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Literature Text
The world is not a skeleton. It does not ache bone-deep with our atrocities, nor is it fragile and ready for the breaking. It knows nothing so human, except perhaps to forgive our pride. Let me explain:
Young, I am a bright star with small, pudgy hands for guiltless flower-crushing. Before even that, I am a wispy squall for food, unused to knowing anything but myself, and warmth, and hunger.
The concept of a hero is a natural progression from understanding speech. I am Me. I am the one all the stories talk about, born special, to whom both innocence and wisdom are possible. I am so great a part of my own self that I do not know it can be detached.
I am eleven, narrow-boned and alone in the red earth, when I first feel it.
A seagull slews out of the bright sky and pegs its beak to the stones, draws it up wriggling. I watch its gullet bob. My hand floats up to mirror the lines of its head against the air. There is a cry, and its eye is a pond of yellow fire staring at me, the air a storm of white with its wings until it is nothing, a paint-smudge in the clouds. My fingers are left folded in clumsy imitation while the trees shake farewells out of their branches.
I tell my father about it, later, and then I understand: that he does not see it as I did. That he never will, and I do not have the words to tell him.
His hand is large enough to cover two of my own. I try to put my fingers round his. I try to feel what happened into him, like in the stories, and his laugh is a blanket between us, teaching me isolation. I have a self that no-one else will ever know, and part of it belongs to the seagull that no-one else saw.
From that epiphany it is easy. As a child alone in my secret places, I do not see my self as alterable; rather, a communication with the woodland caves and seaside dens. I am Me, and even if there are things I can never share, I am going to be admired, loved, and nothing the world has ever seen.
A bird-bone stranded in the sand gives me a metaphor. I am a needle and thread, stabbing Me bright into the skin of the earth. Later, I think that I did not mean to be careless about it.
I grow, of course. I come to know unkindness.
The day I see soldiers dying on the news is a day full of bright, clean air, and there is no rain mourning them. They go down in mud browner than their splattered combats and dark enough to absorb their blood, faceless to the camera, toy figures ending for the sake of my compassion.
I spend three hours on the hilltop by my home, and it is well-paid time for the way it changes me. I am still going to be a hero, but of a different kind. Older now, I cling to the great thinkers and catalysts of history and wish for wars, mysteries, carnage to prove my own quiet strength. I am going to save thousands of lives. I am going to trail joy wherever I go. A nonconformist, a truth-teller, I will have answers even for the things that seem insoluble in stories. A cloud drifts across my hilltop, agreeing with me. I am just thirteen years old.
How easy it seems.
I love freely, and gather layers – people, stories, music, ambitions – as protection against the sense of my self. Being made of things that only I have seen all of, it has pulled away from the person I am to others, and so I am no longer sure of Me. It is a shadow following, guarding my sins and fears.
When it comes too close, I turn my tastes to naïveté in defiance. The false innocence of rainbow crayons, grass-stained knees and minimalism is enough comfort; enough, too, that I think myself unique for it.
Perhaps it begins – or ends – when I make a mistake that is not fixable; or when I understand that not everything has an answer. It is a kindness to myself, or a safeguard against suicide, to believe that the fault is the world's rather than my own. The world, or what I know of it, has never seemed so generous as when I claw at its sky and scream about injustice. Rocks and trees have long been mute to us, but I imagine they are saying, I know. I know.
I cannot hide from my self. It comes to me, not as a realisation but as a grim conquest of innocence, that there is something dark and satisfying in using words like knives, sharp and perfect on their target. Of eyes gaping and mouths gulping and tears, of the thrill in winning and hurting; this is the self I have grown into. This is the nebula everyone finds on their virtue, inexorable.
So I give up being a hero in the face of my own deficiencies. That is personal. For appearances' sake, it is a segue into adulthood. I search for the failings in everyone to make my own more bearable; it is easier, now, to identify with flawed heroes. Perfection is a distant and abandoned dream.
There is a day when I think of the needle on the beach, and hindsight gives me this gift: I did not discover it. It was simply there. Then I realise that I have been sewing my presence nowhere, only been sewn upon.
It is a Tuesday. I steal a moment of breath, and watch reflections swaying on the airport tiles, and life does not stop for me. Life jolts and wobbles on the board in neon lights and flights from Chicago to Madrid. Constellations. So I go on, too.
One day I will fall apart. The essence of my self will drop out from around me, my skin will sag, and my bones will break; and I will be lying burnt out with no knowledge of anything but myself, and cold, and quiet.
I would like to think that the world will give a little sigh, that the sky will be quieter, and the stars one greater for the soul that has passed on, but I am, if nothing else, important enough to deserve punishment for my hubris. For the world is not a framework holding the wishes of people. It is not even a myriad of our souls; as each person can only know their own, it is also something beyond imagining.
Young, I am a bright star with small, pudgy hands for guiltless flower-crushing. Before even that, I am a wispy squall for food, unused to knowing anything but myself, and warmth, and hunger.
The concept of a hero is a natural progression from understanding speech. I am Me. I am the one all the stories talk about, born special, to whom both innocence and wisdom are possible. I am so great a part of my own self that I do not know it can be detached.
I am eleven, narrow-boned and alone in the red earth, when I first feel it.
A seagull slews out of the bright sky and pegs its beak to the stones, draws it up wriggling. I watch its gullet bob. My hand floats up to mirror the lines of its head against the air. There is a cry, and its eye is a pond of yellow fire staring at me, the air a storm of white with its wings until it is nothing, a paint-smudge in the clouds. My fingers are left folded in clumsy imitation while the trees shake farewells out of their branches.
I tell my father about it, later, and then I understand: that he does not see it as I did. That he never will, and I do not have the words to tell him.
His hand is large enough to cover two of my own. I try to put my fingers round his. I try to feel what happened into him, like in the stories, and his laugh is a blanket between us, teaching me isolation. I have a self that no-one else will ever know, and part of it belongs to the seagull that no-one else saw.
From that epiphany it is easy. As a child alone in my secret places, I do not see my self as alterable; rather, a communication with the woodland caves and seaside dens. I am Me, and even if there are things I can never share, I am going to be admired, loved, and nothing the world has ever seen.
A bird-bone stranded in the sand gives me a metaphor. I am a needle and thread, stabbing Me bright into the skin of the earth. Later, I think that I did not mean to be careless about it.
I grow, of course. I come to know unkindness.
The day I see soldiers dying on the news is a day full of bright, clean air, and there is no rain mourning them. They go down in mud browner than their splattered combats and dark enough to absorb their blood, faceless to the camera, toy figures ending for the sake of my compassion.
I spend three hours on the hilltop by my home, and it is well-paid time for the way it changes me. I am still going to be a hero, but of a different kind. Older now, I cling to the great thinkers and catalysts of history and wish for wars, mysteries, carnage to prove my own quiet strength. I am going to save thousands of lives. I am going to trail joy wherever I go. A nonconformist, a truth-teller, I will have answers even for the things that seem insoluble in stories. A cloud drifts across my hilltop, agreeing with me. I am just thirteen years old.
How easy it seems.
I love freely, and gather layers – people, stories, music, ambitions – as protection against the sense of my self. Being made of things that only I have seen all of, it has pulled away from the person I am to others, and so I am no longer sure of Me. It is a shadow following, guarding my sins and fears.
When it comes too close, I turn my tastes to naïveté in defiance. The false innocence of rainbow crayons, grass-stained knees and minimalism is enough comfort; enough, too, that I think myself unique for it.
Perhaps it begins – or ends – when I make a mistake that is not fixable; or when I understand that not everything has an answer. It is a kindness to myself, or a safeguard against suicide, to believe that the fault is the world's rather than my own. The world, or what I know of it, has never seemed so generous as when I claw at its sky and scream about injustice. Rocks and trees have long been mute to us, but I imagine they are saying, I know. I know.
I cannot hide from my self. It comes to me, not as a realisation but as a grim conquest of innocence, that there is something dark and satisfying in using words like knives, sharp and perfect on their target. Of eyes gaping and mouths gulping and tears, of the thrill in winning and hurting; this is the self I have grown into. This is the nebula everyone finds on their virtue, inexorable.
So I give up being a hero in the face of my own deficiencies. That is personal. For appearances' sake, it is a segue into adulthood. I search for the failings in everyone to make my own more bearable; it is easier, now, to identify with flawed heroes. Perfection is a distant and abandoned dream.
There is a day when I think of the needle on the beach, and hindsight gives me this gift: I did not discover it. It was simply there. Then I realise that I have been sewing my presence nowhere, only been sewn upon.
It is a Tuesday. I steal a moment of breath, and watch reflections swaying on the airport tiles, and life does not stop for me. Life jolts and wobbles on the board in neon lights and flights from Chicago to Madrid. Constellations. So I go on, too.
One day I will fall apart. The essence of my self will drop out from around me, my skin will sag, and my bones will break; and I will be lying burnt out with no knowledge of anything but myself, and cold, and quiet.
I would like to think that the world will give a little sigh, that the sky will be quieter, and the stars one greater for the soul that has passed on, but I am, if nothing else, important enough to deserve punishment for my hubris. For the world is not a framework holding the wishes of people. It is not even a myriad of our souls; as each person can only know their own, it is also something beyond imagining.
Literature
Levitation
Observe.
This is how women walk away.
In broken heels
and secondhand jackets,
cigarette smoke in their hair
and no kiss goodbye.
Do not mock.
It is what it should be.
A girl in a car,
hanging a u-turn
on a glistening, empty street.
Her body is a road to be traveled.
A shipwreck to be plundered.
She does not know how she got here,
and she does not care.
And it does not matter.
This is how women smile.
Knowing, secretive,
though her cheeks are sore.
Though the wind
is blowing right through her clothes.
Though there is no good music
on the radio, and no food
in the refrigerator.
This is just an impression.
An idea of nir
Literature
Regulars
Jon and Carol came in as they do
every day
she clutching a bit of cloth to
her face and being unable
to give me an honest look and
Jon being overly enthusiastic about
his coming meal
(I am a goddess because I
bring them food.)
They met each
other outside the bathroom,
gazed across the table with a fifty
year old expression
and the only emotion I have
ever heard in Carol's
ancient, cracking voice
is when she calls him baby
Repeatedly I wonder, if or when
I give up my mind
to age and black eyes,
will we do this? Drink tea
with too much sugar
and have a waitress that will
be overly concerned if we
don't show our wrink
Literature
anemic, broken, and growing up anyway
when my sister was five, she dictated a letter to me in her strong little voice
while dust drifted in the sunshine
of our creaky old room.
dear me [she said],
barney is the best. i will wear blue all the time even though i'm a girl. my heart beats without me telling it to and that's pretty cool. i think people always feel better if you tell them you love them. i will always smile because i have dimples when i smile.
love,
me.
"did you write it?" she asked, and i told her i did, every word
with the chunky yellow pencil i'd fished out of my school bag.
i handed her the letter, and she folded it up carefully
and she smiled.
when my s
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ridiculouslylateEDIT: 
A DD? Wow. Ok. Thank you so much to ^lightningmonkey and everyone who's commented/favourited! You are all wonderful. 
As this is more personal than stuff I usually write, it's really good to know that people could empathise or enjoy it. So thank you – means a lot. 
(1,131 words. For Philosophical in my genres project.)
This is different for me, I guess? It came out of a few days of feeling dejected and purposeless, and sometimes I think the best creativity comes out of times like that. After editing ruthlessly and going all poetic on the language, I like it quite a bit.
While I'd hesitate to call this non-fiction, it's not exactly fiction either. All the actual events in it are made up, but it reflects a lot of what I think and feel (recently). I initially wanted to make it come full-circle, like a portrayal of life, but I found that because it was half-true, I couldn't really do that... I haven't lived long enough, perhaps, or I'm not... complete. Although is anyone ever? Some people manage to write amazing full-circle pieces, though, but the retrospect that's needed for one didn't want to make its way into this.
Critique is loved! This isn't really venting so much as some art that came out of venting, so I don't at all mind nitpicking etc.
Some specific Qs for you lovely people: (yeah there's nearly 10 okay 
)
1. The journey of growing up is a bit of a trite one as far as literature goes. Did I make it unique enough to stand on its own? Is there anything I could have done – to the story or the language – to make it more interesting?
2. If this were a piece of music, what would you say it sounded like?
2a. What was the rhythm and flow like? Did it seem to stop-start or be too rushed in any place? Any unpolished phrases? Anything that stuck out, however small.
3. There's (I hope) a circular theme of "the world" that crops up at the beginning and the end, and briefly in the middle. Does this seem too detached from the rest of the piece? I feel like I started off on a different topic to where it eventually went, and I'm worried that it doesn't mesh well enough and I'm just keeping those parts because they read nicely.
3a. Do you think the line "but I am, if nothing else, important enough to deserve punishment for my hubris" fits in with the final paragraph, or should I stick it somewhere else (or remove it completely)? Does it seem too... irrelevant, or self-pitying? I like it, but I'm not sure it fits.
4. Could you relate? (In any way).
5. Was the tone too formal or too dry?
5a. I am going to save thousands of lives. I am going to trail joy wherever I go. A nonconformist, a truth-teller, I will have answers even for the things that seem insoluble in stories. – I feel like this part especially is a bit stiff. Did it read ok? Any suggestions as to how I could improve it?
6. What was the overall mood/feeling/impression you got from it?
7. Favourite/least favourite part(s)?
8. Any grammar problems?
Critique for tWR: [link] and [link] .
A DD? Wow. Ok. Thank you so much to ^lightningmonkey and everyone who's commented/favourited! You are all wonderful. As this is more personal than stuff I usually write, it's really good to know that people could empathise or enjoy it. So thank you – means a lot. (1,131 words. For Philosophical in my genres project.)
This is different for me, I guess? It came out of a few days of feeling dejected and purposeless, and sometimes I think the best creativity comes out of times like that. After editing ruthlessly and going all poetic on the language, I like it quite a bit.
While I'd hesitate to call this non-fiction, it's not exactly fiction either. All the actual events in it are made up, but it reflects a lot of what I think and feel (recently). I initially wanted to make it come full-circle, like a portrayal of life, but I found that because it was half-true, I couldn't really do that... I haven't lived long enough, perhaps, or I'm not... complete. Although is anyone ever? Some people manage to write amazing full-circle pieces, though, but the retrospect that's needed for one didn't want to make its way into this.
Critique is loved! This isn't really venting so much as some art that came out of venting, so I don't at all mind nitpicking etc.
Some specific Qs for you lovely people: (yeah there's nearly 10 okay )1. The journey of growing up is a bit of a trite one as far as literature goes. Did I make it unique enough to stand on its own? Is there anything I could have done – to the story or the language – to make it more interesting?
2. If this were a piece of music, what would you say it sounded like?
2a. What was the rhythm and flow like? Did it seem to stop-start or be too rushed in any place? Any unpolished phrases? Anything that stuck out, however small.
3. There's (I hope) a circular theme of "the world" that crops up at the beginning and the end, and briefly in the middle. Does this seem too detached from the rest of the piece? I feel like I started off on a different topic to where it eventually went, and I'm worried that it doesn't mesh well enough and I'm just keeping those parts because they read nicely.
3a. Do you think the line "but I am, if nothing else, important enough to deserve punishment for my hubris" fits in with the final paragraph, or should I stick it somewhere else (or remove it completely)? Does it seem too... irrelevant, or self-pitying? I like it, but I'm not sure it fits.
4. Could you relate? (In any way).
5. Was the tone too formal or too dry?
5a. I am going to save thousands of lives. I am going to trail joy wherever I go. A nonconformist, a truth-teller, I will have answers even for the things that seem insoluble in stories. – I feel like this part especially is a bit stiff. Did it read ok? Any suggestions as to how I could improve it?
6. What was the overall mood/feeling/impression you got from it?
7. Favourite/least favourite part(s)?
8. Any grammar problems?
Critique for tWR: [link] and [link] .
© 2011 - 2024 Solarune
Comments157
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Overall Vision Originality Technique Impact[You know how I critique, so I'm getting straight in.]
I'm not sure if we can give you the feedback you want since this seems to be something written mainly for yourself— a diary perhaps. However, I think you've given us enough to work with and I'm glad to offer feedback.
I am very impressed with how you handled 'hubris' here— its expression can so easily be clumsy and overdone, but you've got a nice balance here. While I think it can get a little messy, you've always had that way of writing which transforms happenings into events and events into tales.
Structure
There are some odd sentence structures here that seem to be for poetry instead of prose— they don't read as smoothly on prose and thus may slow down out reading or trip us up while we're immersed in your writing. Eg. "Young, I am a..." can be much clearer. A suggestion's "I am young, a..." These are rather subtle changes, but they really help to clear a reader's head.
Another way to keep the images flowing clearly is to reduce punctuation used, especially commas. Whenever you place one, think about whether you really want a pause there and how it'd help.
Also, I've noticed that you seem to repeat some sentence structures often— particularly [clause that can stand alone], [clause that cannot stand alone]. It stands out to me, at least, and you might want to specifically change those parts.
Content & Expression
[I cannot break these two apart]
There are gems in here for language and content. I should have mentioned this before, but I adore how you've talked about 'yourself' as if you're someone trapped in a tale— sweet. As for language, some phrases / sentences deserve to stay in our heads for a long time.
There is a lot to say about consistency, I think. As mentioned above, the parts alone are stunning but as a whole this doesn't really mesh well. After thinking it through, what I've figured is that it lacks something running through it to make it resonate. This isn't a rule or anything— simply something I feel may work.
It's the presence of something[s] constant— setting, structure, contrast, anything really. Since I see you've mentioned a full-circle life, maybe you can do a variation on that— childhood to adulthood kinda thing instead of the entire life? Make us remember why we read this in the first place.
In this particular piece, your focus shifts constantly from the world to yourself, macro to micro and everything. It's tricky to handle, and can come across as disorganized. I'm honestly not sure how to say it. Maybe it's the mentions of 'everyone', 'hero' [who are 'you' a hero of?] and all that throw me off.
Or that 'you' seem too... overshadowed by the wonders of the world to write about 'yourself'. A possible reason for this isn't evident until you mention 'world won't stop', so the earlier part still has that slight confusion. Your intentions are brilliant— the 'Me' and the... other me, but I think it can be handled with more finesse— and clarity. [Ignore this if it's too messy, please.]
Perhaps transitions? I know next to nothing about them though, so.
For tell / show, you seem to do these at random parts of the text. [eg. tell— 'How easy it seems' and show— the part about the seagull]. Perhaps you can 'tell' the whole story except the parts where you have realisations, where you will 'show' it— or vice versa or anything else— to explore the significance of these.
There are many unrelated images in here that can get too much. You've handled most of them very well here, but I think you can keep in mind to avoid them, perhaps using extended metaphors instead.
Also, you have used similar images in some unrelated places— skeleton right at the start then 'bones' somewhere else, for example. If it was unintended, I don't think it should happen since it complicates things a lot, making connections between things you might not want to be related beyond what's needed.
I'd suggest cutting out some parts, but I think that's something really best left for yourself. As mentioned, it's about the constant / focus.
It's risky to start with a negative of "The world is not". One one hand, it's creative and startling in a way that interests the reader but on the other hand it really messed with our mental images— are we meant to imagine nothing, since you're describing something that isn't there?
You're technically leaving nothing at all to imagine in our minds as we read the introduction. The image of a skeleton is concrete, but not the way it's presented. In the end, it's still up to you to give your tale the introduction it deserves. It's elegant and thoughtful as it is, but it doesn't... hit right into our minds.
Responses
1. It's alright, really. The combination of language and story now is yes.
2. Something under-appreciated but so lovely [I have no idea, but that's good!]
2a. Oh, about pace, it's alright but I've elaborated more.
3. I really enjoyed the parts about 'world'. While the connection wasn't obvious until you mentioned it, it's a touch of wonderful. The zoom in / zoom out effect.
3a. Yes. It [kinda] summarizes the rest of a story in a unique way.
4. I remember feeling like this, so it related to me but I don't feel... a surge in emotion or something. Then again, I barely do, so.
5. It's alright, but elaborated on style as well.
5a. I think it's how you've taken a 'tell' part ['non-conformist'] and 'show' parts ['insoluble'] and merged them. I did find it one of my favorite lines here, though.
6. A sense of wonder.
7. I won't respond to this!
8. -
Experimenting
[This section will simply detail my thoughts on what can create something beyond what you have now— something more.]
I think brackets may keep the imagery here from being too condensed and overwhelming the reader. I've seen it done wonderfully in the past, and if you're inclined towards it I'm sure you can pull it off well too. This way, you get to keep most of your ideas while being very coherent and working with wordplay as well.
Also, you may want to try breaking this into parts, creating explicit areas of transition and / or to create more space for us to breathe. It's saturated with information and imagery now [in a neutral way!] so splitting the entire thing into parts lets us enjoy it at a gentle pace and take in a smaller amount of information at a time. It's less daunting. Like the above, I've seen it done really great.
A climax? It's a stream-of-consciousness thing now, but you may want to include a purpose / mini-plot or something like that to keep interest from waning. Flash fiction? Something that keeps us in suspense, I suppose.
There it is,
This was enjoyable in many right places. I've missed your writing, and now I have rediscovered why I do. I feel it simply needs some smoothing out and it'd be tremendously lovely[er]. I'd give you more specifics, but this is already breaking 1000. I don't know what happened. Stars ratings are nothing. And critique my critique if you can.
I have went on and on a lot. Hope it helps. <img src="e.deviantart.net/emoticons/h/h…" width="15" height="13" alt="
" title="Heart"/> okay, it's that long. sorry about the length.