for my Forms of Creative Writing Seminar every week we have to write a short piece and then have it critiqued by the class. Here is the first draft of my first assignment. A postcard story, just like the one from a couple years ago, where we were assigned the first and last lines and limited to half a double spaced page.
-I’ll be editing this post when the final version is available, and probably putting up drafts of other assignments. Any criticism at all is welcome, even piddly finnicking and niddly picking.-
The cures are no damned good, except for a while. Four months after the operation and it’s like my insides just decided something ain’t to their liking. The docs keep telling me, “It’s normal, Charles. Some people experience mild rejectionary tendencies, but they’ll pass.” Reassuring me. “It’s for your own safety, Charles.” But it’s getting worse. The dull ache I (well, the pills) can handle, but I’m having trouble sleeping and I’m always on edge, no matter how many suppressants I dose. Uncle Harriman (no relation) laughs, “Of course you’re uneasy, Chuck. Someone put a computer inside you.” He vanished into the night four days ago, though (no relation), and no one else sees things that way, or admits it. They just play along (easier that way). I still hit the pubs with my ams (who still get off on staying out 200 seconds past curfew) but every burg I yam and every pint I cram tastes more and more like dust. It’s like there’s a tiny metal snake inside me, gnawing and feeding (“filtering”, they say). Anyway, gotta get going. I’m hungry.
(Updated Sept 16th)
The flow of “The dull ache I (well, the pills) can handle” is a little awkward, I thought — any way you can move “well, the pills” somewhere else in the phrase? Fantastic generally though.