Is this part of the story okay?
“Come back!” I said through my teeth. “Hey, uh, *** . . . *** . . .” I started to call him back but didn’t no his name. I knew it started or sounded like *** but I couldn’t remember.
“It’s Ashton.” He called back. I could hear the bottles he was knocking over and the clamp, clamp of his shoes on the chewing gum pavement.
“You mean asshole?” I shouted and jumped from one foot to another. Should I go? Follow him? My body decided before my mind could. I was following him – knocking over bottles of empty bear and some full of liquid, which I didn’t think was beer. “Ew!” I slipped over and fell on a pile of old rags. They stank like cheesy feet, sick and alcohol mixed with BO. But then it moved.
“RGHH!” It grumbled beneath me and I felt the blankets; now hard, lumpy and moving.
I screamed and fell off the blankets on to the disgusting floor.
“What are you doing?” The man’s head popped out under the mass of blankets. He had one eye shut and the other was hardly open. Stench radiated off him in a vile way and his beard was probably full of flees. We went far away from the shopping centre, round the backs of the town. I knew they were like this, but never new it to this extent.
The man reached over and put his dirty hand out but it also had another hand wrapped around it in a tight iron grip. It was Ashton’s hand and he knelt down right in front of the old mans face. All I could see was the back of his curly brown hair and the old mans face looking up at Ashton with wide eyes. “Don’t even think about it!” He almost growled it – low and deep.
I heaved myself up. “Ashton,” I cried. “Come on!”
He slowly got up and gripped my wrist with the other hand. He pulled me onwards clearing the path of bottles, and god knows what else, out of the way. I looked back at the old man, whose face hadn’t changed, and got a cold icy shiver that blasted through me. Was he dead?
Finally getting out at the other end, I saw why he wanted to drag me through hell (literally) to get here. There was a big space full of rotten pumpkins carved with evil faces that smelled sour, and trees that had twigs pointing out like wrinkly fingers. The trees covered the space to make it even darker. Beyond this space, countryside filled for miles, hills, lakes and mostly forests.
Grabbing the camera from around my neck, I stood holding it shakily. “Get in the picture, do something, quick!” I just wanted to get out of here. The thought about having to go back through there and pass the probably dead old man, made me shake even more.
“Relax, Rowan.” His stiff face unclenched and he became relaxed as if he was convincing me as well as himself. “You get in the picture,” he said holding his camera at the ready. “You already look scared out of your skin. Now, how about leaning against that tree and putting one foot on the pumpkin?”
I hurried to the wrinkly tree with wrinkly twisted branches protruding from everywhere and the pumpkin I had to put my foot on was hard.
“Good,” he moved around to get different lighting and so did I to get different positions. Each snap, snap, snap of the camera was like the tick, tick, tick of the clock – which meant that an hour had to be over soon. We had walked here, had the little (I mean big) accident in the alleyway, and now we were shooting the photographs so that would have all at least taken up about, hmm, I dunno, twenty minutes of our time – ugh!
“Okay, your turn.” I walked over and shoved him forward into the scene.
“I’m the photographer and no way am I posing for some crappy . . .”
“I need photos too.” I pointed to myself and then re-picked my camera up from around my neck.
“Yeah, but he didn’t necessarily mean people in the picture.” He walked closer to me.
“Yeah, but your going to have all the good photos and I’m not.” Jeez, I sounded like a right whining baby.
He laughed. “We’re partners, remember?” elbowing me a little.
“Whatever, lets just go. I’ll say that I forgot all about my camera and we'll use yours.” I let the camera dangle down around my neck and started to walk back the way we came.
“Hey,” I turned around as Ashton called me. “Let me go first.”
- Anonymous1 decade agoFavourite answer
Okay, I'm going to be completely honest, with my criticism of this excerpt. (I can only assume it to be an excerpt as it seemed entirely out of context, and it was difficult to understand what was going on.) I do hope that you are actually looking for contructive criticism for this, but if not feel free to ignore my comments. It is your story, afterall.
First of all, it is riddled with grammar, spelling, mechanical, and other errors. Spell-check can help with some, but others need to be corrected by yourself ("flees" versus "fleas"). Secondly, I find it extremely difficult to understand, which might be mostly because of the grammatical errors. Furthermore, the continuity seems to be a little messed up, for lack of better adjectives. I can't tell where they are (inside, outside?), or what the are doing. Finally, a lot of it is a little too colloquial for me. The "hmm, i dunno, twenty minutes of our time--ugh!" bit especially is too much how it would be spoken, and maybe not how it should be written. True, this could simply be your style/voice, but I personally find it difficult to read.
This is all my honest opinion from one quick read-through, and you have complete control over what you do or don't change. It may be helpful for you, yourself, to edit it at least one more time, and see what you can catch. It seems like it has the potential to be a good idea (from what I can tell from this very short excerpt...I kind of want to know what happened in the alley!), but it definitely needs some work. Just keep working at it, and it'll get there. Don't give up!
I really hope that this answer doesn't offend you, as this wasn't my purpose at all, but I do hope it helps!
- bartholLv 44 years ago
between the terrific issues approximately writing is there isn't a strict thank you to do issues. There are suitable strategies of direction and project-loose tenants of writing that is accompanied (syntax, grammar, spelling) however the approach is as guy or woman as each be conscious positioned on a internet site. Authors convey bits and products of themselves into the story, this style of writing and voice. those aspects are why some human beings examine Tom Clancy and others desire Ayn Rand. some writers desire a greater unique define. They write financial disaster, scene and methods on index enjoying cards, and pin them on a board as they artwork. They draw diagrams, stumble on maps, do character sketches all the way down to the lil boy on the corners well-liked style of ice cream. different writers are greater 'unconstructed'. they save a workstation, jot down ideas as they circulate, even write out some sentences of a concept, and carry out a little project-loose examine. the rest are greater loose style. they're referred to as 'pantsters'. They awaken with an thought, mull it around of their heads, formulate some project-loose ideas then commence writing. They do all the different issues (like examine and sketching outlines) as they write especially so as that they don't ignore the place they're interior the story in any different case they permit the artwork write itself. They declare to hearken to and notice the characters speaking and living and that they are basically recording those events. The writers don't have self belief they are able to 'comprehend' forward of a 2d what the character will do. So in this sense you could discover what's genuine for you. don't be afraid if the story veers off slightly.
- MercyLv 41 decade ago
You need to reread this and see if you notice any...errors: grammar & spelling. To me there are quite a few and I couldn't continue to read it. If there are to many grammar or spelling errors I tend to lose interest :|