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Writing contest story!
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Writing contest story!
Writing contest story!
So, guys, I'm writing a story for a contest that Jwyn announced a little while ago. I could really use some constructive critisism on it. @Admins, there are a few words that aren't quite CB appropriate, so you can just edit them. Thanks!
Painted with Grey, Ch. 1
Dad doesn’t say he loves me or anything relevantly close to that as I force open the door of his ancient Chevy. It’s okay, though- I stopped expecting things like that a long time ago. Swinging my tattered black backpack on, I slouch low and stare determinedly at the ground. There’s actually a lot to learn from staring at the ground. You notice the little bits and pieces making the concrete. Miniscule critters dash across the pavement leading up to school, racing the wind- and, today, losing. January air in Connecticut is brutal. It’s as though Mother Nature was sitting around one day, eating pineapple or whatever, then she was just like hey, I have a great idea- let’s give all those folks down in Connecticut frostbite! Yeah, thanks lady.
The front doors welcome me to my doom. I don’t mind the learning part so much- I just can’t stand being called on. I’m not shy. I just hate talking. I think it’s called antisocial. I’m not sure, though, I don’t read often. I walk down the smelly hallways, passing the water fountain that tastes like sulfur. Turning right, I bound up the stairs, going to the first classroom on the left. The little plaque hanging up by it reads Mrs. Glara, Math, and under it, 8th grade homeroom.
“Good morning!” she greets me as I walk through the door. You don’t realize how often people tell that lie,do you? Like, if your car broke down and you spilled your $3 coffee, you’re not going to walk up to someone and say hey, crappy morning! Are you? I ignore her, taking my usual spot in the back row. I slide my sketchbook out of my backpack. Oh, my sketchbook. I doubt I would survive without it. Riffling past my previous doodles of aliens and dinosaurs, I find some empty space. Today, I’ll draw… a fireball. A blazing, fiery core with flaming tails, slamming into the Earth with a strong force. Like the fire that came crashing into my soul, yearning for the life I once had, eating away at the happy, bubbly girl I had once been. Then I realize… crap. I forgot to go to my locker. As I stand up to leave, a bunch of kids from a bus stream up the stairs. The only reason I don’t go on the bus is because my Dad works in a State Farm building 100 yards away. Otherwise, he would gladly drive away and allow me to fend for myself. I gather my stuff for my morning classes- history, science, spanish, ELA- and slouch back to the classroom. I notice Danielle Pamer, who’s life ambition, it seems, is to find 100 gajillion ways to insult people, many of which I have been subject to. She’s trash-talked me from my fire-truck red hair to my broken family.
Today, she’s complaining about a shopping trip she went on with her mom. They didn’t have the right colors, she couldn’t find the right sizes. She makes me boil with hatred. Doesn’t she realize that I haven’t had a mother-daughter date in 8 years?
Well, duh. Of course she does.
submitted by Soren Infinity, age 27 eons, beaconTown
(October 15, 2018 - 8:13 am)
(October 15, 2018 - 8:13 am)
Wow! This is really amazing, Soren! I can't think of any critisism about it. I can't wait to read the next part!
(October 15, 2018 - 11:13 am)
Thanks Winter! TOP!
(October 15, 2018 - 12:50 pm)
This is amazing! Keep it up.
(October 15, 2018 - 3:05 pm)
Oh, wow, this is really good! I hope you post more. Now I'm curious!
(October 15, 2018 - 3:34 pm)
I'd add a bit more on say indirect characterization. I didn't know she was a girl until you said the bubbly girl thing. Maybe add dad doent love me his little girl. Honestly that's the only thing I would change and it's pretty feeble.
(October 16, 2018 - 5:48 pm)
Hey Vanilla Mocha! I see tht you're new. Welcome! You might want to make a welcome thread for yourself- g to Chirp at Cricket, and in the upper left-hand crner you'll see something that says Click here to Talk abou Cricket. Click on that an introduce yourself!
As for your comment, I know I asked for critisism, but it's supposed to be kind of Vauge right now.
Ch. 2
Ch.2
History with Mr. Stratus is up on the third floor, the highest and most disgusting of the three. He doesn’t seem to mind, though. He’s tall and slightly fat, and he wears bow ties. He’s also the kind of teacher that thinks all kids deserve a chance, meaning he will call on people who don’t have their hand up, which is a strategy I hate. There’s a reason why I wear hoodies and jackets, the hood covering my whole head- you’re going to be noticed if your hair makes it look like your head is on fire. It’s also why I nicknamed myself Grey- my mom, while awesome, gave me the frivolous and flouncy name Annistatia. I love my mom- much more than I love my dad- but really? I am most definitely not a fan of fancy crud.
In history, I take out my sketchbook and pretend it’s my notebook- which I do everyday in every class except art. Art is the only class I like. At the beginning of each school year hear at Serene Creek Middle school, you choose if you want to do art, music, or computers for your final subject. I’ve been going here for three years, and every time I have chosen art.
I blow up Mr. Stratus’ bow tie, doodling swirling galaxies in it. As I begin an asteroid belt, I hear Mr. Stratus call on me. A familiar flurry of panic rushes through my stomach.
Biting my lip, my cheeks burning,I look up ever so slightly. I can almost feel his dark brown eyes trying to catch sight of my greyish- green.
“Um… could you please repeat the question?” I can hear Eloise Caminhue, a wussy little goody-two shoes, tutting me loudly from across the room. Danny J. and Danny R. snicker.
Mr. Status is patient. “Why where people from China so eager to come to the California Gold Rush?”
Oh crud. I know this one- and I actually mean it this time. Most of the time I absolutely do not know it. I get angry at myself, then at stupid history class on the smelly third floor with its million dates to memorize…
“Oh yes, I most definitely care about Chinese people sticking their noses in some dirty river for nonexistent gold,” I mutter quickly. Unfortunately, Mr. Status can hear pretty darn well.
“Grey, that’s very disrespectful. You know how I hate to give detentions.” He gives me a detention slip anyways. Only fifteen minutes into first hour and I’m already in trouble. Ain’t that a lovely way to start the day.
Next up is science, which is (most conveniently) all the way down on the first floor. When you’re walking in the halls, you always see people traveling around in little packs, afraid a friend will wander off. Being friendless has an advantage: there’s no chance a friend will turn around and betray you. Another thing you will realize is that Serene Creek is super crappy and run-down. This is basically that one shady public school that parents like to keep their kids away from.
Something you’ll learn from looking at me: there’s some good reasons to bully me. I’m (ghostly pale) skin and bones, too skinny, and I always have a sort of aura of neglect. And, of course, stringy red hair covered by hats and hoodies 24/7. Oh, and my family. Shattered like glass, the key piece flung far away, out of my reach…
How long I’ve been waiting to get back to that far-flung piece, my mom…
I remember the day that our previously whole piece of glass got dropped to the floor, so carelessly. It’s the reason why I don’t call the place I live in home. It’s why I have that aura of neglect. It’s why I keep my head down with a fireball in my soul.
(October 17, 2018 - 6:56 am)
This is SO GOOD! I can't wait for the next part!!
(October 17, 2018 - 12:53 pm)
This is pretty good, and I love the voice and the style of the story. One thing I would change is the characters, mostly the one of Danielle Palmer because STEROTYPE ALERT but also a couple Mary-Sueish things about Gray, like the name for example (I know the title goes with it, but I think it still works without the name) and her antisocial characteristics- well, not her characteristics, but more her announcement that she’s antisocial.
(October 19, 2018 - 6:18 pm)
@Blue Moon, you make some really good points. I really would take your advice- but Danielle's personality, while I try my hardest to stay away from most sterotypes, her meaness is kind of essential- the plot can't really carry on without her. As for Grey, she gets more developed and changes a bit- including your point about her name. I will delete a few of the sentences in chapter one, though, they are a bit cringey.
Ch. 3
We lived in a town called New Bloomfield, Pennsylvania. It was me, Dad, Mom, and my two older brothers, Francis and Joseph. I was only five, and it was just about the best life a five-year-old could have. We had a huge backyard with lots of trees and a tire swing, and I had a big room on the second floor all to myself. That was us. The Mackisons. We were so happy. If only that happiness could have lasted.
Mom was a softie. She was lenient about punishments, and every other Friday she would come home from her work at a daycare center with a treat of some sort, like a box of cookies or ice cream sandwiches. That wasn’t all, though. She was whimsical and loving, and instead of reading a bedtime story she would play on her guitar and sing. Oh, god, could she sing. How much I miss the sweet, entrancing sound of her voice. She was a little ray of perfect imperfectness bottled up in a short woman with a worn yet kind face, auburn locks in a shiny, low ponytail, and my eyes. Dad, while nicer way back when, was still much more strict. One day Mom brought home little gifts from each of us- a toy train for Joseph, a stuffed bear for Francis, and for me, a little necklace with a golden star. My dad warned her not to spoil us too much, but jokingly. I miss when he did anything jokingly.
I was four when she gave me the necklace. I’m thirteen now, and I still have it. It’s not even broken or anything.
A year later, my dad became less tolerant of things, especially Mom’s brightness. He got surly and impatient at almost everything. On the day it all happened, Mom had forgotten that she brought treats last Friday, coming home with Dilly Bars two nights in a row.
“Who needs that stupid crap?” He snarled dangerously at the sight of the chocolate-covered ice cream.
“No one needs it, Tony,” She replied coolly, handing them out to us. I took mine greedily, not even noticing that Mom and Dad were arguing again. Mom nearly always won.
“Sometimes I just don’t get you, Leanne,” He mumbled, ”Joseph and Francis fight, you’re not mad. Annie doesn’t listen, you’re not mad.”
“We all make mistakes. That’s why we need forgiveness.” Her voice had gotten harder.
“Well, three cheers for forgiveness, solves all of our problems, doesn’t it? Well, how about when you hate your job, or your house, or life? Hate, hate, HATE!” At that point, I hid under the table. Dad’s shouting scared me. Mom was speechless.
I cried in my bed, a scared little girl so ignorant to the world around me. Then my door creaked open and Dad walked in.
“C’mon, Annie,” he said gruffly, “We need to go.” I had no idea what was happening. I packed like he told me, shoving clothes, some toys, a hairbrush, a toothbrush and paste, and my necklace,then followed him out of the house and into the same Chevy he drives today. Francis and Joseph were already there.
“Where’s Mommy?” I asked, not knowing that it was the whole point for Mom not to be there. Dad, of course, didn’t answer. We drove, and I fell asleep quickly. Eventually, we ended up in this boring little town called Ellington, Connecticut.
He blew up because he had lost his job a while ago, too cowardly to admit it to Mom, even though she wouldn’t have been mad. Anyways. He moved us into a dingy little one-story house with three bedrooms. That was fine then, because Francis and Jo didn’t mind sharing, but then Dad got remarried a few years later. Her name is Melissa, and she has two sons, Richie and Logan. If there’s one person in the whole world I could consider a friend, it would be Logan. Anyways. Back to the story. With only two other rooms, Logan and Richie share while me, Francis, and Jo cramp into one.
Dad became less strict. In fact, he stopped making any rules. That isn’t even why I’m neglected- it’s because I don’t exist to him. He didn’t see that I have any talent- and believe me, I’ve tried. Joseph gets complimented for being so kind and lovely, so Dad is proud of him. Francis is a genius, taking classes two grade levels above his age group, so Dad is proud of him. Richie is a football star, so Dad is proud of him. Logan didn’t get any attention until we stopped at a garage sale with a piano, and Logan sat down and played as if he was music itself, and his soul was being poured out into those keys. So Dad is proud of him. And me? Nobody ever shoved a hunk of plastic painted gold and told me I was special. My art teacher says I have potential, but apparently not enough to ever win a drawing contest.
This is the life I live. Go to school, get called on and embarrassed, then get driven home by Dad, who then turns around and goes back to work. Then I’m home alone- Joseph, Francis, Richie, and Logan are all in high school, which gets out later. Richie, the oldest, drives them all home in his red four-door truck. Melissa is almost never home- she’s a nurse, and always busy saving someone’s life.
There are only a few things I can do that allow me to escape the terrible reality of my life. Drawing, of course, is a big one. Nothing exists except me and my sketchbook when I draw. Video gaming with Logan is another- he’s got a great sense of humor, and he sincerely understands my problems. Out of the boys, Dad likes Logan least. And there’s one more thing- at the same garage sale where Logan played on the piano, he found a skateboard. It only cost $1.50, so he bought it- for me. He gave it to me and I taught myself how to ride it and do small tricks. I ride it nearly every day after school. I have to go out of our neighborhood, because there aren’t any sidewalks.
Back to science class. Our teacher is Mrs. Xenia, and she treats me differently because of my broken glass family. I hate the teachers that do that.
(October 20, 2018 - 11:51 am)
Oops, clicked on my topping name on accident again. XP
Ch. 4
I make it through the rest of the morning without getting any more detentions, which is good. Dad hates it when I’m super late, because it delays him from getting back to work.
At lunch, I sit at the end of a table with some other art kids. I know most of their names- Cate, Evan, Marc, Andrea, Rachel, Lizzie. We don’t talk to each other much, but it’s better than being teased. I pack my own lunch, because Dad doesn’t either want to give me an allowance to pay for it myself or give up his own money for it. This is actually a bonus- the food here is ten trillion times worse than yours. I would prefer to dumpster dive then eat it.
Next is math. I don’t really hate it, because Miss Farr is the kind of teacher that talks in a flat death drone, sounding similar to a 20-year-old refrigerator. That means she never calls on anyone, or looks up from her notes. Perfect drawing opportunity. I catch some words like ‘mode’ and ‘plot’, but the rest is my sketchbook. Today, like so many other days, I draw my mom. Today she’s holding a box of cookies, her mouth in a gracious smile. I carefully sketch the details of her tired face, the look of her Irish ancestors- where my red hair comes from. She looks just as beautiful as I remember her. Her memory never fades- I think of her every day, longing for when we reunite. Because we will- I’ve been planning it since I was seven.
It isn’t running away if I’m running back home.
One day, I’ll do it. I’ve been saving up my money by going around in the summer, mowing and walking my neighbor’s dogs. When Dad is at work, of course. I’ll know when- I’ll feel it in my soul. I’ll go to the corner and get on a bus, ride it until I can’t go any further, then get on another. I know my old address. I can get back home.
“...And get a homework page on your way out!” Miss Farr shouts as the bell rings. I grab a paper that I will most definitely fail, then go down the stairs to the gym for P.E. In the locker rooms, I go into a shower stall and change as quickly as possible- I hate gym clothes just as much as everyone else. I hate P.E ten times more, though. Why people like running around to score some useless points and feel like they’re going to throw up is beyond me.
Today we’re playing basketball, one of my least favorites. I have this class with Danielle Pamer, which usually results in disaster. Today is no different. I got put on her team, and I miss about five shots.
“Do you need glasses? The hoop’s right there!” She shrieks. I ignore her.
“Danielle, you’re supposed to encourage your teammates!” Shouts coach Alcove. Like that’ll stop her.
Finally, it’s art. I don’t care that it’s on the smelly third floor. Mrs. Berkelly is one of the nicest humans ever, next to my mom. Right now, we’re working on a zentangle. Mine’s purple, which is my favorite color besides grey. Swirling and zigzagging, I add more detail to my paper. On one corner, a big blooming flower. In the center, a wing, laced with delicate feathers.
All too soon, the bell rings. I drag my feet to the detention room on the first floor. The usual kids are there; Valerie Stravinsky, who has a habit of breaking the dress code, Kyle Anders and Luke O’Zea, two idiots, Cade Jason, who has organizational problems and is always late to class, and a pair of twins, a boy and a girl, whose names I can never remember, that are bullies. All we can do is sit here while the vice principal, Mr. Daniels, reads his historical fiction novel. I pass the time by tracing the drawing of a dinosaur on the back of my hand with my finger.
“Okay everybody, you can go home now.” No, I can’t sir. My home is in a different state.
(October 21, 2018 - 5:54 pm)
This is so well-written! Keep it up, Soren!
(October 23, 2018 - 10:23 am)
(October 28, 2018 - 11:13 am)
(October 28, 2018 - 11:12 am)
(October 28, 2018 - 11:13 am)