Welcome to WDC. I love going through the random "Read and Review" section! I should tell you that impatience is one of my many shortcomings and when I'm looking for material to review, I'm generally looking for something short. This little ditty definitely fits the bill. I love that, and how it so quickly goes right to the self-degradation part so familiar amongst creative types. If it wasn't meant to be funny, I am sorry. You are definitely speaking truth! Might I suggest however, how it could be even shorter and possibly more poignant?
I'd lose the second line.
It's a little clunky if I'm honest, kind of suggesting that this is going to be a limerick, but quickly abandoning the scheme. Barring that little hiccup, the thought stirs up hints of something that Mark Twain might have mused about (and believe me, that is a giant compliment!). It would be less a poem I guess, but it definitely speaks volumes!
Anyway, I like your intention with this one. Sometimes a writer doesn't have to write a lot to say a lot and sometimes just writing anything can help to jump start the whole creative process. Thanks for sharing. Write on!
Afternoon, Gervic. Let me congratulate you in advance on your win with this one. If I'm wrong I'll eat my hat because it's terrific. It would be enough that you've set up what could easily be an epic within a few short few paragraphs, but add to that multiple instances of vividly contrasting imagery (a window...blurred into "an impressionistic watercolor" or a floral pattern incongruous against a stark metal console, anyone?) and you've demonstrated an affinity for the elusive "show-don't-tell" method that we as authors are constantly chided for not achieving. Let me set myself a reminder to breeze through your portfolio in the near future to look for this one being fleshed out...or maybe to find some new favorite. Either way I appreciate what you've done here. Write on.
Afternoon, foxtale. The impatient reader in me loves a short story for being short. The writer in me loves a short story that can have impact while being short. This one is both : )
Mostly, I liked the contrast presented between Gus and the multitude of his accusers. "Ramrod straight", "...ironed creases that could cut paper". Every aspect of the man and his uniform spoke to an honor whose roots run deeper than just this moment while his vilifiers, bearing a cartoonish array of slapdash costumes (even a lack thereof) howl about some affected morality. Pretty clever how you painted them as ridiculous without overtly condemning them, BTW. A good example of the ever-elusive "show me-don't-tell me" strategy demanded so often of authors.
As our hero is being shouted down in the presence of "...a row of tomato splattered R.O.T.C. students", I detected an aesthetic that reminded me of "The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe" where Aslan is beaten, ridiculed and humiliated by having his glorious mane sheared off before he is ultimately killed by the throng of his enemies. Sort of like a messiah moment it turns out, since he is resurrected and comes back to defeat those very foes. Gus' "revenge", if you will, is somewhat less dramatic, but stays appropriate given the spirit of this story. It's always enjoyable when the antagonists have their own words, with as much conviction, shoved down their throats.
Good stuff, my friend. I'm flattered to have been invited to read this. I imagine I'll be poking around your portfolio for more in the near future.
Well, that was easy! Congrats on your win with this one, Yondus. It is rare that 300 words or less will send me poking around in somebody's portfolio, but yours did. I love a work that will keep you guessing as to just what the hell is going on right up to the point that it punches you in the gut. This one did just that, so thank you. Didn't even give it a name! That's awesome. Write on!
Isn't it the truth, though! A writer's motivation could be described as both self-serving and a service. When a writer writes, we do it for ourselves AND we do it for others, too. It is both a selfish act as well as a selfless one. Having a world in your head that is bigger than the universe outside of it demands some remedy and, who knows? Maybe there is a thought or a shred of a thought, an idea...even a single sentence worded in such a way that make just a tiny part of that world stick in somebody else's mind! Maybe that thought or a shred of a thought becomes the seed for an entirely different universe in an entirely different head. Maybe it just affects them in that instant. Either way, we have bonded with our reader in a way that is completely personal and beautifully unique. The line that hit me hardest here: "There is a world in my head and it would be a waste if only I saw it." Well, I saw it too my friend, and, writer to writer, I liked what I saw.
Welcome aboard here at WDC. Thank you for sharing and write on.
Good stuff here. I like the casual, storytelling vibe you've got going. I like the "shotgun" statements to set the stage. I'm a big fan of memoir-style reveries. If nothing else, I definitely had to read it for the title.
Love it. How could anybody pass up something called "Good Morning Fascist Insect"?
I also like that it is relevant to the social/political clime right now, which isn't surprising because I think we're back to the culture wars being at extremes. Every offense constitutes something on par with N@zizm. Every argument is one claiming existential repercussion. We're back to the "Us" and the "Them" dynamic. Let's hope we pull through this one as we have all of the others.
In the meantime, we have this: "Good Morning Fascist Insect". A glance back at what we now know were simpler times. Geez, at least LOVE was in the conversation back then!
BTW, there are a few minor punctuation issues, but nothing that distracted me from enjoying this. Thanks for sharing and write on.
I like the idea of somebody's inner demon actually taking form. In this case it is a good thing, though I imagine that not everybody comes off so lucky when standing toe to toe with their inner demon. Or inner demons, plural .
I wonder how that would go. Can more than one inner demon show up at a time? Would there be some tension between them or would they just as soon collaborate and come after you? Hmm.
Anyway, good stuff, Amind. I see that you're fairly new here so let me suggest one thing that helped me tremendously when I first came on. Scope out the contests. Look for those that give you prompts to get the creativity flowing and help you to step out of your comfort zone at times. Personally I really go for "The Daily Flash Fiction Challenge" and "The Writer's Cramp". Both are "flash fiction" contests. Daily prompts so you don't have to wait so long to see what folks thought of your stuff and a good way to test out some of those ideas you've had floating around in your head for so long! The short form challenges you to get all relevant ideas down as well as giving you an avenue to cull some of the more unnecessary length. One of them asks for entries to be in by midnight, the other noon.
Both short and concise, an excellent exploration of an awful topic. For me, you truly hit this one on the head. It occurs to me that the biggest thing that somebody who's killed themselves might feel (assuming that they would or could feel anything afterward) would be regret. Regret when they realized that they had exchanged a world of feeling existence and being able to affect it, for one of simply existing (or not), and being absolutely impotent...and forever, besides!
Perhaps believing that you were freeing yourself from whatever was overwhelming you, you might just find that you have simply frozen yourself in that torturous moment for an eternity. On top of that, maybe you also get to reap the endless shame of recognizing your weakness and inability to deal with adversity while realizing that you have selfishly crushed any and all that had cared for you in your mortal state. Their anger at being abandoned. Being betrayed. Their misery in all of its stages that is now your sole legacy! Finally the scorn and fury, not pity, from your new and eternal contemporaries who died one way or another but didn't want to and are more than willing to help ensconce you in your cowardice. Again, forever.
Geez. Guess this one got me going more than I thought it did. Good job, Adhere. Write on!
I like the way you deal with the turmoil of what is most certainly love. From admitting it makes you do things to appeal to this person to outright dismissing the very notion. From discounting being in love to shield yourself from the risk while simultaneously taking issue with "your" man for simply talking to somebody "prettier".
My God, isn't that the s***ty part, though?! When we're in love, we feel like anything is possible and at the same time open ourselves up to immeasurable insecurity. It is your heart, after all. Your one and only heart, and it shouldn't be lost without some consideration!
You're not sick and neither is he and hopefully you have both come down with something :)
Finally, I love that you called this one "Was it Love?" when it unmistakably IS .
Thanks for putting yourself out there and write on.
I like this piece and I find that I'm torn here. You won the game of "In the Next House" but have fallen victim to the age old exasperation of "The Grass is Always Greener". Further still, your sentiments qualify for the more modified, less known and just-as-true extension of it: "...where the dogs are s***ting". Your old house sucked. It was just familiar.
Where you are now is not lonely--I'm confident that you brought your family with you and your children would just as soon switch their seats for you, freeing up your spot, should you (and they) learn what that spot is for you. The sunroom sounds like a fine candidate for starters, and I'm sure that not having cars regularly come through your walls anymore more than disqualifies the old place from deserving nostalgia.
The bats sucked. Not having a dishwasher sucked and a collapsing ceiling is as good a reason as any to put that old place behind you and start enjoying your new space.
Finally, you are adrift but you are secure. Your circumstances are improved and your life, as new as it is, along with it.
I love that you can miss the very thing you thought you needed to escape from. It is a writer's place to be able to put their unease out there for the masses...but you left it behind for a reason and are lucky to have been able to do that.
Embrace it. Love it. settle into that sunroom and make it your new spot. And write on!
Hyperion Gate! Haven't seen you here in quite some time. I had thought about entering something in this contest, but had to check this item out first when I saw it was you. You know, sizing up the competition :)
Good stuff, as usual. Glad to see something from you again.
Go, Angus. I can see why this one was selected to represent you and WDC. Good stuff. I like the way you delve into Colt's mind as he makes his way to that second certainty (you know, besides taxes). I like the way he notices everything, as I suspect someone walking to their death might. A couple of tumbleweeds, the wind picking up...even just a dog barking or the curls in a single little girl's hair. All of the little things that you tend to miss when you are preoccupied with having the rest of your life ahead of you. I imagine knowing that you don't would make you hypersensitive to just existing while you still can. My favorite line: "He doesn’t worry, just wonders." Still drinking in all that he can of the scene as he waits for death.
The final paragraph was something special for me. It brought back, vividly, a memory that I had long forgotten. I was in a car wreck once, many years ago. I was young and my brother was driving. We were just chatting about whatever brothers chat about and he had distractedly turned left across traffic before it was clear. I saw the oncoming car. I briefly panicked as it approached, even turned away and covered up some, sure that the impact was coming.
For the longest time it seemed as if nothing happened. I even began to sit up and turn back, thinking that we had avoided the catastrophe. It was at that point that we collided, the oncoming car hitting our Mustang squarely just behind my door, reality suddenly crashing back upon me like a tidal wave.
The time that had passed as I was bracing for the impact couldn't have been more than a few fractions of a second, but my reality had turned it into several long moments. I could feel Colt's last moments occurring like that and you spelled it out masterfully.
Sorry to be so long-winded. I think this item is very cool and exceedingly well presented. Only suggestion (maybe) would be to put Colt's real name in there somewhere. Let the readers know that they were hanging a man and not just an alias.
I've got to tell you, Paul. I looked over quite a few of your short works and you have a penchant for finding something to write about in things that might appear simply mundane to most.
There is none of that here. Very touching. Very personal. I'm glad you found a place to air your pain. It is quite evident that this experience destroyed you and the entire exercise was a sort of therapy. Each sentiment at first a star and then, a spear. All a release. Each line as unblinking as a camera lens. Beautiful and sad.
An avid music lover, I would often discover a band and work my way back through their material. Back to their roots. back to what made them who they had become. I'm glad I went back to your roots here on WDC, Paul. The things that we keep closest are the most potent when we choose to share them. Thank you.
Ah, Niffler. You wait for love, and don't we all?! Or is it just some small "slivers of memory" that we have turned from crumbs into some great feast?
"...A need, a deed..."
Love is both, and we often blunder into the assumption that when we get there, even once, that it has happened by some wondrous stroke of fate that can neither be recreated or experienced on that same level by any other pair. The very fact that somebody can read your poem and nod at the sentiment lays waste to the idea.
Definitely not knocking your work, Niffler. I loved some of the imagery you have conjured ("Had a good look at the bottom of my glass", "Souls were mirrored, matched and mated...bodies followed suit"). Loved it! I would just warn against dwelling too much on the well-trodden path of lost love for material. The beauty of your work can be drown out by all of the other noise.
All of that said, I'm really glad you shared. It is a tough thing to put yourself (and your work) out there like that, and I commend you for making the leap.
I appreciate you sharing the second part of your story with me. I admit, I did not expect that it would be such a 360 degree turn from the first. Now I understand why the "To be continued" was crossed out in part one.
First, I should say that, as painful as this episode was for you, it is not so uncommon for one partner (particularly one who finds themselves so smitten) to suffer the ill effects of the other partner's shortcomings. That's right, I am calling out your ex for her egregious inability to step up and say "goodbye" if she means "goodbye". You think yourself weak for looking for some kind of hope in resurrecting the relationship that you had (as she left it), but she is guilty of not being resolute for you if she had decided that whatever she was going through somehow trumped what you were ("We both were having problems in our lives") and that you were through.
Sorry, but I detect a selfish somebody who casts their own concerns above somebody else's that they had professed to love. I find it inexcusably weak of character to dodge the unpleasantries of cutting somebody loose (permanently) by texting....TEXTING, no less, that they were leaving it "open".
As much as I hate to break it to you and, in as much as I resisted the thought at first....Yes, I think that you may have been right in asking yourself: "...Did she want me to keep waiting for her when she knew she (wouldn't) be coming back?"
I'm sorry that you fell for this girl. I'm sorry that you still think that she is faultless and that you are tortured because she was so weak. It is important for you to note that the first person that you fell head over heels for was definitely not the end-all-be-all. That you realize that she was a shallow and self-involved individual that no doubt took advantage of your naivete for as long as it served whatever maladjusted whim she found in it. I'm sure you made it clear to her that she was an angel. That she was something special...But you can't convince somebody who doesn't believe it themselves. Eventually you became a reminder to her that she was absolutely NOT what you saw her to be.
And she absolutely wasn't.
I hope you find happiness in somebody who can appreciate the value of another's heart. Your story is not one of introverts and extroverts. It is one of being human.
Good stuff, Shivay. Love the abject honesty of this piece.
"Doesn’t makes much sense, does it?"...Well, it might surprise you that the sentiments that precede this question absolutely make sense. They would seem familiar to anybody (whether introvert OR extrovert) who ever put themselves out there to a stranger that they held in high regard.
'Am I good enough?' It is a human question. The only difference it poses between somebody who is outgoing and someone who is bashful is the degree to which they let it affect their ultimate decision to find out the answer. Regardless, it was an enormous victory for you to have gone through with it and I hope it has enabled you to dive in and take advantage of many similar opportunities to truly experience your life. We're only here once, after all.
Further, there is something thoroughly modern about your piece here, Shivay. You demonstrate an introvert's ability these days to include himself in social situations he would normally avoid on account of an App. You describe texting in advance of your arrival. For me, it made me reflect on the social state we find ourselves in, where we are both more connected and as isolated as as we have ever been.
Whether it was intentional or not, it's worth noting your repetition of the phrase "never once", "not even once", "never even once" and "not once" throughout. On my end, it punctuated your fascination with the fact that, for you, this experience was monumental. Good job...and the way you describe how you fell into that moment without defaulting to your usual escape routine was as entertaining as anything that I've read in quite some time.
Particularly loved:
"You see, I’m fluent in three languages, each of them with their own vast vocabulary and yet I failed to come up with a single reply to anything she asked."
AND
"It was the first time that I was having a conversation with someone without planning my escape or trying to rip my eyes out" (the "just kidding" part seems less honest than the rest of this item because you weren't).
And finally, I like the way you wrapped things up by nixing the "To be continued" and leaving it there for everyone to see. It was unnecessary to begin with but, as a visual way to wrap things up, it kind of made a statement of its own.
The isolation you express in this piece is as common a thread as we can share with any living person...or at least the vast majority of folks who have any sense of self-awareness. So, the irony here is multi-faceted, whether you meant to go there or not. In a room full of people you feel utterly alone and being alone in your head, you share the unspoken affliction of everybody else who is there.
Good stuff. Welcome to WDC, thanks for sharing and Write on!
Love the contrast in this one, Jen. First, of the colors of the leaves and of the season, the magic of the beauty of nature...and then the same to the sad reality of institutional utility that the author finds themself in.
Inside and out.
Color and none.
The pairs couldn't be farther from each other. Nor fleetingly, I suppose, could the author's mind be farther from her cell.
Oh, the beauty of the things that we can no longer have. When they surround us, we don't notice, and in their absence we are robbed. This piece reminds me of a song called "Green, Green Grass of Home". There are many versions, but google any of them and I think if you haven't heard it you will enjoy it immensely. I mention it because it builds on the homecoming of a young man who obviously has been gone a long time. The twist at the end is not unlike what you portray in your own poem, but having delved much farther into what he's missed, the reveal has tremendous wallop.
That said, I think I knew too soon what was developing in this one. Admittedly, I tried to see where you could have spent more time on the buildup with an eye toward intensifying the end, but came up short...Only a suggestion. I did thoroughly enjoy the piece.
Good stuff, Harry. I like how it comes back around full circle to the child and his dismissive father, complete with the boy realizing the gravity of what he was seeing, not being jaded enough to accept such a callous disregard for something that was once living. It wasn't lost on me that the stanzas in between illustrated a progression of the model of his father's attitudes before snapping back to "the beginning" and the child's innocent rejection of them.
I don't know, James. When you present an item as an "argument" for or against something, you invite some counter-argument. With this in mind, I might suggest that you spend some time shoring up your points with something more specific than "A lot of studies have been conducted..." What studies might those be? Are these studies something that you've actually seen and read or is it something you just heard about or something somebody told you? To not cite a source for such studies almost certainly casts some doubt on their findings, even their existence, and weakens any point you're trying to make.
You seem to have worked a lot of supposition into your positions, as well. For instance, when you make your argument that inappropriate content is not so bad when it is introduced in a controlled environment and under the supervision of an adult, honestly...how often are parents monitoring the games their children are playing? Have your folks ever sat down with you and played these games? Even asked about them or know what their titles are? Most likely not. In a perfect world maybe, but we aren't living in one.
Generalizations are another weakness when arguing a point. You mention that gaming daily will improve the reaction time and speed of most users, and that can be applied in real-life activities. I would argue that playing a game daily may improve your speed and reaction time for that game specifically, but it is a stretch to say that your skills are improved across the board. Not to mention that if you are playing a game daily, then you are no doubt limiting your real-life activities.
Real-life activities like interacting with real-life people. Not an avatar or some cloudy online persona, but real people. The internet is a social medium no doubt, but it is a social tool devoid of feeling or inflection. A forum rife with anonymity and all of the resultant inconsequence. If you say something hurtful to somebody online, you will never see what you've done reflected in their body language. You will never experience that human feedback. That shame for having been out of line or the threat of a consequent ass-whoopin. Yes, the internet is social, but it is often an artificial social.
Sorry to digress. Let me summarize. I can see many of the points that you are trying to make in this item, but these (and any) points are weakened with supposition, generalization and lack of legitimate sources to back your claims. The essay seems more like one that you have written for yourself to affirm what you already are inclined to believe than one that is written to convince anybody who might disagree. I appreciate the effort, though, and I hope you don't take any of this personally. I think that you will find more satisfaction making an argument that doesn't leave a lot of room for dispute. Make them work for it, James, and write on.
Very nice, Angels. It is very special work to be a writer and/or a poet. Though we often write for ourselves, we also write to strangers. When we write of our loves, our losses, so we write for theirs. It is a beautiful tool, the written language, and it can connect people deeply who may never meet.
And so malleable! Like, when for some time after a breakup we feel that every sad song on the radio was written with us in mind. How could they know the depths of our pain and speak so eloquently to it? It is our lot to show the dew on the grass, to describe the wreckage of a spider web as the work of a starving artist, to be the crunch of the gravel underfoot and to hail the shadow that makes a square into a cube. 'The gleam on the snow', 'the rain on your window', 'a tear in your baby's eye'. It is a lonely existence because we merely highlight it and it is the reader who owns it. But therein lies the nobility of our work...and the relevance.
This "Life of Silver" is a gorgeous examination of what every writer aspires to, placing no blame, demanding no recognition. It merely sheds light on a mission statement and drifts slowly away, leaving a reader to ponder what he has experienced.
Hey, Tainted. Stumbled across this item and was intrigued by the thoughts that it triggered for me. Perhaps you'll forgive that this is not going to be a review in the deconstruction-and-discussion-of-your-chosen-approach-and-mechanics sort of way, but rather the impression-the-piece-left-on-me-after-reading-it kind of thing. Just the fact that it got me thinking is testament to its worth. After all, we write for another's reaction, do we not?
I'll admit that my first instinct when realizing the content was to think, "Oh God, not another description of how depressed the author is in a depressing world." I quickly realized that it is less that, but an honest admission of what powers your inspiration.
This in itself sets your poem apart.
There is even some hint of lightheartedness in these lines. You're not blaming the world or playing the hapless victim, you are OWNING who you are and where you are coming from and it is refreshing. It is rather a shame that you find no counterbalance in happiness or beautiful things, as I've found that both darkness and light can be equally inspiring depending on the day. For you, writing is therapy...and it is cheaper than actual therapy. To this I say 'write on', Tainted, explore those demons, write your destiny and by all means, keep self-medicating : )
Paige, you write beautifully. You conjure up so much strength with so few words and it works very well. I poured over your portfolio and absorbed a good bit of it, wanted to comment on everything, but wasn't sure what to say about most of it other than it affected me. I only thought it fitting that I comment on a work called "Skills".
This item is short and sweet and speaks to one girl's mastery of all of the shallow and the artificial machinations of beginning a relationship with somebody. While her abilities on the front end are proficient, it has become apparent to her that beyond that, she cannot maintain anything more satisfying than playing the game itself. All previous forays into dating have failed (possibly by design) and, as is often the case, the one relationship she thought she would want to nurture walks away.
Turns out it is a story of growth or the opportunity for growth, as such a recognition will open the door for somebody to change their patterns. You've heard it many times: "You can't fix what ain't broke". Learning that something is, in fact, "broke" allows you a window to fix it.
So hopefully, our character will understand what brought her to this realization and recognize it as a sad second chance. Most probably, though, what she'll do is jump right back into old habits in an attempt to make herself feel better (doing what she knows she's good at), forgo this opportunity and complete another turn around this vicious circle.
Slyralxi, I've looked over your port and can appreciate your thoughts and the unusual way much of your poetry is presented. You have a talent for noticing clever inconsistencies (and consistencies) in language and in everyday words and phrases, familiar aspects of life and the like. In this case, might I suggest that you deconstruct "significance" a little further for purposes of exploration and sheer breadth of your poem? It is all too convenient to yank "cant" from the word and try and extrapolate that the fact that it is there completely extinguishes the more noble aspects of it.
Does it mean that "I can't be significant"? or that "none of us are really significant"? Of course it doesn't...and of course none of us are (in the greater scope of things). I think you short changed your readers by ending your analysis on so simplified a note.
You could have just as easily extracted "can" from the word and compared the two extremes present in the same example. Google "cant" (no apostrophe) and you'll find yet another meaning contained in your chosen subject word. It can mean talk of a hypocritical or sanctimonious nature, it can even denote a phrase or catchword that is temporarily in fashion, as, sadly "can't" is in this day and age.
I'm not knocking your poem. I like it. I just would have liked to see a little more effort spent in getting involved in the thoughts you conjure. It is very easy (and common) to just write as the depressed or forlorn author and dwell only on negativity, but I think you will find plenty of growth...an enormous amount of it as a writer if you spend the time to delve and not take the easy way out. This poem might have been much longer, but I think it would have had more impact, more substance. The thoughts are good ones, just seem a little rushed in this case.
Hats off to you, Lee Lawson. You've put an excellent entry forward. Original and entertaining. I can almost see a compilation of stories involving Mr Tesla's janitor and all of his misadventures at the hands of his employer. If you don't take first with this yarn, you will at least have given a gallant attempt. I'm glad I read it.....please, write on!
KC
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