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Literature Text
My heart races as I palm the coin in my hand; my last one. I tuck a piece of my unruly hair behind my ear as I walk down the street, my footsteps slow. The clock tower across town strikes noon and I glance at the simple watch on my wrist to double check.
I look to either side of me, watching the other people go about their lives. I see a few of them standing at parking meters inserting coins. My stomach drops as I think about my last one.
Dozens of shops line the sidewalk, each of them filled with the products the government designates them to sell. I am tempted to go in and buy an ice cream, anything to take my mind off the single coin in my pocket, but I know I don't have the time.
Turning down Robison street, I pick up my pace, glancing back down at my watch.
Two more minutes.
My heart is beating in time with my feet as I run down the side walk. I slam my shoulder into a mass of people crowded around the front of a confection shop, gawking at a ten tiered cake in the window.
"Move!" I shout, and I stomp on a man's foot. He glowers at me, but I'm gone, pushing out of the back of the crowd.
I turn left onto 12th street and I can finally see it. Fourth meter from the right with the little pink stripe.
I take off down the street, reaching into my pocket and pulling out my coin. I already know I'm too late; my breathing is coming heavier and my vision is starting to get dark.
The meter is twenty feet away. I can clearly see the bright red pointer click to zero before I fall to the ground.
I look to either side of me, watching the other people go about their lives. I see a few of them standing at parking meters inserting coins. My stomach drops as I think about my last one.
Dozens of shops line the sidewalk, each of them filled with the products the government designates them to sell. I am tempted to go in and buy an ice cream, anything to take my mind off the single coin in my pocket, but I know I don't have the time.
Turning down Robison street, I pick up my pace, glancing back down at my watch.
Two more minutes.
My heart is beating in time with my feet as I run down the side walk. I slam my shoulder into a mass of people crowded around the front of a confection shop, gawking at a ten tiered cake in the window.
"Move!" I shout, and I stomp on a man's foot. He glowers at me, but I'm gone, pushing out of the back of the crowd.
I turn left onto 12th street and I can finally see it. Fourth meter from the right with the little pink stripe.
I take off down the street, reaching into my pocket and pulling out my coin. I already know I'm too late; my breathing is coming heavier and my vision is starting to get dark.
The meter is twenty feet away. I can clearly see the bright red pointer click to zero before I fall to the ground.
Literature
The Classic Motif (Contest Entry)
Surprisingly, the markings are charcoal, and not, in fact, feces. For propriety’s sake, I approached Andrew—I didn’t need to stake his professional opinion of me on it, but I did. Andrew knows of you, though, so I didn’t need to preface it with your sense of humor. He said, verbatim:
Well, generally, feces would not endure for so long. Although it’s supposed that the markings were originally covered in some way, it has been at the mercy of the elements for centuries, and feces would have decayed in such an atmosphere. Most likely, it’s made of an ash-based ink.
So, thank you, Jane. I̵
Literature
Sad Poem (Written on a Monday)
Inside our house, surrounded
by plants, that soft light—
the weakest shade
of gray and waiting
to turn it all yellow.
I have slept and slept
for days now,
unfolding into small
moments, only to see you
orbiting our mattress,
waiting for some type of
human reaction, any
kind of movement.
I need a haircut.
I need to shave and go
to work and forget these
days of no control
where I’m a child again,
reeling and afraid that it
will always be this way,
that I will always be in my room,
alone until someone calls me down
for supper, and then a bath,
some prime time television,
and straight to bed.
I am locked outside of something
Literature
They Have to Start Somewhere
Christoph glowered at the sunny faces in the second-grade classroom. No one glowered back, or even noticed him, for that matter. When the teacher had told the children they could choose their own desks that first day of school, he had picked the one in the very back. A drapery of cobwebs shook in the cool breeze weaseling its way through the cracked window. The leaves of the old maple outside the window were just beginning to ignite with their autumnal colours.
“Excuse me, Christoph,” the teacher said, snapping the young boy's attention away from the outside world. “Christoph, it's your turn.”
He cleared his throa
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I like this little piece - it's short but thought-provoking. The idea of our lives being artificially limited by some external agency requiring payment from us is not entirely novel, but I think the comparison with a parking meter is unique and interesting. Despite the small word-count, there are intriguing little details that paint an evocative picture: the shops selling only government-designated goods lend a sort of future-dystopian flavour; at the same time the presence of an actual clock tower striking noon, and the act of physically putting a coin into a machine, give the writing a somewhat old-fashioned air. It's an interesting dichotomy, and I think one that makes this piece stronger.
There are, however, things that in my opinion are a little off. Writing in first-person and present-tense does introduce an appealing urgency and immediacy, but it makes some of the descriptions stand out. For example, "I tuck a piece of my unruly hair behind my ear" - that's a third-person kind of description; I don't know anyone who would make a point of describing their own hair in that kind of impersonal way, especially while on such an urgent mission.
Another issue for me is that there seems to be one "life meter" per individual - our narrator goes to a specific meter, ignoring all the others. Just how many people are in this place, with its "dozens of shops" on a single sidewalk, and its "mass of people", and at-least-twelve streets? Would it really be feasible to have a different meter for each person? And why would these meters be out on the sidewalk, where they could presumably be tampered with by others? I'm aware that this is a flash fiction piece, and I could very well be overthinking this - but these little things to me can have a significant impact. Still, that's just my opinion!
All in all, I enjoyed both reading and thinking about this piece, which is always I think a good thing <img src="e.deviantart.net/emoticons/s/s…" width="15" height="15" alt="" data-embed-type="emoticon" data-embed-id="391" title=" (Smile)"/> I definitely agree this is worth developing further, and I'd love to know if you've written any more along these lines!