I don't think I've actually posted here before. I hope some of you are still watching the community however as I would love some feedback on this one (it is a creative writing assignment). The criteria for the assignment were as follows:Your work must reveal clarity of expression and an effort to put into practice the techniques we have been discussing during workshops. I am looking for emerging voices and for writing that is original, but I don't expect anything incredibly unique or experimental at this stage. Students who engage in chiched/stereotypical/pretentiously mystifying texts/rant-like confessional writing should not expect a high mark. Students who reveal effort in the choice of diction, imagery, figures of speech, style and structure will obviously be rewarded. Finally, students should take the reader into consideration - the more interesting and captivating their work is, the higher the mark.
Bearing that in mind, here is what I plan on submitting (it is a rewriting of something I wrote a long time ago -- http://allpoetry.com/poem/1190188
-- but is still not complete. That is fine, she mentioned that it does not have to be a complete work). Any and all feedback is welcomed!
Oh and might I add that I personally don't consider it anything special. She insists on us writing in very simple terms without deviating toward the abstract or any such thing, so that is what I have done.
I scan the cluttered dressing table for a little white bottle marked ‘artificial tears’. Every time I need something from this table and can’t find it I am reminded of my mother’s incessant nagging to clear up the mess and put everything back in its rightful place. She may be right. My eyes are itching and rubbing them is only making the soreness worse. Through red, bleary windows I see half-empty perfume bottles, squeezy tubes of body lotion I’ve never used, brushes, scarves, hairbands and all manner of things that don’t even come close to resembling a little white bottle. Next to a pile of cotton pads as dry as my own eyes, lies an eyeshadow palette bedecked with various shades of green, orange and brown powder. Green, orange and brown. Now why did I think I would ever use those colours? The green reminds me of a sandwich I once accidentally left in my schoolbag for three months. By the time I had discovered it and unearthed the source of the disgusting compost-like smell in my room, it had turned into a mouldy glob of goo at the bottom of a plastic bag. Mouldy eyes certainly won’t do. I ought to throw the palette away. Seems like such a waste though, especially when the most amount of money my bank account sees is the Lm36 stipend I receive once a month.
I picture my eyes drying out like thick mud under a scorching sun. It feels like they have gone from moist to pasty and will soon be dried out enough to crack. Chapped lips, messy hair and red eyes; I must look like some alcoholic going through an unwelcome dry spell. Just as I start to consider whether it would really be that bad to moisten my eyes with nail varnish remover, I spot the blessed little white bottle. Head back, eyes wide open, the bottle is held above, squeezed and… nothing. Nothing?! Just my luck for it to be empty. Bollocks. I knew I should have given up looking for the damn bottle ten minutes ago. I could have been at the pharmacy by now. Instead, I am ten minutes further away from relief than I could have been. Flinging the useless bottle back onto the dressing table (probably the exact same action that got me into this predicament in the first place), I head off to the pharmacy.
Passing through the doorway in my high-shine, leather boots, one foot at a time, I am greeted by a world of treatment for anything from heart disease to heart break. The fluorescent lighting causes me to squint, not helping the irritation one iota. Shuffling down an aisle, through the nauseous stench of clinical cleanliness, my eyes scan a different arena in search of that magical white bottle. Left to right, parched eyes rubbing against dry sockets, and it suddenly occurs to me how odd the concept of ‘artificial tears’ is. Artificial tears. It doesn’t get much less human than that. That said, I am surrounded by shelves displaying products used to numb emotion (2 for the price of 1) or crop the next generation (ever an expense and embarrassment), amongst other things. But that is not what I am here for. The grail I seek comes in the form of a little white bottle with blue writing on it and a screw cap, and I can see it peering out at me from behind the counter. So tantalizingly close yet the little matter of the pharmacist still stands between us.
Stepping up to the counter with bloodshot eyes, I motion toward the pearly white bottle, keeping my head down and feeling my inadequacy rise from my heavily protected feet all the way up to my vulnerable scalp in a harsh hue of red. The well-learned, well-respected lady with a world of knowledge at her fingertips and a nametag that reads ‘Sue’ has every right to look down at me over her nose, as she does, whilst passing me my bottle of relief and demanding my blood and sweat in return.
I am also considering using one of my old poems as we are allowed to submit a mixture of poetry and prose. I don't really have the time to rework anything else so I am thinking of submitting one of these two, as they are both quite simple and something I think she might approve of:http://allpoetry.com/poem/1190167http://allpoetry.com/poem/1190172
What do you think? Should I bother including one? If so, which?
x-posted to my own journal