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1
1
Review by ariion
Rated: E | (5.0)
Hi Kay,

Let’s see what your story is all about.





"I've got a crush on you!" he whispered to me as we stood side by side in the back of the room at the refreshment table. Nearly everyone else had taken their seats and the two of us had lingered, as we did every week, until the last possible moment before I would have to find my seat as he made his way to the front of the class to begin teaching.

This sentence is a bit long. I suggest making it two with a break at maybe “every week”






My heart skipped a beat at his words. Did I hear him right? I chanced a sidelong glance at him as he turned to walk away and, catching the glimmer in his eye, knew that I had indeed heard right. I wanted to reach out and take his arm, turn him around. I didn't want the moment to slip away. I was sure the whole room must hear the thundering of my heart and only a blind person could miss the flush on my cheeks.

This is a great paragraph. You’ve filled it with emotion without going too far.








As he began speaking to the class, I slipped up the aisle to a front row seat. I couldn't meet his eyes, I couldn't look away, I hung on his every word, I didn't hear a word he said. Suddenly my whole world consisted of those six simple words he had uttered to me in the back of the room. I kept replaying them, over and over again in my head. I was thrilled, shocked, excited, scared to death - a whole myriad of emotions swirled in my heart. But above it all, those words, those words!

I’m wondering what kind of class he teaches.







I sat through the class with the sly, secret knowledge that this man who took my breath away, who delighted me, made a pass at me! Admittedly, not the smoothest pass, fairly lame and decidedly old-fashioned, nevertheless those words were an arrow straight to my heart. I would never be the same.

The next few days were agony. Had I misinterpreted what happened? Was it just a meaningless flirtation that I fantasized meant way more than it did? How foolish was I? But that look, that LOOK! I saw it in his eyes, didn't I? And then, an email! I couldn't open it fast enough. It had to be an eloquently worded missive (for he was quite the wordsmith and oh God, how I loved his mind!) I shut out the entire office--phones, clients, co-workers, everything--and settled in to read the words I longed to hear. And there it was. A JOKE?! A forwarded email joke?Not even a very funny one, just a random, commonly-circulated email joke. I read every word, several times, looking for the slightest nuance that could indicate a meaning behind the actual content. Nothing. I couldn't even bring myself to answer his email. The remainder of the day passed in a dejected fog. Finally, I decided to dash off a witty reply to his lame joke that had been my undoing for the day. At least I could try to salvage some shred of my dignity by matching his cavalier attitude with my nonchalance.

It sounds like he toying with her. Or else he just doesn’t know how to follow up.








Arriving at my office the next morning, I opened my email to find another message from him. Great, I thought, another lame joke to dash my hopes. But at the very least I could have him as a friend, if not a love interest. I opened the email, already formulating in my mind the clever things I would say in response. And I read, "I get excited when I see your name pop up on my email!" I knew it! I knew I saw THAT look in his eyes. The following weeks were a blur of anticipation, each contact with him another celebration of the realization of a true love.

Now, all these years later, I still can feel that delicious shiver down my spine when I recall that initial, tentative, whispered declaration of love. "I've got a crush on you."

Well, it appears he was a pretty smooth Romeo after all.

Well done. You’ve packed a great story into a few paragraphs.


Ariion




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2
2
Review by ariion
Rated: 13+ | (5.0)
Hi Judy,

“Something to Think About” is a very good article and I tip my cap to you for being a foster parent. Without you and all the other foster parents, many kids would have to grow up in institutions or live the first eighteen years of their lives in a non-supportive or unsafe home.

Your article is right on target.

Well done,

Ariion




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3
3
Review by ariion
Rated: 13+ | (5.0)


Hi Jane,

This is a wonderful story. I’ve often heard that it is a good idea to write your dreams down as soon as possible, otherwise, as you said, they do fade away.

Is a dream simply a fantasy presented to us from our subconscious mind while we sleep, like a movie played for our entertainment? Or is it a message, cloaked in symbolism, sent to us as a form of comfort or clairvoyance? In your case, it seems to me, your dream is a clear path to closure in the healing process of grief: you don’t want to forget your mother, but you do want to know she is in a better place where sorrow is an unknown emotion. If this is true, then your feelings of sorrow and grief will be eased.

The appearance of Tara at the beginning is one of the most important parts of the dream. She is both real and imaginary. She is an actual living person; your daughter’s friend, but in your dream she is also magical. Her act of floating the glass of water to you suspends your sense of disbelief in what is to follow. Thereby, I think, opening your sleeping mind to accept what your waking mind was unable to grasp; that your mother is in a happy place surrounded by family and friends, and she is not brooding over things you did not have a chance to do or say before her passing away.

There’s nothing I can tell you to improve this story. It is told quite well with strong emotion and vivid scenery. All I can do is note a couple of minor items for you to take a look at.

Ariion





She always liked to keep a wad of tissue in her breast pocket. I look upon my mother and see that she is not carrying the familiar wad tissue in her hand.

“…wad of tissue…”






The beads around my mother's neck are large, not at all like the dainty white pearls she adored and wore when she was alive. Sometimes the beads are black and sometimes they are hunter green or navy but they are always large and dark. Looking from the beads to my mother, I ask how she is able to be here when she is dead. My mother only smiles. I glance at my Aunt Hettie. She is standing to the side busily doing whatever,

“whatever” has become a cliche. Maybe something like, “…doing something I can’t see,”



politely giving me alone time with my mother. I turn and hug my mother. I take in her smell. It is not an old, decaying smell, she is fresh, smells of flowers and candy.



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4
4
Review of My Plea  
Review by ariion
Rated: 13+ | (5.0)
Hi Jane,

Living with and alcoholic husband, or wife, must be one of the most difficult situations in life. Many people stay with addicted spouses because of family, especially children. None of this is the kids’ fault, but they sometimes suffer the worst of it.

I often wonder what goes through the alcoholic’s mind when they’re sober. They must know their actions wreck many lives, other than their own, but they apparently have some sort of rationalization that blames their actions on someone else, social tensions or career pressures. What they really need is professional help, but I imagine they don’t see it that way.

Your poem really helps us to understand what the partner in this difficult situation has to go through every day of her life.

Good work.

Ariion



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5
5
Review by ariion
Rated: E | (5.0)
Hi Scribe,

This is a really good story. What I like best is the family unity. You make a winter in Maine sound like a great vacation idea, but I think you three boys would have grown up well any place in the country as long as mom and dad were there to keep everything on track.

I spent 4 years in Alaska, but we never had that much snow in so short a time. I can see how that would shut things down for a few days, or a few weeks.

I couldn’t find a thing in your writing to pick on. It seems to me it’s ready for publication.

Good work all the way through,

Ariion

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6
6
Review by ariion
Rated: E | (5.0)
Hi Nicki,

Let’s see what your recipe story is all about.







THE FAMILY LEGEND OF THE OLD ROME N.Y. PUMPKIN BREAD RECIPE

In Upstate New York, people don't plan events around the weather. Instead, they plan their events and then plan on the weather being bad.

LOL. This cracks me up.




The locals say there are four seasons in Upstate New York: Almost Winter, Winter, Still Winter, and Construction Season -- the latter being the shortest season of all.

Hahaha, very good.



So when the christening date of the newest member of the family was set around Thanksgiving time, no one bothered checking the weekend weather report. Several carloads of family members set out for the two-and-a-half-hour drive to Rome, N.Y., unconcerned about the gently falling snow.

By the time they arrived at the church, snow had blanketed the ground. After the ceremony, there was a lot of arm-grabbing and steadying of each other as they skated to the cars, then slowly made their way to the newly christened child's home, where a big Italian dinner celebration was planned. The snow was falling relentlessly -- and harder now. By the time dinner was over, the cars parked in the driveway looked like snow drifts, and it had been hours since anyone had seen a snowplow pass through. It was evident to all, no one was leaving that night.

Although the sleeping arrangements in the little house were cramped, it was cozy and warm, and there was a lot of whispering and laughter long into the night. Early the next morning as she was giving her newborn a feeding, Aunt Char wondered what she was going to offer everyone for breakfast. When she put the baby down, she threw together an old pumpkin bread recipe she already had. The aroma of the baking bread roused the sleeping guests, drawing them to the kitchen. The bread was such a hit that all the women present wrote the recipe down,

I suggest dropping “present”. It’s implied and I think it reads smoother without it.



naming it simply Rome N.Y. Recipe. The mugs of hot coffee and warm, fresh-from-the-oven pumpkin bread shared with family, with the pristine winter wonderland outside the kitchen window, is a memory I sometimes think is my own. I was there, but I was just one year old at the time.

Aw, what a nice twist to the story.



A family legend is a funny thing. I know my family, and I think there were a lot of details left out of this account. Forty years is long enough for a story to take on a life of its own. But, this is the lore I was told when I was young, and it is the way I tell it to my kids.



Old Rome N.Y. Pumpkin Bread Recipe


(One Loaf )

1¾ c. flour
1½ c. sugar
1 tsp. baking soda
½ tsp. nutmeg
½ tsp. cinnamon
¼ tsp. salt
1 c. pumpkin
½ c. oil
1/3 c. water
2 eggs
1/3 c. chopped walnuts


Throw it all together and pour into greased and floured bread pan. Bake in 350°F oven for 1 hour (or until knife in center comes out clean).

What a wonderful way to present a family story and a family recipe. I love it and I will try that pumpkin bread. It sounds pretty easy.

Good work all the way through. I look forward to more and wouldn’t this be a great idea for a cookbook. I hope you’re working on one.

Ariion




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7
7
Review by ariion
Rated: E | (4.5)

Hi Jaye,

I enjoyed reading your story. I think Dick is like many of us; trying to understand what readers, and agents, want to see in our stories, articles and novels.

I also like the title. It’s a very appropriate simile for a writer’s career path.

You’ve done a good job and I look forward to reading more of your stories.

I’m no expert on writing, but I made a few suggestions for your consideration. I’ve included only the parts of your story relevant to my comments.

Ariion








All of his life, as long as he could remember, Dick had been writing. When just a young lad he had written poems for his mother on Mother's Day cards; later expanding his audience to the objects of his earliest crushes. As he grew older, his interest expanded to writing stories of fantastical, and sometimes horrifying, creatures that captured his imagination. The goal of becoming a Writer always loomed before him like a shining staircase stretching upward and disappearing into the ether.

This is a nice visual, easy to see.



By the time Dick was a teenager, he was submitting his manuscripts to various publications; silently enduring the pain of a growing pile of rejection letters. Finally, he decided to run his stories by his friends before submitting them.

Maybe, “…run his stories by a few of his friends…” to avoid the two “his” close together.




"Wow! That's some story!"

"Good job, man!"

"You should get this stuff published somewhere!"

This sounds very familiar.




Dick sent the stories out and nervously waited for the responses, only to have to swallow even more rejections.

And this is even more familiar.





Months passed while Dick wrote jokes, amusing anecdotes and funny stories. A few small checks began coming in and Dick took another step upward. His circle of friends now included other aspiring writers.

As the years crept by Dick

Maybe a comma after “…years crept by”




noticed that his writer friends began selling more and more for bigger and bigger payoffs.

Perhaps “…more and more stories”







All at once, a brilliant light broke through the clouds of dismay - the Stairway glittered above him.

"That's it!" he shouted, pumping his fist in the air. "You gotta make 'em feel!"

Good ending to the story and a point well made.




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8
8
Review by ariion
Rated: 13+ | (5.0)
Hi Sophy,

You article on panentheism is well written and very smooth to read. Your use of the story by Mark Link about the little girl looking into the well, and the scene from Path Adams, which I vividly remember, illustrate your point perfectly. The two vignettes balance out, and add color to, what could have been a dry presentation. I can clearly see the girl looking down into the well and seeing her own reflection, and Patch seeing the butterfly on his medical bag. These, along with your fine writing, clearly explain a belief that I have not heard about before.

Well done,

Ariion




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9
9
Review by ariion
Rated: 18+ | (5.0)
Hi Diane,

I thought I would take a look at your story to see what it's all about.







I've had many embarrassing moments in my life. Being a klutz, these tend to occur frequently. However, if asked what my most embarrassing moment was, I'd refer you to a time when I was eighteen.

This is a good opening. I like first-person POV because it gives a story conversational quality. My only suggestion is on the last phrase of the paragraph. Perhaps something like, "I'd have to say it happened when I was eighteen." "I'd refer you to..." sounds a bit stiff to me.


It was the summer after graduation. I was carefree, enjoying the time between high school ending and the start of college. I was working full-time

"was" followed by an "-ing" word is sometimes passive. "I worked full-time..." makes it active.



that summer at the doctor's office, which left only weekends for frolicking at the community pool. That day, I went to the pool at eleven, determined to get a tan before the summer was out.

Maybe, "...before the summer was over."



Spending most of my days in the office made this a difficult task.

I staked my claim on a poolside lounge, laying my dolphin beach towel down to mark my territory. I then applied liberal amounts of SPF 15 sunblock, not wanting to burn. The sunblock smelled of coconut, a favorite scent even back then. I adjusted my neon blue bikini, making sure it hadn't shifted to expose any intimate areas.

Satisfied that the bikini was in place and I had adequate sun protection, I sank back on the lounge to read my book. I was reading a romance, as usual. Even then I was fascinated by the things people will do in the mating ritual we call dating. Friends began arriving at the pool after lunch and urging me to join them in the water. I waved them off, returning to my book and my tan.

A while later, this guy who had declared an interest in me came over to talk.

Maybe a comma after "...interest in me..."



I wasn't interested in him and wished he would give it up. Being the friendly sort I am, I couldn't simply dismiss him and focus on the book. My friends continued calling to me from the pool as they needed an additional person to even out the teams in their game.

I suggest giving a name of the game, like water polo. By doing that you give the reader a quick visual.



Eventually, annoyed that the guy wouldn't take the hint and leave, I capitulated and walked over to the pool.

"capitulated" is a good word, but it sounds like you're giving into the guy, when I think you're giving in to your friends in the water. Maybe, "I gave in to my friends' demands and walked over to the pool."



I considered walking over to the ladder, but I knew the water was cold and the best way to get past the chill was to fully immerse myself. With this goal in mind, I dove into the pool. It was a smooth dive, followed by a swim across the pool. I arrived at the shallow end and stood up, taking my place among my team.

"What's the plan?" I asked.

"Well, the first thing we need to do is retrieve your bikini top so the guys can focus," said my friend, Matilda.

LOL. What a surprise. Maybe move "said my friend Matilda" up to follow "Well". That way we know right away who is talking.



It took only a moment for her words to sink in, at which point I looked down. My breasts were fully exposed, nipples extended in response to the cool air. My bikini top was floating at the other end of the pool, a tiny blue dot in a sea of people. One of my friends was kind enough to retrieve it and the others stood around me while I put everything back where it belonged.

I stayed in the pool and played with the others, not wanting to get out for fear that my bottoms would come off too. The guy ramped up his efforts to court me, and eventually I agreed to a date. That date was probably one of his most embarrassing moments, but I'll leave that story for another time.

Knowing guys, he probably took the losing-the-bikini-top-on-the-dive trick as a come-on.

This is a good story, and the punch line was delivered perfectly. The reader can almost see the surprised look on your face.

It's very difficult to write a complete short story in less than 1000 words, but here you done a great job in just over 500.

I found only a few things to pick on and they are minor.


Ariion






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