forum I'm williing to critisize what you wrote.
Started by @SupernaturalSyGuyIsTIred group
tune

people_alt 3 followers

Deleted user

Yo, do you think you could check this out for me? It's just a small thing I started writing today. I honestly have no idea where it's going, but I'd love to have an opinion on it.

~

Yvette hated her name. Every single day of her life, she hears at least one person completely butcher the pronunciation. She wouldn't have to deal with that if she wasn't working at HypeMart as a cashier, but there she was, sporting an oversized name tag while she worked overtime to earn $7.00 an hour.

That amount of money was hardly enough to get her by, but there wasn't much else she could do. She dropped out of high school in her senior year and ran away from home, living on the streets for a couple of years before finally landing herself a job at a run-down grocery store in Cleveland. She had no qualifications. No experience. Yvette was surprised that she had even made it this far.

"Hey, you," a man's voice said. He snapped his finger's in Yvette's face. She blinked, looking up from her papers. Her boss stood in front of her, black hair slicked back and face beet red, as if it had been sunburnt. He glared up at her, and Yvette resisted the urge to scowl. She instead blinked and smiled down at him, teeth clenched behind closed lips.

"What do you need, Mr. Taylor?" She asked. Her voice was velvety soft and polite-sounding. He inhaled, pointing an accusing finger at her.

"How many times have I told you not to doodle during work hours?" His voice was raised a bit. Yvette felt her heart rate spike with anger, but she concealed it perfectly.

"Sir, these aren't-"

"I don't want to here it!" Mr. Taylor yelled. "If I catch you scribbling on them damn papers again, you're out of a job. No arguments. No exceptions. What will customers think when they walk in here and see a young woman hunched over the checkout conveyor belt, not doing her job? They ain't gonna want to be in here, that's for damn sure!"

Yvette had backed away from him, hands folded behind her back. Her smile had turned into more of a grimace, and her voice sounded tight with tension.

"I understand, sir." Mr. Taylor's hand dropped to his side, and a bead of sweat rolled down his forehead.

"Good," he growled, turning and walking toward the back of the store. Yvette watched his receding figure, holding her breath until he finally entered his office and slammed his door shut. She breathed a sigh of relief, letting herself relax and looking down at her papers, which had numbers and notes scribbled down all over it.

This month's check: $1120
Rent: $560
Utility Bill: $212
Cell phone bill: $50
Grocery Shopping: $115
Money left:

Yvette folded up the papers and put them in the back pocket of her jeans. She'd have to figure out the rest when she got home.

Just then, the bell on the front door HypeMart chimed. Yvette straightened her back and smiled, just like Mr. Taylor had trained her to do (threatening to fire her if she didn't). A young woman walked through the door and strode up to the checkout area. She had impressively long hair that fell past her knees, and a small face with angular features. Her lips were painted the color of scarlet, standing out against her snow white skin.

@SupernaturalSyGuyIsTIred group

Yo, do you think you could check this out for me? It's just a small thing I started writing today. I honestly have no idea where it's going, but I'd love to have an opinion on it.

~

Yvette hated her name. Every single day of her life, she hears at least one person completely butcher the pronunciation. She wouldn't have to deal with that if she wasn't working at HypeMart as a cashier, but there she was, sporting an oversized name tag while she worked overtime to earn $7.00 an hour.

That amount of money was hardly enough to get her by, but there wasn't much else she could do. She dropped out of high school in her senior year and ran away from home, living on the streets for a couple of years before finally landing herself a job at a run-down grocery store in Cleveland. She had no qualifications. No experience. Yvette was surprised that she had even made it this far.

"Hey, you," a man's voice said. He snapped his finger's in Yvette's face. She blinked, looking up from her papers. Her boss stood in front of her, black hair slicked back and face beet red, as if it had been sunburnt. He glared up at her, and Yvette resisted the urge to scowl. She instead blinked and smiled down at him, teeth clenched behind closed lips.

"What do you need, Mr. Taylor?" She asked. Her voice was velvety soft and polite-sounding. He inhaled, pointing an accusing finger at her.

"How many times have I told you not to doodle during work hours?" His voice was raised a bit. Yvette felt her heart rate spike with anger, but she concealed it perfectly.

"Sir, these aren't-"

"I don't want to here it!" Mr. Taylor yelled. "If I catch you scribbling on them damn papers again, you're out of a job. No arguments. No exceptions. What will customers think when they walk in here and see a young woman hunched over the checkout conveyor belt, not doing her job? They ain't gonna want to be in here, that's for damn sure!"

Yvette had backed away from him, hands folded behind her back. Her smile had turned into more of a grimace, and her voice sounded tight with tension.

"I understand, sir." Mr. Taylor's hand dropped to his side, and a bead of sweat rolled down his forehead.

"Good," he growled, turning and walking toward the back of the store. Yvette watched his receding figure, holding her breath until he finally entered his office and slammed his door shut. She breathed a sigh of relief, letting herself relax and looking down at her papers, which had numbers and notes scribbled down all over it.

This month's check: $1120
Rent: $560
Utility Bill: $212
Cell phone bill: $50
Grocery Shopping: $115
Money left:

Yvette folded up the papers and put them in the back pocket of her jeans. She'd have to figure out the rest when she got home.

Just then, the bell on the front door HypeMart chimed. Yvette straightened her back and smiled, just like Mr. Taylor had trained her to do (threatening to fire her if she didn't). A young woman walked through the door and strode up to the checkout area. She had impressively long hair that fell past her knees, and a small face with angular features. Her lips were painted the color of scarlet, standing out against her snow white skin.

This has a nice start to it. I didn't catch any spelling or grammar errors. I feel bad for Yvette; $7 an hour is nothing! Yvette is, so far, a relateable character.
What does Yvette look like? I know that she works in a grocery store, but describe her surroundings, the smells of the store, etc. Use similies, metaphors, and other descriptive language. Why did she drop out of high school, and run away from home? What did she struggle with while homeless and unemployed? Her boss seems like your average angry short man. Lol How many times has Yvette doodled while on the job, and how busy do things get in the store? What's on the papers that she's looking at? Is there anything else about the woman that come into the store that makes her stand out?
I like Yvette's manerisms, for they are things that people do in that kind of situation. I enjoy how you described the sound of her voice; it conveys that her voice is pleasent to the ear. You've already answered one of the questions that I had, and that's a good thing! I did the math, and she's left with $183. :-( The name of the store is kinda nice; generic, like most store names.
The names that you chose for this are plain sounding, but that's fine. It can make their names easy to remember. This reads bland, and could definitely benefit from more creative and descriptive language. Always take sight, sound, touch, feel, and taste into consideration when trying to describe things. You have a good start on something that could honestly go anywhere from what you have if you decide to continue it. :-) Good luck, and keep up the good work!

Deleted user

Thank you very much! I'll keep that in mind and try to incorporate sensory details when I go through and edit it :)

@ninja_violinist

Would it be a problem for you to take a look at this? It's an exercise where I tried to have a strong voice for the character and use the filtering technique (so I'm sorry about the content, it's not developed at all). I'm not sure if I actually managed to do that though. So any criticism is greatly appreciated.

The process of blood dripping from an open wound is far more fascinating than it should be.
You would think that the sight of dark red liquid rolling down my arm would alarm me, ring warning bells, or at least elicit some sort of active response. Instead, I just sit there in awe, eyes latched on to the little red pearl at the front of the trail, watching as it leads the way down the cliff of my fingernail and promptly leaps to its death down onto the marble floor below.
“Miss?” A guard next to me has apparently lost his nerve. He’s been standing there, unmoving except in his wide pupils which flit along my frame like a hummingbird. I can’t blame him. I wouldn’t know where to look if I was standing next to myself either.
“Yes?” I prompt when he doesn’t immediately continue. The act of speaking alone is enough to break me out of my blood-induced reverie. “Is he ready to see me?”
The guard shakes his head slowly, eyes still flick-flick-flickering until they come to a shaky halt across from mine. “The President is, unfortunately, in the middle of a private conference, and will remain there for quite some time. Might I suggest that you clean yourself up before your meeting?”
I stop to consider the idea. It never really occurred to me that I could clean myself up. Heaven knows I haven’t been able to. One glance at my blood-streaked hand and the ripped trouser leg it rests on, both grimy and slimy and all things unpleasant, tells me that there’s room for improvement. But is it necessary?
That’s the only question I can afford to ask myself these days. Is it necessary? Food is necessary, bathroom breaks are annoyingly necessary, drink is necessary, and success is non-negotiable. Personal hygiene? It hasn’t exactly come up before.
The guard clears his throat. “Let me rephrase that, Miss. I strongly encourage you to clean yourself up before your meeting.”
How long did I take to consider it? Too long, apparently. Maybe the President will be done in the time I take to clean myself up and then I can’t see him as soon as possible and every minute…
“No thanks,” I say, eyes once again fixed on his twitchy ones. Every minute counts. Every second counts. Everything counts and I’m running out of time and they need to hurry hurry hurry.
“Miss, you are hurt.” The guard scratches his head and looks around, uncomfortable. He didn’t expect me to refuse.
“So tell your President to hurry up, and then I can go bandage this,” I say, holding up the arm. At this point it’s turned into a road map, roads in red, tracing the route along my arm that leads from the cut to my fingertips and around and under.
“I’m afraid I’m unable to do that.”
“Then it appears we’re at an impasse.” The words feel strange on my teeth, teeth that I suddenly realise I’m baring, because they’re not the words I’ve practiced for the past months. Mr. President, my people are being slaughtered. I have evidence. Please send help. “Because I’m not leaving this spot until I walk through that door to talk to your President.” I punctuate the sentence with a swiping gesture at the door and he actually flinches.
I’ve seen that flinch before, it’s the flinch that says, “you’re going to hit me”. So I pull back and step back and blink and close my mouth and everything else, like I'm a tortoise retreating into its shell, saying "you scare me more than I scare you". I’m not here to bare my teeth or hurt people. I’m here to get help, to beg for it if necessary, because they need me and I can't fail because they're dying.
“As I’ve tried to explain to you, Miss, the President won’t be out for at least another hour. You will waste more time cleaning up later than now.”
I can’t waste time. Not now, not later, not ever. I want to be here when the President comes out but maybe I can be the one to hurry hurry hurry. “All right then, sir.” The word slips over my teeth, carefully concealed, before I can grasp it. It was a good word to say, though. His teeth are bared but in a friendly way – a smile. “Wonderful. I will summon one of my colleagues to get you and I promise that if the President finishes before you return you will be immediately notified.”
I nod, already calculating the bandage I will need to cover this roadmap. I only have a limited supply, one I’ve used far too much of already, so frugality is key because it needs to last and I can’t waste anything. Can’t waste anything.
Can’t waste time, or resources, or words, because it all comes at a cost and they’re hurting and dying and it’s up to me.