Stop Snoring Remedies

Question by El Hombre de los Libros: How can I tighten up my writing?
I know there are mistakes here, but I need a fresh pair of eyes to see them. I want to capture my readers attention and also I need to describe this town. Comments please on what I can improve.

It was late afternoon on 5th of August in the year 1757, as the old cathedral clock dolefully boomed four times deep in the center of the sleepy pueblo just as a one legged seaman carrying a battered old crutch hobbled up from the beach that bordered its east shore. He ignored the fact the tide tugged hungrily at the small skiff drawing it farther and farther away from the shore. It didn’t matter what happened to the little boat, for he had no intention of leaving.
Mangy hairless dogs sleepily guarded dusty thresholds while a thousand eyes peered from slightly open doorways and dark corners, following the cripple with a sort of uneasiness as he tottered down the dirty dust filled, streets. It would be a difficult task to find a vagrant with a more wretched appearance, but the typical vagabond’s eyes are usually filled with a broken defeat wandering with inane purpose. But this man’s eyes were overflowing with intelligence and burned with a bitter light. His movements were precise and driven by an unquestionable intention.
An endless maze of white adobe and brownish dusty streets filled the hillside. Each building was a near replica of its brother, with the outer corners revealing colorless mud bricks beneath the traditional once white stucco that had been chipped away little by little by time and weather and then faded to a dirty gray, aglow with the smoldering fire of sunset.
The lower half of the street side wall of each casita has been stained with the dark brown mud of a million rainstorms. The hot Panama sun reflected lazily off the red adobe roof in heavy sinuous shimmers. Some chickens lazily cluck and peck at the dry unyielding earth, and near the edge of the narrow street a few pigs happily grunt and roll in a new mud puddle left by a recent storm. An old man drunkenly snores on a bench just outside of a seemingly abandoned inn. He is always there, rain or shine, and seems to be an unalterable fixture of the public house’s exterior. It is here hidden deep inside the labyrinth’s dark heart, with its open door basking in the shade of an oversized mango tree. He had come here to bury himself in this obscure place of hiding. This tavern too was a seeming duplicate of the buildings surrounding it, making it almost un-noticeable, like a needle lost in a stack of needles. A small dull sign besmirched by time swings back and forth lazily squeaking as the wind blew across the dark and foreboding doorway. The sign has been hand painted black but faded to gray with three simple words that read: “El Gato Negro” The Black Cat.

Best answer:

Answer by Kory <3
Hmm… you are pretty decent when it comes to writing. But make sure you don’t use too much detail (for example: I walked along the stony, grey road) and try sticking to one word when you’re writing about a noun. And indents at the beginnings of paragraphs are a must, while adding commas more in a sentence will elongate it, becoming more interesting.
Good luck with your work,
xx

Add your own answer in the comments!

Question by LionQueen: Is my writing any good?
In the heart of a poverty-stricken town named Ashville, stood a small, run down building, a filthy sign dangled above the front door—which read, by the dim light of the moon, Ashville home for the homeless youths. The gray, crowded neighborhood kept motionless, silent except for the echoing footsteps by town guards from the streets, on patrol continuously.

The early hours of a chilly, September night took cause with each resident, nearly all asleep. Within the building, inside a dormitory on the second floor overlooking the street, a troop of guards questioning a young-looking man with violent shoves and kicks could be witnessed from the lone window, whose thin shutters had been thrown ajar by the heavy gusts of wind. He had violated curfew, clearly. It was just about half-past two in the morning, and curfew started at approximately nine in the evening. Penalties for disobeying curfew were harsh ones.

Lying on her cold, steely bed, eyes open and unable to shut, was fifteen year old Cornelia Lowell, hidden partially by the thin, ragged blanket provided. She was the only one awake in the crammed dormitory in which she resided. The snores and unconscious drones of her fellow occupants made it difficult for her think, let alone sleep.

Her bed was placed next to the window, allowing her a clear view of the town. A tremor erupted through her body as yet another burst of air entered. Cornelia, positioning herself underneath the blanket, warmed her numb hands by rubbing them against each other, her breath created frosty mists. Suddenly, the snoring of the occupants grew fainter, and the ticking of the hall clock grew louder, echoed as thuds to Cornelia’s ears. Suddenly, her forehead creased, and her chest tensed.

There were thuds.

She lifted a part of the blanket off her head, and looked, despite the dimness, in the direction of the door before her. Cornelia heard the clumsy stomping of feet. Then, they halted—she saw their feet’s silhouette from the empty space beneath the door. She heard an impression of murmurs. With a creaking noise, the door partly opened, and a little girl’s head appeared.

“Cornelia?” She whispered.

Cornelia let out a breath of relief, and sat up. “I’m over here, Denise.” A tiny child, with hair like sizzling fire entered the room in silence, two more girls followed her. Neither of them was older than seven years of age. “What are you doing in here?” The little girls simply remained standing before her.

Another girl overlooked the question and said, “Did we wake you up?” Cornelia gestured them to sit on her bed, they did so with soft, silent movements.

“No, Jill,” Cornelia smiled. “I could’t sleep.”

The little girls glimpsed at each other with miserable smiles. “We couldn’t sleep, too.” Jill said in a small voice.

“How come?”

They hesitated. Jill’s eyes lowered, while Denise fiddled with the hem of her nightdress. The one that was yet to be named, the youngest, however, looked at Cornelia with a sort of teary gloom. “We . . . we heard you’re l-leaving t-t-tomorrow. Forever.” Shaky sobs started—something she was not at all prepared for. Cornelia seemed to have frozen for a moment, her senses lost in a dream. She was quite lost for words. Glancing around the room anxiously, she leaned towards the girl, and drew her into a comforting hug.

“Who told you?” She asked quietly.

Denise, wiping the tears that formed, unable to keep them from falling, mumbled, “It doesn’t matter. It’s not fair . . . you’ve only been here for the summer!”

Cornelia forced a wide smile. “The best summer of my life, too,”

“Please don’t go, Cornelia.” Jill said, with her eyes till staring down her dress. “We’ll miss you and your stories so much.”

“There’s really nothing I can do about it, you know that.” She murmured, shoving a lock of Jill’s blonde hair behind her ear. A bitter breeze swept upon them, shuddering, they fell silent. Watching as the young girls mourned for tomorrow, Cornelia felt a surge of guilt. These girls had been her lone source of joy in this dreadful place. The trials of surviving seemed like a breeze to these children, and in a way, though it may not be after the next day, gave the impression of being so to Cornelia as well. In a week, it would be exactly a year since Cornelia and her brother’s removal from their mother. A year that tested her ability to survive on her own, in spite of the so-called ‘homes’ they were sent to live in. They hardly spent more than a couple of weeks in each home, this being the longest one they’ve spent in, yet.

Best answer:

Answer by Nikki
It sounds good. But instead of saying, “We couldn’t sleep, too.” change that to, “We couldn’t sleep either.” It sounds better that way.

What do you think? Answer below!

Question by LionQueen: What do you think of my writing, please?
In the heart of a poverty-stricken town named Ashville, stood a small, run down building, a filthy sign dangled above the front door—which read, by the dim light of the moon, Ashville home for the homeless youths. The gray, crowded neighborhood kept motionless, silent except for the echoing footsteps by town guards from the streets, on patrol continuously.

The early hours of a chilly, September night took cause with each resident, nearly all asleep. Within the building, inside a dormitory on the second floor overlooking the street, a troop of guards questioning a young-looking man with violent shoves and kicks could be witnessed from the lone window, whose thin shutters had been thrown ajar by the heavy gusts of wind. He had violated curfew, clearly. It was just about half-past two in the morning, and curfew started at approximately nine in the evening. Penalties for disobeying curfew were harsh ones.

Lying on her cold, steely bed, eyes open and unable to shut, was fifteen year old Cornelia Lowell, hidden partially by the thin, ragged blanket provided. She was the only one awake in the crammed dormitory in which she resided. The snores and unconscious drones of her fellow occupants made it difficult for her think, let alone sleep.

Her bed was placed next to the window, allowing her a clear view of the town. A tremor erupted through her body as yet another burst of air entered. Cornelia, positioning herself underneath the blanket, warmed her numb hands by rubbing them against each other, her breath created frosty mists. Suddenly, the snoring of the occupants grew fainter, and the ticking of the hall clock grew louder, echoed as thuds to Cornelia’s ears. Suddenly, her forehead creased, and her chest tensed.

There were thuds.

She lifted a part of the blanket off her head, and looked, despite the dimness, in the direction of the door before her. Cornelia heard the clumsy stomping of feet. Then, they halted—she saw their feet’s silhouette from the empty space beneath the door. She heard an impression of murmurs. With a creaking noise, the door partly opened, and a little girl’s head appeared.

“Cornelia?” She whispered.

Cornelia let out a breath of relief, and sat up. “I’m over here, Denise.” A tiny child, with hair like sizzling fire entered the room in silence, two more girls followed her. Neither of them was older than seven years of age. “What are you doing in here?” The little girls simply remained standing before her.

Another girl overlooked the question and said, “Did we wake you up?” Cornelia gestured them to sit on her bed, they did so with soft, silent movements.

“No, Jill,” Cornelia smiled. “I could’t sleep.”

The little girls glimpsed at each other with miserable smiles. “We couldn’t sleep, too.” Jill said in a small voice.

“How come?”

They hesitated. Jill’s eyes lowered, while Denise fiddled with the hem of her nightdress. The one that was yet to be named, the youngest, however, looked at Cornelia with a sort of teary gloom. “We . . . we heard you’re l-leaving t-t-tomorrow. Forever.” Shaky sobs started—something she was not at all prepared for. Cornelia seemed to have frozen for a moment, her senses lost in a dream. She was quite lost for words. Glancing around the room anxiously, she leaned towards the girl, and drew her into a comforting hug.

“Who told you?” She asked quietly.

Denise, wiping the tears that formed, unable to keep them from falling, mumbled, “It doesn’t matter. It’s not fair . . . you’ve only been here for the summer!”

Cornelia forced a wide smile. “The best summer of my life, too,”

“Please don’t go, Cornelia.” Jill said, with her eyes till staring down her dress. “We’ll miss you and your stories so much.”

“There’s really nothing I can do about it, you know that.” She murmured, shoving a lock of Jill’s blonde hair behind her ear. A bitter breeze swept upon them, shuddering, they fell silent. Watching as the young girls mourned for tomorrow, Cornelia felt a surge of guilt. These girls had been her lone source of joy in this dreadful place. The trials of surviving seemed like a breeze to these children, and in a way, though it may not be after the next day, gave the impression of being so to Cornelia as well. In a week, it would be exactly a year since Cornelia and her brother’s removal from their mother. A year that tested her ability to survive on her own, in spite of the so-called ‘homes’ they were sent to live in. They hardly spent more than a couple of weeks in each home, this being the longest one they’ve spent in, yet.

Best answer:

Answer by Ada
I’m tired, and my attention span is suffering from that, so i only skimmed it.
But i can tell that you have almost impeccable grammar, which is such a breath of fresh air from most of the stuff i read on here. It seems to flow nicely too. I couldn’t really comment on if i like the plot, because like i said, i only skimmed it. But you seem to have the mechanics down and i’m assuming it’s really good. GL

Know better? Leave your own answer in the comments!

Question by darraghruless: writing a book again…?
ok here is more of my story that i am writing plz commet on what is good and bad about it the first page u have to look under my other questions; writing a book to understand it so here is page 2- ******
Snoring very loudly on a Saturday night, a sudden crackly noise woke Darkles with a start. ‘What the hell was that’ yelled Darkles at the top of his voice, lights started to flicker on down the halls, outside his cell. Darkles heard footsteps running by the sound of it, and a guard zoomed past with a rifle in his hand. Darkles got out of his bed. Then walked very quickly to his cell door and tried to look down the hall. He could see three guards who looked much ticked off, all holding rifles as well. They were talking very loud so it was pretty easy to make out what they were saying. The tallest of the guards said very fast paced, ‘I don’t believe he slipped out right under our noses’. ‘But where the bloody hell is he now’ said the smallest of the gu

Best answer:

Answer by dragon fire
i like it and i write as well. im working on Zane and Death Forest the first manuscript was 148 pages long.

What do you think? Answer below!

ok here is more of my story that i am writing plz commet on what is good and bad about it the first page u have to look under my other questions; writing a book to understand it so here is page 2- ******
Snoring very loudly on a Saturday night, a sudden crackly noise woke Darkles with a start. ‘What the hell was that’ yelled Darkles at the top of his voice, lights started to flicker on down the halls, outside his cell. Darkles heard footsteps running by the sound of it, and a guard zoomed past with a rifle in his hand. Darkles got out of his bed. Then walked very quickly to his cell door and tried to look down the hall. He could see three guards who looked much ticked off, all holding rifles as well. They were talking very loud so it was pretty easy to make out what they were saying. The tallest of the guards said very fast paced, ‘I don’t believe he slipped out right under our noses’. ‘But where the bloody hell is he now’ said the smallest of the gu