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Dreamcatcher
As his sodden shoes hit the wet mud the sky continued to tip heavy cold water all over him. The clouds were frowning as he walked towards the bench, just as so many people had done before. The sky was just a blur of grey and there was the occasional flash of lightening, maybe a park was not the most intelligent place to be, but he had to stay, he just had to. Ever since the rain had started to fall the people had been forced to retreat back to their comfortable, warm houses. He was glad. No more judgemental old ladies walking their too-pampered dogs looking at him as if he was the piece of shit that came out of their 'little darling'. He could handle physical pain, eventually the part of the body that has to cope with the pain becomes numb, but nasty glares and name calling can never make you go numb. He could always recognise the way they detested him in their words and the hatred in their eyes.
He looked into a puddle and saw himself. He was a mess. His face was dirty and his hair was in desperate need of a cut. His eyes looked empty. Not that long ago they were full of life, and sparkled like Las Vegas lights, but now they were like they sky above. Dull. His hair was greasy and he had no money for shampoo or even a shower in the nearest swimming pool. He felt like the dirt that surrounded him. He was wet and cold; all he wanted in the world was to see his little girls smile at him again. To hug them again, to watch them sleep, to watch them dream. He had let them down though and soon they would notice that their daddy would not be there to kiss them goodnight again. His clothes smelt of beer and cigarettes. Beer and cigarettes. The great English pub smell that traps you. Before you know it that smell is how people remember you 'that drunk that always smells of fags and booze'. That was how people remembered him, a drunken slob that did not care for anyone but himself. It was all true, but how he hated it. He needed a cigarette right now. He searched his dirty coat for a hidden supply of tobacco. His fingertips felt some in a hidden pocket but it was sodden and his heart sank. He cursed and slammed his fist against the side of the bench. Frustrated with his life, with what he could have had.
Someone tapped him on the shoulder, and he was immediately on the edge of the bench ready to protect himself from anybody who could be a threat, someone that did not understand him. Nobody understood him, not really. He did not understand himself so how was anyone else supposed to? He slowly turned round to find, not a smirking chav waiting to throw a couple of dirty words at him, but a fragile looking old woman. She was his mother-in-law. As he looked into her lined face he remembered the first time he had met her. He was so nervous, Patricia, the old lady, did not agree with her not meeting him until him and her daughter, Sarah, got married . She made this very obvious, and ever since that first meeting she has always given him the look that means 'my daughter deserves better than you', and he knew it was true, even then. He had proved that to her, she and his girls deserved someone better, someone to look after them. He was just a useless old drunk. One of the many people you see hanging around the streets of London that was all he was. Patricia was standing there, dry as if she had just come out her front door, and she had a big coat on, he wished he had a coat like that, something to keep him warm. She had a couple of carrier bags and he could see her weekly shopping in them, how he longed for that food, he had not eaten properly for such a long time. He saw all the food, which he now thought of as a luxury, butter, cinnamon, sugar and cakes.
She sat down next to him, but slowly shuffled away from the dirty man. She was looking at a slowly dieing wasp on the floor; it was that season, when they all started to die, thank god. 'They don't live long do they, but I suppose they don't have a chance to muck it up or let people down' he grunted, he had not spoken for so long. She looked at him, and for the first time, he saw sympathy in her eyes. They sat like that for a couple of minutes in complete silence, looking at the perishing wasp squirming on the wet earth, until the woman finally looked in one of her many bags and took out a dream catcher made of wool. She passed it to him and his dirty fingers touched the soft white wool and he looked at Patricia 'Katy and Susie made it; they wanted me to give you it, to keep you safe at night' It made him feel so guilty to think that his sweet hearted girls knew that he was on the streets. Just another useless drunk. He ran his fingers over it and took in a great sigh and closed his eyes.
He saw Sarah. Her long wavy blonde hair and deep sea blue eyes. She was smiling and was surrounded in lights; Susie and Katy were sitting on the floor at the bottom of a great Christmas tree and they were shaking their presents. It was last Christmas. It had just been the four of them that year and it was the best Christmas he had ever had. The cosiness of the fire and the smiles of his children keeping him warm. That was all he wanted, to be back in that time again, to see the look of wonder and fascination in Susie's eyes when she saw the snow for the first time again, to hear the gasp come out of Katy's mouth when she saw that Father Christmas had given her what she wanted again. But then the vision blurred as the rain began to pummel down on the both of them harder and caused the woman to get out an umbrella from her bag, and open it so she could escape the hard, wet rain. She stood up and looked down at the sordid man, nodded at him and turned round to leave, but she found that she could not; she looked at him and smiled, what was the first time, a genuine smile, not one which she put on her face like a mask to hide her disappointment in her daughters choice in men. She stepped towards him and handed him the umbrella, turned round and walked into the liquid sunshine.
Out of the rain, the man settled down and was almost instantly asleep, being up all night wishing on every star you see does that to you. And he was met with the same shouts and screams that he was greeted with every time he fell into the land of dreams. The shouts of his wife and the whimpers of his daughters in the next room were becoming louder. He saw the blur of Sarah and felt glass on the kitchen floor. Soon she was inches from his face and he could feel the anger burning up inside him, and he found his hands closing around her neck and he heard her gasp for breath as he slammed her against the wall. He wanted to push harder around her neck he wanted to hear her plead for her life; he wanted to hear her die. But a shriek from Susie made him come to his senses, and he dropped Sarah and she fell to the ground holding her neck. Without even looking at him she ran out into the entrance hall and into their bedroom. As soon as she was out of the room he raided the cupboards looking for any alcohol he could find, she was always hiding it from him hoping that it would stop him, but it never did. He could not find any though and just as he was getting desperate Sarah came running down the stairs with a carrier bag, she opened the front door and threw it out onto the front garden. She had tears running down her face and her clothes looked crumpled but she still looked beautiful. She stood up tall 'I can't do this anymore. Just go.' For a moment he was stunned. The door of the living room opened and he saw his little girls and for the first time in their lives they looked scared of him, of their daddy, and that was when he knew that he had to go. He stumbled over to the front door and took a step into the cold, frosty night. She looked him up and down in disgust and hissed 'You're just a useless drunk' And the door slammed leaving him deserted in the cold lonely night.
(This is my fist draft for a piece of my coursework, my teacher says that it is too slow and that I should get rid of the dreamcatcher part totally becuase it is weak and expand the attack at the end, but I like it the way it is, if you could tell me what you think that would be great :D)
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Comment by: - 2006-06-27 08:27
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I think the strengths of your writing lie in the beautifully descriptive content and vivid scenarios that you present before the reader. I think possibly, and I have commented on this before, that you could benefit yourself and your writing by slimming down the narrative. Some gaps can be left for the reader to decide, and also by not explaining every moment to intensely you will pick up pace in the piece. By slimming your work down like this you will find it easier to bring out bold moments in stories or poems as stark contrast to the sketchier, fast paced content other wise used. I for example think the following passage could use some consideration, not because it is bad, I actually like it, but because it slows the piece down and doesnâ??t really add anything to the story. You have already described quite well the environment and mood and so I think this is a good example of an excerpt that you could modify to slim down and add pace to your story. The passage as follows :-
"....rain had started to fall the people had been forced to retreat back to their comfortable, warm houses. He was glad. No more judgmental old ladies walking their too-pampered dogs looking at him as if he was the piece of shit that came out of their â??little darlingâ?...."
my own edit would read :-
"....the people had retreated back to their houses as the rain began to fall, he was glad! No longer would he have to be judged."
this is just an example and a suggestion but for the purpose of showing you how to slim a passage down and which passages you should slim down this is a good example. You should go through the whole story quickly, perhaps even read it quickly. Pick out all the little bits that slow down the pace or seem to make you stumble or stop when reading. You may not need to take them out but just word them slightly differently. Sometimes it is not what words you use its how you use them that counts! So thatâ??s my view on what your teacher said, I however like your writing style a lot. Its very honest and reflects your age and also a huge and impressive insight into some very deep, stark life experiences.
I say keep the dream catcher in. It is a beautiful center to the story and gives it a wonderful balance. If anything, in contradiction to what i just told you, I would try and add to the magic of this moment. Describe further the amazing welling up feelings of the man, the feel of the dream catcher, the importance of the moment.. maybe for that moment the whole world has stopped, even the clouds have taken a moment to pause and look. I really like this part of the story and donâ??t understand really why your teacher has asked you to remove it. Take my advice, teachers are not always right! Not when it comes to creative writing and art anyways. Where as one person will read your story and think it is complete crass, somebody like me will then read it and love it to bits. Never be disheartened, and remember critique is just one persons opinion or suggestion. Quite often people will give you advice that weans you towards their way of writing or towards a style that they enjoy.
If you do manage to produce a revised edition then please post it too me or display it on the site ! I would love to read it, also let me know how it goes down at school.
Take care Hollz, and keep writing you little genius you!
x - w |
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I feel slightly humbled by this story.
About three years ago I had the idea of writing a comicbook where the main character was a wifebeating drunk, but I found the task of making the reader sympathetic to his plight too daunting. Congrats on achieving something very dificult.
As far as your teachers comments, I suggest you do this;
Make the changes she/he wants to keep her/him happy and maintain the slim illusion of power that teaching obviously gives her/him,
Get your grades because you took all her/his "good" advice and she/he was a wonderful influence on your oh so impressionable mind,
Take the "improved" version of this story into the toilet, use it as bog paper, then burn it.
And leave the original version on here where everybody appreciates it. |
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Comment by: lofty - 2006-06-18 15:39
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| wow again you have done it...very smart work my friend. |
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Comment by: - 2006-06-18 04:16
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Holly, this is an incredible story, and yet so amazingly incitefull and beautifully descriptive for a girl so young. Your use of metaphor paints vivid pictures of a man ruined and throughout the whole story there was not one moment that I couldn't feel, see, smell and taste what was going on.
I like your use of punctuation too to emphasise stark points such as in the follwing passage -
"His clothes smelt of beer and cigarettes. Beer and cigarettes. The great English pub smell that traps you. "
Its the way you pause to repeat 'beer and cigarettes' and then as if to hammer the image into shape you follow it up with 'The great English pub smell that traps you.'
another favorite line for me was the following -
"â??They donâ??t live long do they, but I suppose they donâ??t have a chance to muck it up or let people downâ? he grunted, he had not spoken for so long."
Anybody who has been alone, perhaps hit rock bottom and found themselves with nothing will relate to this line and i think it is just lovely. Beautifull sadness painted so well on the back of what is imagined to be a very long summer.
I wish you to know that your story actually brought tears to my eyes, and if this is an account of a personal experience then I am sorry and find much empathy for you and your story, either way though this is good Holly. If your writting can engage someone so deeply, be it fact based or completly fiction, this brings me to believe that you are a great writter in the making. Good luck with your course work and I will definatly be reading your other work ! x - W |
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| This was a beautiful piece of writing. The amount of pathos that burns at the heart of this piece like a fever is amazing. The part where she hands over the dreamcatcher was marvellous -- that one small device allowing you to pivot from the present into the past. The characters were all convincing: they all breathed as some might say. To reach a story's end and want to know more is a great testament. Brilliant. |
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