So I've slowly been piecing something together today, working on it from time to time throughout the day. I have to say that I really do not like it at all. As some of you might know, I like to explore the types of writing I'm not very good at or familiar with. I think doing so allows a writer to become better, and so I try to dabble in writing styles I don't like.

Well, I decided to try and write a story from a first person, present tense perspective. I've hardly seen any stories written in the present tense, and I think that's simply due to the.... awkwardness such an endeavor creates. It's sort of like always pushing your reader forward in a very uncomfortable way, and I don't think I could ever master the style. When I think of it, I imagine someone walking forward very quickly, tilted in the same direction at an incredibly impossible angle. Just as no one would ever want to walk that way, I find it hard to reason that anyone would want to propel through a story that way.

When I first started writing this, my idea was to make it very exciting, and with some surprise twist. I wanted something crazy to happen, and I wanted to play with the senses and emotions. After all, if you view -anything- from a first person perspective and truly consider your sense, you'll find that they can be quite overwhelming. We are just so accustomed to the assault of lights, shadows, colors, textures, noises, smells, tastes, and thoughts..... that we don't really take the time to reflect on them very much.

Unfortunately, my attempt to include a small portion of this left me with something very dull. I kept TRYING to push for something exciting, only to realize I didn't know what I wanted to happen. When I finally DID think of something exciting, I glanced at my multiple pages and realized it was past salvation. However, I'm going to post it here anyways. I've shared many pieces of literature online that I wasn't fond of, and I'm going to do it again.

Again, why? I think as aspiring artists, we always need critique. Even if the piece is bad as a whole, there will certainly be something there that is worth salvaging, or thinking about, or even worth reclaiming for another story. We should always be able to look at a less than favorable piece, and find something good in it. Thus, without further ado, here's possibly the slowest thing and most awful thing I've ever written:

The Night Peddler

I really like that I can see the stars from my new place. They stay up in the sky, winking down at me with their sullen faces and wily temptations. While a few would argue that this doesn’t sound like a good thing, I like to know where they’re at. Resting in the vast expanse of the universe, they can do nothing and yet inspire millions to reach high, shoot fast, and strive endlessly. Me? I’m not a striver. I like to sit back and watch the world work around me, like the cogs of a clock groaning and creaking just to push the next second forward. I’m perfectly comfortable sitting quietly in meetings, doing my job, and coming home to keep the house clean.

Does this mean I don’t dream? Of course it doesn’t, but I haven’t yet actively sought out those aspirations either. See, my ties lie within other people. I can’t seem to go about my next decision without feeling the ‘sucker’ for someone else’s plight or being pulled into an obligation I would never approach on my own. There’s a word people use for that: a pushover. I’m not very fond of the term and don’t suspect I ever will be. However, I think that deep down there’s no escaping it. Some of us are cursed with too much empathy, while others are able to coldly calculate the position and purpose of their next victim.

I glance up at the stars and wonder what they think. Do they submit, or do they calculate? Are they victims of a game ceaselessly played by the sun, or do they actively seek that warmth in order to push it on towards the next rock? With my eyes turned up towards the corner of my window, I watch the stars as they laugh at my thoughts. To mimic their amusement, my phone rings and startles me out of my thoughts. That brazen noise causes my body to jerk, and the soft tapping of my pencil eraser becomes a clatter against the tile. Failing to retrieve the pencil, I can’t help but wonder who’s calling me this late. I don’t have any friends, and the office closed hours ago. Should I answer?

Although there’s nothing in me that desires to talk to someone, I feel the urging to answer the phone. My hand slowly slips towards the receiver as my abated breath betrays my hesitation to the lazy ant wandering around my feet. Will they hang up if I move slowly enough? They don’t, and my hand hits the cold plastic as I draw the bane of my night towards my ear.

“Hello, this is Chyllaen speaking. How may I help you?” I always expect someone to comment on the awkwardness of my name, but this time the amused comment is only in my head, and it takes me a few moments to register the crying on the other end. For a moment, I can’t foresee any plausible action. Instead, my hand tightens on the receiver and I audibly gulp. I never have been good at comforting people, and the fact that I have no idea who’s on the other end makes the task seem all that more daunting.

“H-hello?” I try again. The voice seems to hear me this time and I can hear the change in his or her weeping. There’s a small strain in the voice as it utters a few unintelligible words, and with that, I’m cut off from hearing anything more. The ‘click’ is sharper in my ears than the pencil’s earlier clatter on the floor, and I’m left shaken and frustrated.

You would think someone had offered me an Emmy, only to turn around and hand it to the next person in line as I reached out for it. I’m not so sure I can reason past my emotions, but I can only feel that the crying voice was extremely inconsiderate. Don’t people realize that I have things to do and places to go? How dare someone call and then set me up with an unquenched curiosity! In fact, I become so irritated that I decide it’s time to go home. Coming to a stand and opening my blue feaux leather brief case, I start reaching for whatever it is I had been working on. My hands tremble and crinkle the papers at their edges while the memory of the voice nags the corners of my mind.

Why tonight? The Johnson vs. Emma case. How could they have possibly dialed my number by accident? Not the firm’s main office. Not even another scribe’s office. The Robert vs. Bibb County case. The crying person didn’t even have the thought to dial the number of someone who wasn’t here. Instead, when I’m the only person left in the entire building, they somehow push the numbers on their phone that lead them to me. My mind starts crunching numbers and trying to figure the odds of such a thing happening, but I’m so mentally drained that I can’t get past the first calculation. Mainly because I realize that there’s a slim chance the person could have called from another area code, astronomically changing the odds of the event that occurred.

I pause with my hands on the desk, aware of the fact that I’ve allowed my discontent to consume me. I’m not even sure what I’ve picked up or haven’t, and I find myself gazing outwards towards the window and those sparkling specks which tease me so. “Lucky rocks…” I mutter towards the desk as I slowly close the case and run my hands over the worn surface.

I grab my coat, slip on my much-too-tight shoes and head towards the door. A flick of my wrist into the coat pocket and a clink later, the office door is locked and I’m well on my way home. The night air is soothing and fresh, the musk hinting at showers to come. Three, four hours maybe?

The night is too quiet. I hunker down in my coat, slipping my hand through the handle and plunking it into my pocket so that the case hangs from my arm like an extra appendage. Instead of reflecting on cases and notes, and new files….I find myself hearing that weeping voice in my head. What is it that keeps it there, incessantly marching in my brain? Can I not shake it off? As though it were physically possible, I actually shake my head slowly from side to side, and doing so causes something to catch my attention.

There under the tasteless bus stop, someone is sitting with their head bowed into their hands. Although it’s much too dark to tell, I imagine the knuckles are covered in dirt and wrinkled in old age. The way the person’s back is contorted almost speaks of a deep wariness and is usually not something I pay attention to.

I hear it before I feel it: my footsteps have abruptly halted. I find myself staring at the figure who seems to be completely unaware of my existence, and I feel drawn towards it. I hardly blink an eye when I find myself sitting inside the bus stop as well. I’m not even certain how it happened, and I gaze up and around the unfamiliar space. It’s crude to say the least; numbers and body parts are scratched into the glass on every side, with dirt and sweat adding texture. I can almost even hear the tapping of a roach’s legs against the cement floor, and the gum wrapper that crunches beneath my foot sounds like a bomb.

It smells like beer and barf, so I grab my collar and draw it over my nose. How can the man stand this?! I think it’s the first time I realize the figure is not old and disfigured. In fact, the human in front of me is young and slightly attractive despite his position. I can hear the way his breath labors against his clean hands, and my lips part slightly.

What can I say? I’ve never been good at opening up to others, either. You’re just not a people person, my mother used to tell me… as though there were any other kind of person to be.

Instead of finding something to say, I sit there. I reflect on the effect of physical companionship and wonder if I’m ‘being there’ for this person who hasn’t even acknowledged my existence. Was I ‘there’ for the person crying on the phone?

There are a few loud grumbles and clicks before an annoying hiss and burp of the bus that stops here. As the bus door unfolds towards us, a rush of hot and sweaty air fills the small prison of glass. The man next to me promptly gets up, pays his fare, and boards, but I just sit there in surprise. Am I to be rid of him so quickly?

The bus driver gives me a doleful stare as though he expects me to pay him whether I board or not, and I stop staring at his misplaced earmuffs. A quarter to be stared at? I’d rather get something from my money, so I push to my feet, hiking my extra appendage with me and fishing around for a coin. I’m not sure if it’s a quarter or not since I never look at it, but the driver doesn’t seem to care one way or the other, either.

He starts moving before I’ve had the chance to settle, and as I’m jostled from side to side, I muse over the passengers. Despite the young night, there don’t seem to be many people interested in being places. There’s a younger woman, a baby, a homeless man with the jitters, and the impeccably clean young man with the bent back and sad eyes.

Before my hip gets bruised, I sink into one of the seats right behind the driver. The bus is in slightly better condition than the stop. Most of the windows are free of cat calls and digits, but the grease is still there. The bus air is hot and heavy, causing me to loosen my navy blue collar.

The woman with the child in her arms notices. “Dang bus lines should have some A/C, huh?” I honestly don’t know why she’s talking to me, and I try to be polite as possible.

“Yep,” I mutter, feeling completely out of place and lacking sympathy. She rocks her baby a few times and stares at me through her dull gray eyes, as though she’s trying to determine if I’m worth her time. Apparently, I must be, because she hardly waits 2 seconds before speaking again.

“You know, back at my place, I have one of them window boxes. You know, that sit in your window and suck the air in?” She waits and expects a response, so I nod my head. “Them’s sure nice…,” she says as she cracks a grin, glancing down at the bundle in her arms. I’m not sure what to say at this point, so I stare ahead into the black streets. The woman says something else, but I’m not sure if she’s talking to me or the child. I can see the stars over the city and I realize the bus must have gone uphill at some point. I should have noticed earlier since the briefcase was nestled closer to my hips, but the uphill motions must have alluded my notice. As one who easily gets car sick, I find this a little surprising.

The baby awakes and starts crying. Immediately, the hairs on the back of my neck rise as I break my focus from the stars. Why must people cry?! I clear my throat a little and realize the woman is still prattling about something… afghans, maybe? I’m not sure what compels me, but I interrupt her quietly. “May I?” I ask, holding my hands out.

Ever so trusting, she passes the baby on over, a mother’s proud smile plastered on her face. “Name’s Juliandra,” she coos, and I try my best to give an appreciative smile. I guess I’m not the only one to have a strange name in this world, and the sudden weight in my arms is a little shocking. Still thinking about this woman’s trust in my ability to keep her child safe, I listen to the mother speak about her child. I’m still not certain of what she’s saying, but I think I hear something about words and toys and a father.

“Juliandra,” I repeat softly. I’ve never seen a baby so close and I find myself sucked in by the stars in her eyes. They twinkle away in a dark space nearly vast enough to be the universe itself, taunting me with the same wily temptations. Part of me wants to panic and get rid of the noise in my arms, but the rest of me wants to be immersed in such innocence. In my moment of indecision, my briefcase becomes a source of discomfort. I hug the baby closer so that I can release the one arm and shake the weight off my arm and onto the bus floor.

This causes the mother to pause and show concern. “Oh want me to…?” I don’t like being asked questions, so I shake my head and tell her no.

The baby is adorable. She has a small button nose and a toothless mouth that alludes the worn look of an older person. Squirming around, I can’t help but notice how carefree and happy she is. She reaches out with her tiny fingers and tries to grab onto my nose as though it’s the funniest thing she’s ever seen. Although I pull my head back, the corners of my mouth still turn up a little and I get a good look at that tiny hand. Such minute finger prints and nails!

There’s a hiss and burp, and the mother stands to take her baby rather hurriedly from my arms. I can feel the way her arms brush so roughly against mine as the stop pushes her towards me, and that’s when I realize she must have already been standing in preparation to exit the bus. I don’t want her to think I’m stalking her, but I don’t want to follow the young man with the bent back, either. Thus, I argue with myself for a moment and decide that it’s better to act now as opposed to regret missing the small window. I push myself to my feet and hurry on off, my heels clicking on each step. The bus nearly starts taking off as soon as my second foot is firmly on the ground and I can feel the way the vehicle pulls at the air around it and threatens to tug me along.

Where am I? At this point I have no clue and I glance up and around me. There are no more stars to be seen, but since I’m clearly not in a well-lit area, I assume the blockage is due to clouds. It makes me feel a little colder, so I snuggle into my jacket and let loose a soft sigh. I can’t read street signs, I can barely see what’s in front of me, and now my stomach rumbles. What was I thinking tonight?

A gas station catches my eye off in the far distance, so I head in that direction. I'm aware of the bus chugging along in the distance, and the hairs on the back of my neck rise as I start to fret over my decision. I'm not far along when a faint cough catches my attention. It sounds like the hack of a smoker, as though a bit of phlegm was desperately trying to escape a throat. Glancing up from my huddle, I spy the source. There's a dirty old man leaning against a building. He appears to be clothed in a heavy blanket infested with bits of trash and gravel, and he seems to notice my presence.

A few digits resembling fingers creep their way out of the green mossy cloth, and they crook towards his body with the resemblance of heavy, creaking doors. I realize he's beckoning me over, but suddenly the air I'm breathing feels a little heavier, and a little dirtier. It's almost as though my nose is apprehensively predicting my future if I'm going to step forward.

And despite the stupidity of a young woman alone in a city, I make that motion. I've made plenty of silly moves already, I tell myself. Surely there's a reason I'm here? Maybe the stars can answer me some day.

I duck my head some and I'm pleasantly surprised. The man doesn't smell like sweat or tar at all. In fact, the faint aroma of lavender assaults my nostrils and my senses have trouble registering this information. What is this scent I'm so familiar with? I can hear the old man saying something, his voice cranking away under a rather busy mustache, but I'm not listening until a key word triggers my audible senses as opposed to my olfactory ones.

"...lavender, roses, daisies,.." he croons on. It's now that I notice he's pulled aside his clothing. I had been so adamant to gaze anywhere but down, that my obliviousness has left me vulnerable. ?And indeed, the words the man speak are true. Under his rags are bouquets of flowers, a little worse for wear thanks to being crushed against the man. I assume he wants me to buy a few, and I shake my head gently to the night peddler.

"No thank you," I say as I turn to make my way back to the bus stop. Although it's late, I'm ready to go home, and uncertain as to why I even let myself be led here. Instead of the argument I expect, something is pushed into my hand. I can feel the brashness of the stem and the prick of a thorn against my palm, and I'm stunned by the fact that the man had somehow managed to grip my hand so strongly and without my notice.

As though it might break if it falls, my fingers curl around the stem reflexively, and I shake my head at him. "I don't want to buy any flowers," I say. He shakes his head and gives me another toothy smile.

"Silly, silly," he croons in a high pitch, shaking his head in amusement. He then seems anything but sane to me, lifting a loud laugh into the night sky. Before I have the chance to respond, he abruptly ends the laugh with some more hacking. "Beautiful things for beautiful people," he croaks as though some great wisdom has left his lips. He repeats the phrase again and again, turning to walk down the alley. I stare at him and swear I see him skipping, but I know he can't possibly with all the weight around him.

I then realize... nobody's ever given me a flower before. I glance down at the withered petals. They cling desperately to the base of the blossom. I think it's a white rose, but it's difficult to tell in the night.... perhaps it's yellow? In any case, every petal folds in against itself, protectively curling over the innermost parts of the flower. Even the harsh, skin-tearing thorns can't take away from the tenderness of the rose, and I find myself inexplicably attached as I draw the flower nearer.

I have found my stars in my reflection.


Ending note: One thing I forgot to mention in the description above is that it was REALLY difficult for me to keep this in present tense. I kept finding myself having to go back and edit something because I'm just not accustomed to writing this way. If I messed up somewhere, I apologize. ?Also, I didn't really get to check this for grammar errors either. I was too terrified to go back and re-read it, as much as it bored me to read it while writing it.

Also, I WAS going to find a way to tie the crying phone call into something later on in the story, but I couldn't make myself do it. I couldn't find a way to do with without being awkward, so I just ended the story where it was. ?That makes me like it even less, but I didn't see much point in continuing when I didn't know how to make it all come together.

I'll be honest. I'm not the type of person that reads stories. I did glance at a few bits and pieces of it, and it doesn't seem too bad from what I gleaned.

Something that might help writing in this format. Join an RP or two and make one character to play as for it. Control him/her in the writing style you don't like. This way, you can practice with writing the story without needing to write the entire story yourself. (One way I see an RP is multiple people working together to create a story through their characters.) Give it a try if you have time and see how well it works out for you, maybe it would help with writing more stories in that perspective in the future. :3

I finished reading the whole thing.

I don't see why you aren't fond of it. I mean, granted, it's a bit confusing here and there, but other than that, wow... This is great. You're pretty good at consistently keeping the "beat" of the writing with you as you write. You wrote with overall correct grammar. And the first person you were going for? Nailed it.

It's a hard thing, trying to do a present tense story. I've read stories of the sort, but they end up alternating back and forth. Writing in styles you aren't familiar with, especially one you find near impossible, is the first step to writing a successful montage of stories. It indeed does do good to a writer when they personalize and try to enjoy styles they aren't exactly accepting of. Although, the key is to never give up on it. As you said, a writer should be writing in ways they don't specialize in. Not giving up is basically furthering one's career as a writer.

I'm proud of you that you wrote this, no matter how hard you seemed to find it or how much you disliked it. Like I just said, you're furthering your career. And your plot in the story was nicely done. It ties in with your interests and ideas you have overall and how you share your personality on Vizzed. The angle, both plot and perspective-wise, you made on this story is just, great. Keep on trying to do stuff like this. You're really good.

It was very well written. I am no Grammar Nazi, so I didnt check. However, the story was well put together, had, to me, a good flow. Overall, a well read.

Do you have any longer stories written? maybe not possibly on here, but maybe here in the future?

dlscowby22 :  I don't have any written right now, but I've always wanted to write a novel. I actually have several other stories written on vizzed if you want to mosey around for them.  LoL  I don't really think any of them are particularly good, but maybe some day I'll have the time and brain for completing one.

goodboy :  Thanks so much for the feedback! I think my breath was taken away a little.  I wasn't expecting praise, so that's not why your response was valuable to me. I really liked the critique you gave.  I've always been told that my flow of writing is my strength. Is that what you meant by the 'beat' of it?

Thanks to your feedback, I did go back and re-read it, actually.  I couldn't even 'see' the piece as a whole since I wrote it in small spurts throughout the day. Once I read the thing as a whole, I actually think it's not as bad as I originally thought.  Maybe it seemed so slow because I took all day to write it.

I still don't like it, but my opinion of it now is not as harsh as my original thoughts were.  Thank you for that!

Surprisingly enough, I actually DID want to originally write it with my personality. I veered away from that, but if you look at the first few paragraphs, they're definitely me in the flesh. I'm surprised you picked up on that and rather impressed.

sonikku :  Thanks for your honesty. XD I actually DO role play... quite a bit actually.  I adore it as a hobby but don't usually have the time for it during the school year.  Role playing isn't all that difficult when you're doing it with other people in my opinion. It's doing it all by yourself, for a great length.... that seems rather daunting.

I agree with your definition and have explored many things through role play. One thing I've enjoyed in the past is role playing a very assertive person. I did that for about a year on a role playing site once. I was terrified to try since I'm anything BUT assertive, but you know what's strange?  Despite the fact that I was role playing in a game, the role actually helped me be a little more confident in real life.  As I played the part more and more often, it became easier for me to visualize and act upon in my writing.  Has that ever happened to you?

It hasn't happened to me, mostly because I generally don't write stories. I write code for games (or at least am learning to do so). I also don't RP as much as I used to. Only one I participate in now is the one for the Star Fox RP Sword legion runs. Gotta love when life removes your free time.

sonikku :

Correction.

Run your own RP, then you HAVE to make good stories, or else!

Singelli :

Yeah, that was basically what I meant by beat or rhythm of it.

I'm glad you're sort of prouder now that you've read it as a whole. That's what happens to me and actually, many other writers. They think it's not that well written since they were writing it in sections, and then, as you read it as a whole product, you seem to loosen your opinion on it. No problem!

And I know you a bit better now, so I easily identified that, heehee.

Sword legion :

Correction.

An RP is not a one man show. The story is only as good as its players make it out to be. Why do you think Zero and I make jokes against "Tridash" all the time.