You have a story that needs to be told. Basically, you've done a good job with it. If it were mine I would look for ways to tighten it up, make the words I use work harder. Keep working on it. It's worth the effort.
When I was a little girl we had a beautiful little garden ,in it roses of every color. We all called it " grandmaa's garden" not because she was only the one who loved roses but because she was only the one who looked after them. Watering , maneuvering .....she did it all. It was her favorite passtime as she called it but it was far away from "passtime" . Since she had no one else to tell her bed time stories , we all were busy with our "things " . Things limiting the actuall human contact. To us Disney became the best story teller and grandmaa's stories became old and repetitive. We had cartoons to watch , the homework to keep up friends to absolutely involve with in order to remain in the clique. And the excuses, no grandma not now ..tomorrow.we don't have time right now. The irony of situation was she was the one who had little time. And as the days passed by she found new comapnions to look after ...her roses. They dint gave her excuses, and they actually were very good listeners, unlike us . They bloomed under her love , being prettiest of all. The rose bloomed,we moved on and she got older. We dint missed her old tales by then . We had new apps and games . Now when her time is over with us the only thing I wish is for is one little story, one last story , story that would tell us how harsh sometimes time could be and and we would need patience, love,grattitue and compassion to overcome it. Her stories were the one her care, for all of us even when we had no time, taught us compassion. Now, regret being stronger then gratitude all that is left of her are her roses. Prettiest of them all . Still blooming bright. Telling us stories of our incompetence as good kids. All we had to do was listen and get loved but we failed miserably. The grandmaa 's roses now telling stories of regret.
***********************
YOU HAVE A TOUCHING STORY HERE. HEARTFELT. IT'S WORTH THE EXTRA WORK TO GET IT RIGHT. TAKE SOME TIME AND LOOK IT OVER CLOSELY. BUT IT HAS TYPOS AS WELL AS SPACES WHERE THEY SHOULDN'T BE. I'VE GIVEN YOU SOME HELP BY PASTING IT HERE AND LETTING THE SPELL CHECK SHOW THE TYPOS. iF IT WERE MY STORY I'D PUT SOME EFFORT INTO IT AND MAKE IT SHINE.
You have a good start here. Great real life drama. But I think you need to prepare us more for the conclusion. We know where WINDOW fits in the story. Maybe we should learn it ahead of time and watch Rufus figure it out.
I realize this is flash fiction. Word count is important. But there's a way to reach the conclusion you want. You need to look for it.
This is a great story. The ending brings it back full circle. Good job.
I have a few suggestions: Try to keep your story in the present tense so that the reader can be part of the action.
First line: Amy greets her boss....
Last sentence, second paragraph: Is there any paper left....
Is this her first job? I like Grandpa in there. I wish I knew more about him. There's room to do that, you know. Edit this story and then if there's time, let it cool for a week or two and see how it looks.
You should set your dialog in paragraphs, a new one for each person. The sentence beginning with "State..." should have its own paragraph. The next one "Do not worry,..." should be in a paragraph of its own as well.
If it were my poem I would change the dialog to a sensing of what he said. I've lived some of my life apart from civilization, enough to realize animals have a means of communicating that we humans can't decipher. It seems to work for them.
One of the reasons I'm attracted to it is that I think I saw Bigfoot, or something closely related about 20 years ago. He was the size of a large bear, walked upright but hunched over. He watched me over his shoulder as though he was fearful of my reaction. It occurred in a rural part of Oregon's Willamette Valley at a distance of about 50 yards and at dusk. I'll never know for sure..
Vicki - I like what you've done here. It's good clear writing. You've made some strong comparisons that reinforce your point. Many folks have a willow tree and don't know it. I'm recalling a friend who spends a lot of time in his car commuting. Rather than cursing the slow moving traffic, he listens to CDs of classical music--holding the hose, as it were.
I like your poem, both subject and meter. I wish the two verses in the middle rhymed,. Im sure you do as well. But that's the beauty of poetry, the rules are lax (in my opinion). Since your theme carried through you've done well. Keep worrying over it.
This is good poetry. It all seems to work well, both rhyme and meter. You sent me to dictionary to define borne. Perhaps you have a better one than mine. But the word didn't work for me. In the last line - "The tenets that we have crossed," didn't serve you well. I have no suggestions for something more fitting. Sorry.
You already know that three readers come away with three different conclusions. This is good stuff. Keep writing.
I like your poem. I caught some strong images of unfortunate creatures running for safety and many failing to reach it. While your rhyme is strong and works well in most cases, I think you could improve on the meter. I won't point them all out, because much of it is neither right nor wrong, but personal taste...in my humble opinion. But in the last line "Joe waits for another day," would have worked better for me.
I know a poet who claims his works are never done. He worries over them until he finally gives up.
You've written an interesting story with a surprise twit at the end. I'd not thought of using a letter to carry my story line. It's kin of like reading a diary, or steaming someone's envelop open. I know a young fellow to rode a bicycle coast to coast. Every evening he wrote a letter to his mother and sent it home. When he returned home he had all his notes.
Elemenopy - I like your story. You've fleshed out your characters with wire rimmed glasses, a suit too small, hair growing from her nose. I liked the cheap perfume and I could almost smell the mixture of sweat and perfume. Good job.
Smoother transisions between scenes would helped me keep up butter. Toward the end you switched tense from past to present.
You have a good story that needs more tightening. You are a good story teller. Thanks for sharing.
MBoil - I really like your writing. For me it's free verse poetry without the standard form. It weaves in and out as though flirting with fiction and then fact. I'm left wondering if I experienced the same feeling as you, the writer, felt as you coaxed me along your meandering path.
Magoo - Very nice, indeed. A smooth story line and also in rhyme Your poem of the humming birds Barb and I saw at Apache Creek, New Mexico a few years back. We'd gone to visit a couple who were hosting an RV park there. They had a half dozen feeders going, but it wasn't nearly enough. There must have been 200 of these little brown fellows setting on strands of barbed wire waiting their turn.
When i first began reading your story I it was going to be a tedious thing I'd wish i had never started. But by the third line I was drawn into it, memorizing you just as you had asked. It was like a drug. Excellent work. There is nothing I could offer that would make it any better. Press on.
It's an excellent story. It's well written and pace is quick. Every word works. I wondered about the ending and the numerous wooden crosses he passed while returning to his cabin. Indeed, he was as bad a man as he claimed. Or perhaps they were the graves of his sled dogs.
One suggestion: When the old man was at his late wife's grave you said her name was etched in the grave. I think you meant etched in the cross? And I wondered why her maiden name was there rather than her married name.
Scotty
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Your poem of the humming birds Barb and I saw at Apache Creek, New Mexico a few years back. We'd gone to visit a couple who were hosting an RV park there. They had a half dozen feeders going, but it wasn't nearly enough. There must have been 200 of these little brown fellows setting on strands of barbed wire waiting their turn.