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  #1  
Old 04-13-2017, 09:40 PM
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My face has skin that is not like any other skin; not carefully pressed over my bones structure. The skin is mashed-in and lumpy, like a figurine made out of mud by a child who didnít know how to make anything wonderful. The farthest end of one eye droops down, perforated and molded, and l have no eyebrows.

l have weak, contorted eyes, eyes that always look for the abyss, at the places others stand and walk alongside of, and also for Agatha, my daughter, clutching at some maidís chest before my face was broken into. Agatha was trying to climb up into the maid's skirts, trying to run from me. My face is deceiving, expressionless, though l have passion building in my very bones. The time starts to pass when l look towards the wall where a grand jewel-crusted mirror hangs low before my bedroom.

I hide my entire face with a special cloth, else the little tykes scream out.

ďlím sorry,Ē someone said to me long ago in a gesture of loyalty before they all left me.

Sorry for what, l still wonder bitterly.

Right before they all fled, l just stood there, my boots coated with dust and mud, as if líd been freely adventuring in the sylvan farmlands right outside my doors.

Now the sun fills my consciousness while a candid recollection leaves me picking up the pieces.

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Old 04-14-2017, 05:25 AM
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This is more of a character description than a story.
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Old 04-14-2017, 07:05 AM
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'Figurine made out of mud' is a good metaphor, but the prose is just a little too flowery in other places.

'My very bones..' the very is not really necessary.

'Sylvan farmland..' Would idyllic read more contemporary? Then again, its hard to tell, in so short a piece, what era this is. Shall I rephrase that, idyllic might read more accessible for many people.

As it stands moonpunter is right, but it raises questions like how did the narrator come to be disfigured and what did they do before then, which could be turned into a proper story. Keep writing.
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Old 04-16-2017, 10:03 AM
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thanks for reading, and yeah, it's kinda short. i'll make it longer, just a keepsake.
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Old 04-24-2017, 01:05 PM
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Originally Posted by chat bot View Post
My face has skin that is not like any other skin; not carefully pressed over my bones structure. The skin is mashed-in and lumpy, like a figurine made out of mud by a child who didnít know how to make anything wonderful. The farthest end of one eye droops down, perforated and molded, and l have no eyebrows.

l have weak, contorted eyes, eyes that always look for the abyss, at the places others stand and walk alongside of, and also for Agatha, my daughter, clutching at some maidís chest before my face was broken into. Agatha was trying to climb up into the maid's skirts, trying to run from me. My face is deceiving, expressionless, though l have passion building in my very bones. The time starts to pass when l look towards the wall where a grand jewel-crusted mirror hangs low before my bedroom.

I hide my entire face with a special cloth, else the little tykes scream out.

ďlím sorry,Ē someone said to me long ago in a gesture of loyalty before they all left me.

Sorry for what, l still wonder bitterly.

Right before they all fled, l just stood there, my boots coated with dust and mud, as if líd been freely adventuring in the sylvan farmlands right outside my doors.

Now the sun fills my consciousness while a candid recollection leaves me picking up the pieces.
I would like to read more.
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Old 04-27-2017, 03:27 PM
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thanks, it's too short?
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