sule
"What I do is me: for that I came."
- Joined
- Feb 14, 2020
- Messages
- 431
Hi. In one of my current WIPs I've decided to try writing some sections in second person. I'm not very practiced at it so I was hoping to get some feedback on one of the pieces I've written, specifically:
Does the "gimmick" of second person distract from the narrative?
Does it read well? Are there any phrasings that seem awkward?
If this were the opening of a short story or novel, would you be likely to continue reading? If not, why not?
I appreciate any and all feedback.
The stars were the first thing you stole from me.
The city was a forest of snow-hidden steeples, surrounding you with a thousand sounds and scents coated with distance. All near-sleeping on a winter’s night. The air was heavy with falling snow. Thick flakes dusted your hair and you brushed them away. You looked past the snow, looked past everything. You treaded carefully across white-packed roofs, following a familiar path that had become anonymous. A train’s soft rumble swept past you on ice-slick tracks; a tower tolled the time with muted tongue. The world slid silently by on skates.
You kept your hand closed tightly around two things. One was a piece of charcoal: a shred, scorched and blackened, that could only remember what it’s like to be warm. The other was a thrice folded-over scrap of paper crisscrossed by hurried sketches. Hidden somewhere on that scrap was the secret that created an urgency within you, but I can’t find it. There is silence where your thoughts should be.
The wind ruffled as you slid down a slanted rooftop. You dangled by freezing fingertips then dropped to the ground with a soft thump. There was an empty street, then an alley whose tightness pushed against you. You cramped through and found yourself in a plaza that felt forgotten. An undisturbed dusting on its stone terrain showed that there were no footsteps to follow in.
In the plaza’s center stood a temple to something that no longer has a name. Its windows were covered by cracked and twisted shutters that barely hid the broken rainbows beneath. Two solid doors barred the entrance. You stepped into their shadow, placed your palm flat against the unadorned wood, and pushed. A moment’s judgment passed, and the doors swung inward.
Darkness within, deeper than just the absence of light—a darkness that swallowed light. There was nothing inviting about it, only the promise of loss.
You chose to walk into that darkness. Why?
Does the "gimmick" of second person distract from the narrative?
Does it read well? Are there any phrasings that seem awkward?
If this were the opening of a short story or novel, would you be likely to continue reading? If not, why not?
I appreciate any and all feedback.
*******
It was your last night in the city you called your home. You tugged darkness to you, wearing it like a favorite shawl. If the stars could have pierced the clouds, they would have watched you with worry. Did you choose this night especially because the stars were blind?The stars were the first thing you stole from me.
The city was a forest of snow-hidden steeples, surrounding you with a thousand sounds and scents coated with distance. All near-sleeping on a winter’s night. The air was heavy with falling snow. Thick flakes dusted your hair and you brushed them away. You looked past the snow, looked past everything. You treaded carefully across white-packed roofs, following a familiar path that had become anonymous. A train’s soft rumble swept past you on ice-slick tracks; a tower tolled the time with muted tongue. The world slid silently by on skates.
You kept your hand closed tightly around two things. One was a piece of charcoal: a shred, scorched and blackened, that could only remember what it’s like to be warm. The other was a thrice folded-over scrap of paper crisscrossed by hurried sketches. Hidden somewhere on that scrap was the secret that created an urgency within you, but I can’t find it. There is silence where your thoughts should be.
The wind ruffled as you slid down a slanted rooftop. You dangled by freezing fingertips then dropped to the ground with a soft thump. There was an empty street, then an alley whose tightness pushed against you. You cramped through and found yourself in a plaza that felt forgotten. An undisturbed dusting on its stone terrain showed that there were no footsteps to follow in.
In the plaza’s center stood a temple to something that no longer has a name. Its windows were covered by cracked and twisted shutters that barely hid the broken rainbows beneath. Two solid doors barred the entrance. You stepped into their shadow, placed your palm flat against the unadorned wood, and pushed. A moment’s judgment passed, and the doors swung inward.
Darkness within, deeper than just the absence of light—a darkness that swallowed light. There was nothing inviting about it, only the promise of loss.
You chose to walk into that darkness. Why?