She tastes nothing but the metallic salt of blood in her mouth, her own blood, as if she drowns in it, even though it spews forth from her face instead of rushing into her lungs.
“¡Ayudame, ayudame! ¡Alguien ayudame!” she cries, but no one hears her.
A man on the corner, fat and sluggish, had been, one forever minute ago, dragging his filthy, cumbersome feet along the sidewalk by the café, his eyes cast eternally downward at the concrete. Now he lies dead where he last stood in the crosswalk and the fire; his face, with a sullied, mediocre look about it, had stared down the grey of the sky, whispering a prayer as shrapnel tore through the crowd and his neck and face. --I will never know his name or why his face seemed to challenge the world so. What right did he have to look at it that way?--
She cannot feel her body, yet she knows that she screams with such a force that none can challenge it. She cannot hear the shrieks of sirens in the distance, nor her own cries, nor her own thoughts streaming through her mind faster than transgalactic spaceships fleeing from an evil, universal warlord. Imagine that -- a thought surfaces – Marisa Beaufort, dead at thirty-seven! Terrorist attack, it was, the third in Paris in a month. First it was the American Embassy, where men and women huddled in a foyer beneath the guns and shadows of radicals; next, the Eiffel Tower, crowded with tourists, burst into flame; finally, an outdoor market where Marisa Beaufort, aged thirty-seven, died in a hail of bullets, shrapnel, and fire.
But not yet, not yet! – another thought races – I am still alive! Nadie ayudó al hombre, entonces nadie me ayudará, sino yo podría salvarme…¡todavía estoy viviendo, sino esta vez sin una cara!
Author notes
"Nadie ayudó al hombre, entonces nadie me ayudará, sino yo podría salvarme… ¡todavía estoy viviendo, sino esta vez sin una cara!"
No one helped the man, and no one will help me, but I can save myself... but yet I live, but this time without a face.
A snippet of a story I've nearly abandoned. The main character, Marisa Beaufort, dies in a terrorist attack (and she is from Spain, hence the language). This was a prompt for the word "taste."
Critique the shit out of this. It's nearly a year old and it obviously needs some work.
Effective-- yea or nay?
Comments
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I'm a bit inbetween on this one. I'm not saying it's horrible at all, but it could use some solid editing and rewriting to release a stronger effect on your talent as a writer. So, here's what I had to think about your story.
She tastes nothing but the metallic salt of blood in her mouth, her own blood, as if she drowns in it, even though it spews forth from her face instead of rushing into her lungs.
I liked this paragraph. I asked myself, "What happened to her?", "What's her name?", "Was she injured?" All these questions revolve in my mind and your use of adjectives is perfect, especially when your wrote about her her blood spews forth from her face. Nothing much to say there.
A man on the corner, fat and sluggish, had been, one forever minute ago, dragging his filthy, cumbersome feet along the sidewalk by the café, his eyes cast eternally downward at the concrete.
This is where I noticed something that was okay, but I don't really think it flowed. "Fat and sluggish"; now, I believe sluggish sounds good, but fat doesn't seem to fit in with the rest of your brilliant vocabulary. In my opinion, it's too...blunt. You went from writing a story that is as beautiful as poetry, and then just went to...fat. I didn't really get it, but that was all I had to say about that part.
I really liked the second-to-last paragraph as well. I enjoyed how you wrote in third person, yet it sounded like the main character's voice as well. You also answered my questions I had in the begining, which is very good in writing a perfect story.
I would really like to see how this would turn out into a full story. I know that it's a year old, but maybe it wouldn't be so bad to take a trip down memory lane? Nice job!
Oh, and it doesn't "suck".
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This is actually 2.5 years old, before I had any training with writing whatsoever (not that I ever had any, though!)
But I agree with you. It's not my best and the rest of the story isn't, either, wherever the rest has got to!
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Oops, haha!
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No wonder I understood what the hell someone was saying. I cannot properly critique this piece as it is gorgeousity (yes, I use that word alot) and I would really like to see you resurrect this, even with a new plot. If not I will steal it. Muhahaha. (I wouldn't do that).
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wow
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i thought this was really neat, and i liked the ending. it's a little more startling reading it in spanish, probably because i read it slower- but the "sin una cara" had a great effect.
i laughed out loud when i read that nasty comment below me ^_^
-cassidy
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i think it sucks.maybe becuase i couldn't "understand it" but u need to get better at writing poems if ur going to write them
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This isn't a poem.
Care to elaborate on your criticism?
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Immense talent, lacks professionalism.
"She tastes nothing but the metallic salt of blood in her mouth, her own blood, as if she drowns in it, even though it spews forth from her face instead of rushing into her lungs."
Nice, a little long but it doesn't really trip me up. I'd cut out the word 'forth', not because it's ugly or wrong or anything, just to compress the line a little (and, if you exchange 'spews' for 'spurts', you eliminate the need to reiterate the action the blood is taking).
"A man on the corner, fat and sluggish, had been, one forever minute ago, dragging his filthy, cumbersome feet along the sidewalk by the café, his eyes cast eternally downward at the concrete."
This sentence is far, far too long. If you cut out the commas after 'had been' and 'his filth', this sentence still rolls off the tongue in too long a time. The content is fantastic.
"Now he lies dead where he last stood in the crosswalk and the fire; his face, with a sullied, mediocre look about it, had stared down the grey of the sky, whispering a prayer as shrapnel tore through the crowd and his neck and face. --I will never know his name or why his face seemed to challenge the world so. What right did he have to look at it that way?--"
Stood *on* the crosswalk; and after the semicolon comes (once again) much too much fantastic content. Don't be afraid of brackets and splitting images up between sentences. Here (and allow me a little humble promotion) is a recent prose piece of my own, from which I shall pull an example: http://allpoetry.com/poem/4223920
*I understand, rejoice and grieve immediately. You exist. In spite of all my arduous scheming to ignore you completely, that tortured, guilt-ridden grimace triggers something in me I had considered (or perhaps hoped) to be dead.*
These sentences could have been:
*I understand, rejoice and grieve immediately: you exist, and in spite of all my arduous scheming to ignore you completely, that tortured, guilt-ridden grimace triggers something in me I had considered (or perhaps hoped) to be dead.*
But it is better that they are not. In fact, the last sentence from the original three already feels a little long to the editor within. Don't let me come off as a belittler, your command of words and imagery is impressive to say the least. It just needs to be tighter, a little less 'rambly' (for want of a better word).
"She cannot feel her body, yet she knows that she screams with such a force that none can challenge it."
This is great.
"thoughts streaming through her mind faster than transgalactic spaceships fleeing from an evil, universal warlord."
While the wordplay itself is good, the images it conveys are a little off-putting next to the rest of the piece. I also thought of Scientology for a second (which pulled me out of the aftermath of a bom
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"Terrorist attack, it was, the third in Paris in a month. First it was the American Embassy, where men and women huddled in a foyer beneath the guns and shadows of radicals; next, the Eiffel Tower, crowded with tourists, burst into flame; finally, an outdoor market where Marisa Beaufort, aged thirty-seven, died in a hail of bullets, shrapnel, and fire."
The background information is thoughtful and well put together - again though I may make use of more periods in there.
I'm going to give you one for talent and one because, despite my criticisms, it is blatantly obvious to anyone that you know how to string a sentence together. Keep at it.
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"streaming through her mind faster than transgalactic spaceships fleeing from an evil, universal warlord."
WHAT THE SHIT? I honestly did not write that.
If I did, I was drunk.
Thanks for the helpful critique. If I didn't hate the plot of this novella so much, I might resurrect it.
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