nickyc

Little something I wrote, drunk, while someone was sleeping my bed. I'm in finance, and I'm not a writer, so be nice! Haha... Just kidding, any form of critique would be muchly appreciated, good or bad. Its unedited too, all as it came out at the time.

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He stared longingly at the ashtray, cigarettes butts ejecting in every-which-way direction like some sort of bizarre fungus. Except uglier. The way in which they reared their burnt orange heads was a reflection of something deeper. His inability to ever get around to emptying it, and the collection of dirty ash peppering the desk like a fine moss was an all too distinct metaphor for the greater portion of his life.

"Fuck it" he said, largely under his breath, but audible to anyone within touching distance. It was her again. Always her. "Her" changed occasionally, but despite the exact form of "her", she always managed to crawl into his thoughts. It was nearly 4pm. The old urges were slowly creeping around. Weekends were now a 48 hour period of indistinguishable momentum. Day, night and in between were essentially irrelevant when seven-eighths of the weekend was spent under the influence of something, and daytime was an inconvenience, pent up in a darkened room in front of a screen. Why was it her? What had drawn him so strongly to her?

She was pure. Pure enough. Yet to become so jaded with one’s self-view that she’d lost all hope. He wasn’t. She was drawn to something. That glimmer of good he could show. Same old story. It never changed. Nothing draws them in more than a charity case. Except for a charity case where, deep down somewhere far in their heart, they don’t honestly believe he’s that bad. He was drawn to something. Something he can’t have became something he shouldn’t have became something he had. The hooks were in on both of them. Same old story. Friend’s girlfriend, colleague, best friend, what did it matter...? Labels were unnecessary. He just enjoyed doing what he shouldn’t. Now he was so deep respite was a foreign concept. It played on his mind day and night.

Despite his feelings, he’d been overjoyed when she finally left the previous afternoon. Her company, like most, was a source of savoured pleasure, so long as he was drunk. He woke up the following morning with the usual sense of self-loathing that goes hand in hand with the crash of sobriety. Physical and psychological ugliness grew heavy and all-encompassing as she lay by his side. Why wouldn’t she just leave? Something beautiful didn’t belong in the sea of ash, empty bottles and half-formed goodwill that were his bedroom.

His mind grew back to the ashtray. Unable to bring himself to empty it, gathering an odd degree of satisfaction from every bit of disgusting it represented. There was a reason he surrounded himself with filth. It felt comfortable. Conforming to what his life had slowly become. He slowly placed another cigarette in his mouth, and went to light it. The sun was finally setting. Not long now. It was just a question of what…
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hideaway

I just had a quick read. I think your writing sets the mood in the room very well, beginning with the ashtray, using the word "fungus", and then everything that follows.

The "every-which-way" in the first sentence followed by "The way..." in the second sentence is a little distracting (the repeated use of "way").

The third of your five paragraphs has a great start, but from its third sentence onwards, it is a muddle. I am feeling too lazy to try to work out what it means, yet I had no problems following your other four paragraphs - so you might want to rewrite paragraph 3, and maybe expand it into two paragraphs...

Loulou

The self-loathing is well protrayed with the 'ugly' language. You describe graphically a full circle of self-destructive behaviour, beginning and ending with the ashtray that he cannot empty. I liked this ashtray symbolism, refer to it more.

I agree with Hideaway about the 'messy' third paragraph. Confused by point of view here. Is this her thought of her, or his?

If this all came out as is then as a raw thing it's great - and editing could make it even better.

Did you show it to the person in your bed?

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We rarely buy unsolicited manuscripts, but my editor and I thought that this was a superior piece of fiction - Sunday Express magazine

cacafire

It's really not bad for something that just flowed out of your mind. The prose could use a little sharpening and clearing up, though. Still, when one thinks about it, this little tidbit is more a character analysis than an actual story(i.e. exposition, climax, resolution).

You have a very deep, interesting character, and you have a symbol, which is good. But you have no plot, which is bad. So, instead of having him just sitting there, looking at an ashtray, have his girlfriend ring the doorbel. Have her waiting patiently outside his ramshackle houses, and show him leaping from his bed, eager to see her again. Now you have a plot. Why is she there?

Maybe she was attacked. She was attacked in an alleyway, and is now seeking refuge at the Altar of *main character*.(What IS his name, anyway?)

This is brimming with possibilities, because a good character can go anywhere. The trick is to just make something happen, and the plot will pop into place. The hard work is already done, now you get to use your imagination.

I see you're new, by the way. Welcome to the forums, Nicky, and thanks for reading the *before you post*.
-Cacafire

-Cacafire

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Critique my pieces, and I'll gladly return the favor: Mita of the sky: II, Gloving_Country, Shared Qualms(check this one out!), Gloving country-II, , Capoeira, Father and Son, Silence Come, The Lad I Knew