With a touch of
Skin
Words
Promisesv
Everything was better.
Everything was safe.
He had his way of
Slithering over
Bare skin
Raw nerves
And
Exposed dreams
Without sending everything
Gentle in her
Into fits of chaos.
Haiku
Dreamers- an Oriental Model
[karebear00]
Dreamers- are the souls
the skin, the earth, the moon light
the wind carries them
Fear
[catilinawinter@hotmail.com]
Torture, Pain, Anguish
Every day and night
Hatred, anger, violence
With no end in sight
There is no knight in armor
Only broken dreams
All you hear is yelling
In your head, suicidal schemes
Nothing that youve done
Has ever been right
All you do is run and hide
When threatened with a fight
Little girl, why so scared?
Youre alone and youre afraid
You cant find any answers
And no one keeps promises made
Never a bruise upon your body
Only inside is your pain
You wish someone would slit your wrists
All your blood to drain
Youre not the girl people see
A smile painted upon your face
Youre only seeking a gentle hand
And only find an empty embrace
Now you wander this great earth
No longer sure of who you are
You dont even know what you want
Anonymity or to be a star
Occasionally there is a moment
When you think that youre loved
Taking time before getting close
Then away youre shoved
Now youre sick of your cage
But where can you run?
You see the blood on your hands
And wonder what youve done
No there are no answers
No shelter to run to it seems
Forever youre trapped in your cage
To cry over your broken dreams
CRITIQUE OF THE MONTH
Ghost Night
no_zd124@hotmail.com
The crisp autumn air breezed ((air is a breeze...strange verb choice)) through my window, filling my room with the damp scent of leaves and the faint sound of crickets, the last remnince {remnants?} of summer (nice imagery here). {The}[The](the)Curtains gently swayed against [the]{"my" or "the"} hard wood floors {floor?}, moving away from the windows like ghosts {ghosts'} arms reaching out to embrace me, to pull me forward into the star-studded {star-studded} night. The familiar feel of it all gripped my heart ((as)) painfully as a woeful wind chime cried in the garden. ((Why is familiarity sad and not comforting?)) I closed my eyes, trying to remember the faint strains of a violin that had once played on nights such as these. {Faint strains of a violin? This seems a little melodramatic...} ((Where's the violin coming from?))
Abruptly standing up, I tightened the cord to (("to"--> "of")) my robe and walked to the windows I {in?} my dark room, shutting them one by one, closing out the ghostly ((more ghosts?)) night along with the memories it invoked {evoked}. [My] Slippers muffled [the] [disembodying the curtains, slippers, foot steps, and hard wood floors too poetic in a very 'prose-y' work. Nice try, but I don't think it fits] footsteps as I left my bedroom and walked down the hallway of the house my mother had loved so completely. She was in every room, her presence silent and still, yet she was there. {a bit redundant. Maybe cut out "yet she was there"} My father was right, {right;} in order for us to move on with our lives, or, more correctly, his and Livs, we had to {sell?} [sell/leave?] the house. I could find no fault in either his or Livs ((funny positive/negative words. Consider "I could find fault in neither his nor Liv's...")) needing (("needing" isn't a noun, but "need" is.)) to sell the house, for I knew Liv could never live [Liv/live sounds funny...try 'stay' instead] in the shadow of a woman like Mom. Yet their choice tore my heart into a million pieces [kinda cliche] as I felt that their action was forcing me to give up the only part of my mother that I had not lost. {A bit awkward-- maybe "as I felt forced to give up...etc.} ((You're saying this because the house is part of your mother?))
Time does not always soothe the pain that life inflicts upon us, and as I stood in the moonlit kitchen with her pots and pans, her oven mitts that had been broken in the countless times she had made dinner (are the mitts worn? is that what you mean by broken?) [huh? what was broken?] {how do oven mitts break?}, and the scarred wooden table top that, as she once told me, had character, ((single quotes belong inside of double quotes; this isn't a quote within a quote, so it's jut double quotes. Also, punctutation--the comma--goes inside the quotes.)) I unwillingly remembered the months that led up to her death {too bland-- maybe, I was sucked into the march of months leading up to her death? Just something less plain. Action verbs are good.}. Tears slowly formed ((they just formed there? You had no part of them? Give me a better verb)) in my eyes as I recalled {weak verb} the day she and my father called me into the kitchen. (("called"/"recalled": too close for comfort)) The sun had filtered into the room through the window above the sink, catching in the glasses on the counter and splaying rainbows on the walls. She and my father sat at the old table, hands linked together as her cornflower blue eyes stared emptily ((why are her eyes empty?)) at the battered table top. [I love the details up to this point. Great images...awesome depth.]
My father spoke first, and at the sound of my fathers deep baritone voice, tears flooded my mothers cheeks {Did she really break down that fast? Can you be any more descriptive than tears?}. Her normally bright face was downcast as her emotions reeked {wreaked} havoc [more cliche] on her usual placid character. {Cows are placid. Your mother was probably more vivacious than that.} "She had cancer" {"She has cancer"} [kinda cold...is that okay?] were the words that seeped [seeped? Would words like that 'seep'?] through his lips, cruelly {is he cruel, or the words? It sounds like you're calling him cruel.} tearing down the walls of security that had protected me from the outside world and had held me within the fairy tale lifestyle ['fairy tale lifestyle' is usually ironic and mocking. Consider if that's what she was trying to say.] (I like how this line is phrased, "cruelly tearing down the walls...") that I had known. The rest of his words ripped into something deeper, eating at my core like the cancer that was feasting on my mother (nice comparison) ((good simile, but are you sure you want to go with "feasting"? It's a touch morbid)). With is ((his)) arm on her jerking shoulders, ((why jerking? From her crying?)) he finished telling me what was going to be.((Strange sentence. What was going to be what?)) Since the cancer was spreading rapidly, they were going to send her immediately into therapy. What they hadnt known was the cancer wouldnt stop, instead {"that", not "instead"} it would flourish as my mom slowly lost the hopeless battle she fought. {a bit redundant.} ((if she lost the hopeless battle, she obviously fought it. Consider taking out "she fought."))
As the memories of those last months flooded my senses, on {one} particular memory that I tried {had tried?} to repress in the deep abyss of my brain became alive like two pulsating wires being connected to allow the electric current to continue flowing. [kinda awkward...amazing analogy, but clunky wording.] {awkward verb-- maybe, "sparked to life"?} She was as white as the pillow case that her head rested on, the flush on ((of)) her cheeks gone, her body weak and wane ((wan)) as tubes and wires monitored her depleting health. {"monitored...health" could be stronger.} The sadness {weak} in her eyes as she watched me sent shivers of remorse [why remorse?] down my spine. Her hand, which had so often held mine in its strong warm grip, was cold and weak as I covered it with both of my warm young hands.((Why are you reinforcing that you're young? Is this to make a comparison between the healthy and the infirm?)) The years she never lived etched themselves into her china white skin, around those cornflower {are you sure you want to say "cornflower" again?} blue eyes and around her mouth that used to smile frequently. {again, awkward.}
{I'm just going to stop here-- I'm running into the same things again and again. Basically, check the verbs and phrases you use and see if maybe you can tighten them up some. Words like "being", "wanting" "trying" are vague and boring. Look for nonsequitur words that will capture your reader's attention. And run the whole thing through a Spell Check. I think this piece has beautiful potential, and if it is based on real life, then don't be afraid to use stronger language to describe your feelings better.}
Tears formed in my eyes, blurring the hospitals mellow ((describe it to me)) wallpaper as I realized my mother was dying. This wasnt a nightmare that she would wake me up from and tell me it was over and everything would be all right. She would never be able to hold me when I needed comfort, she would never fold my socks again, when I get ((you're in a different tense. Probably change "get" to "got")) engaged she wouldnt be there to share the excitement and joy of finding love with me, and she would never again play her violin on clear nights as she had always done before.((Ah, now I understand the violin.)) I was losing my mother, and nothing could be done about it.
Her hand gripped mine tighter, and I laid my head down on the side of her bed. She gently ran her hands ((her whole hand didn't go through your hair, but her fingers did)) through my hair, knowing my thoughts as a mother knows what her child thinks, and murmured [give her the dignity of not murmuring] that everything would be all right, and that life would go on without her.
Live life as if Im with you always, She ((always," she)) murmured as her breathing grew deep, dont let it pass you by. Savor each breath, each moment, and dont ever forget that I love you with everything that I am and always will. ((Not very effective wording.))
Grief once more overcame me as I left the kitchen and walked to the sitting room that had once been my mothers study. The night darkened the walls to a dusky rose, her mahogany bookshelf was lined with her favorite books, pictures had once sat there as well, a reminder of vacations and parties, but they had long since been removed by my father and Liv. ((Are you mad about this?)) My fingertips traced the smooth dark wood, occasionally stopping to pull out a leather bound book, flip through the ancient pages, and then place the book back in its assigned place. I turned toward the French doors on the opposing wall and glanced around the room. It had the touch of femininity that my mother once possessed. The pictures on the walls depicted various flowers with their Latin names written in elegant Victorian script, The ((the)) Gilded Age gold mirror reflected her love of antiques. I could feel her all around me, and I knew if I closed my eyes I would see her standing by her lady-like couch playing sweetly [beautifully...?] sad notes on her violin.
My breathing grew deep as knowing that she was here but never would be seeped through my body, ((what seeped? "Knowing" isn't a noun, either, but "knowledge" is. Also, "she was here but never would be"? Clarify.)) my shoulders dropped as I felt the weight of knowledge settle there. ((New sentence starting at "My") I wiped my tear streaked cheeks and forced myself out the French doors, glad to feel the life that pulsated through the outside night, yet eluded the house that had once seemed to be its source. ((What? The house was the source of life?)) A crisp breeze blew through the yard, dancing with the red maple leaves that littered the once immaculate garden. I tightened the robe around myself, greatful for the heat it held.
As I stepped away from the silent house, the darkness of the night engulfed me, taking away the inner torment that tore at the walls I built around my emotions and replaced the unrestful child with a numb feeling of nothingness [there is a lot of wonderful metaphor in this...too much. Save some for later.]. The further I walked, the less I felt, until my legs turned into heavy [omit] iron weights, forcing me to find a spot to sit down. I had made my way to the far end of the garden, the wooden swinging bench rocked back and forth lazily, inviting me to sit and stare up at the stars. Curling up into a protective knot, my head resting on the cushioned back of the gently swaying bench, the night lulled my eyes shut, allowing my breaths to slow and even out.
Soft notes crept through the breeze, the sorrowful, melancholy hum of a violin stirred me from the sleep that had held me. The notes twirled around me as I sat up, lightly tugging me toward the unlit house. My feet unwillingly carried me forward, my body following the music to the center of the leaf ((-)) blanketed garden. Standing, silently watching the back of familiar form move as music flowed with its motions.((That's not a full sentence...)) I stopped breathing as I gazed at the figure that I knew so well, yet I knew that it was simply impossible. ((What was impossible, her presence? Say so.))
The music died out slowly, when the final note finished flowing from the violin, the figure turned and looked at me. Her cornflower ((more cornflower?)) blue eyes brightened as their gaze landed on me, her face alive and radiant. All thoughts erased from my mind, my whole being was filled with the presence of this ghostly image that looked so real, so human. Flowing hair swayed gracefully about my mothers shoulders, and she seemed happy and at peace with everything. She moved toward me, almost gliding over the leaves that had separated us.
She embraced me in her arms, holding me in the comforting familiarity of her embrace [very redundant. Re-work]
Once more tears seeped [more seeping? Buy a thesaurus] (different word choice here...) from my eyes and trickled down my cheeks, but the tears where ((were)) not those of sadness, instead they were ((but those)) of immense joy. I had my mother back, and that was the only thing that mattered at that moment.
My baby, my little baby girl, she murmured [murmurs are not a good thing] the words as her hands brushed over my hair, dont cry anymore, everythings all right, everythings alright ((all right)).
Her words comforted me as nothing else could. The peace that emanated from her seeped [one more 'seep', and I'm leaving] into me, flowing through my blood, calming me (my tormented soul). I found myself telling her everything that had been on my mind. Telling her about Dad and Liv, about how much things changed, and how at times I wanted to be eight again so life would be like it once had been, so all my worries would be dissinigrated. ((disintegrated, but is that even a good word here?))
I miss you so much, why couldnt you have stayed? the (The) words slipped from my lips before they could have been suppressed.
She pulled back from me, just far enough to look at my face. A smile formed across her face, so serene and untroubled.
Because my time was over. Dont be angry anymore. I lived each moment of my life and I have no regrets. You have to realize that I never abandoned you, Im always with you, always looking over you and your father. Your father has gotten back into living, he needs Liv, ((live/Liv)) he cant be alone for the rest of his life, and Liv isnt replacing me nor is she trying too. ((that was just a run-on sentence)) When you leave the house, your ((you're)) not leaving part of me. The part that you think your ((you're)) losing is inside of you, you ((you. You)) carry it where ever ((wherever)) you go and thats where I will always be. Inside your heart, ((heart.")) Her words soothed the festering wound that had been forming inside since her death, I love you always, but you have to wake up now.. ((only one period)) Wake up...
My body shivered as my heavy lidded eyes opened up. ((Opened. You don't need the "up.")) I inhaled, then exhaled out ((no "out")) slowly, my breathe ((breath)) visible in the now frigid air. Looking out to the house, I saw not what I was giving up, but what I had been given through out the years. My memories would always be with ((me)) in the inner depth of my being, and there also my mother.
[This was a very sweet story. The imagry was amazing, and the descriptions were vivid. I found myself reading it three times. One time to correct grammerical errors and misspellings. By reading the story, the writer could have easily fixed that. I read it a second time to get the full effect of the story. nd on my third reading, I did my best to clean up and tighten some language use and adjectives. I was distracted by all the 'seeping', "murmurs', and 'torment'. Some things I adjusted, some things I left alone, but a quick read-through and a good thesaurus may help that.
The content was great. The mother was a little too 'Disney' for me. Her advice was sweet, touching, warm, and as original as Full House. Hate to sound cruel, but I found it hard to become emotionally invested in the characters for this reason. The intent was there, but the delivery fell short for me. The story, as a whole, was enjoyable, and I cannot say much in the way of possible additions or deletions. With a slight re-working, and some development of the Mother character, I imagine a vivid, lush, touching story.]
(Overall a good story. Nice use of diction and imagery throughout it. Very vivid, colorful descriptions. A lot of it flows together. There are a few things here and there, however, like the repetition of words, such as "seep." I would like to see more of a development of the mother. To me it sounds like she was close to her mother. I truly enjoyed the story.)
((This was good, but you need to remember that problems with the delivery will hamper the message. Mind your spelling and grammar, and remember that words like "knowing" aren't nouns. I wasn't filled with the knowing of something, I was filled with the knowledge. The similes, metaphors, figurative language...all beautiful, but it took a very long time to get to the plot. I can see the house, but I can only sort of see your mother. Tell me about Liv. Tell me about your day-to-day life since your mom's death. There was some stunning writing in this, but remember that for better of for worse, readers are looking for plot. There's very little action in the story. That's fine, because the action is the vision she sees, but don't overload all the imagery at once. Disperse it in with the story itself.))
LEARN FROM THE MASTERS
One of the staple writers of American literature is Mark Twain. Real name Samuel Clemens, his life and literature paint an intriguing picture of the times in which he lived, and some of the issues--like slavery--he and his contemporaries dealt with. For further reading and information, please feel free to look at some of these websites containing biographical information and many of his literary works:
