------13 lines begin here------
As I sit beside the hollow space on my couch where you used to sit, I wonder where the past went. Where did those endless hours of gazing at you go? Where have the days gone when we used to do nothing but look at each other and smile, like potted plants on opposing window sills?
You used to sit there on my couch, and the cushions would fold around you and adopt your shape, like a mold for me to cast plaster replicas of you from in some future day. A day which we did not foresee back then, but which was upon us all too soon.
I can see myself sitting in my room, surrounded by plaster you's. Every single horizontal space occupied by your cloned bottom. Your divine derriere on every single chair in my house. On the toilet seat sits a plaster you, staring at a point somewhere next to the washing basin. All my kitchen chairs are taken by you, talking to all the other yous and ignoring me pointedly. On every cushion, every chair, every stool, on every step of the stairs sits another copy of you, in the same position you used to be in when we sat there, gazing silently and longingly at each other. But not on the couch. The couch remains empty but for the hollowness you left behind.
-------13 lines end here----------

It's only 399 words long, spanning 20 more lines.

Cheers

Jo (Just)
 

There's nothing wrong with this except that it does not read at all like a story. It reads like a poem. In fact, with a little bit of attention to rhyme and meter and whatever other nonsense poets use to make their words into art (no, I'm not a poet ) I think this might even read better if you just gave into what it seems to be.

The thing about a story is that it has a plot. At almost halfway through a story, we should have sailed the story arc through introductory conflict and rising action. All we have here is word play as a man mourns.
 

It feels like a letter, not a story. It doesn't feel like it's going anywhere. As if you have said exactly what you wanted to say and that's all there is. I don't have an interest in the person talking, nor do I have an interest in why the other person is no longer there.

Now that that's said:
I think that maybe you should try to begin at another place in the story. It feels like through out this paragraph, you are repeating the same idea over and over again. It seems that this descritpion could be more powerful if it was condensed down to a few lines and put somehwere into your story, but not the beginning.

In order to keep people interested I think you have to give them a real interest in a character.

These aren't insults, I just want you to see what it looks like from a reader's point of view.

Good luck.
Regards,
Wenderella

[This message has been edited by Wenderella (edited April 06, 2005).]
 

@Wenderella: Please don't apologize. I'm here to learn, and you taught me well

@Survivor: on its way...
 

But, the following sentence is awkward.

You used to sit there on my couch, and the cushions would fold around you and adopt your shape, like a mold for me to cast plaster replicas of you from in some future day.

Maybe try this?

You used to sit there on my couch, and the cushions would fold around you and adopt to your shape, like a mold from which I'd cast plaster replicas of you in some future day.

 

quote:

---

"I can see myself sitting in my room, surrounded by plaster you's."

---

Now perhaps the center wasn't intended to be humorous (I am strange), or perhaps the juxtaposition of these serious and humorous elements are what makes things interesting, but I'm inclined to enjoy the 2nd half of this much more than the first, it has this very original feel and pacing to it that the first half seems to lack.

I'd like to read the rest if I could :)

[This message has been edited by deckof50 (edited April 11, 2005).]
 

My thoughts so far. I put new stuff in ALL CAPS and things you might delete in [].

As I sit beside the hollow space on my couch where you used to sit, I wonder where the past went. Where did those endless hours of gazing at you go? Where have the days gone when we used to do nothing but look at each other and smile, like potted plants on opposing window sills? [NOT AN IMAGE THAT I THINK FITS -- COMPARING SOMEONE TO A POTTED PLANT MAKES ME THINK OF THEM AS 'DUMB AS A POTTED PLANT']

You used to sit there on my couch, and the cushions would fold around you and adopt your shape, like a mold for me to cast plaster replicas of you from in some future day[.]: TODAY. [A day which we did not foresee back then, but which was upon us all too soon.]
I [can] see myself sitting in my room, surrounded by plaster you's. Every [single] horizontal space occupied by your cloned bottom. Your divine derriere on every single chair in my house. On the toilet seat sits a plaster you, staring at a point somewhere next to the washing basin. All my kitchen chairs are taken by you, talking to all the other yous and ignoring me pointedly. On every cushion, every chair, every stool, on every step of the stairs sits another copy of you, in the same position you used to be in when we sat there, gazing silently and longingly at each other.
[PARAGRAPH]
But not on the couch. The couch remains empty but for the hollowness you left behind.
[OK, BUT I'M MORE THAN READY FOR SOMETHING TO HAPPEN -- IF IT'S A STORY]