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Revolt of the Innocent
The Radcliffe File
Go to page: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 
Just a sample from my first (pathetic) attempt at writing.
Kelly Myburgh thought about it. She dreamed of it. And before she knew it,
she stood on the edge of the Oranje river's bridge. A knot of fear wound itself
around her throat. Go on...jump, her mind told her....
First time writer from South Africa. Only been writing for a few weeks, but loved every second so far. Any feedback would be helpful.
|AUTHOR'S OTHER TITLES (2)
Bad Habits Die Hard (Short Stories) Stop bugging me... or i'll kill you, Kurt warned Christine... [13,550 words] [Thriller]
The Fear (Novels) About five school friends who are hounded by older kids, and later a pack of wild dogs. (This is only the first three chapters.) [12,614 words] [Horror]
Her breathing had slowed right down, yet she still felt her heart thud against her ribcage.
With each beat, she sank further and further into herself.
She was two meters from the edge of the brigde. Two meters to freedom.
Her skin was cold and clammy. As she cupped her elbows in her hands,
she tried to warm herself by rubbing her arms. But to no avail.
The cold she was feeling came from inside. It had been freezing her soul for
the last two months. She couldn't take the pain any more. She wouldn't.
Her shoulder length hair was matted, and the strong wind blew it from side to side.
Tears ran down her pale face; the wind blew them to the side.
The sun was harsh and out in full force; she was cold and sweaty.
Her mind was numb, as though it had been stuck in a fridge for the last while.
(I...I can't do it..)
(YES YOU CAN!)
She used one hand to wipe away the tears, then went back to rubbing her arms.
(No...no I can't. What about Chaptin? Who'll feed him?)
(CHAPTIN DOESN'T GIVE A FUCK ABOUT YOU!
HE ONLY CARES ABOUT HIS NEXT MEAL)
A tear made it to her mouth, and she smiled as the moisture touched her lips.
In front of her a hundred foot drop awaited. And with the recent drought,
the river was nothing more than a stream in most places.
She took another step foward...the sudden drop made her dizzy, and her eyes battled to focus.
Her last meal twisted like a snake inside her stomach, and tried to make its way up.
She swallowed air, and put her one hand in front of her mouth, just in case.
Her breathing became rushed and shallow. It felt like a gaint vice grip had wound itself around her heart,
and was slowly tightening itself. She tried to take another step, but her legs wouldn't move.
Her gaze was fixed on the river below.
(YES YOU CAN!)
(What about mom and dad?)
(WHAT ABOUT THEM? WHERE WERE THEY WHEN YOU NEEDED THEM?)
(But they love me...I know they do)
(YEAH RIGHT. AS LONG AS LOVING YOU DOESN'T INTERFERE WITH THEIR BUSY SOCIAL LIFE...)
(They were always there for me...)
(BULLSHIT! THEY ALWAYS ANSWERED THE PHONE, THAT'S ALL.)
She started to back away.
The wind picked up, and howled through her ears.
Something happened...before she knew it, she was moving foward..
She was being pushed. her head flung around...but her eyes could pick nothing up
Her heels left deep trenches as they dug into the soft ground.
She panicked. Still her body carried on. The grass she grabbed hold of ripped out of the ground,
much the same way her life would be torn out of her if she fell over.
It felt like a gaint spear of fear had been thrust into her heart. she gasped for air.
(I DON'T WANT TO DIE LIKE THIS...)
Her legs slipped over the edge, still she clutched the bundles of grass.
She slid over. Then her stomach.
Then she lost all her body weight. She was as light as a feather...
The Oranje river bridge was deserted, as it usually is on a sunday afternoon.
It joined two small towns, Marble Hall and Groblersdal, together.
The nearest large city was a good two hours away. Yet the bridge had
become notoriuos for all the suicide attempts. Attempts though, not deaths.
a ferocious, gusty wind patrolled the area, and out of the last five
jumps, three had been blown back into the rocky side. There they had stayed,
broken legs or arms, until they had been rescued.
Martha Smith was fed up.
"I'm telling you guys one last time" she pointed her finger at her two kids in the back seat
"If Mommy has to, she'll stop the car...and then you know what,,," her eyes gazed at them
in the rear view mirror.
Ethan, her three year old, tuck his top lip under his botom lip. A random tear rolled down his soft cheeks
"Hey!..." she said "...big boys don't cry now..."
"Yeah but he's a sissy ma!" Josh, her eldest said.
"Hey!" she snapped at him. "...I've told you before to leave him alone"
She had other problems on her mind. She was trying to plan her day so that she had time to pop round to
Mrs. Jackson, who was still recovering from her mild stroke.
(although the woman is eighty five, Marty)
But before doing that she had to do the usual and drop the kids off at Sundy school, then pick them up late
And she had the shopping to do.
(God I wish he would help out with the shopping)
And to top it all Trudie had asked if she could visit her as well
(That's all I need, another donation to give I suppose)
She was going through her mental plan when she saw what she thought was a woman
on the side of the bridge. She applied the brakes. Not too hard, otherwise Ethan would start crying again.
(JESUS...IT IS A WOMAN! OKAY...STAY CALM MARTY)
The car took ages to stop. Or at least it felt that way. She stopped in the middle of the road, and ran towards
the side. Her running felt weightless, like when you run in a dream.
Before she could get there, the woman dissapeared over the side.
She carried on running, but it felt like she was running on a giant treadmill, and it was set against her.
|READER'S REVIEWS (1)
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"This story is not at all bad. It captivates you and leaves you wanting more. That is the style. However, so far it seems a bit unstructured because it is so unfinished and there is obviously a lack of plot so far in this short extract, but I trust that, when continued, this will be a great read. One more thing: Although it is well-written, the idea of beginning a story with someone's suicide attempt is just a bit hackneyed and it has to have a definite bearing on the plot for it to work." -- Greg Datesh, South Kensington, London, England.
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© 2001 David Rama
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