Altamore

And I was there, leaned against the wall, bleeding against the wall, of the Fhredt Gin Station.

I still smell the blood. The gun powder. Even though they took my sight, and my voice, I can still accurately depict every moment of those days. I've seen things I hope nobody ever has to. Women and children, tortured. Barbed wire strung between their legs. Fingers and toes cut off. Have you ever seen a man have his own eyes carved out, and been forced to eat them? I have.

You learn to lean on your ears more than anything, when your other senses have betrayed you, fled fom you in fear, cowards. The slight grinding noise of the rails was present, moving farther and farther up the spectrum. Echo. The flickering of the lights got more intense as the train engaged. I could hear their buzzings. Passangers seemed to flood toward the border of the platform like a school of fish. People-fish. So unaware of the world around them, to stuck in their own minds to realize that there are people that suffer from right beneath them.

"Thank you." I nodded my head as the change hit the bottom of my empty bottle. No real words came out, mainly due to the fact that, my vocal cords had been removed. Non-surgically. Really, I wasn't even sure if they had dropped change in, or taken some out, but I didn't really care, or have to energy to reach down off my hardly solid home. A bench desperately need in repair. What could an old, blind, mute do with money anyways. "Death come swift, for no longer do I fear you, I fear myself, what I am."

Several minutes had past, the fish had entered the stream, and were on their way to the coral beds of corporation. Economy, dreaful word, one that changes lives in an instant; fueling our hatred and our passion. The rainbow of sound had dimmed, to the coughing of the homeless man huddled in the corner, and the sipping of his rum. Often I wondered if he had chosen this fate, like I had chosen mine. Often I wondered if they forgot about him, like they forgot about me, a lot changed because what we did, a lot.

Voices. At first I thought I was going crazy, I prayed I was going crazy, then It'd be done, and I wouldn't have to deal with this shit any more. But no, I was perfectly sane. I could hear them skipping a long the tracks, careless evil. It was a party no more than 6 men strong, no, a young lady's voice. It was only 5 men strong. Approaching towards the platform. They do this every friday, they run around the tunnels like rats, getting into everything, then they find some poor person to pick on. After that they usually find a nice, desolate corner to smoke up in, then proceed to be louder. You have to be gentle with these ears.

They jumped and climbed up on the platform, one by one.

Vixen

I guess I just don't understand. What did this man survuve? Where is this Station, I do not know the name. Please give a little background

Chris

It's hard to critique this piece because there seems to be not hint at a story or direction, where is this going? Or, what would you like commented on?

I assume our narrator is a homeless man (woman?), who has been tortured to a point where he cannot speak or see. He appears to have a death wish, or a desire for something that will allow him to give up on life.

I like how you write. I like that this narrator has a voice, has an opinion, a past etc. He is someone we can sympathise with. Your description about barb wire and eating eyeballs was also quite good and shocking which is what I guess you're going for. I like how the narrator speaks to us, I always like that kind of approach, although I guess it's inevitable when dealing with first person. Your imagery is nice, I thought the fish swimming to the coral beds of corporation was neat.

What you have here is nice to read, but constantly throughout I was going "...and?" I look forward to seeing where you take this guy.

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"...Biting my truant pen, beating myself for spite:
Fool! said my Muse to me, look in thy heart and write. - Sir Philip Sidney

bobothegoat

There's just something wierd in this sentance that confuses me...

These two senstances should be one as the second is a fragment. Replace it with a comma to show that the "home" is being renamed as a bench in need of repair. That's the second thing. I think you meant "A bench desperately in need of repair.

Obviously unfinished, but is a good start nonetheless . If it wasn't 80 degrees at 1:00 in the morning here I might be of more assistance too you...

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Bobo the Goat

Gulf Whiskey

Altamore,

I will start off by praising your metaphors. Most of them were very well written and well enjoyed, but I question the logic of them.

"Several minutes had past, the fish had entered the stream, and were on their way to the coral beds of corporation. Economy, dreaful word, one that changes lives in an instant; fueling our hatred and our passion."

This is a neat metaphor, but what exactly are you trying to describe and link to what I think is a group of stoners running into a tunnel to toke up? Where does corporation and economy come into this exactly? I am confused.

I can see you have good writing skills and I like the idea of writing from the perspective of a homless man, but what is the plot?

I also have never been a fan of writing in the first. The only time I ever wrote in the first was when I scribed a short story in diary format. To me, first person just makes me lose my interest. The problem I see for you with this is that it seems as though you rotate between first and third. If you are in first person the whole time, why would a homeless man think of such metaphors and if semi-intelligent is he there?

Good writing skills, but I need more. This doesn't seem like much of a story at this point, but it could be very well done with some work.

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