A story by my freind

[x.Scrappy.x]

Basically my freind entered a competition to write a story... The topic was to write something about "the greatest gift" and what "the greatest gift" in your eyes... My freind is same age as me... 14 and I thought this was unbelievably good... She doesn't know im putting this up here and im gonna show her it later once there's some feedback... so please take your time to read this as it is worth reading and please give some feedback on this and maybe tell me what you think is "the greatest gift"<u><div align="center">The Greatest Gift</div></u>She had spent an hour on the phone to him. It was he who she believed was the greatest gift. She loved him dearly, but that night he tore out her heart.She was about to learn a lesson. A hard lesson but a lesson she needed to learn. He was not the greatest gift. He never had been. Love indeed is a good gift. A gift everyone wants at some point, but not worthy of the title 'the greatest gift'. She could live without him if she tried. She spent countless nights crying herself to sleep. The tears began to sting. Her heart felt as if could not carry on like this. When she did fall asleep, she dreamt of him. He was always on her mind. She missed him. A week or so later, she was diagnosed with slight depression. She was put into counselling and her parents were informed. She had stopped eating properly and her grades in school slowly began to drop from As to Ds. She tried her hardest to force a smile when appropriate but most of her year group knew it was fake. Friends were the people she held close to her heart. Friends are there as guidance, a shoulder to cry on and some one to share the good times with. She loved her friends, but slowly she noticed a change. She felt excluded, and this was not just a small case of paranoia, many people noticed this. People asked what had happened; but the simple truth was, she didn?t know. Her friends had stopped waiting for her to walk to school, they no longer invited her out for lunch and they had stopped asking her if she would like to come out after school or on weekends. She had stopped trying. She had come to terms with the fact that the only time she left the house was to go to school. She had come to terms with the fact she?d be sitting by herself every lunch time. She had come to terms with the fact everyone talked about her and watched her as she walked through a corridor. Gradually she lost her friends. Her friends were not the greatest gift. They never had been. Friends are indeed a good gift. A gift that everyone wants at some point, but not worthy of the title ?the greatest gift?. She could live without them if she tried. She spent most of her time wondering why these things were happening; and slowly, her depression became a bigger problem. Her teacher handed out the class?s annual reports one by one before the final bell rung. She was worried about what her mother would say about her report. At home she lived with just her mother, brother and her dog. Her mother was under a lot of stress which she accepted. Sometimes her mother snapped at her, but she had to let it slide because she knew her mother could not take much more; she was at breaking point. She put the report into her boyish blue back pack and put her chair up on the desk, waiting for the school bell to ring declaring the school day finally over. She arrived home. Her mother was not yet at home. She put her report on the coffee table. She went into the kitchen and washed the dishes for her mother. Once she was done she took her homework upstairs as to keep out of the way of her mother when she read her report. Not long later she heard a key turn in the lock of the front door. She heard her mother shouting at the dog to be quiet. She heard her mother hang up her coat and walk towards the coffee table. She held her breath. She was unbelievably scared. All her mother wanted of her was to be successful, and at that, she had failed. Success, she knew, was not the greatest gift. However to her mother it was everything. She heard her mother walking up the stairs. She jumped into bed and pretended to be asleep. Her mother walked into her room. Her mother told her she couldn?t cope with her right now, and she was very disappointed. She was sent to live with her grandmother. She had just lost her close family. Her family was not the greatest gift. They never had been. Family indeed is a good gift. A gift everyone wants at some point, but not worthy of the title 'the greatest gift'. She could live without them if she tried. That night, she lost the greatest gift. She took her life as she had nothing else to live for. Life is the greatest gift; however, to enjoy the greatest gift you need some of life?s other gifts.

 

[the_pestilence]

just so you know, you're not going to get much response posting a story on a basketball forum, let alone somebody else's.It's an intriguing story, more of an elongated poem than anything.

 

[primetime]

Here's my pulitzer prize winning poemTwas the night before Christmas, when all through the houseNot a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,In hopes that the niggaz soon would be there.The children were nestled all snug in their beds,While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads.And mamma in her ?kerchief, and I in my cap,Had just settled our brains for a long winter?s nap.When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.Away to the window I flew like a flash,Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snowGave the lustre of mid-day to objects below.When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,But a miniature negro, and eight tinny reindeer.With a little old driver, so lively and quick,I knew in a moment it must be Lil Jon.More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!"YEAHHHHHH! WHAT???? OKAYYYYYYY!"As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky.So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,With the sleigh full of Toys, and Lil Jon too.And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roofThe prancing and pawing of each little hoof.As I drew in my head, and was turning around,Down the chimney Lil Jon came with a bound.He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot.A bundle of drugs he had flung on his back,And he looked like a peddler, just opening his pack.His eyes-how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,And the beard of his chin was as black as the poop.The stump of a crack-pipe he held tight in his teeth,And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.He had a broad face and a little round belly,That shook when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly!He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old negro,And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself!A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,And filled all the stockings, then turned with a jerk.And laying his finger aside of his nose,And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose!He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.But I heard him exclaim, ?ere he drove out of sight,"WHAT!!!!!!!!! OKAYYYYYYYYYYY!"

 

[gentile]

I give it a D. A great teacher of mine once gave me a maxim on quality writing. A good writer shows more than tells (as this story does).It's kind of a disjointed gush-fest.Her style was almost the antithesis to creativity as well. Each sentence tells a different depressing stage, but does it in the same way. Twenty six sentences start with the word "she." And most of those with "she had" or "she was." Not one similie, analogy, or metaphor to connect her to the audience, even an ineffective one to offer a deeper explication of "success" or "greatest gift" for instance. Very few transitional words or phrases. And the story was bereft of conflict - it's like she gave up. Finally, I don't doubt her pain, but the style makes her final dramatic conclusion terribly mauldlin, and inadvertently condescending. She might have done better revealing this relationship that sent her on the descending spiral, and allowing the story itself to reveal what the "greatest gift" was.However, I did like the courage of her subject matter. If she's going to eviscerate of herself, though, she's gonna need to sharpen her knife. I probably never wrote anything better than this at 14.

 

[ReppinTheD]

<div class='quotetop'>QUOTE (gentile @ Jul 18 2007, 03:05 PM) <{POST_SNAPBACK}></div><div class='quotemain'>I give it a D. A great teacher of mine once gave me a maxim on quality writing. A good writer shows more than tells (as this story does).It's kind of a disjointed gush-fest.Her style was almost the antithesis to creativity as well. Each sentence tells a different depressing stage, but does it in the same way. Twenty six sentences start with the word "she." And most of those with "she had" or "she was." Not one similie, analogy, or metaphor to connect her to the audience, even an ineffective one to offer a deeper explication of "success" or "greatest gift" for instance. Very few transitional words or phrases. And the story was bereft of conflict - it's like she gave up. Finally, I don't doubt her pain, but the style makes her final dramatic conclusion terribly mauldlin, and inadvertently condescending. She might have done better revealing this relationship that sent her on the descending spiral, and allowing the story itself to reveal what the "greatest gift" was.However, I did like the courage of her subject matter. If she's going to eviscerate of herself, though, she's gonna need to sharpen her knife. I probably never wrote anything better than this at 14.</div>Good Honest review, but you're gonna make the dam girl cry! lol At least you put in that last sentence to make her feel better.

 

[the_pestilence]

<div class='quotetop'>QUOTE (ReppinTheD @ Jul 18 2007, 12:19 PM) <{POST_SNAPBACK}></div><div class='quotemain'>Good Honest review, but you're gonna make the dam girl cry! lol At least you put in that last sentence to make her feel better.</div>yeah, I agree completely with Gentile's opinions, I just wasn't going to be the one to hurt the kids' feelings.

 

[Mobruler]

Lol @ gentile tearing down a 14 year old girl!

 

[gentile]

My criticism was done out of love. I just said what I saw. Writing well is a tough undertaking, and honesty is about the only element of good writing that isn't a trick or a gimmick or even a technique. And she has that.If she's serious about becoming a writer she's gonna need two things: a skin as thick as french onion dip, and the tools of the trade.I wish I had somebody to honestly read my work and tear it to shreds when I was her age. I'd be waaay ahead of the game by this time.Edit: Oh yeah, truth is the greatest gift. She should be happy to have found out the truth about this cat so she could move on with her life.