Hey. I'm somewhat new to the forums. I would very much appreciate it if you took the time to read my story, and critique. This is pretty significant due to the fact that I am currently compiling a manuscript of my work that is to be judged and will determine my acceptence to the NJ Governer's School of Art. Soo, be as brutal as necessary. Thanks so much. I remember staring solemnly at my grandmother’s face during mass that morning. Gentle teardrops rolled down her plum colored, wrinkled cheeks as I, a timid child, tightly grasped onto her thin, fragile hand. She was my father’s mother, an elderly, mute woman of 93 years. The morning sun shone brilliantly through the stained glass windows. Dreary shades of scarlet and crimson weaved through her ashen colored hair as exposed dust particles drifted about in oblivion. I was deafened by her silent screams of intense heartache and rage, though her delicate appearance obscured her harrowing outcries. “Mrs. Anderson,” whispered a kind, familiar voice, “I’m here now, you let me know when you’re ready to leave. I’m right here.” The young woman warmly smiled at me, and placed her gentle hand upon my grandmother’s arm. Moments after, the silence was shattered by the sounds of her coiling rosary. She opened up my hand in which held ever so tightly onto hers, and placed the silver, emerald studded rosary in my little palm. Her bright, tearing eyes looked into mine for a moment, and through her pain, she forced a little smile, and kissed me goodbye. I was alone in that church for what seemed like days. I sat silently, examining every sound, every vision, and every smell. I watched as the finely polished casket was lifted from a peaceful bed of lilies and carried down the isle. Little did I realize that I had just experienced the last encounter with two of the most significant people in my life. Little did I realize that I had just lost a kind of love and relationship which is irreplaceable. The next morning I awakened to the screaming sounds of frenzied tea kettles and roaring hairdryers. I lazily rubbed my eyes with my fists as I recollected a dream of empty fields and fiery skies. “Mady!” shouted an unpleasant, familiar voice. I pulled my fluffy faded pink covers over my head. Not an ounce of life in me sought to face the day. A sharp sound of angry footsteps approached. A long tan limb with flaming red claws, and flashing gold chains snatched my poor blanket and tossed it furiously off of my bed. “Madeline, now!” I stared expressionless at the irritable creature. I wondered if there was possibly a hint of serenity in her cold dark eyes. Overwhelmed by an eerie, sickening feeling to my stomach, I came to the ceaseless conclusion that there was not. I sat miserably in a tiny, cluttered office with my Jumbo Coloring Book on my lap as Sheryl, my beastly bed wrecker, and an old peculiar man sorted about paperwork which my father had left for us. Their constant bickering infuriated me. They frequently mentioned my name along with inherits which apparently my father left behind as well. I was coloring ever so neatly a picture of a brown cat upon a purple fence, and didn’t pay much regard to their frivolous conversation. “Now,” groaned the tired old man, “about the girl.” Sheryl glanced over at me with that doltish sun burnt face and that wild motley mane. “I guess she’s up for grabs now, huh?” “If you’re referring to adoption, Ms. Anderson, the option is always available.” The man swiftly shot back. “We’re only assuming that you would seek the legal custody of the child. Besides Madeline herself, you are in fact the last remaining Anderson. For God sakes, you’re her only tie to the name, he was your brother!” Sheryl quickly looked to the floor, and from there, her fiendish eyes wandered to the top of the man’s desk. She carefully observed the documents lying about, bit her bottom glossy red lip, and murmured under her breath, “The girl stays with me.” I spent the next few tedious years aloof, neglected, tending to my own needs as my relationship with Sheryl, or lack thereof, seemed to have diminished throughout the years. Looking back, I realize how unmindful I was to all that dear Sheryl had done for me. Granted, it was quite often when I was left alone all night, afraid, wondering where she could be, or if she had forgotten about me. But I did not forget those evenings when she managed to heat up a whole can of Spaghetti-O’s just for me. Sure, she paid absolutely no regard to my school work, my early interest in art, or my elementary social detachment. But, she always managed to spare a few extra dollars for pencils and notebooks here and there. She often forgot about my birthday, neglected to pay the electric bills on time, left meager food in the house, and barely spoke of her whereabouts. Nevertheless, how kind it was of her take me under her benevolent wing. One evening, as the sun began to set, and the glare of the streetlights beamed down tracing my shadow along the dusky sidewalk, I glanced over at an old woman gently cradling a weeping child. Profound thoughts of my own tears and sorrow flooded my mind. I certainly was not ignorant to the fact that the neglect I have suffered could put Sheryl in for a serious punishment, and there was no doubt in my mind that she deserved it. What made me so strong through all of those lonely nights? Why did I often keep myself from dwelling over my parents? What made me deal with all of the ridicule and emptiness I suffered throughout life? I forcefully pushed through the tight front door to my apartment building, sorted through the mail, and slowly allowed these questions to drift back to my sub-conscious. I cleared my bed of text books and laundry, and changed out of my clothes for the day. It was silent in my small room; I could clearly hear the noise from televisions in neighboring apartments. A distinct creaking sound came from the hallway outside my bedroom door. I knew it was Sheryl. Although I was surprised to hear her home so early, only 11:00, I quickly turned my lamp off, and jumped into bed. As I lie awake, the pale moon smiling at me, lighting the darkened, untouched fields of my mind, I began to feel a sense of identity and comfort. Staring off into the vague distant stars that brightened the twilight sky, I began to feel as though I was meant to see that weeping child. There were nights when I felt like shouting at the world for everything they didn’t know, everything they didn’t see, and everything they didn’t understand. I knew no one would really listen, though. Perhaps that is why I kept away. Perhaps the fear of eternal isolation and misinterpretation was too great to bear the risk of crying out for help. It didn’t matter much to me anyway, or so I made it seem. As I sluggishly dozed off, I was startled by a slamming door, and a violent scream. “You don’t even say hello to me! You don’t even say…” Sheryl, disgustingly intoxicated, trampled groggily into my room, knocking several books and paintings off of my desk. “I can’t believe I have to come home to see you every night! You know what you’re like?” She said as she crossed her arms and stood as steadily as possibly. “You,” Sheryl deviously murmured as she pointed her long fingernail at me, “You’re just like Pete.” She viciously slurred. I stepped back, and contained my tears as best as I could. “And you know what, Mady?” I turned away from her, fearing her next bash, “I hated Pete just like I ha…” Her eyes rolled for a split moment, and she collapsed right in front of me. I fell to my knees, bursting with tears and emotion, feeling as though I was drowning in anger, resentment, and abhor toward the world. I didn’t know what to do with myself or with Sheryl for that matter. Peter was my father’s name. Never did she mention him and I in the same sentence before, let alone compare us. I grabbed her long, thin arms and dragged her out onto the living room floor, and furiously slammed my door shut. I glanced across my room and noticed the corner of a canvas peering out from under my bed. I hastily sorted through my desk for supplies, and began to paint for hours. Piece after piece I painted, each one so unique, but all a product of my sweltering feelings. I felt as though with every brush and every image created, I was pouring out my emotions, making them clearer than ever before. It was honestly the most incredible, inconceivable experience in my life. I finally fell asleep that night. I haven’t had such a peaceful slumber since before my father’s death. Days went by, and everything eventually fell back into place. I tended to myself as usual, and Sheryl was off again doing her own thing. I often enjoyed submitting my art into local shows, although it wasn’t particularly recognized. After that night, my room was covered wall to wall with bright, vibrant paintings. I felt as though I needed to share the energy with others, so I signed myself up for a local art show on a Thursday afternoon in the library. I was casually strolling along, observing fellow amateur artist’s work when I accidentally walked into another observer. In my right hand, I held the silver, emerald studded rosary that my grandmother gave me years ago. I often carried it along with me, especially to local art exhibits. “I do apologize,” the woman kindly spoke, “I’m running late for a meeting across town, but I’m trying to get a hold on the artist of paintings # 41-52, I believe her name was Madeline Anderson…” She pleasantly continued to describe the extreme emotional vibe in which surrounded these particular paintings. Apparently she was a representative of a highly praised college in which was seeking applicable scholars for the upcoming semester, and she was “terribly interested” in this particular artist. I looked down at the rosary that I had gotten so long ago, smiled gently at the woman I had coincidently met, and continued to present myself as the artist who she was looking for.
Wow...that's really good. I'm crap at analysing things - only thing I majorly noticed that was wrong was that you spelt aisle wrong (I'm a spelling fanatic )
You obviously like to write and you have a strong narrative sense. You obverse each scene closely and try to vividly recreate it for us. All that's commendable. Your major weakness is an overabundance of adjectives and adverbs. Lean is better. Nouns and verbs are more powerful prose tools so you must choose them wisely. Also avoid adjective noun combinations that merely duplicate what's already inferred. Here's a trick. Take your first paragraph. Circle all the adjectives in it and then read it out loud without them. How does it feel? It's not a crime to include them. It's just that there are- in most cases- better ways of doing it. Good luck!
wow, i was thinking the same thing but b careful your weakness is also your strength u just gotta find a balance...good story, thnx 4 sharing n good luck
