this isn't going to be a novel, or short story, or anything, because i know this subject was used a billion times before. but it's just something that shows my writing style. keep in mind that it's basically unedited, except i tend to edit some when transferring from a notebook to the computer. what should i keep on doing, and what should i stop doing, and what should i improve?
Elise slid through the hallway in her yellow cotton dress, a drop of perspiration rolling down her back. the house had a tangible silence, though she could hear the sounds of crickets outside and mr. gibson's mozart playing from across the street. her slender body felt naked, and the stifling air was threatening to engulf her from all directions.
bonnie watched her sister through the open door of her bedroom, a white bird fluttering in the heavy cobwebbed darkness. carved into her mind were replicas of this night, each overlapping and blending into the next. in each of them were the smell of musk and alcohol, and of a stranger. these strangers were once different from each other, each with their own scent, name, and personality. william sold roses at the corner of the street. brad studied anthropology. peter had blue eyes, small hands, and collected antique wristwatches. but as time went by, bonnie lost interested in the men that elise dated, as if she had gone out with them herself, listening to their stories at first with fascination, then with recognition, and finally with apathy. she closed her eyes and turned to lie on her back, silently imitating the rhythms of sleep.
elise sat on her sister's bed and laid a weary hand on her forehead. she breathed in the innocent scents of bonnie's room: the chamomile tea and pencil shavings, the soft coconut scented lotion and the perfume samples coming from the pile of faded and dog-eared vogue magazines stacked in the corner. she was afraid to exhale, afraid of the smell of cheap wine in her breath that would give her away.
she looked at herself in the dresser mirror, pretty and lithe and pale, the darkness concealing her smudged coral lips, the stain on the hip of her dress, the tear running down the ankle of her left stocking as well as the tear trickling slowly down her cheek.
Elise slid through the hallway in her yellow cotton dress, a drop of perspiration rolling down her back. the house had a tangible silence, though she could hear the sounds of crickets outside and mr. gibson's mozart playing from across the street. her slender body felt naked, and the stifling air was threatening to engulf her from all directions.
bonnie watched her sister through the open door of her bedroom, a white bird fluttering in the heavy cobwebbed darkness. carved into her mind were replicas of this night, each overlapping and blending into the next. in each of them were the smell of musk and alcohol, and of a stranger. these strangers were once different from each other, each with their own scent, name, and personality. william sold roses at the corner of the street. brad studied anthropology. peter had blue eyes, small hands, and collected antique wristwatches. but as time went by, bonnie lost interested in the men that elise dated, as if she had gone out with them herself, listening to their stories at first with fascination, then with recognition, and finally with apathy. she closed her eyes and turned to lie on her back, silently imitating the rhythms of sleep.
elise sat on her sister's bed and laid a weary hand on her forehead. she breathed in the innocent scents of bonnie's room: the chamomile tea and pencil shavings, the soft coconut scented lotion and the perfume samples coming from the pile of faded and dog-eared vogue magazines stacked in the corner. she was afraid to exhale, afraid of the smell of cheap wine in her breath that would give her away.
she looked at herself in the dresser mirror, pretty and lithe and pale, the darkness concealing her smudged coral lips, the stain on the hip of her dress, the tear running down the ankle of her left stocking as well as the tear trickling slowly down her cheek.