Deb’s poignant bits of wisdom stir the flame
and makes us check the trail beneath our feet.
These old reflections posit for a name
There is no path to freedom by retreat.
Where is that path long trodden by the mass?
Those well-worn trails were built by long success.
Now, we expect to win on our first pass
but sink beneath mistakes and find a mess.
Those daily tasks may never bring renown,
but all must touch that base along the way,
recalling days gone past. (that rusty crown)
until we've found the new rules we must play.
We stand upon past dreams now, and we know,
they give a place to start and where to flow.
This is an outstanding bit of story building for such a young writer.
I'd like to pass along to you a suggestion, which I received from James Mitchener, fifty years ago. That is: to remove every word which you can, that will not change the meaning of your sentence. That includes adverbs (such as slightly which you used in your first paragraph.
It's a small step for a writer but a giant leap for an author.
Bootstraps stretch tight and snap their muddied leather,
The depressed soul ascends a slippery path
into the naked lanes of frigid weather.
His trembling, and his doubts unwarmed by wrath.
A fantasy appears to save the day
Embellishing the scattered bric-a-brac,
designer yarns to spin of this and that's.
The words sink in, "It's never coming back!"
The rainbow fills the sky, but it's no use.
Depression owns the rights and wasn't he
surprised to join the protest and abuse
instead of quietude down by the sea?
He trudged his path, looked back--the lines were blurred
between his mad descent, and cause interred
Yesterday, I read chapter 5, but I didn't review it because I thought that chapter 5 was too far into the story to begin anything meaningful about the overall storyline. Today, up pops Chapter 1, so my excuses are lost.
We certainly are off to an action start with the characters exposing their fears and motivations. We see the setting without a lot of narrative telling us what we've seen.
That is a nice job of showing us the setting instead of a telling narration. We see the thug exposed and the wily scientist playing is cool. We get a good picture early on.
Then again, at the end you let us figure out for ourselves where the twist is heading.
It isn’t very often that we see
A nightmare or a head beneath the sand
with outcomes that we know could never be
while others sleep so peacefully and grand
You point to how the terror closes in
as doubts move in but quickly run and hide.
Then once again, the visions tend to win
when blastwave leaves him nothing to decide.
Some claim our dreams reflect on all our stuff,
but don’t believe a bit of that is true.
All of our wild thoughts are not enough,
to shake the final truth from what we do.
The blastwave's in his head despite what’s said.
Resolve has closed the door, and now they're dead.
After enjoying the opening chapters of The Marked I knew I'd not want to miss Radnom.
You certainly gave Aurelia something to fret over as we catch our first glimpse. Not only did her father leave her to ponder her mother's absence; her grandmother would not help either. No wonder she is anxious to grow up and get out of that creaky old house.
Nice job of letting the readers figure out for themselves that the setting is modern-day by reference to photos and TV.
As with Marked wordiness and repetition are an issue. Those six uses of 'had' in the first paragraph almost took me out of the story and although the issues continued, by the time I got to the angry mob the story flowed once more.
Be more careful with your pronoun antecedents. The prelude ends with a 'she' in the dialogue tag which, at first glance, appears to be Aurelia but, on reflection must be her grandmother.
My own first drafts suffer from wordiness and repetition so, I complain about it when I see it in stories which I think are otherwise exceptional. An opportunity to tighten appears at the beginning of Part I with the sentence:
Her breath caught in her throat. 'in her throat' is superfluous. A stronger grab for the reader's emotion would be simply, 'Her breath caught.'(Where else would her breath catch?)
Another almost immediately after with passive voice and equivocation in:
'Landing hard she was instantly smothered by large, hard bodies that seemed to rain blows down on her.'
Consider: 'Landing hard large, hard bodies smothered her and rained blows on her.'
It isn’t very often that we see
our conscience take a trip, led by the hand
Back to a time which we can never be
set free of, yet, we fully understand.
You show us step by step, what's not to be.
Reminds of what spun out in defeat
and once, again the loser will be me
lamenting loss of hope for a retreat.
Some claim that time heals wounds and all our stuff,
But don’t believe a bit of it is true.
For, facing truth is never quite not enough,
to shake the sand of guilt from what we do.
Another hollow plea is all that's said,
but still, we see the wreckage that we dread.
What a delightfully well-started tale. The lead characters are interesting and have rough edges to keep us on our toes. The telling style slowed my interest a bit at the beginning, but that's a choice for the author. Readers are left to decide if a bit of wordiness is too much to handle.
Here, we have questions left to resolve and other characters to explore before the story moves forward. I wish I had the rest of the story, so I could charge forward and see how big the troubles they've just stepped into are.
Nicely done, except for the telling and wordiness.
The jagged glare of faith comes shining through
as we peek underneath the flowing prose.
Your story shows determination too
a few more steps along the path you choose.
Can knowing truly bring us bright sunlight?
Attention turns to thorns and makes us think,
that struggles bring us to our true delight
instead of gentle trails that would not link.
Now, reaching for the parchment’s purist page
we touch upon the prayer and final truth.
If left alone to ponder just the stage,
we might fall victim to our own uncouth.
Life’s transient moments show us but the trim
and leaves what’s underneath remote and dim.
I read a review recently where the book in question is described as a "White Dwarf" because ideas in it are packed so tightly. This little piece might also qualify for that title.
Advice is something plentiful and cheap
and often worth the price you didn't pay.
I ponder rice, and all those carbs to keep.
It leaves me mulling what the heck to say.
Another read and orange juice leaps to fore.
It stirs a deep romantic sort of verve.
How can that be? I must discover more.
Alas! I lack the culinary nerve.
But, is it right that I'm just going on
without the truth of citric flavored rice.
I turn my mind to thoughts of being gone
but held in check by wondering if it's nice.
Solutions can be found in just one place.
The kitchen can assuage my shattered brain.
Will boiling orange juice only bring disgrace?
I've got to know if I have gone insane.
The answer in your last and final turn
leaves me to clean and soak with more to learn.
Delightful, how you’ve taken on the task
of showing us the joys without detail.
I see my way, but there's no need to ask
for places where the music goes on sale.
Your lyric tells us where to go from here
for entertainment without being bored.
I thank you for the guidance, but I fear
that I fall short in friendships 'cross the board.
When hearing upbeat songs and other stuff
I find myself uncertain what to do.
I know I've gained a little (just enough).
to see the need for friends is all quite true.
Congrats on all the wisdom in the words.
We, grouches, think that friends are for the birds.
You open with a snicker, loud and clear,
to keep me reading on to find the why.
But on we go, with nothing much to cheer.
I see my boring self and start to sigh.
Then, from the shadows of the middle lines,
a glance inside reveals a thought, a cheer.
There’s no need now, for me to cut and run.
My thrashing guilt delivers one sad tear.
The crisis comes in shards of glass you say,
where chuckles build the ups and downs we know,
Will clotting blood come through and save the day
before its time to smoothly end the show?
The turn delivered in the final line,
is one that needs no magic to define.
Now that's the way to grab a reader's attention. We're off to an action start with no wasted words. You've shown us how to let a reader's imagination write most of the story. At first, I thought the last sentence was unnecessary but on second read I came to believe that it gave us one more round of vivid visualization.
The daffodil escapes my shattered brain.
I peek beneath smooth prosaic glow,
and wonder at confusion I retain,
determination bent (not in the know)
Where is the golden blossom in its wake?
Let's search again for clarity and grace,
then sniff the lines for clues which we can make
the lack of resolution a rare case.
Ah, butterflies take charge and they can show
poor Leah that the time has come to leave.
The statue takes a pass and now we know,
the message of the sword "it's time to grieve."
No cheers arise when in the final stand
the butterfly is off her trembling hand
We leap from boring self to raging bull
a chance to elevate our grasp of Sid
while learning at the same time that we're full
of chances to learn all those things he did
You point to little tweaks (We're on a roll),
which shows us how to move our trembling feet.
We learn that we must all pay psyche's toll
while mumbling of our loss and its defeat.
When reading of distractions and such stuff,
we know that every bit of it is true.
But still, we know deception's not enough,
to march us through the mire of what we do.
Once more the sun peeks out from what we've read,
and turn our big, red pen to things we've said.
The burden borne by those who know all things
prompts us to sit, and sip a whiskey sour.
Attention drifts to ponder lifelong scars,
then read the piece again, within the hour.
Goodbye…No time to squander on lost nerve.
Although such thoughts can prove confusing when
an author's long-sequestered deep reserve
goes public with a bright, well-guided pen.
And now, we see spilt milk—no words withheld,
until she spills the beans the same way, too.
We sit and wait. The secret silence swelled,
then shrink beneath the weight of her adieu.
We never said good-bye—we sat alone.
The answer just a droning dial-tone.
The Rapture comes. The doubter wonder whether,
he's saved by taking that ascending path.
Instead, he stumbles through decaying weather,
trembling, red with cold; now warmed by wrath.
Left behind with all the dogs and cats
Surrounded by his scattered bric-a-brac,
designer suits, with racks of shoes, and hats,
Uncertain now, he swears they're coming back.
"There's nothing wrong. It's just a minor hitch."
He clutches all his goods. "How can this be?"
surprised to join it all, down in the ditch
"Now where's my cozy cottage by the sea?
He trudged his lonely path. The lines are blurred
between his mad descent, and life interred
A shadow, as once viewed by Freud and Jung,
leaves each of us to fear our bleakest thought.
We wonder where that cryptic bell had rung,
and when the bill comes due on what we've wrought.
His frozen words rip through my shattered mind
producing but a withered suffering sigh.
Lo, what came of those joys I thought I'd find?
Has Jung defined the bed where futures lie?
I should have known, but could not know.
Dejection shuts my eyes.
Depression chills like winter snow
with frozen deep replies
Thank you for the keys to my despair.
My Psychobabble shadow fills the air.
At last, a bit of logic stir the flame
to makes us look again beneath our feet.
Could veggies from the earth support our game,
or should the lowly carrot just retreat?
Where is that beet, which leads the great impasse?
The well-worn thoughts of dirty built duress.
We stand to watch the washtub's futile pass,
but sink beneath the Covid's mighty mess.
But cleanliness exists with some renown,
and carbs expand our bellies on the way.
When fertilizers tear our clean dreams down,
we scrub the chicken dung in which they play.
Clean veggies, just a dream, as we all know.
They give a place to start and then to grow.
Now that is a great short story. The backstory falls into place without a lot telling an the picture becomes absolutely clear ( All generated in the reader's mind.)
Nicely done.
I do believe the 1200 words could have been cut considerably by tightening phrases like: "My parents were wealthy and were sending me to a prestigious university to study medicine and become a doctor."
Eliminating unnecessary words could produce something like: "My wealthy parents were sending me to a prestigious university to study medicine." Tighter phrasing will make it easier and faster to read.
You open with sarcasm in the air
then let the cat sneak slowly from the bag.
The politician's fate leaves much to fare;
The ridicule and confidence may drag
then from the light which fills the middle fun,
we look inside and find unbridled fear.
There is no place this piece can cut and run.
No moment’s pause to stop and have a been.
The Perot and Romney joined in just a flash
of NAFTA and dust which grabs our thought.
It's then we see the sudden wild crash
which spreads before us all. (See what it's wrought.)
Your observation in the final lines,
Shows us beguiling magic it defines.
Soul bound in noxious notions and despair,
the politics of PC fill the page,
while searching through past, nose in the air,
and sniffing for a sin of some past age.
There is, of course, the glory and delight,
in righteousness of knowing what is best.
There’s nothing left to do but ponder right
while contemplating others failed my test.
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