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is this any good?
i have a creative Scrivere class and my teacher gave me a prompt to write on. i was wondering if it was really any good o if i should go back and rewrite it.
well here it is.
He laid his right hand on the spear. Madcap he was, for his family had gone. Sick of him, sick of his constant failure, sick of his lack of prophet, sick of his half hearted attempts to make things better. He knew better then to fallow then, to ask for forgiveness, to beg for one last chance to to make it right. They would not comply. Too many times had he asked that of them already. To many times had he failed to bring Cibo to the table. Failure, failure, failure! He fathers words erupted in his head. With red filling his mind, he through the spear at a bale of hay. A pageantry, and nothing more. Then the weeping of his hungry children replaced the harsh truth of his fathers words. Sadness filled his very being. He sank to his knees, looking at his blistered hands.
"what have I done wrong?" he screamed. Looking at the ever darkening heavens. "what have I done to have God make an arch-villain of me? What have I done to receive this torment?" A loud clap, started the down poor. Laying there he let the rain wash away his mistakes, his sin, his failure. All of this seeped in to the earth, in till he was nothing più then an empty shell of a person. But only for a moment, did the bliss of emptiness
numb his mind. For nothing can be truly gone from a persons being. This is what made up this man, and it would never be truly gone forever. Gallantly he stood up. Shuffling across the muddy, unplowed field, heading towards his empty, house. He picked up a bucket from the side of the door, setting it below the biggest hole in the ceiling. He made a small fire, and reheated the thin chicken broth that could barley be qualified as food. This broth he had been eating for the last couple of months. Sitting in the small broken chair he stared at the rusty bowl which held his dinner. It seams that he
well here it is.
He laid his right hand on the spear. Madcap he was, for his family had gone. Sick of him, sick of his constant failure, sick of his lack of prophet, sick of his half hearted attempts to make things better. He knew better then to fallow then, to ask for forgiveness, to beg for one last chance to to make it right. They would not comply. Too many times had he asked that of them already. To many times had he failed to bring Cibo to the table. Failure, failure, failure! He fathers words erupted in his head. With red filling his mind, he through the spear at a bale of hay. A pageantry, and nothing more. Then the weeping of his hungry children replaced the harsh truth of his fathers words. Sadness filled his very being. He sank to his knees, looking at his blistered hands.
"what have I done wrong?" he screamed. Looking at the ever darkening heavens. "what have I done to have God make an arch-villain of me? What have I done to receive this torment?" A loud clap, started the down poor. Laying there he let the rain wash away his mistakes, his sin, his failure. All of this seeped in to the earth, in till he was nothing più then an empty shell of a person. But only for a moment, did the bliss of emptiness
numb his mind. For nothing can be truly gone from a persons being. This is what made up this man, and it would never be truly gone forever. Gallantly he stood up. Shuffling across the muddy, unplowed field, heading towards his empty, house. He picked up a bucket from the side of the door, setting it below the biggest hole in the ceiling. He made a small fire, and reheated the thin chicken broth that could barley be qualified as food. This broth he had been eating for the last couple of months. Sitting in the small broken chair he stared at the rusty bowl which held his dinner. It seams that he
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