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Hmmmm. Not too bad actually. A little bit of editing and a little less wordy and it could actually be pretty good.
I usually destroy my worst writing so I don't ever have to see it again and there is a lot of it. Some of the worst I still have has to be a little short story I wrote in high school. I was attempting a new style of writing and it came out horrifyingly.
Read on if you wish to laugh tonight. It is so depressingly awful that it is humerous.
It was 1893 when I met Aaron and it was 1894 when he was taken away from me. With him he took my life and my freedom. My name is Rachael Wilson and I am the daughter of a Millionaire factory owner. He had raised me alone when my mother died a few weeks after my 7th birthday. I was envied by many of the people that I knew. How many people from the day they are born know that they will inherit a million dollar factory?
I wasn’t happy about it though. I didn’t care about the money or the power. I just wanted to live the normal life of a normal kid. In 1893 I was 17 and my father decided that I should be taken around one of his steel mills to see exactly how the industry worked. He wasn’t going to live forever and I needed to know this so I could run the business one day. It was a Monday at 10:00 am when we got there but the workers had already been there for 5 hours. Most upper class people hadn’t even been awake for 5 hours, let alone worked for 5 hours. My father began to proudly lead me through the building but I was anything but proud.
The sharp smell of the molten metal was strange and suffocating. The huge machines around me were so loud I could not hear what my father was saying. It wasn’t very clean and the workers were completely unprotected from the splashing liquid steel. Strangely I did not notice the man who began to scream in pain as the steel landed on his arm and the other workers struggled to help him. I noticed the young man with the blonde hair and the piercing blue eyes who had pulled the victim out of the way of serious damage. He calmly regarded the situation for a few seconds before erupting into a coughing fit into his sleeve. “Keep moving. The managers will deal with this,” my father had to shout to be heard.
I didn’t want to go any farther into this place and I wasn’t going to. “Let me step outside for a minute,” I stated. “Of course. First timers often have trouble here,” he glanced around quickly. “You there!” he pointed to the man I had seen. He turned and moved over to my father. “Yes sir?” he asked. “Take my daughter outside for several minutes. Keep her safe,” he instructed. The man nodded and guided me out of the building. The normally loud streets seemed quiet after the inside of the mill. “I apologize for the mill conditions,” he stated once we were outside. “It’s not like you can change them,” I told him.
He seemed taken aback. “Because I am a low class factory worker?” he questioned, “Do you think I chose this life?” I regretted speaking without thinking but I was surprised that he had not hesitated to speak to me as he had. “Does anyone choose their life?” I countered. “If I could choose,” he began, “I would be a writer.” “Why?” I wanted to know. “So that my words will be heard. So that I can have a say in what goes on in this country.” “Most people in this country don’t want to hear that and many cannot even read,” I informed him. “I know. But it is worth it for those who can read to see the corruption they have caused,” he explained his choice.
I paused for a minute. If we were going to continue this conversation I at least wanted to know his name. “I don’t believe was started in the right place,” I started, “I’m …” “Rachael Wilson,” he interrupted, “I know. My name is Aaron.” And so began the beginning of a different sort of life. Aaron was the only person I had ever met who wasn’t afraid to speak his mind in front of me. His opinions were unlike any I had ever heard. I soon took every opportunity I could to visit the factory just so I could speak with him and hear his opinion.
Without having to write, he had brought me under a spell of words. My father seemed thrilled that I had taken an interest in his business. I had never before cared. I remained alone most of the time. The “friends” he surrounded me with were fakes and I couldn’t stand their plastic ways. Aaron was the first person I had met who seemed real. He was my first real friend. He didn’t want money or fame or power from me. He was interested in what I had to say just as much as I was interested in what he had to say.
I was happy for the first time in my life. Soon just seeing him once or twice a week when I went to the factory wasn’t enough. Never before had I snuck out of my house at night but I knew my father would never let me see a low class member of society who worked in his factory. I soon saw him every night but it wasn’t for several months that I realized I was falling in love with him. Then I got caught. I was leaving through the garden door when my father spoke. “I had suspected you were leaving at night but I never thought it would actually be true.” “You don’t understand,” I tried. It wasn’t a good way to begin. “I do understand. You aren’t interested in the factory. You’ve been seeing that boy that watches the steel melt.” He forbid me to ever see Aaron again but when he realized I would still do everything I had to in order to see him he hired Jenson.
Jenson was a 30 year old security guard who now made sure I didn’t see Aaron. I did everything I could to convince my father. Aaron was sick. His cough had gotten worse. He needed me to take care of him. It didn’t work. I stopped eating, stopped sleeping, stopped talking. I did everything I could to force my father’s hand. It didn’t work. It did work on Jenson though. He saw how upset and depressed I was. A month after he was hired he changed sides. “I have known love,” he told me one day, “My job does not allow me to aid you in escape but you must do what you feel is right as must I.”
He turned a blind eye as I left through the garden door again, running down the familiar road to the place I had always met Aaron. He wasn’t there. I went to his house but it was empty. I searched for hours until the light of dawn appeared in the sky. Had he left New York during that month? Wouldn’t he have tried to tell me somehow? I returned home exhausted and fell asleep. I woke up the next morning to the sound of a stranger in the house. Jenson came to my room several minutes later saying I was to come downstairs. A doctor stood with my father in the doorway, fresh blood on his sleeves. “Rachael,” my father didn’t look at me yet, “this is Doctor Howard. At 3:30 this morning a young man came to his office.”
“The man was coughing up blood from the late stages of consumption.” It was like I had been hit. I know who it was. How had I not seen? My father turned and I truly believed there was remorse on his face when he gave the name. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Where is he?” I asked. Somehow I already knew. “He died this morning,” the doctor tried to be sympathetic but he had seen this over and over and over again. “He wanted you to have this. He made me promise to give it to you. It was his dying wish.” The doctor gave me a letter.
Dear Rachael,
By the time this reaches you I will be dead but maybe that is what you wanted. I do not know what I have done to cause you to leave and whatever it is I hold remorse beyond imagining that I could not beg for forgiveness at you feet. My life had not been an easy one but with you in it, it became bearable. You were the most important thing in my life and I spent every moment, waking or sleeping, thinking of you. Know that I died loving you. This is my final set of words to you. Goodbye Rachael.
Aaron
I never forgave my father for what he had done. And I never forgot this young man who had wanted to change his country. The young man I had loved. I still had not forgiven my father when he died a year later. I felt no sadness although I cried for Aaron every night from then until now. No one can replace the hole he left in my life and he will never know.
I usually destroy my worst writing so I don't ever have to see it again and there is a lot of it. Some of the worst I still have has to be a little short story I wrote in high school. I was attempting a new style of writing and it came out horrifyingly.
Read on if you wish to laugh tonight. It is so depressingly awful that it is humerous.
It was 1893 when I met Aaron and it was 1894 when he was taken away from me. With him he took my life and my freedom. My name is Rachael Wilson and I am the daughter of a Millionaire factory owner. He had raised me alone when my mother died a few weeks after my 7th birthday. I was envied by many of the people that I knew. How many people from the day they are born know that they will inherit a million dollar factory?
I wasn’t happy about it though. I didn’t care about the money or the power. I just wanted to live the normal life of a normal kid. In 1893 I was 17 and my father decided that I should be taken around one of his steel mills to see exactly how the industry worked. He wasn’t going to live forever and I needed to know this so I could run the business one day. It was a Monday at 10:00 am when we got there but the workers had already been there for 5 hours. Most upper class people hadn’t even been awake for 5 hours, let alone worked for 5 hours. My father began to proudly lead me through the building but I was anything but proud.
The sharp smell of the molten metal was strange and suffocating. The huge machines around me were so loud I could not hear what my father was saying. It wasn’t very clean and the workers were completely unprotected from the splashing liquid steel. Strangely I did not notice the man who began to scream in pain as the steel landed on his arm and the other workers struggled to help him. I noticed the young man with the blonde hair and the piercing blue eyes who had pulled the victim out of the way of serious damage. He calmly regarded the situation for a few seconds before erupting into a coughing fit into his sleeve. “Keep moving. The managers will deal with this,” my father had to shout to be heard.
I didn’t want to go any farther into this place and I wasn’t going to. “Let me step outside for a minute,” I stated. “Of course. First timers often have trouble here,” he glanced around quickly. “You there!” he pointed to the man I had seen. He turned and moved over to my father. “Yes sir?” he asked. “Take my daughter outside for several minutes. Keep her safe,” he instructed. The man nodded and guided me out of the building. The normally loud streets seemed quiet after the inside of the mill. “I apologize for the mill conditions,” he stated once we were outside. “It’s not like you can change them,” I told him.
He seemed taken aback. “Because I am a low class factory worker?” he questioned, “Do you think I chose this life?” I regretted speaking without thinking but I was surprised that he had not hesitated to speak to me as he had. “Does anyone choose their life?” I countered. “If I could choose,” he began, “I would be a writer.” “Why?” I wanted to know. “So that my words will be heard. So that I can have a say in what goes on in this country.” “Most people in this country don’t want to hear that and many cannot even read,” I informed him. “I know. But it is worth it for those who can read to see the corruption they have caused,” he explained his choice.
I paused for a minute. If we were going to continue this conversation I at least wanted to know his name. “I don’t believe was started in the right place,” I started, “I’m …” “Rachael Wilson,” he interrupted, “I know. My name is Aaron.” And so began the beginning of a different sort of life. Aaron was the only person I had ever met who wasn’t afraid to speak his mind in front of me. His opinions were unlike any I had ever heard. I soon took every opportunity I could to visit the factory just so I could speak with him and hear his opinion.
Without having to write, he had brought me under a spell of words. My father seemed thrilled that I had taken an interest in his business. I had never before cared. I remained alone most of the time. The “friends” he surrounded me with were fakes and I couldn’t stand their plastic ways. Aaron was the first person I had met who seemed real. He was my first real friend. He didn’t want money or fame or power from me. He was interested in what I had to say just as much as I was interested in what he had to say.
I was happy for the first time in my life. Soon just seeing him once or twice a week when I went to the factory wasn’t enough. Never before had I snuck out of my house at night but I knew my father would never let me see a low class member of society who worked in his factory. I soon saw him every night but it wasn’t for several months that I realized I was falling in love with him. Then I got caught. I was leaving through the garden door when my father spoke. “I had suspected you were leaving at night but I never thought it would actually be true.” “You don’t understand,” I tried. It wasn’t a good way to begin. “I do understand. You aren’t interested in the factory. You’ve been seeing that boy that watches the steel melt.” He forbid me to ever see Aaron again but when he realized I would still do everything I had to in order to see him he hired Jenson.
Jenson was a 30 year old security guard who now made sure I didn’t see Aaron. I did everything I could to convince my father. Aaron was sick. His cough had gotten worse. He needed me to take care of him. It didn’t work. I stopped eating, stopped sleeping, stopped talking. I did everything I could to force my father’s hand. It didn’t work. It did work on Jenson though. He saw how upset and depressed I was. A month after he was hired he changed sides. “I have known love,” he told me one day, “My job does not allow me to aid you in escape but you must do what you feel is right as must I.”
He turned a blind eye as I left through the garden door again, running down the familiar road to the place I had always met Aaron. He wasn’t there. I went to his house but it was empty. I searched for hours until the light of dawn appeared in the sky. Had he left New York during that month? Wouldn’t he have tried to tell me somehow? I returned home exhausted and fell asleep. I woke up the next morning to the sound of a stranger in the house. Jenson came to my room several minutes later saying I was to come downstairs. A doctor stood with my father in the doorway, fresh blood on his sleeves. “Rachael,” my father didn’t look at me yet, “this is Doctor Howard. At 3:30 this morning a young man came to his office.”
“The man was coughing up blood from the late stages of consumption.” It was like I had been hit. I know who it was. How had I not seen? My father turned and I truly believed there was remorse on his face when he gave the name. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Where is he?” I asked. Somehow I already knew. “He died this morning,” the doctor tried to be sympathetic but he had seen this over and over and over again. “He wanted you to have this. He made me promise to give it to you. It was his dying wish.” The doctor gave me a letter.
Dear Rachael,
By the time this reaches you I will be dead but maybe that is what you wanted. I do not know what I have done to cause you to leave and whatever it is I hold remorse beyond imagining that I could not beg for forgiveness at you feet. My life had not been an easy one but with you in it, it became bearable. You were the most important thing in my life and I spent every moment, waking or sleeping, thinking of you. Know that I died loving you. This is my final set of words to you. Goodbye Rachael.
Aaron
I never forgave my father for what he had done. And I never forgot this young man who had wanted to change his country. The young man I had loved. I still had not forgiven my father when he died a year later. I felt no sadness although I cried for Aaron every night from then until now. No one can replace the hole he left in my life and he will never know.
Well, even though this piece screams "adolescent attempt at love story," the emotion was palatable, and that's crucial. I definitely laughed at the phrase "And so began the beginning..." Awesome!
Yes, very much so. I believe this was when I realized that I did not want to write romance and even if I wanted to I did not have the ability. I did use the exact same name though for the main character in this as I did in The Rift. I tend to re-use names that I like.
The fiery monster's eyes burned with blazing hatred. Smoke gushed from its nostrils as it glared at me with those seething eyes. Deep, sinister growls rumbled in its throat and its breath stank of sulfur. Tongues of fire flickered across its black scales and I could feel the heat scorching my skin. My fingers tightened into fists and I strained against the chains that held me against the wall. I swallowed my fear and leaned forward, staring into those hideous, smoldering eyes.
One thought burned in my mind: This must be the Fire Demon.