What do you think of my story?

beautiful nail art indulgence image

Amber

This is just the start of it:


There is a room.

In that room there is a man. And a table. The computer keys hum as his thin fingers rush along the board. Currently, the brief indulgences in the pen-and-paper duo have become a curse. Re-typing handwriting took up unnecessary time. And his glasses had conveniently decided to play hide-and-seek. He squinted at the screen and his notepad. Neither words appeared coherent.

The last time he shaved was a Monday. But he likes it that way â his beard, slightly grown out. Gel likewise had ruffled his hair into submission despite his rather obvious antipathy to leave the apartment. Same old; same old. Like a worn out tattoo, small scrawled writing covers most of his left hand. His nails are roughly chewed; the keratin fraying. He exhales and refocuses on the task at hand.

In his head, there is a vivid image of a girl. The man doesnât know who she is or where she is from, but she had been overly present in his thoughts for the past week. It seemed like a good idea to write about her â fulfill the job occupation for a change. He snorts. The story has no direction. He is aware of that â and she doesnât have a name. Initially, it was Rose, then Ebony, Kate, Hannah, Lila, Amelia and then finally âGirlâ.

The author closes his eyes and there she was â vibrant. Alive. She licks her lips, as if she is hungry. Perhaps she is. Perhaps it is the subtlety of the curve of her hips. Maybe the delicacy of her collar bone, poking out from the scoop between her neck and shoulders. Or is it the swooped grace of her shoulders â just malleable; just enough to tempt. His eyes follow this piece of forbidden candy. She is so oblivious though, and he is more brazen, picturing each tantalising item of clothing peeling away. She teeters on the stilettos. Sexual or innocent? He canât decide. She is almost tiptoeing the line; her soft doe-eyes complimenting the bold smear of red on her lips.

His breath hitches and he feels his erection growing. Fictional; he reminds himself. And oh so young. Very inappropriate. The author inhales. In that moment, he realises her name is Scarlett.

The man sips cautiously from the chipped mug, and then spits it out. The tea is cold. His fingers are drawn to the keyboard again. Eyes drooping â but not closed, the words spill out over the paper.

***

Breathing in deeply, her chest rises and her stomach dips in underneath the rib cage. Then she breathes out, and itâs still there. The bump. That little curve of fat in the way of perfection. Scarlett looks in the mirror. She squints. She turns on her side. She sucks her stomach in and tries to hold it there forever. Reality hits and she has to exhale, then takes another breath. Exercise, she reminds herself, then frowns. Tomorrow. Maybe. Her eyes scrutinise that bump again.

Commencing the daily routine, she painted on layers of foundation and concealer. A comfort â almost, in how she knew intimately how to apply it; how to cover the scars. The plastic surgeon had been able to remould her scarred skin in exchange for long thin blemishes that covered most of her torso. Scarlett, in turn, mastered the art of makeup. Clothes helped too. A thin line of Kohl and mascara left her satisfied with her eyes. Her skin was now flawless. She smiles cautiously into the mirror, imagining that she is beautiful.

The walls of the apartment are thin; she hears the moans and thumps of her roommate Mia with her latest toy â Luke â or something like that. Breaking from her haze, she dresses in a black pencil skirt and white office shirt. Grabbing her keys, handbag and blazer, she runs out the door. Rushing to her car â a glossy Honda; small, compact, she unlocks it. The dashboard lights up, flashing 8:53 AM urgently. Late again. ****. Mr Mortenson will be angry. The car is moving, and sheâs pushing the speed limit. The tyres buzz and growl against the tar. A car beeps. She slows slightly.

Fifteen minutes late, she runs in. Immediately, Mr Mortenson latches onto her, ranting about company policy and promptness. Scarlett says nothing until she is dismissed. She had worked at Mayn Homewares for the past 3 years â part time during university and full time now awaiting a job from her bachelors degree in Visual Arts. Modeling for television commercials â initially a hobby, financed the rent. Occasionally people recognise her â a situation always amusing, and slightly awkward. The day passes prosaically, as always and she is eager to get home.

Mia is clothed â Scarlett noted dryly, whilst typing rapidly on her computer. State-of-the-art Mac Book Pro; brand new and one of the numerous reasons Mia is always strapped for cash. Quality over quantity. Her thinly plucked eyebrows knit together as she types frantically, chewing absentmindedly on her lip. Her eyes flick up, a smile lighting up her face. Abruptly, she shuts the laptop's lid. Scarlett wonders vaguely what she was searching for.

Answer
I think that you write fantastically! Great job.

I found it interesting and engaging enough to read the entire thing. I would continue reading, I think, though it isn't my genre of choice from what I can tell.

Good luck!

What do you think of my story?

Amber

This is just the start of it:


There is a room.

In that room there is a man. And a table. The computer keys hum as his thin fingers rush along the board. Currently, the brief indulgences in the pen-and-paper duo have become a curse. Re-typing handwriting took up unnecessary time. And his glasses had conveniently decided to play hide-and-seek. He squinted at the screen and his notepad. Neither words appeared coherent.

The last time he shaved was a Monday. But he likes it that way â his beard, slightly grown out. Gel likewise had ruffled his hair into submission despite his rather obvious antipathy to leave the apartment. Same old; same old. Like a worn out tattoo, small scrawled writing covers most of his left hand. His nails are roughly chewed; the keratin fraying. He exhales and refocuses on the task at hand.

In his head, there is a vivid image of a girl. The man doesnât know who she is or where she is from, but she had been overly present in his thoughts for the past week. It seemed like a good idea to write about her â fulfill the job occupation for a change. He snorts. The story has no direction. He is aware of that â and she doesnât have a name. Initially, it was Rose, then Ebony, Kate, Hannah, Lila, Amelia and then finally âGirlâ.

The author closes his eyes and there she was â vibrant. Alive. She licks her lips, as if she is hungry. Perhaps she is. Perhaps it is the subtlety of the curve of her hips. Maybe the delicacy of her collar bone, poking out from the scoop between her neck and shoulders. Or is it the swooped grace of her shoulders â just malleable; just enough to tempt. His eyes follow this piece of forbidden candy. She is so oblivious though, and he is more brazen, picturing each tantalising item of clothing peeling away. She teeters on the stilettos. Sexual or innocent? He canât decide. She is almost tiptoeing the line; her soft doe-eyes complimenting the bold smear of red on her lips.

His breath hitches and he feels his erection growing. Fictional; he reminds himself. And oh so young. Very inappropriate. The author inhales. In that moment, he realises her name is Scarlett.

The man sips cautiously from the chipped mug, and then spits it out. The tea is cold. His fingers are drawn to the keyboard again. Eyes drooping â but not closed, the words spill out over the paper.

***

Breathing in deeply, her chest rises and her stomach dips in underneath the rib cage. Then she breathes out, and itâs still there. The bump. That little curve of fat in the way of perfection. Scarlett looks in the mirror. She squints. She turns on her side. She sucks her stomach in and tries to hold it there forever. Reality hits and she has to exhale, then takes another breath. Exercise, she reminds herself, then frowns. Tomorrow. Maybe. Her eyes scrutinise that bump again.

Commencing the daily routine, she painted on layers of foundation and concealer. A comfort â almost, in how she knew intimately how to apply it; how to cover the scars. The plastic surgeon had been able to remould her scarred skin in exchange for long thin blemishes that covered most of her torso. Scarlett, in turn, mastered the art of makeup. Clothes helped too. A thin line of Kohl and mascara left her satisfied with her eyes. Her skin was now flawless. She smiles cautiously into the mirror, imagining that she is beautiful.

The walls of the apartment are thin; she hears the moans and thumps of her roommate Mia with her latest toy â Luke â or something like that. Breaking from her haze, she dresses in a black pencil skirt and white office shirt. Grabbing her keys, handbag and blazer, she runs out the door. Rushing to her car â a glossy Honda; small, compact, she unlocks it. The dashboard lights up, flashing 8:53 AM urgently. Late again. Shit. Mr Mortenson will be angry. The car is moving, and sheâs pushing the speed limit. The tyres buzz and growl against the tar. A car beeps. She slows slightly.

Fifteen minutes late, she runs in. Immediately, Mr Mortenson latches onto her, ranting about company policy and promptness. Scarlett says nothing until she is dismissed. She had worked at Mayn Homewares for the past 3 years â part time during university and full time now awaiting a job from her bachelors degree in Visual Arts. Modeling for television commercials â initially a hobby, financed the rent. Occasionally people recognise her â a situation always amusing, and slightly awkward. The day passes prosaically, as always and she is eager to get home.

Mia is clothed â Scarlett noted dryly, whilst typing rapidly on her computer. State-of-the-art Mac Book Pro; brand new and one of the numerous reasons Mia is always strapped for cash. Quality over quantity. Her thinly plucked eyebrows knit together as she types frantically, chewing absentmindedly on her lip. Her eyes flick up, a smile lighting up her face. Abruptly, she shuts the laptop's lid. Scarlett wonders vaguely what she was searching for.

Answer
I absolutely LOVE your writing style! Wow, I was hooked the whole way through just because of the words you chose, the sentence structures, everything!

I also love how the perspective changed from the author, to the fictional character, scarlett. It's captivating! She comes alive.

I could go on more, but just... It's fantastic. Keep writing!!! Get it published :) I would buy. Definitely.

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