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Author Topic: Monolouge for show. Does the language work, any other advise accepted (989)  (Read 2440 times)

Offline connorboy

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Connor:Strangest thing really, not eating. I donít know why models do it. If they just have some self-control they wouldnít gain weight. I donít want to take it out on them but they are lucky to eat, lucky to have somewhere to lie down. Best I get is that decent bench in the park, if it isnít taken by some dewy-eyed lovers. There we are again, Iím sure they have a nice home with a comfy couch to sit on, why do they take from me the best I have? Heh, strange really, these rich people. By rich I donít mean the people with big houses and pools andÖ andÖ Villas? I mean the people you see every day the ones that complain about their lives and how they are hard done by. I bet none of them have ever had to fight with a seventy year old man over some old spaghetti just to stay alive. None of them have to ball up newspaper and put it under their clothes to stay warm. I wonder what its like to be warm all day. I know it gets hot in summer but thatís not really warm. Sure my body feels warm but when I see the dirty alleyways, the rubbish on the streets I live on, I feel cold. A nice meal, warm, freshly prepared and entertainment more than chasing a rat away from your bed. Someone to come home to. That is warm.
I always wanted to own something, like a business. I always felt I had the nature for that kind of stuff. I even sit in the city and I listen to the business men talk. I mimic them and practice in the mirror in the public toilets. A few people have asked if I needed a lift back to the asylum. I stopped talking like I used to, all that rough and lazy talking made me look bad, and people wouldnít listen to me, so I adopted this way of speaking so people would actually listen to me. Itís not like I can learn at school, sixteen years old and never been in a proper school. Unless you count pre-school; after that dad lost it. He drank every night, got into fights and gambled his life away. We lost the small house we had and dad lost his job. Drank him self to death, stupid git. I always asked mum what happened to him? Why he did that to us? She never answered me. All she says is ďyour father was good to meĒ. I donít see how he was; she always had a black eye or a bruise somewhere else.

I was hungry this morning. That woman didnít need her loaf of bread, she had plenty of other things to eat, she didnít look like she needed it anyway. It was too easy to get it away from her too. She put her bags down to get her key for her car, the bread was just sticking out of the bag, beckoning me. I ran past her and grabbed it as I went past. She screamed something at me, I didnít listen, called me something. Mongrel or something like that. She called me mongrel, sheís the one gorging herself and letting her fellow human beings starve, letting some people just like her, significantly smaller than her mind you, but like her none the less, letting them live out in the extreme, praying for dear life to not die during the night. Mum died during the night two years ago. The gun shots woke me up. All the praying in the world couldnít have saved her. I guess itís cause we donít go to church on Sundays. They never let us in, they say they have some good will thing that helps us people. Where are these good will people? I never see them.

People just seem to not see us, out here, where they walk everyday. Their heads too high in the clouds to see how the rest of the world lives, too high to see how their selfishness makes people like me live in the gutter, where the bricks are my bed and the wind is my comb. I should get angry at them, Iím sure Iíd be the same. I think I was, back when I didnít live out here. I think I still want to be like that, I just donít have enough money to do it. I guess we all just look after ourselves. Stuff the world as long as youíre happy. The needs of the many never outweigh the needs of you. Mum wasnít like that. She cared for me and dad. She always put us first, and as long as we were happy she didnít care how she felt.

I loved my mum, and she loved me. I canít help but feel it was my fault she got killed. She owed money to these people; I told her she needed to get a job to start paying them back, just start so that they wouldnít do something drastic. She told me she was looking for a job everyday and I believed her, until I saw her drinking in a bar. I would have got a jobÖ No one wanted to hire a fourteen year old boy who smelled like god knows what and isnít in school. I knew things were getting bad when men in suits kept asking where my mother was. I lied obviously, but I guess they followed me home one night. I woke up to a guy standing over my mum with his gun out, smoke rising, blood mixing with the rain. Then he walked off. I couldnít do anything. I just stayed lying there thinking it was all just some strange nightmare. I was just lying there waiting to wake up. I didnít eat for weeks after that. Strangest thing really, not eating.
Take what is given and twist it to what you need

Offline Kowboy

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Your writing itself isn't all bad, but you are all over the place. In the first paragraph you cover eating, rich people and being warm. In the second, business, insanity and your dad and his death. The third brings us hungry (again), stealing and your mom's death. The fourth paragraph touches on being ignored which somehow seems a repetition of the first, more anger and your mom again. In the fifth we get mom's death details, which you touched on in the third paragraph.

Get a topic sentence for each paragraph and build on it. Put these paragraphs in some interesting and comprehensible order.

Take another shot, I'm interested.