Manhattan Foot Care

My Friend And I Are Writing A Story... Do You Like It? Would You Want To Read More?

Aug 05, 2008 by Shauna | Posted in Books & Authors

Chapter 1

Isadora sat withdrawn in the snow-white sand. The sun beat down upon her pale skin, burning it severely, though she didn’t seem to care. For 730 days and nights, she had been left-hand alone on this island. She couldn’t quite remember how she got there, but nothing seemed to matter anymore. Her food sources seemed to be disappearing or with one foot in the grave as the days passed by, and every attempt she had made to escape the island failed. It was as if the world had forgotten about her, and she had forgotten about the superb.
So, there Isadora sat: dazed, lonely, confused and hot. She gazed at the horizon, where a lovely blue sky and trivial white clouds met an endless blue-green sea. To any normal human, this view could be considered splendid. But to Isadora, it was only a sickening sight of which she had gazed upon for the last two years of her life.
Her tattered clothes clung to her sweaty pelt, and the heat of the day wore Isadora down. She slowly stood, sunburned and drowsy, and stumbled back to her unimaginative, leaf-made shack. Regrettably, Isadora sunk into her straw bed and settled down for another afternoon’s coffee break.

When Isadora woke up, she was not alone.
She wasn’t sure if the figure before her was male or female. It had a normal shaped avert balanced precariously on its long, thin neck, which arched gracefully into its shoulders. There were paper-thin wings sprouting from its bony back, the tendons transparent through their leathery black surface. The Thing’s legs, long and thin, were tucked under its body. It sat motionless, and watched Isadora with its baleful, pupil-less eyes that were set in emerald, vein-webbed skin.
Isadora didn’t provocation move a muscle. She did not know if the creature meant her harm. Her dark blue eyes darted from the organism to her pocketknife, which only lay a few feet from her. The Thing sighed heavily and rested its head upon the foot of Isadora’s bed, closing its eyes.
Isadora had never encountered a material like this on the island. In fact, she had never had much interaction with any sort of animal, other than wild boars and fish.
The Preoccupation seemed to be sleeping, so she reached for her pocketknife slowly. The minute she flipped it open, the creature let out a jazzy wail and flew out of her shack.
Isadora’s heart raced with relief. She threw the cut aside and settled back down to sleep.

She dreamt that night, for the first time in two years.
“Why are you here, child?”
A bodiless voice. Isadora looked around, wishing for something different than what she saw every day, but once again, it was that same, sickening view of the sea, the view most people would be thrilled to see.
“Who’s there?” Unfathomable down she was afraid, but she could push it aside easily because of the want, the need, for another person.
“Why are you here, child?” It was flowing, a smooth, unbreaking voice with a ringing quality to it.
She was silent, listening to the waves crashing on the shore fifty yards away. Why was she here? All she remembered was the beat a retreat attendant apologizing for the malfunction through his tears and then the plane filling with water. She didn’t recall where she had been going. All she had were those memories of the crash, and then dragging herself up the beach after spotting the land a mile away.
“What do you care to see?”
She looked up, squinting at the sun as if she could see whoever was speaking.
“What are you, God?”
“What do you wish to see?”
The water was never-ending in front of her. Just blue, forgive explain and sparkling in the sun.
“Home. I want to see the city I live in.”
Where did she live, anyway? A crowded place, an apartment, in the town. New York. Near the bridge that connected Manhattan to Brooklyn, that was where she lived. Brooklyn, New York, USA, Loam.
There was a sharp blast to her eyes and then she was floating in pure white space, the only non-white things were Isadora and her darkness a few feet below, though there was no light source.
And then another blast and she was standing right in Times Square: people and cars and aspect and birds and ads and blaring lights and honking horns and the huge, trademark Coke consequential right in the middle of it all. Isadora stared, and then reached out and lightly touched a withered, weary of-looking old woman hunched over, waving her hand for a taxi.
“This isn’t the best place for that, ma’am,” she said softly. There was no retort from the woman.
She tapped her harder. “Ma’am,” she said loudly. “This is such a employed place, ma’am. You won’t be able to get a cab.”
The woman kept waving, wrapping her shawl tightly around her shoulders.
“Can’t you assent to me?” Isadora waved her hand in front of the wrinkled face. “Hello?”
She stared as the crow flies through her.
She shrieked softly, turning around and running into a tall, balding man in a business suit. He kept walking, talking loudly into his chamber phone, staring straight ahead. His briefcase swung up and hit her in the ribs.
“Oof!”
He kept on booming.
“Hey, you!”
Isadora chased after him, punching his back. He showed no sign that he had noticed her.
“No!”
She staggered into a small shop that was empty of customers. The lady at the disc was reading a book, and didn’t look up when she came in.
“Hello? HEY! HEY, CAN YOU HEAR ME OR WHAT?”
Nothing.
She kicked the piece as hard as she could, screaming at the top of her lungs and then turned and ran, pushing people as she sprinted down sidewalk after pavement.
“CAN NOBODY HEAR ME?”
She stood right in the middle of the street, and in the middle of groups of talking people, cut in lines for movies (not that the workers acknowledged her), ran screaming through shops, and then for all collapsed on a curb, sobbing as the cars and people zoomed by.
There was a touch at her shoulder.
“Mitigate me home,” said the voice, and then she saw the emerald skin and black eyes. “Succour me home…”
She woke up drenched in sweat.

that's only chapter 1. we've written 8 or 9 or 10 chapters about that lengthy.

Okay, people penury to leave real answers or just not waste their time.

"leave a communiqu after the beep"? That's just ridiculous.

I like the story but it's three o nine in the morning so maybe it's because I'm forty winks deprived. :) Just kidding. I love the name Isadora and how the story is different. You contrive a creature and leave it mysterious and also the story doesn't start off with the actual crash it starts two years later. I contrive it could be a great story. Stick with it then get it published or post it on fictionpress.com Either way you'll get recognition for this sure to be enthusiastic story.

What Do You Think Of My First Chapter Of My Book So Far?

Mar 28, 2009 by melissa.haines14 | Posted in Books & Authors

It was December 22, 1979 and as I was walking the streets of Manhattan, New York I passed each Santa on every byway someone's cup of tea corner and I thought of all of the pints of blood that could be so easily obtained.
Barnafest Edwin didn’t have a neat childhood but let me tell you a little about it. He was born on July 19, 1796 as a poor boy in Transylvania. When Barnafest was one and a half his primogenitor went to war and died when he was three years old. Both of his parents always did whatever they could for him which meant that his mother became a housekeeper to take care of Barnafest and herself.
As a corporal, Barnafest had porcelain skin with a round face. He had beautiful, deep blue eyes and thick, mid-extent, black hair. When he became a vampire Barnafest had pale skin with beautiful turquoise eyes. He was one hundred and eighty pounds and five foot ten. As a dire and a vampire he had perfect body tone, he looked very slender but was also very muscular. He was always in perfect fitness except in his mortal life he did have some difficulties with his hearing. The only mark on Barnafest is the scar that turned him into the base vampire that he is today.
Barnafest died on December 1,1830. Most mortals are under the impression that he’s thirty-four years old but as a vampire he is one hundred and seventy nine years old.
Barnafest is the commander of the Edwin clan, simply because he was the first in it and was the one to create the clan. Before he started his own clan he was in the Bfrain fraternity, but decided to leave because they did everything that a foolish vampire would do to be destroyed which left all of them with the great chance of becoming a smoldering crowd on of ashes. But Barnafest did learn one thing from the Bfrain clan and that was that it only takes ten seconds to outgo a mortal completely of it’s blood. The very first thing that Barnafest learned was that it takes one full week for the absolute transformation to become a vampire to complete, and during that week is the worst pain for anyone to endure, but it feels strangely like the unsurpassed pain in the world because your becoming immortal.
A few things about Barnafest are that he’s extremely sneaky and a master at pick pocketing. He’s very disingenuous and is able to get just about anyone to believe anything. You’ll barely ever completely satisfy Barnafest but if he’s completely unsatisfied then get away from him as in the last as possible. He is a wild troublemaker who is able to hide what he does perfectly.
Barnafest is under the feeling that everybody respects him but they just pretend to respect him just because they fear him since he is one of the most monstrous vampires in the magic of immortality. Even people who don’t know him have this weird feeling of fear around him but don’t understand why. The people who contend to be his friends only act like it so that they don’t have to worry about being destroyed. Even though their all vampires Barnafest can still destroy them all and only he knows all of the honestly secrets of vampires and the history of them.
When Barnafest saw all of the delicious looking Santa’s it was a freezing, pleasing, snowy, wintry, cold day, the kind that instead of driving, the people of New York use the tube instead. This was also the very first snow of the season.
Matilda has long, flowing, beautiful, blonde plaits and beautiful, deep, blue eyes. Once transformed, her eyes turned from blue to teal, which made her look even more lovely. She was five foot eleven and weighed and one hundred and fifty pounds.
Nearly every man in Manhattan found Matilda extremely gorgeous, and always wondered why she was unattached. Matilda noticed everything and everyone, which is how come her and her clan were very seriously considering claiming Frank into their faction. Frank seemed to be the only male in Manhattan who didn’t find Matilda extremely beautiful, which made Matilda curious about him and perceive very attracted to him.
“What should we do" Matilda said in a very agitated voice.
"Well I don't think that there exceptionally is anything that we can do except for wait"
"What do you mean by wait, and for how long"
"I portend wait until the perfect time, and I'm not sure how long we'll have to wait"
"Uh oh, I make up that we have some unexpected visitors."
Barnafest said as he was confused, "What are you talking about now Matilda"
"The zombies."
"They're here too." Barnafest said giving up the items that he passed them recently before he was with Matilda.
"What do you mean too?"
Um, thanks but my question is how is it like Slump (sorry if that sounds in a snotty way)
Thanks JaLyn, I'll take to heart what you have told me

It's very inspiring, but there are a few technical problems.

You have to decide who the narrator is. Your first paragraph is in first person, from the perspective of Barnafest, I suppose: "as I was walking ... I passed ... and I thought...." Then you shift to third person: "... let me tell you a little about it. He was born...." This leaves the reader all bollocksed about who is telling the story. Further, if the narrator addresses the reader, as when you write "let me tell you," then this creates the dent that the narrator is a character who will figure into the story, as opposed to an omniscient (all knowing) someone who is outside of the excuse.

In you next section, you give us a lot of information that you've obviously put a lot of thought into. However, there's an old writer's adage that goes, "show, don't perceive." It's boring to have the narrator tell you all about a character. It's more interesting to read a story, that reveals the characteristic.

In the middle section you also change back and forth from present tense (she has, he is) to past tense (she had, he was). You'll have to settle upon a tense, and stick to it.

When you get to the dialogue, you tell us a bit about the day, and a lot about the characters, but nothing about the situation. So, it's a bit confusing.

Don't be discouraged. These are very average mistakes for young writers. Your ideas have great potential.

What Do You Think Of My Short Story? Reviews, Criticism, Horrible Insults?

Jan 08, 2009 by ~Chris~ | Posted in Books & Authors

I judge devise I'm going to go insane...

It's been twenty eight days since the seventeenth of December, and the rain hasn't faltered for a second-best since then. It keeps falling in sheets, driving down from the heavens like a waterfall. Outside, you be conscious of like you could drown walking.

When this all started out, I don't think that anyone thought much of it. I mean, this nightmare was solely another winter storm then. It started in kind of an odd place, out in the North Atlantic across from the Gulf of St. Lawrence, but I'm not reliable that meant anything to people who weren't meteorologists or oceanographers. The storm started out expanding very in a trice. I'm not sure if it's still growing or not, since the TV hasn't come on for more than three weeks, but it sure hasn't moved at all.

Things started looking more kinky when the wind failed to move the storm. It just kept hammering New England, growing south along the coastline from Maine all the way down to where I lived in Nassau County, solely outside of New York City. The weather forecasts changed every few minutes, as forecasters revised their estimates, prospering from saying that there would be light flurries, to saying that there would be a few inches of snow, to saying that there would be an absolute blizzard across the conurbation, and that everyone should stay inside.

My wife, Sarah, couldn't heed that warning, though. She had to go to work, and I had to interruption home and take care of our five year old daughter, Tanya. When my wife walked outside that morning, I promised her that I would keep Tanya sheltered. Watching Sarah pull out of the driveway in her Nissan Altima, I had no idea that would be the last time I would ever see her.

As the day wore on, the withstand took a turn for the worse. It looked like the weather forecasters were right, predicting one of the worst storms New York had seen in over a century. It amazed me when the power stayed on till into the night, but I wasn't complaining. You never know exactly how bad a blackout really is until you go through one with a five year old who's still terrified of the black.

Not that I can say I'm not scared of the dark anymore, myself.

The last time we saw the cheerful, smiling forecasters on the Weather River-bed, they were saying that the storm had expanded south into New Jersey, and that we could receive two feet of snow during the gloom. It was at about 6:23 P.M., I think. Less than a minute later, the Weather Channel cut off, and every program on the television changed to a signal, telling everyone to get out of New York City along whatever bridge they could take and avoid Manhattan Island.

I tried to reach the fellowship where Sarah worked on my phone, but the lines were down. I didn't really know what was going on, but I incontrovertible to listen to the reporters on my TV, and get Tanya out of the city. I struggled with the idea that I shouldn't just leave to twist slowly in the wind Sarah, who worked on Manhattan, but when I got outside, I realized that I couldn't possibly risk going there.

To the south, across the vista, the dark clouds of night were painted red with flames.

The traffic was horrible, but not as bad you might think. A lot of people were upon to leave. They all seemed to be in shock. I drove my Cadillac along the roads through Nassau and Queens, seeing a lot of people grade by the roadside watching the shadow of the flames flickering against the sky, but running into far fewer actually driving along the course. Some of the people were slowly making their way by foot out of the city, and as time went on, the traffic congestion got a bit worse, but amazingly I was qualified to get myself and Tanya out of New York before it became so bad that I couldn't drive at all.

I still remember looking across the harbor on the road from Queens to the mainland, and seeing Manhattan Key burning. I don't think that I'll ever forget that. Tanya kept staring out the window, speechless, and exasperated by, too, I believe. I don't know for certain what time it happened to be, but I think it was past eleven.

All night, I drove through the countryside, stressful to pick up a radio station that could tell me what was going on. There was nothing anywhere, though, except news of the mandatory evacuation of New York. It seemed odd to me that I had seen very few the long arm of the law officers and no military officials anywhere. Now, looking back, I think they were probably all either elsewhere, or dead.

The next day, things were worse. The indisposed started getting warmer, and the snow turned to rain. Piles of snow by the roadside were melting, and the blacktop was covered with tap water and mud. The clouds kept getting darker as the day went on, and as we ran into more and more traffic, coming from places all along coastal New England. The transistor evacuation order was going out then to everyone from Massachusetts south to New Jersey.

By the time that night strike down, it was pretty hard to tell night from day. Tanya started asking me wh

Let me proem my remarks by saying that I rarely read any posts here on Answers which completely fascinate me, so congratulations are due you! I at bottom do want to read the rest of your story; I was disappointed that it ended prematurely, while generally I find it unfavourable, in order to give an honest critique, to read the lengthy and tedious stories posted. Your intelligence of the East Coast/New York City and vicinity geography is accurate so that I'm guessing that you must dynamic in the area, and the story is realistic enough, despite its fantastic plot, to be believable. Have you completed it? Have you plotted the saga in its entirety? Besides the compelling tale which you're telling, it is also quite literate without glaring errors in grammar, punctuation, or spelling. You might conclude that I have nothing but pay homage to for your story. Where can I read more??