Emma
Well-known member
I'm thinking about writing a trashy novel, so I was wondering, could you give me an honest opinion on my novel, I will post the first page here, and be honest, it's ok if you say it's really bad, because I don't actually have any skills in writing books:
(Oh, yeah, pension is a big thing in my little town, people scam money here so they don't have to work)
So here it is:
Morning creeps into the darkened corners of Dead end trailer park, the bogans of this tiny community stir still hung over from last nights binging session, mullets stick with sweat to the sweaty foreheads of the men, filthy g-strings stay stuck in the backsides of the trailer park women, pension day has past in a blur of drunkenness and cheap sex with occupants from the trailer next door.
And where are the children?
Off in the bushes is where they are, sitting atop of crates of stolen television sets, waiting for Ma and Pa to bring them a greasy breakfast from the oak bar across the road.
Suddenly a door slams and the sound of footsteps can be heard, a pair of trashy white, nineteen eighties stilettos appear on two filthy feet, “What the f**ing hell are you little rodents up too?”
“Where’s me bloody breakfast?” Her mini skirt is stuck to her cellulite covered thighs, and her overhang is almost the length of her mini skirt (but six pregnancies will do that)
“I’m not gonna walk all the way across the bloody road for food, so you little ferals are gonna get you asses over there and bring me back a packet of ciggies and a bloody pie, and fast, or I’ll get your uncle dale to beat the living shit out of youse”
Quickly the children rise from the stolen heap and go across the road to get mama’s ciggies, while she has mid morning happy hour with Dazza from next door.
As the stomp over the road to the Oak bar they are greeted by the owner, a middle aged women by the name of Merle, she had lost all her teeth in a bar fight years ago and was left with one brown tooth that stuck out into her bottom lip, she coughed constantly from her thirty year cigarette habit, spraying mucus into the pie warmer and onto the pies, which she wiped off with a sweaty hand.
“How ya’s goin?” she inquired, her one tooth swaying against her rank breath, “I got really fresh pie today, only a day old”
The oldest of the children, who was labelled with the tragic moniker of Stormy-Blade, pulled the last of Ma’s pension money out of his pocket and handed it to Merle, in exchange for the day old pie and the cigarettes.
As he left the shop he managed to steal some dried out banana lollies to eat once he got back across the road.
Meanwhile, back at the trailer park, Ma had pasted her work sign on the door, which simply read, “If the trailers rocking, don‘t come knocking”, signalling the start of today’s business.
(Oh, yeah, pension is a big thing in my little town, people scam money here so they don't have to work)
So here it is:
Morning creeps into the darkened corners of Dead end trailer park, the bogans of this tiny community stir still hung over from last nights binging session, mullets stick with sweat to the sweaty foreheads of the men, filthy g-strings stay stuck in the backsides of the trailer park women, pension day has past in a blur of drunkenness and cheap sex with occupants from the trailer next door.
And where are the children?
Off in the bushes is where they are, sitting atop of crates of stolen television sets, waiting for Ma and Pa to bring them a greasy breakfast from the oak bar across the road.
Suddenly a door slams and the sound of footsteps can be heard, a pair of trashy white, nineteen eighties stilettos appear on two filthy feet, “What the f**ing hell are you little rodents up too?”
“Where’s me bloody breakfast?” Her mini skirt is stuck to her cellulite covered thighs, and her overhang is almost the length of her mini skirt (but six pregnancies will do that)
“I’m not gonna walk all the way across the bloody road for food, so you little ferals are gonna get you asses over there and bring me back a packet of ciggies and a bloody pie, and fast, or I’ll get your uncle dale to beat the living shit out of youse”
Quickly the children rise from the stolen heap and go across the road to get mama’s ciggies, while she has mid morning happy hour with Dazza from next door.
As the stomp over the road to the Oak bar they are greeted by the owner, a middle aged women by the name of Merle, she had lost all her teeth in a bar fight years ago and was left with one brown tooth that stuck out into her bottom lip, she coughed constantly from her thirty year cigarette habit, spraying mucus into the pie warmer and onto the pies, which she wiped off with a sweaty hand.
“How ya’s goin?” she inquired, her one tooth swaying against her rank breath, “I got really fresh pie today, only a day old”
The oldest of the children, who was labelled with the tragic moniker of Stormy-Blade, pulled the last of Ma’s pension money out of his pocket and handed it to Merle, in exchange for the day old pie and the cigarettes.
As he left the shop he managed to steal some dried out banana lollies to eat once he got back across the road.
Meanwhile, back at the trailer park, Ma had pasted her work sign on the door, which simply read, “If the trailers rocking, don‘t come knocking”, signalling the start of today’s business.
