I respect your opinion about my writing but I would appreciate it (and respect it more) if you would give me some concrete comments rather than simply that I did a bad job and you hated it. That really doesn’t help me, to be frank, and how would you like it if I reviewed something you wrote like that? I suggest you refresh your knowledge of the meaning of the phrase “constructive criticism.”
Short Story / New Dawn
It was dawn, and life could never be the same. Oh, the trappings of life would go on as ever before – unchanging and unrepentant, day after day, and year after year, hideously enduring until its inevitable end. Yet the one living it was but a shadow of her former self, and could never again occupy her life in such a manner as she had before that fateful, white night. For who could go on after such a dreadful experience? Who could live on – hoping, wishing, pretending that life could be joyful again.
She sat by the window, her eyes wide and bloodshot, not seeing the first rays of the sun peeking over the horizon. What did she care for pale sunlight and the fresh dawn? What did she care for anything anymore? Behind her, where she could not bear to look, a man lay upon the narrow bed, his eyes open and unseeing, his form limp and lifeless. Hushed figures huddled around him, their grim faces betraying no remorse, no realization that her heart was slowly withering piece by piece. They only whispered among themselves, no doubt of monotonous, insignificant details of burials and tombstones, and of comforting “the poor, young thing.”
She did not want to be comforted. Condolences fell on deaf ears; consoling looks and touches went unacknowledged. The pain had dealt her such a blow that she could feel no more – nor did she want to. Soon the intoxicating numbness would fade, and she would feel the pain with a vengeance. For now, she felt only an empty, barren nothingness, a sickening void of emotion.
Unthinking, she rose from her chair; the bevy of matrons fell silent, their eyes following her as she drifted towards the door. As it clicked behind her, she could hear them begin to speak again, not so softly this time, and she managed to give a small sigh of relief. The numbness was beginning to wear off, and she could not bear to have her pain on display for all to see. It was a deeply personal, private ache, and she would – she must endure it alone. Almost eagerly, she left the unearthly room behind her. Aimlessly wandering through the house, her heart ached for what could have been – what should have been – had death not come so cruelly, so unexpectedly. As it often does.
Empty echoes of children’s laughter haunted her heart; these halls would remain forever bereft. Memories rose, as if from another world, of a time not so long ago – of living in these very halls, these very rooms – of dreaming with her beloved of the years to come, of growing old together, of seeing their children and grandchildren. Dreams that lay in ashes, and whose ghosts would torment her forever.
Suddenly she couldn’t bear to remain in that house a moment longer. Everywhere she looked resurrected some happy memory that would perhaps hold joy again someday, but for now only intensified her pain as it reminded her of what she had lost.
She pushed open the heavy, oak front door; it swung easily out on its hinges. For a moment she stood there, gazing at the world about her. It was a bright, cheerful spring day. Altogether too bright, and too cheerful. Yet she could not go back into that house, and so she stepped forward. Birds chirped merrily from the trees and squirrels playfully chased each other to and fro. She glared at them for a moment, then seized a stone and threw it at them. The animals scattered. What right had they to be happy and carefree when she suffered so?
“My God!” She shouted in her distress, then her voice shrank to an agonized whisper, “my God, my God, why have you forsaken me?1” At this the torrent was let loose; her anguish poured forth in heart-wrenching sobs. Nearly blinded by tears, she stumbled forward. Somehow she found her way to the bank of the stream, and threw herself down beside it, soaking the grass with her pain.
Hours later, or perhaps it was only minutes, her tears dried themselves. Her eyes and throat burned as she pushed herself into a sitting position. She watched the clear, flowing water of the stream as it sauntered past.
#I will lead them to springs of living water. And I will wipe away every tear from their eyes.# The voice was soft, naught more than a whisper. She looked up, startled.
“Who said that?” Her eyes scanned the trees around her, but she saw no one.
#Where can you flee from my presence? If you make your bed in the depths, I am there.#
“No! No, no. I can’t.” She turned pleading eyes to the heavens, then to the stream, where the water trickled by. “I can’t believe. Not anymore.”
#My child. I have taken him to be with me. Never will I leave you; never will I forsake you.#
“But you have,” she whispered. “You have!” She scrambled to her feet and ran from the stream, fleeing the quiet, pervading voice, the tears coming anew. “No, no,” she sobbed.
She ran until she could run no more, and she collapsed on the ground, her lungs heaving and her limbs quivering with exhaustion. “Lord, you have made me a companion for Job.”
#I am here. Neither life nor death, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will ever be able to separate you from my love.#
“Love,” she scoffed. “What good has your love ever done? You have sucked my life dry of love!”
#My love is sufficient. Who could ever love you more than I?#
Unbidden, words rose in her minds, familiar words that she had memorized as a child, that had brought her through many a trial. “For great is your love toward me; you have delivered me from the depths of the grave,” she whispered, overcome. Then, ever so gently, an embrace. Startled, she stood, turning slowly in a circle, but somehow she knew she wouldn’t see anyone.
The passing wind kissed her cheek. #Beloved, I am here.#
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Dexus reviewed Version 3 -
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Dexus reviewed Version 1 -
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Very moving and enigmatic. Your talent with description is astounding, and yet you leave out bits and pieces of detail to keep us wondering when those voids will be filled later in the story.
“Or perhaps life itself would be the same, hideously enduring until its inevitable end – only the one living it was but a shadow of her former self, and could never again occupy her life in such a manner as she had before that fateful, white night.” — This sentence feels long and akward. I’m sure it would shine if you break it into 2 or 3 sentences.
“For now, she felt only an empty, barren nothingness, a sickening void of emotion.” — I’m not sure which, but I think after “nothingness” should be either a semi-colon, a colon or a period.
“Unthinking she rose from her chair;” — perhaps a comma after ‘unthinking’ or maybe even “She absently rose…” ??
”...and she could not have borne to have her pain on display for all to see…” —‘have borne’ is passive. ‘could not bare’ would be the active form. Plus there are 2 “have’s” in this sentence :)
”...and she would – must endure it alone.” -- If I understand your intent correctly here, I think you mean ‘and she would--must—endure it alone.’
”...what should have been had death not come so cruelly, so unexpectedly as it often does.” — Such emotion! In my opinion, you might deliver a more powerful blow if you end the sentence with “not come so cruelly, so unexpectedly” and make “as it often does” it’s own sentence, maybe even it’s own paragraph.
I’m jealous. I have 7 years more experience and yet your talent and skill is intimidating! I’m curious to see what happens with this story! Keep it comin’ ;p
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matty reviewed Version 2 -
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The story is weak at best. You do a very poor job of conveying the charaters pain. I really hate the fact that you quote the bible, “God, why have your forsaken me?” You make God into a character. You must live in a Red state. It was really bad, I hated it.
paulfogarty reviewed Version 2 -
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That`s alot of talent and maturity for a young writer to already be in possession of. Congratulations.
A few things that occurred to me though: Once you get into the dialogue, everything comes alive. Before that all the description seems too laboured …sure, someone has died, but the style of writing isn`t quite a match, the feeling of it is, but there is something missing in getting that feeling from your head onto the page. I know certain genres use that kind of voice but it doesn`t seem quite justified without more exposition and action. We are left wondering what went on for too long, I think. Like if you mentioned who the man on the bed was (his relationship to the main character) it would draw us in a lot closer and enable us to identify with the main character.
At the beginning we only hear about how extreme things are, and we have to trust that they were or are extreme….because it takes a while for you to provide the so called “proof”....In other words I feel like you should hit the ground running at the opening. You know, have stuff actually happening. The last desperate gasps, bits of furniture being knocked over, characters actually doing stuff and involved in an intense way in actions. Then we as readers can go “wow…that really was extreme,” and we don`t have to trust the narrator`s version of events…especially if it seems on the melodramatic side.
Be careful not to let your own thoughts as you are writing seep into your writing of the piece itself. Example:
“She sat by the window, her eyes wide and bloodshot, not seeing the first rays of the sun peeking over the horizon. What did she care for pale sunlight and the fresh dawn?” The first sentence makes sense, but the second sentence sounds suddenly like you the writer, making a comment. It goes from one voice, the narrator describing the scene sort of objectively, you know, to another voice. That is how it read to me.
In the fourth paragraph you end with “as it often does”. That`s what I am talking about. Just cut that bit and see if works better.
The dialogue is cool. It brings the main character to life. She suddenly becomes real. Prior to that, she seems two-dimensional, and we don`t really care about her because of that.
I really hope this helps in some small way. Keep writing and I wish you all the best of luck.
KayPaladin reviewed Version 2 -
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You come up with fresh and interesting ways to describe, which makes it hard to understand why you use so many hackneyed phrases, like:
“She watched the clear, flowing water of the stream.” and
“Suddenly she couldn’t bear to remain in that house a moment longer.” and
“Birds chirped merrily from the trees and squirrels playfully chased each other to and fro.”
Immediately after that last sentence, you compose this great one: “She glared at them for a moment, then seized a stone and threw it at them.” Now there’s an image that seems real.
I also liked the line at the beginning; ”. . .pretending life could be joyful again.” That’s a real feeling, I’ve felt it myself. And if you can come up with great stuff like that you don’t need to use worn-out phrases.
Your writing is a little stiff, at times. If you read it aloud you’ll see where.
Keep on writing.
Jamesabro reviewed Version 2 -
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You sustain what you started nicely. Though we still don’t know who died and what their relatinship is tothe narrator. Do you ever reveal it? Does it mater to you? The footnotes in the middle fothe story are distracting. Why not incororate them into the story, or find another way to use them. Other than that, it’s got a nice flow. It’s en oyable, easy to read.
Jamesabro reviewed Version 1 -
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Dear Blue Faerie—
I see from your comments that this is only the beginning of a story. Good. Becasue I was a little confused why I didn’t learn more about who died and the relationship of that person to the narrator.
The only things I’d like to say about what you’ve written so far is that I think it would begin better with the second paragrph rather than the first. As a reader, I’d prefer to get a sense of the place and atmosphere of where the character is, rather than having them tell me first.
Other than that, I look forward to reading more of it. Thanks.
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