Table of Contents You may submit any of your writing to be critiqued by a panel of peer critics by emailing it to littleal87@aol.com with "To Critique" in the subject line. It was a month before the anniversary of his diagnosis, and he had taken a drastic turn for the worse. He was now constrained to his bed or a wheelchair, and everyday duties like bathing had become dangerous. He risked falling, or putting stress on his already weak lungs. Adding to his degrading health, his bronchial infection had returned with no sign of remission. To learn more about Kate Chopin:
The Write Stories
The Write Poetry
Critique of the Month
Learn From the Masters
The Write "Stuff"
Shadow of the Towers
By: Stephanie Law [sphinxmagic@yahoo.com]
I rubbed my swollen eyes for the hundredth time that day, wiping away empty tears that flowed drearily down my reddened cheek. I searched for the pain inside that I knew I should be feeling-- but there was none. I was at the bottom of an abandoned well with no wooden bucket, no depth of reflective silvery liquid to comfort me. Suddenly, my throat tightened as my stomach lurched upwards trying to pull my heart down from the heavens. My breath quickened slightly as a wave of nausea swept over my tired driftwood limbs. My eyes wavered from the courage and slipped ashamedly down towards my quivering hands. As I searched the lines on my palms, I saw the wraith of men. I saw the good, the bad. I saw two majestic guards slain in a heap of hateful ash and demon smoke. And I remembered the tip of the sword.
With the approach of my ride, I attempted to pick up the fragmented shards of my fragile emotion, but failed miserably. Once again, my vision blurred at the glimpse of the words: "United We Stand." They seemed to pop out at me as if I were wearing blue and red shade 3-D glasses, before taking the next step and slicing my jugular. I willingly and hastily snapped my head away from the sight, trying to shake off ghastly memories running through my turbulent mind. It was like some really bad nightmare that I just couldn't wake up from even though the sun and the world had risen long ago.
Burying my worn face into my sleeve, I let the salty fluid drain into the white woven cloth and absorb into my fair skin. I summoned all my strength just to pull my neck up and climb the black escalator steps into the awaiting iron stead. Gratefully without thought, I mechanically let a small token drop into the glass box by the driver and slinked away into the sickly intestine before me. A flood of eerie silence was all there was to be heard in the nearly packed sardine can that was the five-o-clock bus. I was especially careful as I pushed past bags and strange coats to be extra kind, extra nice. Everybody, it seemed, was in their own dark world staring uselessly out the shiny glass plates with forlorn eyebrows. I watched silently as sad silhouettes of trees and buildings caressed their figures. Some were stuffing fluffy white tissue into their faces while others hung their heads low among the crushed pop cans and muddied transfers. Finding no seats, I had no choice but to grab a marble-greased metallic pillar as the steady horse trotted heavily forward.
Leaning my body against the crimson aisle rows, my keen peripheral vision unexpectedly caught the leering eye of a vicious looking serpent. I shifted my waist uncomfortably to avoid staring directly at this menacing man, but I could still feel those two hollowed black knobs burning holes into the back of my skull. I don't know why, but I felt something change in me right then and there. My breathing began to feel laboured and my blood pulsed through a heart pounding dents into my rib cage. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. I stole a fleeting sideways look at the brown man, noticing that he had a noir attach case in his hairy fingers. At that moment, I had the primal urge to flee, to escape this evil snake. I just knew by looking at him that he was going to hurt me. Heck, he probably was going to blow himself up or something. I was always seeing things like this on CNN, where these people in far away places would kill themselves in crowded marketplaces and buses.
BOOM. I can't stand it; he's taunting me now with his cruel and mocking lips. BA-BA-BOOM. His heinous claws are scratching at the silver clasps on his homemade briefcase of death. BOOM-BOOM-BOOM. I have to get out of here, I have to get safe!
I lunged at the yellow pull cord frantically and closed my eyelids tightly. It was almost too hard to bear as I waited for the familiar answer of a resounding yet faint ring. Time felt stretched and tired as I endured the slow seconds until the chest of the beast would fling open and secrete me out. My body winced as the dark lord continued to violate my soul with his intimidating presence. Finally the two doors parted, and I hastened down the grooved landing flying like lightning out into the jungle of the street. An army of towering brick houses suddenly engulfed me and imposed their wickedness in the fading sunlight. The whooshes of zooming cars and blaring honks numbed my sensitive eardrums, making them seem almost filled with thick molasses. Confusion erupted in my senses as I instinctively grabbed two golden swords in-between my whitened fingers and bunched them into an intense fist. The psycho was coming after me and I had to be ready.
The thudding of footsteps behind stopped the rhythm of my heart dead in its tracks. I flew around like a possessed banshee and thrust my dagger keys towards the pupils of my assailant. As crazy as it sounds, I wanted those deadly arrows to reach their bulls-eyes so badly.
A second before the fatal blow, the man's structure jerked back in dismay and avoided almost assured blinding by my hand. His slumped shoulders and glistening eyes were a portrait of sorrow and hurt, and his shouts deflated into oblivion like a flat tire. He trembled as he revealed in his grasp a small blue wallet. It was mine.
I looked deep into this man and saw innocence. I don't know why I hadn't seen it before. I don't know why I did what I did. I had never felt such emptiness in my life as I did on that dusty sidewalk. I felt as though a grenade had exploded and sent shrapnel tearing through my guts.
Without any words, we spoke only with our expressions, and I think he understood what had just happened. Awkwardly, he almost casually tossed the navy article into my arms before turning his heels and striding away under the jaundice light of the voyeuristic street lamps. That's when I began my run into the darkness.
I began to run from the treacherous shadows that were chasing me with their foul and twisted mouths. I began to run from the horror of the internal siege.
As sunshine fell into coma, I found myself lost and yet found. Panting vigorously, I threw myself down in the rubble of the towers and I vomited.
THE WRITE POETRY
Jumping Jack
Jack be nimble, Jack be quick,
Better jump over the candle stick.
Else you'll get burned
You should have learned
Not to overextend yourself.
Dear Jack, please remember:
You'll never survive;
Only if you're lucky
Will you come out alive.
Indecision runs rampant
Success is shortlived
It will never happen
No matter how much you give.
Jump hurdles your whole life?
Will you ever prevail?
You're beyond the world's strife
Yet you know you will fail.
You're doing well, kid,
You're making your way
But sooner or later,
You'll have to pay.
Will your life come to naught?
I'll wait and see.
You'll try and you'll try
But you'll never be free.
In this endless dance
We do a jig to God's fiddle
But all we really seek
Is to solve the stupid riddle.
You'll live your life in limbo, Jack,
You'll never know what's what,
But one day when you're jumping fire,
You'll singe your pretty butt.
I'm Sorry?
By Stupot
I'm sorry but I don't know why.
We used to be such good friends.
Was it something I said? Something I did?
Tell me it's not at an end.
Remember when we used to chat bollocks?
About anything that came to our mind?
Now everything we say needs a reason.
Like, "Hi, how are you?" and, "Goodbye."
You know how much you mean to me.
I'm sure you don't need me to say.
And I know that once upon a fairy tale,
You also felt the same way.
I don't want you all to myself,
I would be happy if we were just friends.
But we need to start talking bollocks again,
If we're to make any amends.
Don't shut me out please. I'm scared.
I'm scared you'll forget I exist.
I know there are guys you like better than me.
But please, I'm still here, in the mist.
I'm sorry if I've done something to upset you.
Please tell me if I've said something I shouldn't have.
I'll do all I can to make things OK.
If I'd have known this would happen I wouldn't have.
I'm happy we're talking again here and there,
And we seem to have gotten over the worst.
But it's going to be ages again, I fear,
Before we get over this curse.
I'm sorry. Whatever I did to upset you. I'm sorry.
[jonathankearxxx]
[This poem is a dedication to a boy who died in 2002.]
Through the clouds of Heaven shines a light,
And from the ground of Earth an Angel appears.
The time before this a boy was with his family,
A simple mind that held true courage inside.
Above him, Heaven requested his presence:
Lightning struck a tree and it started to fall.
The boy noticed his younger brother standing,
Waiting for a destiny to flourish into existence.
The younger boy was under the falling arm of God,
Without even knowing the result of where he stood.
On a foretold impulse the boy sprung to his feet,
Dashing to save the soul of his brother.
With a real leap of faith the boy soared through the air,
Saving his brother and releasing his soul to God.
Through the clouds of Heaven shines a light,
And from the ground of Earth an Angel appears.
CRITIQUE OF THE MONTH
Part Four
C. Martinez [straightrazor99]
Dorothy walked into her what would be her last day of duty with a bagful of Get Well
In the past few weeks, he had become amazingly thin, and the color was flushed from his skin. A small nick on his cheek that he had gotten while shaving had become a deep wound, and the edges around the cut were red and warm with infection. His lips and tongue were a sick gray, and his hair had begun to thin from long periods of time spent with his head on the pillow. Yet, there was something that refused to deteriorate, something that reminded Dorothy that he was more than a mass of flesh and disease. His blue eyes still sparkled with child-like energy, and his sense of humor; even in the depths of spiking fevers or violent infection, never faded.
" Mr. Simmons, now you take your time with these. You know your tummy has been bad lately."
His voice was reduced to a low whisper and he fought back a violent cough. "Eh, cookies heal everything."
" Too bad they don't heal a hard head." She teased.
He shook his head. "Nopeno hope for that."
She handed him a cookie, and prepared a cup of medicine to go with it. Then she pressed the button on the arm of his bed and helped him sit upright.
" Now don't make me tell youeat it slow and stop if you feel like you should."
He nodded like a child, and broke a piece of the oatmeal cookie and slipped it into his mouth. He coughed, but it wasn't as bad as the others. He endured it then swallowed the cookie.
Dorothy watched his skeletal hands tremble as they broke apart the cookie. For the first in her entire career, she had to look away. " Mr. Simmons, are you up to a bath today?"
He shook his head slowly, as he slipped another piece of the moist cookie between his lips. " My back is killing me. I think I need a rest for a while."
His back was a blanket of sores and bruises from lying in it for so long. While a normal person would heal easily, he had to endure it. " But tomorrow, I guess."
She nodded and sat next to his bed. " Okay, Mr. Simmons, it's up to you."
He laughed to himself. " You've been with me for so long, and you insist on calling me that. I'm not old enough to be called 'Mister' just yet."
She chuckled. "I'd feel strange calling youCraig." She winced at the word, having old school instinct ingrained in her.
" I think I'll try to break that habit." He laughed then erupted into a wave of hard coughing, then what little bit he had in him came up, and Dorothy quickly assisted him as his stomach rejected its contents violently.
" You see, Mr. Simmons? You ate too fast!" She wiped his mouth, and then wet a rag to cool his forehead. His skin burned with fever and he winced at the chilly wet cloth. She cleaned him up, and placed the cookies far from him, afraid the smell itself would disturb him.
When he was calmed and the violent churning in his stomach passed, he closed his eyes and rested. Dorothy tried to distract herself with reading and let him rest. His voice was labored, and the sound was beginning to disturb the veteran nurse. She switched on the radio, and listened to the music.
The words on the page slipped by the woman's mind, but did not settle there. Something in her began to stir, and a tear fell from her eyes onto the page. She closed her eyes and waited for the feelings to pass, then looked at the man that lay in the bed inches from where she sat. Soft echoes of his laughter began to rise in her mind, and she smiled. She loved his sense of humor, and jokes he had made pushed themselves into her thoughts. She finally allowed herself the indulgence, and she thought back to the day that Craig spent the day flirting with her playfully, and even went as far as singing "Strangers in The Night" through an oxygen mask and air tent. There was something very disarming about Craig, and even through everything, he never lost a bit of his charm.
Dorothy wiped away a tear, and looked at the man as he was now. She was scared for Craig. She finally began to face the reality of that fact. She didn't know what to expect anymore than he did. She became angry with the doctors who pretended that they knew any better. She hated the disease that was slowly becoming an epidemic. In the time that she began her work, she had watched strong, active men reduced to walking, oozing, breathing corpses. A low voice began to rise from her chest, and when she finally paid attention to it, she realized that she was praying. Silently, she wished away the pain her patient was feeling. Despite her faith she herself began to question this life. Nothing she could ever say would ever make Craig get better, and her helplessness enraged her.
She cleared her throat, and brought back to the surface her normal composure. She resented herself for allowing the emotions to effect her the way they did, but also felt relieved to have allowed them to come.
The room was silent for several hours, save for the soft music, until he spoke, breaking the silence.
" Dorothy, I want you to do me a favor."
She rose and walked to him, wiping away the hair that was stuck to his forehead with perspiration. "Yes, my boy?"
" In that drawer is a tape recorder. Get it for me"
She dug through cassettes and wires and pulled the palm-sized tape recorder from the drawer, placing it next to his head.
" Check to see if there is a tape in there" She did, and there was.
" Thank you, Dorothy. Now if you wouldn't mindI'll see you tomorrow." There was something empty in his voice, and Dorothy called upon her every reserve to do as he said.
She nodded; accepting the request, then wiped his face. "Good Night, Craig." She smiled, gathered her belongings, and let herself out. It was only when she stepped into the street that she realized how much it took out of her not to turn back and stay with him.
The man lay quiet for a few moments, waiting for his medicine to kick in. And when he felt the coughing were to be quieted, he reached a frail hand and pressed the record button.
" I, Craig Lawrence Simmons, being of sound mind and body leave this last will and testament on this day, June 18th, 1984." He paused, and the tape rolled in the silence. He hated how formal it sounded, and the weight of those words made his thoughts foggy.
" I am dying. As you listen to this, I grow weaker, I am fragile, and every plan for tomorrow is gone. I never asked for this death, but this is the one being brought to me." Craig brought the recorder closer, holding it tight against his chest, drawing strength from the weight of it against his frail body.
" I suppose it's trueI lived fast and died young. I have no regrets, only lessons. In my most powerful moments I learned how to get the most out of this world. In my weakest: I learned how much this world has to offer me. I have tried hard to do as a wise person has told me, and made peace with what is to become of me. I no longer fear what I am to face. I embrace it as the fate that has been handed to me, and have done all that I can to make the most of the time allotted to me."
He closed his eyes and listened to the voice in his head, and he fought hard to suppress a cough.
" So this last will and testament is to give back what I cannot take with me." He sighed, and his weak hand wiped away a final tear. Without a pause, he returned to the work that he was determined to complete, and finally put things right in his heart.
"I offer you, Mother, my prized possession. At least it was the center of my world a lifetime ago. You may have my 1983 Porsche. Drive it, sell it, let it rust and rot in the front, declaring to the world that I will never drive it again. The choice is yours, and you are free to do as you choose."
"To the present employees of my mother's home, I leave my share of stock in Steinman, Harper, and Mullen Real Estate to be divided equally among them. Hopefully this will offer them a chance to take their hands from toilets and begin to reach for the higher rung of the ladder."
Craig Simmons could feel his skin burn with fever, and struggled to stay awake in order to complete his work.
" I also leave the sum of my worth, which has been last estimated at 14.7 million dollars to my Nurse, Dorothy Isley, under the stipulation that she gives a portion of the amount to an AIDS research program of her choosing. If none are suitable, I urge her to establish one based upon her own discretion. She has been a truer friend that I could ever have expected or deserved. I am truly in awe of her generosity, serenity, and compassion. I urge her to use this money as she sees fit, but not to cease her life's work. I hope, if nothing else, that she pursues it and uses the wealth she now has as an instrument to that end. Dorothy, for everything you offered, and for everything I learnedThank You."
Then there was a series of soft coughing, followed by an unsettling exhale of breath. The distinct chords of "Sleepwalk" played in the background of the recording, and then there was silence until the tape stopped.
The tape shocked those who listened to it, but no one could deny the legitimacy of it, and each directive was followed through according to his last wishes.
Dorothy Isley stood perfectly still. Her back was straight; her chin pointed slightly upward, her hands folded in front of her. A small beige handbag was slung in the crook of her arm. Small silver glasses were perched on the tip of her nose. Her gray hair was pulled back into a tight bun, touched by black streaking through the center of her head, offering the only break in the slate gray. The uniform she wore was starched, pressed, and flawlessly white. Her uniform was impeccable, glowing against the contrast of her very dark skin. The Executive Director waited only a few seconds before a long black car was to bring her from The Craig L. Simmons AIDS Hospice to her home in The South Bronx, where her large family waited to greet her.
The entire thing sounds like a romance novel. The problems-- as I see them-- aren't in small nitty-gritties, but with the whole overwhelming thing. I can see it as a screenplay for a soap opera movie.
If you really want to change it, get rid of cliches like "the hidden tear she hoped he didn't see" and "she was scared for Craig. She finally began to face the reality of that fact." Actually, just keep writing. Leave this one behind. Since you like to write, enough to write this much, you'll get better, eventually. Don't get discouraged by criticisms like these. As long as you keep writing (open to changes in your style, too) you'll always get better.
I thought this was a beautiful piece, and the works. Thing is, I was a little bit surprised, since I actually know you. As the cynical Simon of the little "American Idol" we've got going on, I didn't expect something so pathos from you. There's great sentiment going on behind this, but to be honest, it was rather long and tedious. The plot takes place within the minds of the characters and not in the physical world, but blame it on society--readers are often more drawn to exciting plots. To put it bluntly, it was good, but I skimmed. There were times when I couldn't help but not read every single word. Be aware of this and edit accordingly.
Your plot was touching--but trite. Your details were vivid, but they, too, were overly sentimental at times. I was waiting for the nurse to cackle at the end and say, "Yes! I got the best of him and his money! Muahaha!"
LEARN FROM THE MASTERS
Kate Chopin,
now recognized as one of the great American female writers, had been "almost universally condemned for the publication of her second novel: The Awakening. A novel that would become an American classic and is often included on required reading lists for literary courses and which is almost certainly a benchmark for the transition of American women writers from the themes of romance and contented domesticity to the exploration of the emotional and sexual needs of women. It is ironic, too, that the publication of The Awakening, certainly her highest artistic achievement as a novelist, would effectively end Kate Chopin's literary career and place her, now recognized as one of the most important of American women novelists, in obscurity for almost half a century."
--http://www.empirezine.com/spotlight/chopin/chopin1.htm
http://www.empirezine.com/spotlight/chopin/chopin1.htm
http://www.pbs.org/katechopin/
http://www.underthesun.cc/Classics/Chopin/index.html
http://www.loyno.edu/~tlkinnon/Index.htm
Letter to the Editor
So I'd like to be a writer. Sure, I'll probably be starving on the street for the vast majority of my life, but I HAVE to make it if I try hard, right? I despise hearing potential writers, actresses, anyone, assuming that just because they've found their passion they will succeed in that passion. Certainly it takes dedication and hard work, but that's not always enough. Sometimes it takes a damn lucky break.
I think it's fair to say that I've been doing my part, not sitting idly by and assuming that success will slap me in the face. I wrote a full manuscript and sent it to a literary agent I've been in contact with. She turned it down with suggestions, so I sent it to another agent I know through family. She turned it down, too. Both rejection letters were hopeful, both agents invited me to send them future writings, but the rejection hurts. Of course everyone knows that most writers have been rejected countless times, that some of the "classics" were almost not published. What makes me think that I should be different?
I would like to suggest a great book for aspiring authors: The Forest for the Trees by Betsy Lerner. She is an ex-editor who is now an agent who offers support and advice to the writer.
Will I make it? That remains to be seen, but I'll keep trying. It would be so much easier to be a lawyer.
~Michelle
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