Here's a excerpt from the short story I've been slaving away at from my Creative Writing class. Okay, yes, I am being slightly dramatic. I do enjoy the slaving away. I'm looking for constructive criticism on the piece, so I would love it if anyone could help by emailing me with comments. I will continue to post my progress!
A History of Literary Suicides
A BRIEF PROLOGUE
This is a story of love among the suicides. It is a love of misshapen words, the way death falls
cleanly over the mind (years before it slows the pulse), memories of lying under a middle
aged house one stark and crudely drawn evening and life (in the multicolored sense of the
word). Today Sloane will wake up and be many places and many sides of herself at once. She
will transcend herself violently. She will go quietly. She will write an essay that results in
being more autobiographical than academic. She will walk away from the outlines of her life,
down her street, holding the manuscript clutched between her hands like a secret. By the end
of today, Sloane will have slashed her wrists, leaving behind only discreet tattoos of memory
on the skin.
A BRIEF PROLOGUE
This is a story of love among the suicides. It is a love of misshapen words, the way death falls
cleanly over the mind (years before it slows the pulse), memories of lying under a middle
aged house one stark and crudely drawn evening and life (in the multicolored sense of the
word). Today Sloane will wake up and be many places and many sides of herself at once. She
will transcend herself violently. She will go quietly. She will write an essay that results in
being more autobiographical than academic. She will walk away from the outlines of her life,
down her street, holding the manuscript clutched between her hands like a secret. By the end
of today, Sloane will have slashed her wrists, leaving behind only discreet tattoos of memory
on the skin.
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