CupofPoison's profile
AGE:
25
LAST LOGIN: April 18
LAST LOGIN: April 18
If I seem overly harsh in my critiques, let it make you angry. Let it make you so upset that you vow to write masterpieces that will someday make me want to kiss the ground you walk on and apologize profusely, slowly swallowing my own biting words like salt and gravel. Let it make you so enraged that you’ll improve beyond a point you ever thought possible.
Don’t become the next Hemingway, the next Gertrude Stein or Thomas Mann, don’t become the next Steven King, the next Robert Jordan. Become a Nobel Prize Laureate that others will want to emulate for your talent and prestige. Be the first big you. And never, ever feel discouraged.
Because life is much too short.
Items
Version 1
17 Reviews
2 Comments
He knows only one truth, and that is the color of Alexander's hair. It is most exquisite, such a beautiful red. He searches for ways to describe it. So red. Old roses or thinning, wine-colored maple leaves pressed between forgotten pages - that color. Yet, the more he tries to capture it with his brush and palette-knife, he cannot. The more he writes of it, the less he is able to see it. The more he desires to describe its features, the more they blur and become amalgamous in his mind's eye. ...
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Version 1
4 Reviews
2 Comments
Her tongue, parchment-touched and vague has found a voice. It too was lost, a star-flecked tide until it saw its shore; now a pale flower, now a song of belly-hidden pearls, it birthed and was born. Fishermen may weave rope, taut and clever as the night-wind but empty as the sea is dark they will return. Grave will be their longing their sighs as ocean breath, and sore their feet from leaning hard against the waves. Heart precarious entwined as the cry of gulls with hope, with beaches of whit...
Ratings & Rankings
Version 1
4 Reviews
0 Comments
The fourth date not as memorable as the first or even the second and third, found them aimless, two a.m. sidewalk and late snow drifting down. Things were forgotten in its enchantment things like primal instinct; he was not thinking of slipping her skirt to the floor, she not remembering that somewhere between Salamanca and jars of olives, three empty rooms (dark and cold this time of year) sat in quiet wait. Most important of all they forgot even words fingertips not touching, eyes lifted an...
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Very nice. I like that you turned it around like that; it's definitely a quoteable little piece. Very simple, and every word counts---an essential part of the six-word story style. Very nice work.
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