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English Extension One Creative Writing Thread!
bananna:
Hi Elyse!
This is my creative for Ways of thinking- After the Bomb.
I'm not sure if what I've written makes sense or if there are too many time shifts/ flashbacks.
Or, if my ending should be made clearer.
Also, do you see this as a character or a plot based text?
AND (sorry for so many questions) is the bit about the pamphlet confusing? Should I introduce it earlier?
I'm freaking out because I feel like the writing is a bit confusing or I've attempted to portray a conceptually difficult idea haha
SpoilerA gust of wind tousled Valeriya's brown locks as she traipsed along the ill-lit alley. The young woman stood paralysed when she heard deep voices and laughter in the distance. She looked up at the starless night sky—not even the lustre of the moon could break through the impervious mask. She thought back one week—when the darkness signified pleasure...
*
The lights dimmed and the fluttering of Tchaikovsky’s flutes echoed throughout the theatre. Valeriya looked up at her father; he grinned back at her. The curtains revealed a familiar setting; a white tree decorated with candles, and a group of characters lining the stage. The Nutcracker was her favourite show; to watch it with her ever-busy father made it even more special. As the characters leaped on the staccato, Valeriya's leg bounced in time too; as the dancers extended their arms in third position, a smiling Valeriya mimicked them in the balcony.
The ballerinas moved with unbending spines as if they were puppets, wowing the crowd. The sudden diminuendo caused Valeriya to lean onto the railing, anticipating the mice. Instead, gun-wielding men leaped on-stage, and pirouetted.
The crowd was in awe.
Valeriya cocked her head to the right, confused. This isn’t part of the story.
In the fog appeared a dancer with a Kennedy face mask and the expletive ‘Kapitalist’ branded across his chest. The audience chortled; Valeriya felt a black cloud hover ominously over her head. She looked to her father who applauded the genius of the modification, while her fingers tingled, gripping the sides of her seat. Soldiers brandishing bayonets marched forward, battling the Capitalists, while the audience hollered their support of the Red Stars. Valeriya clutched her arms with both hands and cowered into her father’s shoulder. The audience cheered when Kennedy was beheaded, while Valeriya’s stomach dropped.
She shut her eyes and imagined her late mother reciting the bedtime story:
“The nutcracker turns into a handsome prince who whisks Clara away to his kingdom.”
But the nutcracker turned into a communist leader, presenting the ballerina his collection of Capitalists’ heads.
“Snowflakes dance around them and the new prince and princess embrace.”
Blood-red tutus encircled the prince and princess.
Valeriya distracted herself by listening to the conversation of the couple behind her, “How wonderful does that uniform look? Look at the huge flag! We must get something like that for outside the house!”
But what about the dancing? The music…they don’t care.
She wanted to scream and shout at the top of her lungs.
She didn’t utter a word.
Valeriya knew Communism was the right way—father told her and he never lies! But no one even watched the dance—they watched the politics.
*
Now cowering behind a bench, legs shaking, her life stuffed inside a raggedy backpack, Valeriya felt pathetic.
Should I leave? I must leave!
Why am I doing this? Why not?
I can’t leave. I can.
Valeriya squinted; making out two silhouettes belonging to men with rifles slung across their bodies. They guarded the wall that separated capitalism from communism; private from public. She didn't understand it like she understood dance--she didn't understand anything like she understood dance. All she knew was that her country wanted to restrict her dancing and she needed to escape.
She inched closer, seeing the two figures engaged in conversation. Valeriya locked her gaze on a nearby shrub and scurried to find sanctuary behind it. She steadied her breathing and focussed on being still. Noxious fumes made their way to Valeriya’s nose—Belomorkanal cigarettes. She covered her mouth muffling her coughs as the toxins settled in her lungs. She was reminded of home—the soldiers smoked the same cigarettes as her father. The father who would be disappointed his daughter ran away from her problems. Would he even miss me? The memory transported her to when she was a child…
*
Young Valeriya crept up to her father’s office, a small gift in hand. Some residual smoke hung in the air, shifting like ghosts in the hallway. She heard haughty voices babbling on and hearty, sporadic laughter. For the first time the door was slightly ajar, so she peered into the room full of a party of suited men hunched over a table strewn with papers, cigarettes and cigars. Her father’s distinct voice emerged from the babbling, asking if they should “sparen” a fellow member or accuse him; a chorus of voices imparted their opinions. Valeriya inched forward, causing a creaking from the door. Twenty pairs of eyes met hers. The fuming father plodded to the door, his eyes never leaving the girl. “You know you can’t be in here” his eyes said.
The door slammed shut in her face.
Her dark lashes brimmed with tears; all she wanted was to wish her papa a happy birthday…
*
She didn’t feel safe in the night-time; she never did. Her father always said the capitalists capture young people at night time and make them suffer. Valeriya shuddered…is he right? I don’t see any Capitalists? Did he…lie? No—he can’t lie…he’s papa!
After deliberating for minutes, she decided her father exaggerated the truth.
Valeriya hummed the melodic tune of Copeland’s Orchestral Suite, yearning to dance. She longed the day she could dance to Copeland in front of the world—she had hidden the tapes from her father. But as long as he was a Communist, she would stay dreaming.
She reached into her pocket for a handkerchief, but instead felt a crumpled paper. She unfolded it and instinctively held it against her chest. She scanned her surroundings and opened the pamphlet once again, running her cold fingers over the course, discoloured edges of the letter. She felt the creases, fluffy from being folded and unfolded so many times. The paper was soft to the touch while the words in the slightly worn blue ink hardened her heart. What she held in her youthful hands was a powerful weapon; a priceless weapon; she held the power to end a life. If only she had realised that sooner.
If only she had realised that if she had dropped the pamphlet, someone would pick it up. If only she had realised that that person would be beaten and taken away. If only she had realised how serious it was. If only…
“Begleitien Sie uns,” Valeriya read aloud the only words on the pamphlet which was littered with Capitalist symbols. She scoffed; why would I want to join you? So, you can fight with another country and destroy my art? So you can make my country think its citizens are turning against them?
Valeriya shuddered at the thought of her actions costing someone’s freedom, or even life. That was why she had to escape.
She was being robbed of her life—robbed of her freedom to dance.
Valeriya shoved the decrepit pamphlet back into her pocket and sighed. She looked up; and saw the two soldiers deeply engaged in conversation. She spotted a dingy area hidden by a heap of rubbish. It was close to the guards but she had to move soon. Valeriya took a deep breath, stretched her legs, and scampered to the spot. The putrid odour of rotting scraps stained her clothes and the darkness engulfed her.
She felt as vulnerable as she did the day she tried to make a difference; the day she tried to change the world. When the lilting strains of Clair de Lune played and Valeriya swiftly leaped and performed multiple pirouettes on pointe, emphasising her precise landing with strong arms and elegant upper body movement. When she pushed the gun away and picked up flowers instead. When the thing that motivated her were the voices telling her the French styles and composers were inferior, that we use our prowess as dancers not for its beauty but for Communism—for politics. When her final fouette ended Valeriya’s routine and she concluded with reverence, and as her chest rose and fell, the throng of spectators stayed silent. The darkness engulfed the frail light pointed towards her just as the night continued stealing the light. When the silence lingered in the air, when her father rose in disgrace and the whispers grew to loud conversation. When she felt like a white skull, eaten by weedy greens. When someone shouted “Kapitalist!” and shortly afterwards, the entire audience began to chorus.
Valeriya yearned the freedom to choose what music to listen to and what style to dance in. She yearned emancipation from politics. She yearned the West.
Valeriya stayed behind the rubbish heap, remembering her father’s disappointment. Remembering the way he looked at her, and the way he spat on her. Remembering that as the night wore on, a much deeper, chilling darkness wrapped around her and recalling how she felt as though she were submerged in a dark sea, slowly sinking into the abyss.
But, she couldn’t let go of her dream—she couldn’t.
Valeriya stood up.
She ran towards her freedom.
Thank you so much !
Best regards,
bananna
elysepopplewell:
--- Quote from: bsdfjnlkasn on May 26, 2017, 09:18:17 pm ---Hey there!
--- End quote ---
Hey! I'm genuinely really sorry, I've never left a post unmarked for this long before, I didn't even see it I swear! It's only now a new creative has been posted that I've seen it. Would you still like this marked? Have you got an updated version? Apologies times a thousand, I really am so sorry!
bsdfjnlkasn:
--- Quote from: elysepopplewell on June 18, 2017, 07:04:54 pm ---Hey! I'm genuinely really sorry, I've never left a post unmarked for this long before, I didn't even see it I swear! It's only now a new creative has been posted that I've seen it. Would you still like this marked? Have you got an updated version? Apologies times a thousand, I really am so sorry!
--- End quote ---
Hey there :)
Don't worry! I forgot about it too if i'm being honest haha :') I may publish the final version if that's ok with you? I'm sort of experimenting with my narrative voice at the moment and recognise the piece shows barely anything and has very little plot development. I've posted the prompt in addition and would really love to hear some ways I could improve - it was inspired by last years question and I wasn't sure of how to include a character without rewriting a scene from the novel (not exactly, of course). I was wondering if you could tell me whether the guilt comes through and what elements of the story could be enhanced to support this exploration. Like I said, this omniscient third person work is merely a trial and hopefully something I can master so that I don't have to rely on memorising a creative piece for the HSC. It's not anything particularly amazing, just the beginning on some work in style, content and length.
Any feedback would be super appreciated.
Thanks again Elyse, and don't worry - it's been busy for all of us! :D
elysepopplewell:
--- Quote from: bananna on June 17, 2017, 08:24:53 pm ---Hi Elyse!
This is my creative for Ways of thinking- After the Bomb.
I'm not sure if what I've written makes sense or if there are too many time shifts/ flashbacks.
Or, if my ending should be made clearer.
Also, do you see this as a character or a plot based text?
AND (sorry for so many questions) is the bit about the pamphlet confusing? Should I introduce it earlier?
I'm freaking out because I feel like the writing is a bit confusing or I've attempted to portray a conceptually difficult idea haha
Thank you so much !
Best regards,
bananna
--- End quote ---
Hey bananna! I'll point out any parts that confuse me or anything like that! :)
SpoilerA gust of wind tousled Valeriya's brown locks as she traipsed along the ill-lit alley. The young woman stood paralysed when she heard deep voices and laughter in the distance. She looked up at the starless night sky—not even the lustre of the moon could break through the impervious mask. She thought back one week—when the darkness signified pleasure...
*
The lights dimmed and the fluttering of Tchaikovsky’s flutes echoed throughout the theatre. Valeriya looked up at her father; he grinned back at her. The curtains revealed a familiar setting; a white tree decorated with candles, and a group of characters lining the stage. The Nutcracker was her favourite show; to watch it with her ever-busy father made it even more special. As the characters leaped on the staccato, Valeriya's leg bounced in time too; as the dancers extended their arms in third position, a smiling Valeriya mimicked them in the balcony.
The ballerinas moved with unbending spines as if they were puppets, wowing the crowd. I've got some weird imagery here...unbending spines, so I'm thinking they are straight and sturdy. But they are ballerinas, and if they're wowing the crowd they are doing a good job? So I'm not sure if you want me to read that the ballerinas are rigid or fluid? The sudden diminuendo caused Valeriya to lean onto the railing, anticipating the mice. Instead, gun-wielding men leaped on-stage, and pirouetted.
The crowd was in awe.
Valeriya cocked her head to the right, confused. This isn’t part of the story.
In the fog appeared a dancer with a Kennedy face mask and the expletive ‘Kapitalist’ branded across his chest. The audience chortled; Valeriya felt a black cloud hover ominously over her head. Not sure if this is metaphorical or real? She looked to her father who applauded the genius of the modification, while her fingers tingled, gripping the sides of her seat. Soldiers brandishing bayonets marched forward, battling the Capitalists, while the audience hollered their support of the Red Stars. Valeriya clutched her arms with both hands and cowered into her father’s shoulder. The audience cheered when Kennedy was beheaded, while Valeriya’s stomach dropped. I think I want to know more about the audience. There's so much commotion on stage and all I'm really getting is an audience that's agreeing in awe. I'd love to know more about the audience...their sounds, the energy, their faces.
She shut her eyes and imagined her late mother reciting the bedtime story:
“The nutcracker turns into a handsome prince who whisks Clara away to his kingdom.”
But the nutcracker turned into a communist leader, presenting the ballerina his collection of Capitalists’ heads.
“Snowflakes dance around them and the new prince and princess embrace.”
Blood-red tutus encircled the prince and princess.
Valeriya distracted herself by listening to the conversation of the couple behind her, “How wonderful does that uniform look? Look at the huge flag! We must get something like that for outside the house!”
But what about the dancing? The music…they don’t care.
She wanted to scream and shout at the top of her lungs.
She didn’t utter a word.
Valeriya knew Communism was the right way—father told her and he never lies! But no one even watched the dance—they watched the politics. Until I read this sentence I was feeling confused: why are people not riled up more about the fact their dance was hijacked? But now I'm seeing it more clearly -
it's the way of thinking being explored. I'm empathising with this character now more too - she's confused.
*
Now cowering behind a bench, legs shaking, her life stuffed inside a raggedy backpack, Valeriya felt pathetic.
Should I leave? I must leave!
Why am I doing this? Why not?
I can’t leave. I can.
Ok, I think I got lost here because the flashback was so full of action that I couldn't actually remember when and where the protagonist was before the flashback begun. Perhaps this is because the part before the flashback was too short to be significantly framed? I'm not sure.
Valeriya squinted; making out two silhouettes belonging to men with rifles slung across their bodies. They guarded the wall that separated capitalism from communism; private from public. She didn't understand it like she understood dance--she didn't understand anything like she understood dance. All she knew was that her country wanted to restrict her dancing and she needed to escape.
She inched closer, seeing the two figures engaged in conversation. Valeriya locked her gaze on a nearby shrub and scurried to find sanctuary behind it. She steadied her breathing and focussed on being still. Noxious fumes made their way to Valeriya’s nose—Belomorkanal cigarettes. She covered her mouth muffling her coughs as the toxins settled in her lungs. She was reminded of home—the soldiers smoked the same cigarettes as her father. The father who would be disappointed his daughter ran away from her problems. Would he even miss me? The memory transported her to when she was a child…
*
Young Valeriya crept up to her father’s office, a small gift in hand. Some residual smoke hung in the air, shifting like ghosts in the hallway. She heard haughty voices babbling on and hearty, sporadic laughter. For the first time the door was slightly ajar, so she peered into the room full of a party of suited men hunched over a table strewn with papers, cigarettes and cigars. Her father’s distinct voice emerged from the babbling, asking if they should “sparen” a fellow member or accuse him; a chorus of voices imparted their opinions. Valeriya inched forward, causing a creaking from the door. Twenty pairs of eyes met hers. The fuming father plodded to the door, his eyes never leaving the girl. “You know you can’t be in here” his eyes said.
The door slammed shut in her face.
Her dark lashes brimmed with tears; all she wanted was to wish her papa a happy birthday… She only wanted to* sounds nicer in accordance with the tone you've set, I think.
*
She didn’t feel safe in the night-time; she never did. Her father always said the capitalists capture young people at night time and make them suffer. Valeriya shuddered…is he right? I don’t see any Capitalists? Did he…lie? No—he can’t lie…he’s papa!
After deliberating for minutes, she decided her father exaggerated the truth.
Valeriya hummed the melodic tune of Copeland’s Orchestral Suite, yearning to dance. She longed the day she could dance to Copeland in front of the world—she had hidden the tapes from her father. But as long as he was a Communist, she would stay dreaming.
She reached into her pocket for a handkerchief, but instead felt a crumpled paper. She unfolded it and instinctively held it against her chest. She scanned her surroundings and opened the pamphlet once again, running her cold fingers over the course, discoloured edges of the letter. She felt the creases, fluffy from being folded and unfolded so many times. The paper was soft to the touch while the words in the slightly worn blue ink hardened her heart. What she held in her youthful hands was a powerful weapon; a priceless weapon; she held the power to end a life. If only she had realised that sooner.
If only she had realised that if she had dropped the pamphlet, someone would pick it up. If only she had realised that that person would be beaten and taken away. If only she had realised how serious it was. If only…I think the narration gets somewhat childish here. Can you imagine who is reading this story? Imagine
“Begleitien Sie uns,” Valeriya read aloud the only words on the pamphlet which was littered with Capitalist symbols. She scoffed; why would I want to join you? So, you can fight with another country and destroy my art? So you can make my country think its citizens are turning against them?
Valeriya shuddered at the thought of her actions costing someone’s freedom, or even life. That was why she had to escape.
She was being robbed of her life—robbed of her freedom to dance.
Valeriya shoved the decrepit pamphlet back into her pocket and sighed. She looked up; and saw the two soldiers deeply engaged in conversation. She spotted a dingy area hidden by a heap of rubbish. It was close to the guards but she had to move soon. Valeriya took a deep breath, stretched her legs, and scampered to the spot. The putrid odour of rotting scraps stained her clothes and the darkness engulfed her.
She felt as vulnerable as she did the day she tried to make a difference; the day she tried to change the world. When the lilting strains of Clair de Lune played and Valeriya swiftly leaped and performed multiple pirouettes on pointe, emphasising her precise landing with strong arms and elegant upper body movement. When she pushed the gun away and picked up flowers instead. When the thing that motivated her were the voices telling her the French styles and composers were inferior, that we use our prowess as dancers not for its beauty but for Communism—for politics. When her final fouette ended Valeriya’s routine and she concluded with reverence, and as her chest rose and fell, the throng of spectators stayed silent. The darkness engulfed the frail light pointed towards her just as the night continued stealing the light. When the silence lingered in the air, when her father rose in disgrace and the whispers grew to loud conversation. When she felt like a white skull, eaten by weedy greens. When someone shouted “Kapitalist!” and shortly afterwards, the entire audience began to chorus.
Valeriya yearned the freedom to choose what music to listen to and what style to dance in. She yearned emancipation from politics. She yearned the West.
Valeriya stayed behind the rubbish heap, remembering her father’s disappointment. Remembering the way he looked at her, and the way he spat on her. Remembering that as the night wore on, a much deeper, chilling darkness wrapped around her and recalling how she felt as though she were submerged in a dark sea, slowly sinking into the abyss.
But, she couldn’t let go of her dream—she couldn’t.
Valeriya stood up.
She ran towards her freedom.
I think the essence of your story is clear: the setting is understandable, I can follow the ways of thinking, even if the plot gets confusing at times. So like I said, I don't know that I could flip back after the concert because the establishment at the beginning wasn't strong enough. Perhaps you should change narrator between those parts to make it clearer that we are moving between the stages?
Also, just to talk specifically about the ways of thinking - I think there could be a distinction made about politics. So, she says "it's just about politics for them." But I wonder if it's more powerful for her to acknowledge, "It's so much more than just politics to them, it's all they can see" to kind of implicate how blinded they are. At the moment, it's like they've all chosen to be this way. But I personally think they chose to be this way a while ago, and now they're stuck this way, without choice, and it's not just politics, it's their entire life now. I think this will make a stronger contrast between her and "them" - what do you think?
I think when the plot has a little more fluidity between the flashes, the ways of thinking will come to the surface a whole lot more. Let me know if you wanna chat about anything here in particular and happy to do that!
elysepopplewell:
--- Quote from: bsdfjnlkasn on June 19, 2017, 09:18:11 pm ---Hey there :)
Don't worry! I forgot about it too if i'm being honest haha :') I may publish the final version if that's ok with you? I'm sort of experimenting with my narrative voice at the moment and recognise the piece shows barely anything and has very little plot development. I've posted the prompt in addition and would really love to hear some ways I could improve - it was inspired by last years question and I wasn't sure of how to include a character without rewriting a scene from the novel (not exactly, of course). I was wondering if you could tell me whether the guilt comes through and what elements of the story could be enhanced to support this exploration. Like I said, this omniscient third person work is merely a trial and hopefully something I can master so that I don't have to rely on memorising a creative piece for the HSC. It's not anything particularly amazing, just the beginning on some work in style, content and length.
Any feedback would be super appreciated.
Thanks again Elyse, and don't worry - it's been busy for all of us! :D
--- End quote ---
I'm embarrassed this took so long, again! I hope this helps you out :)
SpoilerCompose an original imaginative text that incorporates one of the characters from An Artist of the Floating World and is set in post WW2 Japan. In your piece you are to explore the complex nature of guilt. Your response should reflect your knowledge and understanding of the elective ‘After the Bomb’.
The Shadows
“Perhaps if we hadn’t known of the pleasure district, we could have found pleasure in ourselves” Masuji Ono mused with a reminiscent tone.
He had arrived over the imposing hill and saw the same limp branches of the Sakura trees, slowly emerge over the crest. Their sharp, angular arrangement protruding as though proving themselves worthy of being seen.
The clouds which swirled with reverence, saw their grace swallowed by the jagged battlefield of buildings lying below. The chipped paint on crumbling walls, forced the vibrant canvas above to reduce into a mournful wash of indistinguishable greys. A backdrop for the desolate, only to be seen by the desperate. Beautiful imagery - very delicate. Just what we need. It's smooth yet it packs a punch!
Looking out again, there were the subtleties of age’s elusive fingertips marking the fallen taverns and melted benches with it’s tightening grip. It was a distorted reflection of the Naragaku district Ono had ventured through in the summer of 1953, seeking some intangible desire which led to nothing. And so, he resigned to visit this district in all it’s dissolved beauty, to seek a certain nostalgia that the rest of Japan had failed to deliver. Wonderful.
Of course, there was no one to hear his musings except the wind, which left as quickly as it had come; both conjured by the sea and silenced by it. He preferred to wander out alone, finding comfort in places where others could only see shame. Love this. It was solitude, not loneliness he would assert, but no one could be sure without even a flicker of a question to ask. Perhaps people would always keep to themselves.
Approaching the remnants of the Tagashi Bar, Ono was met with the disconcerting sight of rubble lying, as if a grave and no longer some dishevelled heap of concrete. It had fallen with intent, surely knowing the destruction it would lay on those who had committed decades to it’s memory.
Turning away, as though the sight was the sun, he bowed his hat and ventured on, shielding the whips of dust from his sombre eyes.
Seeing a flailing poster suffer on the floor, Ono stooped down to collect its frail edges. Torn, the bright red graphic had seen it’s colour fly with the relentless sun beating of summer days. The rising flag may have deserved it’s beating, but it was the the scattered rays along the sheet that could only conjure despair. Spanning the page, their distorted colours were surely unrecognisable to the men who would have hung it upon a board with distinct purpose.
It was the youth now who could have stood, for all intents and purposes, as the next Hirohito with their pride and direction, but would only manage to deliver a distortion of arrogance and spite. Enough to convince a laughing audience to laugh harder, it was these same men who, having seen so little, would seek to convince the world of their wisdom. And, if there was one thing that lent their pride a tone of the inauthentic, or rather invented, it was the swiftness with which they went to dismiss the foundations of any truth in Japan’s own pride. The same image on the leaf as it was always intended – uncorrupted and clean.
Turning to face the town he had sought to leave, he heard a faint cry call: “Ono!”
Forgetting the dust which encircled and sneered at his eyes, Ono released his grip almost as quickly as the sense of recognition had consumed him. It had always been the same but the compulsion was enough to feel, to be real. This rhyme allows this last sentence to really resonate wonderfully.
“Kenji!” He quickly reverted, his exclamation quickly reducing to a choked sob.
***
Kenji was opening a bottle of Sake as he kneeled onto the tatami, “Chichi, there have been some disputes at work, over the -” he trailed off, seeing Setsuko return with the full tray.
Coming into Ono’s view she muttered a quick apology, as though trying to preserve the silence. Placing the tray down, she held onto the encaging silence before realising the equal dangers of action and inaction. Left with nothing else, she bowed her head.
Feeling some sympathy, Ono nodded, giving her permission to leave and so forgiving the rude intrusion. Hearing the tap of the wooden frames against one another, Ono turned his gaze towards Kenji who was expectantly holding out the glass with both arms outstretched.
“You were saying …?” Ono prompted grabbing the glass.
The tension hung in the air like the floating nobori boasting bold swishes of calligraphy. Begging to be heard but standing delicately in the corner, the work could only ever be uncovered at the discretion of those in the room. Its message silenced but insistent.
“Oh, it’s no pressing matter.” He darted his gaze, hastily raising the glass as if according to some, strict agenda.
“Tell me about your recent work” Kenji led, passing a smile as if spontaneous, exciting even.
“Well, as you know I have been working on a few pieces with our nation’s future in mind. It’s been busy, but Torikosan and I have already sent a print in to be reviewed.”
“How exciting” Kenji mused feeling an immediate flush of relief. Whether it was the sake’s or his own he could not know.
The swift diversion to Ono’s life made Kenji feel glad, he hadn’t asked the question and felt no need to bring it up again.
“It was designed with great expectations, a symbol for the effort and spirit growing each and every day. Japan…” he trailed, directing Kenji’s towards the sliding shoji. The softness of his voice concealed a harsh scorn captured by the unexpected silence, one he hoped Setsuko would hear.
The faint outline of her body pressed forward, peeked from the corner of the room where the shoji began to cross their periphery. Barely decorated, she might as well have walked past the entire room and for Ono’s timidness, earned the same silent drift and stare. Both kneeling men were at least content knowing that she had in some way been honest, and revealed herself. These last three words aren't making sense to me: and revealed herself? I don't think it makes sense with the syntax. Maybe I've read it over so many times that I'm making it more confusing than it needs to be, I'm not sure. "And so she revealed herself" maybe? I'm not sure what you're trying to say. Their business, although necessarily private was a matter of the nation and a shield of pride. Whether they would direct it at her or show her the handle, they wouldn’t have to consider as time had already passed, allowing Setsuko to escape. It was easier that way, she decided and they could only pretend to have allowed it. It was only the beginning, perhaps she could have known for some time. He hadn’t told Kenji everything but a glimpse was often enough in the confines of the four walls they claimed their own.
***
The days of the war had begun to fall into the back draws of every mind wise enough to become blind to pain.
Memories would often appear to Ono and assault his thoughts, he knew years had gone by yet it was more likely that decades had slipped by unacknowledged. The sight of desolation began to flood in like the light which fought against the smoke-grey clouds floating above. They had warned him against approaching the floating district with the scars still fresh, but it seemed to him that the painless had somehow forgotten what pain was. It would never heal, only hopefully fade and if not, distort with new decades of memories.
What an absolute pleasure to read - the writing is gentle, yet it really brings a lot to the surface. I think the way you've handled the narration is stellar. It's smooth, sophisticated, and gives juuuust enough information to the reader. I'm obsessed with your writing style. A few times I read the same paragraph over because I wanted to absorb every word again. What leaves me puzzled is a little part of the plot - mainly the third last paragraph. I'm confused by the female figure and what she stands for? The way she is described is almost erotic, but I can't grasp exactly why she's being portrayed this way. Her body was pressed forward, and she revealed herself. This kind of erotic imagery has confused me and her place in the story. Don't get me wrong, it was a pleasure to read for it's creative merit, but the plot became a little bit cloudy for me at this point, and it became harder to follow the ways of thinking. On this note, can you identify the ways of thinking that you've either thoroughly explored or only just touched upon? I'd be interested to know if we think the same ways of thinking are being addressed.
Overall, an amazing piece that's almost where it needs to be for the top band. You should be very proud of this project!
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