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Grizzly Weinstein
.:.::.. .:.:.::.:

April 2009
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Grizzly Weinstein [userpic]
Flexing my writing muscles (ouch -- sprain)

The factory where I work is so excessively hot; just walking to my seat is enough to drench my t-shirt in sweat. I ease myself down on the small chair, and it groans in protest of the task requested; that being, supporting my excessive bulk.

I often wonder if there should be more. No, not more of me; at 450lbs I already worry the floor of my small flat will not be able to continue supporting me. More to life; I wonder if my life should be richer than this factory work. Granted I was destined; my father worked this job in this very factory; my father's father worked this very job in the factory's old location, much further from London than the current factory. My grandfather took a horse drawn carriage to work every day. It was rumored that a team of four horses was required as he was immense. A few generations before my grandfather things were different, we hob-knobbed with the nobles. We were respected and we were admired. That is, until fucking Prime-Fucking-Minister Grey, Earl of somewhere-fucking-important, came along and ruined us with his fucking "invention".

I take of my shirt when the factory bell rings, and Ernie with his usual "top-o-the-morning" shit, brings the first of the day's tea bags to my station. To me it would seem much more productive to do more than one at a time, but the boss man insists it makes the tea uneven. "Even distribution for even flavor", what a shit; I think he drinks coffee.

I reach my right hand over and grab a large bulge of flesh on my left side. I swab the sweat from between the folds of fat with tea bags; one at a damn time. I stack the bags in the finished box for Ernie to pick up on his next round.

I don't care if it is tradition; I am not naming my kid Bergamot.

Earl Gray tea:
Ingredients: Organic black tea, essence of bergamot

Current Location: Duvall
Current Mood: Brain Sprain

In mah day, the tea was loose and so were the women. It was a kinder, gentler time.

I don't believe in your main character. Sounds like someone else is describing him. I don't believe he is really self-loathing or that he is truly descended from nobility.

You're capable of much better.

(Sorry to sound like a high school English teacher)


I actually did start it in the third person, but I couldn't figure out who the narrator was. It is possible this is contributing to the POV disconnect you are seeing.

He actually never claims to be descended from Nobility, just that they hung-out with nobles. Perhaps a servant to a noble would have been better.

He doesn't actually loathe himself, just his station, his predicament.


You know, it might read better if you start with "I don't care if it is tradition; I am not naming my kid Bergamot." Kind of sets the tone for the I work here, my dad worked here, my grandad, etc.

An obese person doesn't speak of him or herself in that way, it's too objective. You don't get the feeling of what it's like to be in his body. You might want to stick to the idea of a narrator.

When was the last time you wrote a poem? I've always loved your poetry. Soul Time is one of my favorites, by published or unpublished authors.