Dark_Genome 212 2.0
New member
...would, you want to read the rest? I am mainly looking for people who actually know what they were talking about to answer. I don't an answer that just says "oh it's really good, I like it a lot" I want an answer that can really give me feedback. What so good about it, or what needs work, etc.
I'm looking to see what you think of how well it is written, and about the story itself. From this it doesn't really say much, but that is what I'm going for. A story about the mundane life, lol. I really feel that is more artistic than anything becuase people put so much effort write stories about life and make full of glamorize it and over dramatize it. I wanted to do something different. So I am writing it through the view point of an ordinary person living his ordinary life facing ordinary problems. Something much more realistic than a lot of stories out there. Hope you like it.
Also I can't seem to dent the paragraph, sorry about that lol And it is a bit rough, not quite the worthy to be published yet. Just starting this story out, so keep that in mind.
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There was something about that night that seemed different. Maybe it was the shift in the wind, or the sudden lack of warmness in the November Air. Maybe it was the way the day started; it could have been something I ate. It could have been the way Naomi just walked away without a word or reason. It could have been the way she just yelled; the way the tears streaked down her soft pale complexion as she uttered each hateful sentence. It could have been the way if felt when her palm struck my check. It could have been the way my heart stopped the moment her back was to me.
I felt so dead. I don’t know why, I never really knew her. It wasn’t as if the six month relationship was going anywhere. I should have guessed it the moment I walked in on her crying in the corner of our studio apartment on Telegraph Avenue. She had her head against the bare corner and her arms wrapped around her legs. The way her hair fell partly against her face, God she was beautiful, sad, but nonetheless beautiful. There was something in the way she needed me, or thought she did. As I came closer she screamed stop. An inch of movement incited another stop. She kept on uttering to herself, but I couldn’t make out a legible word. So I just walked over the where I dropped my bag and closed the door. I placed it atop of our “dining” table. It was this old beaten up table we saved from being trashed. It was early to mid August, we have just come back from a brief lunch and the table was lopsided near the garbage bin outside the complex. Someone must of saw it fit to throw a perfectly good table. So we decided to take it in. A leg was missing, and there were a couple of dents on the surface, but still perfectly useable. Since we didn’t have a fancy house with a fancy formal dining room to a put a real dining table in, we decided to call our new friend our “dining” table. I shifted through my bag and pulled a flat brown paper bag and brought to the far right corner where we placed the old record player we bought at a garage sale. I pulled out an Indian Summer record I just found earlier that day. I was going to surprise her. I played the record and made a pot a coffee. I pulled a chair out and sat and sipped my coffee quietly as the record play through. Halfway through she got up, poured herself a cup and pulled out the other chair. We didn’t talk, we just listened. By the time the record played the last song she had fallen asleep. Her shallow breathing sounded like music, if only you heard. It was hard to not smile as I carried her to the bed.
I'm looking to see what you think of how well it is written, and about the story itself. From this it doesn't really say much, but that is what I'm going for. A story about the mundane life, lol. I really feel that is more artistic than anything becuase people put so much effort write stories about life and make full of glamorize it and over dramatize it. I wanted to do something different. So I am writing it through the view point of an ordinary person living his ordinary life facing ordinary problems. Something much more realistic than a lot of stories out there. Hope you like it.
Also I can't seem to dent the paragraph, sorry about that lol And it is a bit rough, not quite the worthy to be published yet. Just starting this story out, so keep that in mind.
--------------------------------------
There was something about that night that seemed different. Maybe it was the shift in the wind, or the sudden lack of warmness in the November Air. Maybe it was the way the day started; it could have been something I ate. It could have been the way Naomi just walked away without a word or reason. It could have been the way she just yelled; the way the tears streaked down her soft pale complexion as she uttered each hateful sentence. It could have been the way if felt when her palm struck my check. It could have been the way my heart stopped the moment her back was to me.
I felt so dead. I don’t know why, I never really knew her. It wasn’t as if the six month relationship was going anywhere. I should have guessed it the moment I walked in on her crying in the corner of our studio apartment on Telegraph Avenue. She had her head against the bare corner and her arms wrapped around her legs. The way her hair fell partly against her face, God she was beautiful, sad, but nonetheless beautiful. There was something in the way she needed me, or thought she did. As I came closer she screamed stop. An inch of movement incited another stop. She kept on uttering to herself, but I couldn’t make out a legible word. So I just walked over the where I dropped my bag and closed the door. I placed it atop of our “dining” table. It was this old beaten up table we saved from being trashed. It was early to mid August, we have just come back from a brief lunch and the table was lopsided near the garbage bin outside the complex. Someone must of saw it fit to throw a perfectly good table. So we decided to take it in. A leg was missing, and there were a couple of dents on the surface, but still perfectly useable. Since we didn’t have a fancy house with a fancy formal dining room to a put a real dining table in, we decided to call our new friend our “dining” table. I shifted through my bag and pulled a flat brown paper bag and brought to the far right corner where we placed the old record player we bought at a garage sale. I pulled out an Indian Summer record I just found earlier that day. I was going to surprise her. I played the record and made a pot a coffee. I pulled a chair out and sat and sipped my coffee quietly as the record play through. Halfway through she got up, poured herself a cup and pulled out the other chair. We didn’t talk, we just listened. By the time the record played the last song she had fallen asleep. Her shallow breathing sounded like music, if only you heard. It was hard to not smile as I carried her to the bed.