Clickity-Clack

[chernobal3]

I used to throw tiny little pebbles at her tiny little window pane as the train went clickity-clacking by, cutting through the crisp night air. Warmly lit, that window pane was. I would forrage through the dirt by her white picket fence -- searching for the right one, the tiniest one. Shivering from excitement -- excitement as much as the cold

Comments

[obscure___]

noyce. very very noyce. a fine piece of writing indeed.

i've got a list of interrogative questions awaiting. mwaaahahhahaha

hope all is well in veronin-ville. :)

This post is a moot point.

[birichino]

The paragraph sentence is nice. The post is stuff this thing made me think of, so don't even read it.

First.
I feel like this is a blend of lyrical exercise, maybe a little bit of mental and emotional purging, and whatsoever else. I also feel like it's a great story, and I wish it was longer. I wanna know what happens, goddamn it.

Then.
Sometimes your writing confuses me. It seems like word choices are not random, because of sentences like the last one, but then I see words elsewhere scattered, the lucky few who breeched the selection process and fell into place:
"Wins" instead of "defeats"; colloquial in lieu of imagery; what happened that you can no longer suffer the task of throwing the rocks?

Last.
Then I noticed something. When I read, I take the art out of writing. I study instead of enjoy. That last bit, though, from "the train" through "ice". I enjoyed that last paragraph.