhaps it was the intention, but given that this was a burial scene, I didn't feel particularly stimulated emotionally, perhaps you wanted a mellow feel, I understand trying to perpetrate raw emotion at the start of a story, is one of the most common mistakes young writers make, so I tackling a funeral scene isn't going to be easy. But like I said, you've reached a level of competence, and that is impressive, I understand the story, every component functions. But I still feel that you could take things up a notch.

Part 3

My brain says go to sleep. But my alarm clock says no, no, no. The digital-red numbers are flashing beside my face.

7 o’ clock it says. 7 hours I’ve been up.

But I can’t sleep. Ryan Thomas doesn’t need any rest -- he’s better than that. Most people would start groping for the snooze button. Not Ryan Thomas -- Ryan Thomas looks up into the cosmos of his ceiling -- empty pace and nothingness are one in the same. People are so infatuated with what’s up above them. They’re infatuated with things millions upon millions of miles away. They ask questions upon questions about **** that they’re never going to see or touch. They go out and make fancy diploma-deserving deductions about what’s there and what isn’t.

I’m right here mother****er. Touch my suit, smell my over-priced cologne. Taste the liquor on my breath.

Go ahead! Feel free to ask me a question and I’ll answer. I can see it now. They’d look skeptically at me in part disbelief and part astonishment. They’d ask me some all-hassle, all-encompassing question like what is the meaning to life? Why do we exist? Is it all an illusion? They’d keep asking the same question expecting a different answer. They beg and beg and then I’d try and roll over and reach for the snooze button but there’s nothing there.

The point of life is to keep on living, I’d say. Don’t you understand? All of us are wandering aimlessly through this ****ing little mud ball of a planet and you’re too busy looking at the ****ing sky. Don’t you feel small? Don’t you realize what little role you play in the universe?

So make the best of it, I say.

I roll out off my silk sheets and walk naked into my bath room. I turn the faucet and like a good God, 7 hours of sleep deprivation gets washed away from a flash-flood of cold water.

Someone’s breathing too loudly. Not the poor bastard on the lab-table at least. My scalpel is 2 centimeters from his liver and if he was breathing any faster then I might actually be worried. It might be the master surgeon standing over my shoulder. I’m going to beat his record time today. And I’m not going to barley skim over his time -- I’m going to absolutely demolish it. If it were some faceless scrub masked-surgeon he might be happy for them. He might look at them and pat them on the back for besting him. He’d know that he can perform another surgery and successfully reform the score board. But I‘m not them. I’m going to wipe his disgrace all over the stopwatch. He’s hoping I might mess up -- hoping against hope that I might puncture a kidney or run my blade a little too deep against an artery or something.

Not me. There isn’t a maybe about the matter. I’m going to do beat him and I’m going to enjoy it in a silent revelry that’ll hurt worse than tattooing the numbers into his forehead.