Summer of My 18th Year by Elinor Skinner (top 50 books to read .txt) π
Also there are other short stories as well from my literture class as a self-bio pieces. Some poetic, some are snippets of memories.
I'll probably reorganize the chapters a little later, so if it's confusing at first, I'll fix it soon, you don't have to wait though, since each is like it's own seprate piece.
Here' the excerise (aka.preamble) that sparked the idea:
Writer's Studio
June 2012
Preamble: Creating a first-persona narrator that is based on a younger version of myself. A specific moment in my life; age, setting, and season. Try to reveal something about the narrator; wishes, desires, hurts, and conflicts. Focus on technique and the freedom the voice gives you. Think about the tone of my narrator, not so much mood, but how to separate the two of them.
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- Author: Elinor Skinner
Read book online Β«Summer of My 18th Year by Elinor Skinner (top 50 books to read .txt) πΒ». Author - Elinor Skinner
What am I doing? Who am I?
I am a protector. Always there, and caring with a smile and open arms. Yet I let myself become fustrauted and turn for the worse. The fustraution is only anger toward myself, that sometimes I don't want to be me anymore. I try to restrain myself everyday, so I don't end up hurting the people I protect day and night.
Now things are different, I can set that uncontrolled fustraution to another side of me. I bring that other side out, only when I need it. The fustraution becomes a rage. Rage to the ones who have darkness in their eyes, that murder human souls.
The gaurdian self has what I can not have, because I am human. The ability to slay the monster within. To cut the strings of the puppet that has ruined lives.
When I am done, I am me again. Until I put on the mask to cloak my emotions. No one sees me. Only the mask, a protector, and hopefully never the gaurdian. Then there is me.
Simply, only me, myself, and I with someone of the past.
Name's Sake (In Prog.)Elinor.
MatchesI hate myself. I always have, because of unhealthy habits. I am lazy.
It is someone else to set the fire. I can not do it, I lack in the skill of matches. I care way too much that my stress breaks them. Sometimes I press too hard.
Even though I never start a fire; I always feel burnt out; only a useless pile of ashes.
When the hearth is finally lit from my own match, I have a lot of wood to burn with much paper. I find the fire dies before everything is in ashes, or I am too late to finish as I see the spring grass out the window realizing the winter had already passed.
Other times I put out the flame. The black steel of my burden transforms me into a rain cloud. The tears are icy, so when the flame dies, so does the warmth. My poor fire never had a chance. Here I am with an other box of matches.
Desprate to light a match and rekindle the flame in my heart.
ImprintText: Elinor Skinner
Images: Elinor Skinner
Editing: Kayla Stiles
Publication Date: 10-21-2013
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