Hallo lieve mensen van het forum ;))
ik zag wat andere leden hun prachtige schrijfkunsten delen. props to them! echt leuk werk en ik zie graag meer voorbij komen!
nu zoek ik kritiek voor een engelse schrijfopdracht. het is een first person short story en heeft geen overduidelijke verhaallijn. mijn doel is om romantiek en een soort rare ongewone tint van horror te mengen.
als iemand kritiek heeft hoor ik dat echt heel graag. ik vind persoonlijk dat het erg herhalend of eentonig is, maar hoor liever tips van andere mensen dan mezelf. ben vaak wat streng op mezelf.
My body ached as the icy, sharp hail pelted me to the ground, burning the open wounds on which it fell. I cringed at the sensation. My fingernails dug into the soggy mud between the cement tiles before me. I desperately crawled towards your front door as I tried not to fall apart, if I hadn’t already. Nothing could comprehend how much I desired to feel you. How much I needed you. But despite my best efforts, my legs and arms failed to keep up with my attempts. I remained on the ground with a pathetic grunt and a sputter of drool.
I’m not weak, my dear, I promise. The world pushed me to be vulnerable. I’ll be vulnerable for you. I’ll dig a grave for us both to cower in. A small coffin dug under the dirt where you press the warmth of your body against my tired corpse. Longing for your loving warmth was enough to keep me crawling. My mumbling begged for you. I didn't want you to see me like this, but dear heart, I was miserable. I couldn’t keep my heart from throbbing out of my chest. Not when I think of you, when I’m insane over you, when I'm all bloody and gross for you. I love you.
The perfect darkness of the night was disrupted by the broken streetlight, flickering its yellow light over the sidewalk behind me. It eerily winked over my body as I managed to throw myself a step further, balancing myself on my wobbly arms and knees. I wasn’t sure why I was shaking like that. My physical state, the cold- perhaps it was you making me weak in the knees. I didn’t care for a reason, though. I couldn’t. I was frightfully overwhelmed with all the feelings and sounds punting me to the ground. My teeth kept crashing together, chattering while I repeated your sweet name, the wind whistling past my ears paired with the hail. It almost felt poetic. I am but a bruised and desperate man with blood shivering through the hairs on his body pathetically crawling and crying out to his beautiful, saintlike lover. God, I adore our delicate dynamic. All my strength and will is bound to your name.
I was so incredibly close. Your front porch was presenting itself as the holy ground for my filthy sins to spill over. A little heaven where all hell broke loose, like all hell always does. My dear, can’t I have a little more heaven with you? I'll earn it by the sweat of my brow. When all cattle drop dead, I’ll cut myself up sloppily and paint your door red with my lamb’s blood, pleading God to keep your blessed heart from the wicked mask of death, albeit insane. I know exactly what I want, dove, and I know you love my deranged mind.
I didn’t want to die. Not yet. Only under the skies that you blessed for me. Dear heart, I was trembling in agony, spiraling down into insanity. We were mad. I love you for that. I could only think of what made me love you. Maybe because of the wine in my veins scourging my brain for the cataclysm I brought upon us. It was strumming me crazy to the point where my blood felt like an invitation to savour your name with my final breath. My whine turned into a howl as I reached your pretty porch, for the night would portray your darling face. My nails scratched along the planks bringing unholy to the wood, and as I crawled I realised that the moon must be jealous of you. Everything looks like you, no matter its sin or glory, you’re all my beautiful desire and all my evil greed. And so my greed and desire entwined with my bones, which probably broke when I thumped my entire body against the front door. I made it. After I crawled for you and you filled me with all kinds of fervour, I reached my inevitable demise. You’ve got my whole world in your hands. Don’t you worry, honey, if I fall, I’ll show you my good side, that’s the least you deserve.
Resting my back against the white door, I feared the notion that my masochistic rapture blinded me from clearly seeing how miserable and awful I looked and felt. My sight was oddly blurred, and I wanted to swat it away like a group of pesky wasps. Still, my vision refused to focus. I felt somewhat scared. I never reached death. In my nightmares, I always woke up before dying. I wanted you to awaken me, my dear. Wake me up to breathe, to see what I’ve become. You’re my Atlas, and I pray what I’ve become isn’t weight. I'd be afraid you’d throw the planet away. I felt stupid. Everything I thought felt stupid. However, I soon felt nothing but the beating of my hopeless little heart.
At least it was still beating. It beat irregularly. I despised that. That was not reassuring at all. I squinted my eyes, only to notice my heavy eyelids had already fallen shut. My body felt like white noise. I forgot how to panic. I strained to hear something- anything- over the pounding of my heart. Dear heart. My dear. Darling. I could only wish for you to open that damned door, love. I wanted to smile for you. Please open the door. I wetly gasped and rolled my broken body to the ground. While my world crumbles down, I crown your porch the final sea I sailed.
Er is meer maar ik vind dit zelf genoeg materiaal.
(Ik zoek KRITIEK, iets waar ik wat mee kan, niet een nutteloze opmerking zoals "wat bagger". leg uit waarom het bagger is.)