The Writer's Café

How am I doing so far...?

Feather lay still on his bed. Through the gap in the curtains covering the glass wall, he could see the sun making it's routinely descent. The sky was alight with color, the clouds turning violent shades of orange, purple, grey, black, red, yellow, and blue. All the colors together proved to be disorienting, and he turned away.

The sky is so ugly, He quietly told himself.

With a sigh of defeat he climbed out of bed.

The moment his bare feet touched the floor, he froze. The wood beneath them was unnaturally cold, even for spring time. Before walking any further, he slipped his feet into his spare pair of slippers, these ones made of a combination of cotton and silk.

He finally made his way over to the wall, tugging the curtains closed. Instantly, the room was thrust into a twilight.

On his way back to bed he narrowly avoided stepping on his most recent guest. Through the darkness, Feather watched her crawl around on the floor.

She was obviously a voluptuous woman, her body thick but not fat. She looked like she regularly indulged in the delicate foods her native people consumed, the skin on her face flawless.
 
Feather.. You're so weird.

Your writing's oddly poetic, and it borders on purple prose. It's not even your vocabulary, but the way you write is very elegant. Classy, I must say.

But your actual storyline doesn't seem to fit with your style, if you know what I mean. I can't quite put my finger on what it is.
 
You must log in or register to reply here.
Back
Top