Short Stories of Nanna's

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Short Stories of Nanna's

Post by Burnin' Bunnies on 28th November 2014, 11:15 pm

Hello~! Here you may find me posting a few stories I've written, mainly little English class assignments or something, maybe a scene or two of non-developed stories I may have. Feel free to--no. That's not right. GIVE ME ADVISE. I'm begging you, I want to be good...

Quick formatting in order to keep things clean.
Title or description of the piece
Reason and/or Class, followed by grade
A spoiler containing the story with an idea of how long the piece is

To get the ball rolling, here's my most recent story I've created.


Burnin' Bunnies in the RR wrote:When I finish up typing up my 3rd draft for an AP English assignment, would anyone be interested in reading it? It's a story I wrote--the theme was "A Day in the Life of an Inanimate Object" and we could do whatever we wanted as long as it was at least 537 1/2 words, or something like that. :)

A Day In the Life of An Inanimate Object
AP English class, Grade 11

um, this is 1590 words long, so...it might take a few minutes.:

The day the light disappeared was a long time ago. I had been in the left hand of a grand man-I know he was grand because of the words he would write. Words of strength, of a world long past, of the tyranny he despised.  Those words were never published; they were just the musings of a wise, old soul. The other words we wrote, of fantastical worlds and happy endings, those were shared with the populace and loved by many. The happiness and hope in which he disguised himself could not be penetrated, but I knew what was happening. It was becoming harder for him to write those stories of imaginary origin. In those last days, I often saw him with tears in his eyes as he struggled to write, trembling with the effort of remaining hopeful. I do not know why, or what was happening in the world to cause such grief and despair, but I do know it had something to do with me.
They day they came to drag him away, to torture him, to punish him for an unspoken and nonexistent crime, he saved me from some terrible fate. He had been writing at the time, and when we hear the shouting voices and slamming doors, he pushed me and the paper he had been writing on. I was shoved behind the desk, clattering to the floor as the door burst open, but the papers had been unable to finish the journey. As men ran into the room, confiscating any art and writing utensils in sight, they snatched those precious papers. Scanning them, they started shouting at the man and shredded the work to pieces. Though he was silent as they bullied him with piercing slaps and heavy kicks, I still remember his screams of anguish at the destroyed writing. His voice had been torn with the paper.
That night a bonfire raged in the city, fueled by paintings, books, and many of my kin. I do not know what had happened to my owner after he had been pushed out of the apartment, but there had been sorrowful sobs in the streets for many months as the same fate took other great people and their tools of joy.

I am not sure how many years I have rested here in darkness, but I will continue to wait until someone finds me. It is interesting to me, my desire to see light, when I know that if I am found I will be destroyed, and that great man’s last act of rebellion would have been in vain. So, for now, I will continue sitting behind this desk, gathering dust and dreaming for a better day.

Sounds. Are my senses deceiving me? I thought I heard a door. No, it must be my imagina—wait, no! That was definitely real! I heard a footstep, no doubt about that. Yes, I hear a few steps walking about in the parlor downstairs, and, is that…? Yes! Voices! Only murmurs down in the entry, but voices all the same. What could they possibly be here for? Why am I so excited? I doubt they will find me, and even if they do, would that not mean my certain demise? And yet I feel…hope? Is this that feeling that that great man so desired to instill in others while he himself faltered? What if—the steps. They are coming up the staircase. Once they reach the landing, they need only open the door, and they will find the desk of that great man. They will find me. Oh, no. Oh no no no. No, calm down. They could not possibly find me without moving the desk.
The door to the room creaked open. So we have been discovered. The steps have entered, and voices are commenting on the state of the room. There are five in total, three men and two women. They all sound harsh and elite, just like those men who ran in so long ago. “There’s the desk. Let’s get this over with,” that was one of the women. Two sets of feet walk closer.
“We’ll take care of the bed,” one of the men agrees, and gruffs of approval sound from the two other men. So this is what it has come to. I will be found and destroyed. Whatever terrible things these people are up to, I hope it is swift and simple. Just let things be over. Do not let the suffering continue.
“You grab that end and I’ll take this one,” the other woman says. So they have finally reached the desk. A pair of footsteps circles around, arriving at the end I am closest to.
She places her hands under the top edge and shuffles her feet into a better position. She grunts with effort as she explains to the other, “I am not made out for this type of labor. I’m a Publisher, not a Field Worker!”
The other woman murmurs, “Weaklings. Grow a backbone! Use your muscles, surly you have some! I hear Publishing really works the upper arm, what with that huge machinery and all. On the count of three, ‘kay?” It is silent for a moment, but the Publisher must have nodded, as the other girl continues, “One…two…three!” Light! The desk is lifted and is being shifted away from the wall, and I see light! As the crack of light grows, I am enveloped and visible, but luckily I have gone unnoticed.
One end of the desk pounds to the floor only a few inches from the wall, “I refuse to do this. It is ruining my fingers for sure!” the Publisher complains. “Get one of your Field Men to carry this thick thing.” She sits down about a foot away from me, dust flying into the air. A disgusted face surveys the immediate surrounds and the coat of dust until her gaze quietly rests on me, snuggled against the wall, unable to do anything.
We stare at each other for a moment, surprised, until she breaks the contact to quickly glance around, ensuring no one else noticed me. Her eyes eventually settle back on me, and multiple emotions swim behind them until one final blink reveals her true feelings—hope. Chills wash through me as I realize what this means. She is not going to report me. She is not going to break me and scream and call me evil.
Panic washes through my being as she reaches out her arm, fingers extended. No no no! Was I wrong all along? I doubt she will even use me for good, like an inspired author, even if that is her plan. She certainly did not seem to be a writing type…
Her fingers finally find me, and I am lifted into her left hand. Immediately my anxiety fades away. She knows what she is doing, and she has what it takes to make an impact, I can feel it. Maybe my purpose will be fulfilled. She quickly hides me in an inside pocket of her jacket, and it is dark yet again. Yet there is warmth, and I can hear the rushed beating of her heart. Somehow this comforts me as she makes her way out of the apartment, the job completed.
I hear a door open and close, along with a drawer quietly pulled open, a rustling, and quietly closed and locked. She reaches her hand in and I am brought out onto her cold metal desk. For a long time we just stare at each other, but then she pulls out a miraculous sight—a piece of paper. Setting it gently on her desk, she picks me up, and, with a trembling hand, writes a single word:
Why?
A tear drops onto the paper, and an odd sense of déjà vu overcomes me. Sure enough, just like before, footsteps scramble up some stairs and the door is kicked open. However, she refuses to let me go. She raises her hands in the air, defiantly displaying my simplicity. Her tears dry in glory as she glares the armed men straight in the eye. How? I wonder. How did they know? How could this have happened? Why are they doing this?
Why am I not afraid?
The brave woman is slapped in the face, and I am snatched from her comforting grip. I am immediately dropped into a bag and everything goes dark again, but I can still hear the muted screams of that woman. That hero.

I am removed from the darkness once more. I will never again have to suffer from black blindness. I am held triumphantly in the air from a gloved man standing on a pedestal. A large bonfire burns below, the flames tickling his heavy boots. In a loud voice he announces to the cameras and crowd, “Behold! The last pencil on Earth. May the abominations of these weapons never again dwell on our magnificent planet!” Cheers rise from the observers, and the sad state of mankind becomes clear to me. These people are already lost.
As I gaze onto the crowds, sorrow fills my being, but as does an odd glory. I survived this long, and I have left an impact. My purpose was met. As the leather grip releases me, I look at the dark night sky. There are no stars to be seen. I am ready to leave this sad plane of existence. Orange and red fills my view as I am bombarded with heat.
I burn in glorious peace.

Please tell me what you think--are there any errors? Does something seem weird or hard to read? Does it make sense? Do you like it?

I personally have mixed feelings on this one. The story concept is intriguing to me, and I like the idea, but I don't think I portrayed it as nice as I would have liked. I need advise. :I

EDIT: OH MY GOSH. THERE ARE NO TABS. WHAT DO I DO, THAT LOOKS SO BAD ;_;
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Re: Short Stories of Nanna's

Post by Truthseeker4449 on 29th November 2014, 12:12 am

I'm not usually one who gives constructive criticism, nor do I usually seek it, but I've got nothing better to do right now even though I'm not very good at this. Please don't take anything I say personally.

So tabbing aside, which I don't see as a big deal anyway, the first thing that stands out to me is the first paragraph's length. I think you should split it into at least two separate paragraphs, perhaps three. Or maybe they are separate paragraphs that are just sitting a bit too close together to be easily noticed. I dunno, I do recommend spacing out your paragraphs for better legibility and consistency.

I’m a Publisher, not a Field Worker!
I'm not so sure this is supposed to be capitalized in this fashion, but I'm not a grammar expert so all I can say is get that bit double checked by one.

I hear Publishing really works the upper arm
Now I'm more much confident in saying this shouldn't be capitalized. But again because I'm not a grammar expert, consult one.

of your Field Men to
Same thing as before.

flames tickling his heavy boots.
"heavy boots" sounds a bit odd to me. My first thought is to use an adjective that conveys heat resistance, though as I consider it more perhaps something more descriptive could be used. And now I am thinking that you could use this moment to better convey the importance of this person to the world. Heavy boots don't exactly imply world leader. I dunno. Descriptive writing isn't my strong suit.


The last pencil on Earth.
I personally would put an exclamation mark instead of a period.

I correctly guessed your subject within a couple sentences. I'm not sure if that works out in your favor or not, but the story in and of itself was interesting to me.


"I heal you, I hurt you.... I heal you again, that's the pattern"
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Re: Short Stories of Nanna's

Post by Lief Katano on 29th November 2014, 12:33 am

Publisher and Field Worker etc. aren't supposed to be capitalized, I don't think. Unless the story takes place in a Giver-esque future.


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Re: Short Stories of Nanna's

Post by Greece on 29th November 2014, 9:50 am

Use your muscles, surly you have some!

shouldn't that be 'surely'?
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Re: Short Stories of Nanna's

Post by Lief Katano on 29th November 2014, 10:05 am

Surely it should be.


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Re: Short Stories of Nanna's

Post by Burnin' Bunnies on 29th November 2014, 3:44 pm

:D Thank you guys!!

-The entire Publisher and Field Worker stuff is, like Lief said, kinda job titles/positions within this distopian kinda society (I've never read the Giver, so I don't know how there's things work and such). I have read 1984 though, and I guess that would be where I got the idea. :I
-I like the exclamation point after the "LAST PENCIL ON EARTH WAHHAHAHAHA" thingy. woot.
-Dem heavy heat resistant boots of some important dude. I'd actually never thought of them to signify a leader figure, but that does fit. Any suggestions on how I could work that out, because the boots are both flame resistant and worn by this important dude...
-That is surely correct, thank you.
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Re: Short Stories of Nanna's

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