I r literate!
Turns out I'm actually capable of writing fic as well. This particular piece is original fiction; I don't write very often, and haven't really got any new fanfic since I started actively posting on LJ (limited definitions of "actively", of course). It sort of doesn't make any sense, but I'm incredibly proud of the pun/metaphor I achieved (I actually was drawing my curtains when the thought occurred to me), even though I'm far from pleased with the execution of the idea, so here it is. :3
It is short and rather rushed. I chucked it together in, like, half an hour, and because I don't take my writing nearly as seriously as I ought to, decided I couldn't scrupled to fix it. I think I have most of the (unintentional) spelling and grammar slips, though. But tenses, now that's another matter entirely.
Title: Drawing Curtains
Rating: G
Wordcount: 347
Anoet: The--er--unconventional, I suppose you could call it, layout was a test and I'm not sure I succeeded. And just so we're clear, the girl isn't supposed to be a caricature of me.
She had very round hazel eyes and pink-rimmed spectacles; a petite figure, and fine brown hair. She caught the 544 bus to school and did well in English. She attended piano lessons on Saturdays and played soccer occasionally. She would not have struck you as a worrisome child.
She liked to draw.
She drew all manner of things--horses, prancing and grazing, through meadows and deserts and mountains and plains; wolves, running and hunting, their eyes so gold they burned; dragons, majestic, soaring through skies of every colour imaginable; swords and staves, dresses and armoury, fairies and goblins and leprechauns; curtains--
she drew so many curtains.
She drew things that didn't happen--her creations didn't exist. Princesses bringing down monstrous dragons or a great and bloody war between elves and dwarves; fantasies, nothing more, nothing that could have been brought into life;
but the curtains she drew were so very
very
real.
She drew them all over her life--
her sorrows--
her fears and insecurities--
her hates and her envies and her needs;
And she shaded them in so very finely and coloured them all alive
so that no-one could see past them and find the cracks in her heart.
And they were lovely curtains--satin and velvet and silk, embroidered in checks and Victorian florals and intricate organic motifs. People remark that she ought to go into the textile industry; she smiles, her lips running like hairline faults across her perfectly broken face.
And one day she draws a person running, fleeing in terror from something unimaginably horrifying; and they run and run until they reach the end of the world and can run no longer; and then she turns around and draws a curtain right across the face of the beast, because what else can she do, there's nowhere left for her to run and she knows not how to fight--
("But that wouldn't work at all," frowns her best friend. "Broken things can't just be covered up, they have to be fixed.")
--she gives up drawing curtains, and takes to drawing glue instead.
So...iunno. What do you think, I suppose?
It is short and rather rushed. I chucked it together in, like, half an hour, and because I don't take my writing nearly as seriously as I ought to, decided I couldn't scrupled to fix it. I think I have most of the (unintentional) spelling and grammar slips, though. But tenses, now that's another matter entirely.
Title: Drawing Curtains
Rating: G
Wordcount: 347
Anoet: The--er--unconventional, I suppose you could call it, layout was a test and I'm not sure I succeeded. And just so we're clear, the girl isn't supposed to be a caricature of me.
She had very round hazel eyes and pink-rimmed spectacles; a petite figure, and fine brown hair. She caught the 544 bus to school and did well in English. She attended piano lessons on Saturdays and played soccer occasionally. She would not have struck you as a worrisome child.
She liked to draw.
She drew all manner of things--horses, prancing and grazing, through meadows and deserts and mountains and plains; wolves, running and hunting, their eyes so gold they burned; dragons, majestic, soaring through skies of every colour imaginable; swords and staves, dresses and armoury, fairies and goblins and leprechauns; curtains--
she drew so many curtains.
She drew things that didn't happen--her creations didn't exist. Princesses bringing down monstrous dragons or a great and bloody war between elves and dwarves; fantasies, nothing more, nothing that could have been brought into life;
but the curtains she drew were so very
very
real.
She drew them all over her life--
her sorrows--
her fears and insecurities--
her hates and her envies and her needs;
And she shaded them in so very finely and coloured them all alive
so that no-one could see past them and find the cracks in her heart.
And they were lovely curtains--satin and velvet and silk, embroidered in checks and Victorian florals and intricate organic motifs. People remark that she ought to go into the textile industry; she smiles, her lips running like hairline faults across her perfectly broken face.
And one day she draws a person running, fleeing in terror from something unimaginably horrifying; and they run and run until they reach the end of the world and can run no longer; and then she turns around and draws a curtain right across the face of the beast, because what else can she do, there's nowhere left for her to run and she knows not how to fight--
("But that wouldn't work at all," frowns her best friend. "Broken things can't just be covered up, they have to be fixed.")
--she gives up drawing curtains, and takes to drawing glue instead.
So...iunno. What do you think, I suppose?