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Literature Text
'I am the short story writer,' Announced Death, her blue eyes flashing, 'I work only within tragedy and romance, with the crows and the sinners, for they are easier to condemn. Short stories cannot be complicated, though they can be happy. I can unite lovers, and I can separate them. The story of life must be short, sweet, a few careful lines. It must swim with words like nuances, and nacreous, to add flair and a dash of intellectual salt to my inky soup. My characters, my playing pieces, will remain unnamed, so that I run no risk of growing attached and extending their ill-fated tale. Tears must fall in new and original ways. There cannot be any clichés in a short life, for that would be a waste, would it not? Words must be made to dance like music, and sentences have to possess the grace of lyrics, for that is the only way to truly capture a soul.'
Life frowned, and adjusted his mortarboard of clouds, 'If that is the case, then I must be an author of novels. I name my playing pieces, and nurture them as though they are my own children. At night I dream of them, in the day I play with them. Each moment that I am free, I turn my mind to my wordly duties, and try to think of ways to extend their tale, to find their lovers, to win their little quest. I enjoy toying for as long as possible with my chessboard of the printed page.'
Death leant forward, and Life could almost hear the clock ticking in her heart, 'I think we should play a game one day, together.'
Shaking his head, Life said, 'Oh no, my friend, for the game you play is a paper massacre, whereas I prefer to craft an origami Eden. We have very little similarities.'
'I disagree,' Death said, toying with the locked birdcage which formed her ribs, 'I don't think we have similarities at all, you and I.'
'But what of morals?' Inquired Life, his voice was warm for his lungs were filled with golden honey, 'All stories have morals. I daresay even this tale has a moral, though I cannot pinpoint it.'
Death smirked, 'Of course. The moral of this story is –'
Life frowned, and adjusted his mortarboard of clouds, 'If that is the case, then I must be an author of novels. I name my playing pieces, and nurture them as though they are my own children. At night I dream of them, in the day I play with them. Each moment that I am free, I turn my mind to my wordly duties, and try to think of ways to extend their tale, to find their lovers, to win their little quest. I enjoy toying for as long as possible with my chessboard of the printed page.'
Death leant forward, and Life could almost hear the clock ticking in her heart, 'I think we should play a game one day, together.'
Shaking his head, Life said, 'Oh no, my friend, for the game you play is a paper massacre, whereas I prefer to craft an origami Eden. We have very little similarities.'
'I disagree,' Death said, toying with the locked birdcage which formed her ribs, 'I don't think we have similarities at all, you and I.'
'But what of morals?' Inquired Life, his voice was warm for his lungs were filled with golden honey, 'All stories have morals. I daresay even this tale has a moral, though I cannot pinpoint it.'
Death smirked, 'Of course. The moral of this story is –'
Literature
A little bitter, aren't we?
A: Over here.
B: Ah, there you are. Stunning as ever, I see. {He sits down.} You -
A: Shut up.
A WAITER appears, seemingly out of thin air.
A: Black coffee, milk and two sugars.
B: Coke, thanks.
He nods, and vanishes.
A: So what took you so long to show?
B: School. Well, you know how it is; not all of us are completely adept at playing truant whenever we feel like it, you know.
A: It's a waste of fucking time. No-one bothers.
B: No-one you know. And so says the boy sitting sulky in a dark corner with a - frankly dazzling - shiner.
A does not respond, and avoids eye contact, scowling down at the gleaming tabletop. B gives up on wait
Literature
Seventeen (In Phases)
1.
It was because her parents had named her for the grandmother who had broken her mother’s heart. The grandmother whose heart was supposed to have melted from her birth and hadn’t.
That was why her mother barely looked at her. That was why she called her ‘girl’.
That was why she liked to pretend she was the quiet woman in the background of an old black and white movie. Because everything here was like an old black and white movie.
[And if she really looked back, her mother had never appreciated the elegance of the 1950s enough.]
2.
It was because she hated surprises. The surprise she got on her sixth birthday wh
Literature
Writing mental illness (a short guide)
When incorporating mental illness into a piece of literature, the most important tool you need to use is research. This is true whether you want the mental illness to play a large part OR a small one, and it is true whether you know someone with mental illness or not. In fact, it's even true if you have the illness yourself, because no two people are the same, and your character may display different facets to you due to contributing factors like experience and personality.
That said, research is not the first thing you should do, because before you get stuck into that research, you need to look at WHY you want to include mental illness in y
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Umm.
I don't really know the first thing about short story writing. lol.
Hate the Sunday Brain - melt.
© 2012 - 2024 Peghan
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This was excellent! Though I cannot help but see similarities between a short story and a novel. Both, in fact, are works of literature. Despite this, you did an excellent job of highlighting differences. Good work!