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Literature Text
Imagine a memory of tall ceiling rooms
I see the black plastic floor, cold and lonely dying into an abyss.
There is that vague stench of alcohol,the occasional sound of steps and rolling beds on the hallway. The undying light beyond the halls to my left, lit up all night long.
I see my bed, the cold metal frames that surround it, the face of Jesus Christ on top of the door, staring straight ahead into the windows to my right, the long black curtains, the darkness of the night outside. I don't understand his face, or the fall leaves color of his face, his mysterious eyes that have no warmth, he is a visitor, a silent image that looks over the children, the long rows of beds.
I am alone, I am quiet, crying myself into my childhood insomnia. I could never sleep, all the children sleep but I could never conceive the closure of my eyes at night. I'm so alone, afraid of crying, I cannot cry when all the children sleep. I drown, gasp and sunk on my shut wimps of desolation, the children are still motionless figures, mere off white dead bumps on their beds. There is no movement in the room but the twitches of my body.
It is cold, my only blanket is beneath me, is barely covering my feet. I cry myself intentionally, with a musical box that belonged to my brother. My mom brought it to me when she visited, and told me to hold it and cherish it. I hugged it on my chest wishing I was home with the intensity of my fetus like position, hugging this little strawberry music box that would make me squint with every dying high pitch note, a melancholic melody of home, a song that brought me closer to my abandonment.
My cry was wimp, a painful reaction to see in a child. I would hiccup a lot when I cried. I don't know why I cried, because I wanted to be warm surrounded by bosom of my mother while I absorbed her heat as I drift into sleep, sucking my thumb just gently loosing consciousness.
Instead I was here, at mercy of beating nurses, a small thin blanket, cold baths, no toys and the face of sick children to keep me company during the day. Children with someone more than a teenage mother to look forward to, children that could eat and did not fast.
Children...
that could go home, before me.
I see the black plastic floor, cold and lonely dying into an abyss.
There is that vague stench of alcohol,the occasional sound of steps and rolling beds on the hallway. The undying light beyond the halls to my left, lit up all night long.
I see my bed, the cold metal frames that surround it, the face of Jesus Christ on top of the door, staring straight ahead into the windows to my right, the long black curtains, the darkness of the night outside. I don't understand his face, or the fall leaves color of his face, his mysterious eyes that have no warmth, he is a visitor, a silent image that looks over the children, the long rows of beds.
I am alone, I am quiet, crying myself into my childhood insomnia. I could never sleep, all the children sleep but I could never conceive the closure of my eyes at night. I'm so alone, afraid of crying, I cannot cry when all the children sleep. I drown, gasp and sunk on my shut wimps of desolation, the children are still motionless figures, mere off white dead bumps on their beds. There is no movement in the room but the twitches of my body.
It is cold, my only blanket is beneath me, is barely covering my feet. I cry myself intentionally, with a musical box that belonged to my brother. My mom brought it to me when she visited, and told me to hold it and cherish it. I hugged it on my chest wishing I was home with the intensity of my fetus like position, hugging this little strawberry music box that would make me squint with every dying high pitch note, a melancholic melody of home, a song that brought me closer to my abandonment.
My cry was wimp, a painful reaction to see in a child. I would hiccup a lot when I cried. I don't know why I cried, because I wanted to be warm surrounded by bosom of my mother while I absorbed her heat as I drift into sleep, sucking my thumb just gently loosing consciousness.
Instead I was here, at mercy of beating nurses, a small thin blanket, cold baths, no toys and the face of sick children to keep me company during the day. Children with someone more than a teenage mother to look forward to, children that could eat and did not fast.
Children...
that could go home, before me.
A cry of a child.
© 2009 - 2024 Vii06
Comments3
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Well, I think you accurately craft the picture of what a baby would see. I like how vivid the setting is, but it's not a story, and based on your comment, I think that's what you were talking about, how to write a story. There's a good atmosphere to it, and the emotions are caught seriously well, particularly with the music box and the last four lines. But there's hardly a structure, where in a story, there's a beginning, middle, and end.
Basically, the beginning is where all the establishment takes place: introducing the characters, the setting, and at the end of the beginning, the conflict. Middle (or Act 2) is when all the adventures, incidents, and complications occur. The end is...Well, the end. That's when everything gets resolved (even if in a downer ending, like tragedy theatrical performances, since some of the oldest stories were in acting theater ("plays") and those were usually either tragedies or comedies, basically if it's written to be sad or funny, and it's surprising how heavily the funny leans on sad situations). Don't leave anything unexplained or unclear (sometimes, confusion or lack of information can be used for a deliberate effect, but that's an advanced lesson) ("plot holes" as it's called, which can become confusing or even jarring), different from something implied (and if you get more skilled with your word smithing, you'll be able to pick up on such subtleties and implied points of plot).
So why is "sad" so common in the early days back with a stage and theatrical actors? It's the most obvious if not basic form of Conflict! That word is key, as the "conflict" is what drives a story (It could simply be "just a bunch of stuff happening", but then that would be too much like life and, if done well, that could be funny and/or sad (like "slice-of-life"), but if done poorly, it'd be boring and lacking of any real incidents, which is what captivates people; overcoming or at least coping with such obstacles). It doesn't have to be a web of lies and infidelity (like a soap opera), since it could be as simple as a hero trying to save a world versus a villain trying to blow it up. To write a conflict that feels believable (if not real), imagine yourself analyzing both sides of the story and conflict, weighing both arguments and goals with their given stances...kind of like a judge in court. Creating that in your head will help you map out how your situations will or should play out.
Anyway, the most important thing in a story is, things have to happen. What you have written here is great as turning a picture into literature (transforming image into words, necessary for engrossing readers), and believe it or not, but actually that IS good writing...just in a different way from storytelling. All in all, I hope my words help, and please, try not to feel overwhelmed with my advice here. You honestly expressed your amazement with me, so I'm attempting to share my means of making it happen. Finally, I pray I didn't offend or insult you here, as I'm trying to objectively provide critique. Good luck!
Basically, the beginning is where all the establishment takes place: introducing the characters, the setting, and at the end of the beginning, the conflict. Middle (or Act 2) is when all the adventures, incidents, and complications occur. The end is...Well, the end. That's when everything gets resolved (even if in a downer ending, like tragedy theatrical performances, since some of the oldest stories were in acting theater ("plays") and those were usually either tragedies or comedies, basically if it's written to be sad or funny, and it's surprising how heavily the funny leans on sad situations). Don't leave anything unexplained or unclear (sometimes, confusion or lack of information can be used for a deliberate effect, but that's an advanced lesson) ("plot holes" as it's called, which can become confusing or even jarring), different from something implied (and if you get more skilled with your word smithing, you'll be able to pick up on such subtleties and implied points of plot).
So why is "sad" so common in the early days back with a stage and theatrical actors? It's the most obvious if not basic form of Conflict! That word is key, as the "conflict" is what drives a story (It could simply be "just a bunch of stuff happening", but then that would be too much like life and, if done well, that could be funny and/or sad (like "slice-of-life"), but if done poorly, it'd be boring and lacking of any real incidents, which is what captivates people; overcoming or at least coping with such obstacles). It doesn't have to be a web of lies and infidelity (like a soap opera), since it could be as simple as a hero trying to save a world versus a villain trying to blow it up. To write a conflict that feels believable (if not real), imagine yourself analyzing both sides of the story and conflict, weighing both arguments and goals with their given stances...kind of like a judge in court. Creating that in your head will help you map out how your situations will or should play out.
Anyway, the most important thing in a story is, things have to happen. What you have written here is great as turning a picture into literature (transforming image into words, necessary for engrossing readers), and believe it or not, but actually that IS good writing...just in a different way from storytelling. All in all, I hope my words help, and please, try not to feel overwhelmed with my advice here. You honestly expressed your amazement with me, so I'm attempting to share my means of making it happen. Finally, I pray I didn't offend or insult you here, as I'm trying to objectively provide critique. Good luck!