A short story I wrote follows. I haven't shared any of my work for years so I'd be interested in hearing what people think of it, both positive and negative comments are welcome here.
Lydia.
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Foreword:
This is a story based on common prejudices and assumptions. It is basically an extension of the metaphor “Never judge a book by its cover�. I have written both characters in the first person as they are both to be sympathised with equally.
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I wish I was confident, like she is.
She is fearless, careless and free.
She twists and turns in perfect time, unintimidated, smiling, laughing.
Her body is in perfect symmetry, luscious, curvy. It flows like a river to the music, everybody watches, no-one notices me.
What am I but a piece of ass, totty, a pretty face?
No-one ever talks to me, I have no friends, I dance alone.
I want to talk to people, but am afraid. Besides they wouldn't like me anyway.
My confidence is low, I came here for the music, I shouldn't let owt else get to me.
Where does she get her energy? She's been on the floor all night, we're waiting (my friends and I) for her to tire, then we might dance.
I'd like to see her fall from her throne as queen of the dance floor.
I am too malicious, my jealously lowers my spirit.
She is probably perfectly kind and perfectly nice.
They hate me, those fucking bitches around the hexagonal table. They do nothing to disguise it. They keep staring at me, pointing, commenting,
I bet they come here to slag people off, to release their hatred.
I am not superior to them; they could dance just as well as I.
They are beautiful socially confident women. What would I give to be able to approach people and talk to them without stuttering or forgetting words?
Out of guilt and curiosity, I said "Hello" to her in the ladies, she smiled and her lips moved to say hi but no sound came out. I said I liked her dress, she muttered something else. "Are you OK?"
Leave me alone. I feel ill. My vision is all blurred.
Are you looking for some gossip or something?
No. She's genuinely concerned.
Stop being paranoid, talk to her.
"Are you Ok?"
"No"
"Is it pills? drink?"
What do you think I am, I don't use artificial stimulants, the music is enough to intoxicate me.
"Sorry, you're ill; I'll take you home..." I bet she lives in a really nice house, far out of the way from where I live in the rough area.
"Thanks"
I probably wouldn't make it to the taxi office, I just have to keep calm, I'll be OK.
As I pulled up outside her house, I saw her for the first time as a human being.
Her eyes were closed and her face was white and not unblemished.
When she staggered out of the car it was far from graceful.
She had been so kind to take me home, she didn't even know me.
She's not a bitch, my paranoia made her into one.
She lives around the corner from me, I've seen her at the shops, she snubs me usually, but next time I will talk to her. I'll thank her. I'll try to build up a friendship.
She thanked me as she walked up to her house. She smiled and said "See you around". I assumed she meant next rock night, but this Thursday I called in to the shop on my way back from the office and the miserable ignorant cleaner with unkempt hair greeted me warmly.
I looked up in utter surprise.
That's when I recognised her.
END.
Lydia.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Foreword:
This is a story based on common prejudices and assumptions. It is basically an extension of the metaphor “Never judge a book by its cover�. I have written both characters in the first person as they are both to be sympathised with equally.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I wish I was confident, like she is.
She is fearless, careless and free.
She twists and turns in perfect time, unintimidated, smiling, laughing.
Her body is in perfect symmetry, luscious, curvy. It flows like a river to the music, everybody watches, no-one notices me.
What am I but a piece of ass, totty, a pretty face?
No-one ever talks to me, I have no friends, I dance alone.
I want to talk to people, but am afraid. Besides they wouldn't like me anyway.
My confidence is low, I came here for the music, I shouldn't let owt else get to me.
Where does she get her energy? She's been on the floor all night, we're waiting (my friends and I) for her to tire, then we might dance.
I'd like to see her fall from her throne as queen of the dance floor.
I am too malicious, my jealously lowers my spirit.
She is probably perfectly kind and perfectly nice.
They hate me, those fucking bitches around the hexagonal table. They do nothing to disguise it. They keep staring at me, pointing, commenting,
I bet they come here to slag people off, to release their hatred.
I am not superior to them; they could dance just as well as I.
They are beautiful socially confident women. What would I give to be able to approach people and talk to them without stuttering or forgetting words?
Out of guilt and curiosity, I said "Hello" to her in the ladies, she smiled and her lips moved to say hi but no sound came out. I said I liked her dress, she muttered something else. "Are you OK?"
Leave me alone. I feel ill. My vision is all blurred.
Are you looking for some gossip or something?
No. She's genuinely concerned.
Stop being paranoid, talk to her.
"Are you Ok?"
"No"
"Is it pills? drink?"
What do you think I am, I don't use artificial stimulants, the music is enough to intoxicate me.
"Sorry, you're ill; I'll take you home..." I bet she lives in a really nice house, far out of the way from where I live in the rough area.
"Thanks"
I probably wouldn't make it to the taxi office, I just have to keep calm, I'll be OK.
As I pulled up outside her house, I saw her for the first time as a human being.
Her eyes were closed and her face was white and not unblemished.
When she staggered out of the car it was far from graceful.
She had been so kind to take me home, she didn't even know me.
She's not a bitch, my paranoia made her into one.
She lives around the corner from me, I've seen her at the shops, she snubs me usually, but next time I will talk to her. I'll thank her. I'll try to build up a friendship.
She thanked me as she walked up to her house. She smiled and said "See you around". I assumed she meant next rock night, but this Thursday I called in to the shop on my way back from the office and the miserable ignorant cleaner with unkempt hair greeted me warmly.
I looked up in utter surprise.
That's when I recognised her.
END.
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