There are still a few left who the picture of this abandoned farm with its prairie grass, its overgrown brush, and ghosts of Dunkin Donut boxes. When we arrive at the leaning outhouse, we remember it leaning like that when it was still in use. Thanks for the memory of the storage place for last years Sears Roebuck catalog.
Soul bound in Darkness and despair
this heart defys the silence with a scream
exploding in the empty air.
No dozing now to find another dream.
Then, from the shadows of the bats in flight,
She looks inside and finds true love again.
There’s nothing left to do but ponder right
while touching every spot to test for pain.
But, in the brilliance of the tumbling ax,
we see the friendship and the wisdom shine.
fulfilling all those dreams without the facts
that flows when thought and wisdom can combine.
Your forecast in the last and final line,
Is one that needs no magic to define.
You open with a mother deep in fear,
though some may not grasp all the reasons why.
But on we go, with nothing much to cheer.
We see our boring selves and start to sigh.
It's when we watch depression stake its claim,
we look inside and find a thought, a fear.
There is no chance for us to cut and run
till sadness claims the right to just one tear.
We see that all is lost along the way,
and sinking POV wants all to know,
depriving life its chance to save the day.
Before the time to smoothly end the show,
The life-long search for answers is just fine,
but there's no need to share it down the line.
Something went terribly wrong with the formatting of this piece. It made reading the first few paragraphs and getting into the flow of the story difficult. Once past that, the tale had easy read flow to it and an upbeat feel good ending.
You've done a great job of carrying us through that disaster in the POV of Cora and Jess. Where we see their carefree flirtatious morning yanked away from them and showing the frustration and fear of not knowing what had happened to each other. But we still get our HEA for those of us who can't handle tragedy.
As many have before, you grapple with the futility of war and show the POV character's frustration and hopelessness for all to feel. Sacrificing the future for the future as it always is. You have shown us how initial pride overcomes fear and propels the soldier on to dying for his future.
As writers, we all hope to find an opening that will capture a reader as yours did with this story. But, we are not left searching for a resolution to that opening hook. Here the story flows smoothly as Sophia reveals the meaning of her quilt.
Although the ending seems inevitable when we arrive there. There is no place along the way where we feel that we know the whole story. We watch the final date being sewn into the quilt with satisfaction.
The only element in this story that was unnecessary and did not add to the story is the POV character being deaf.
He felt the burning burns and jagged pain
which tells him life goes on. (is it in vain?)
Drops tumble from the heavens. (Is it rain?)
or has the madness crushed me once again?
Alas, the Bathos question in the main
is it a fault when handled with disdain?
Now here he comes again all big and round.
He feels the pressure build and knows his fate
The silence of suspense gives way to sound.
The pieces fly and we know it's too late.
With Poiple scattered all around like snow,
There's little to be done to save the day.
The belly hole is large but can it grow?
He worries not. A patch is on the way.
But did imagination set the trend,
And show the worst that he could ever dread?
The hose slips out. There's plenty there to send
Him flying once again. That's all that's said.
With pressure off his gut Poipole grins
then takes a nap with knowledge that he wins.
The nightmare search for weirdness that is real
provides a sense of randomness that's jammed,
you find those learning moments where you feel
Nonsensical emotions; am I scammed?
Our system says, subservience to the way,
hold to the scripture, even when it's wrong.
Grab all the strength you can from light of day,
and worry not of words not in the song.
The damage wrought from "What it?", as they say,
cannot be quiet, even 'neath the rug.
Those missing beats rise up and ruin the play,
just as you think you've filled the holes you’ve dug.
But think of all those answers you have found,
to show the valued weirdness all around.
When every dream and scheme comes falling down,
we look around and find the pain of lack.
Please can't you see a little to renown?
We nod, not praise but just a smile back?
We walk among the frozen hearts and cringe
while seeing one more way to fix the blame.
Where is the magic word to slow the binge
of self-doubt which means more of just the same
'So, let me see,' we say, and sit to rest,
'We've waited for our chance outside the door
If all of us together did our best,
would we not cure this grief forevermore?'
This list of souls, all wilted and decayed,
falls right in line with all the games they've played.
No attempt here to critique your thoughtful verse. This is just a piece that it inspired.
Doctor Weiss's character seemed surprisingly well exposed, even though the author narrated little about him. The protagonist did well in letting the situation drive the story until the end. There it seemed that instead of a conclusion, we are faced with another undefined mystery in the cause of death.
The morn of hope arrives and I will pray
to thank God for safe passage as before.
The surface cracks when facing our third day
Would devastation show us even more?
We, optimists, see ground begin to shake
the mountains grow. Is this the wage of sin?
Thi wilderness is more than I can take.
Night assails my soul; morning takes me in.
I wake to God's assurances I know
why should I think salvation needs a hand
to plant the flowers and to make them grow
or calm the raging sea. I understand.
there's no attempt here to critique your find essay. This is just something that your piece inspired.
I gotta tell you, I liked the Haiku as well as the short story. But, they have a punch to them. With names like Whoa-ha, Qwerty, and Brush to decorate our imaginations, when things settle down to figure out who swindled who, we're left holding the bag. We are left to finish the story on our own. Do you suppose Arnie pulled the switch to cheat his partner out of his share?
The nightmare search of Anne-Jan van der Voo
for ways to show affection to her cat,
brought us a learning moment where we feel
there’s more for her to learn, right where its at.
But when no bolt of insight steals the show,
She doesn't learn a thing along the track.
With one more bath, we see the temper glow.
She's made a final step she can't take back.
The damage from the past, we hear Tom say,
cannot be quiet, even 'neath the rug.
His broken trust is there to ruin the day,
just as she thinks she's filled the holes she’s dug.
Well settled in her path of verse and prose,
This wordsmith grabbed the oars and gave a tug.
To show a new perspective that she chose,
by shining light whee freedom takes a slug.
But buried ‘mongst the tidbits where they fall,
are truths we’ve never thought much of before,
which glow there just like beacons on the wall,
as artifacts, we should be searching for.
This is a delightfully well-presented story. You engaged us early through the protagonist's senses. We feel the uncertainty, the need to dig into the story, and wonder at doubts, as we are told that she is the main chairman. At each step, we felt her lack of courage and unwillingness to take action. There are a lot of questions left for us to ponder as we move on to the next chapter.
This is a delightfully well-presented story. You engaged us early through the protagonist's senses. We felt the burning sun, the sand digging into his flesh, and his despair as he kept his eyes closed. At each step, we felt his courage as he held himself together to overcome a news difficulty.
I learned more from this article than I had ever expected no only about Tupac Shakur but about the world of rap and his adversary Biggie Smalls.
I did not feel any slant at sugar coating as personal biographies often do. We appear to have here a straightforward history of a sad chapter in the history of American music.
Gravel flew, along with bits of leather.
He felt the horse rise roughly from the fall.
A piece of hail decried a change of weather.
He's trembling cold but warmed by his recall.
She'd been there when he left some months ago.
A dance hall girl he wanted in the sack.
He knew she liked the other cowboys, so.
He left and said, "I'm never coming back!"
The mystery appears of old but I.
"You want her? Or will you always be,
remembered as the one who missed the cut?"
"Relax," he hoped she'd say, "and come with me."
The snow is falling now. His sight is blurred.
Will she someday find out where he's interred?
There is no attempt to critique your fine verse here. I just wrote something you piece inspired.
In reading this story, I'm reminded of the complaints we hear of how bad it is for children to spend so much time on their computers and phones. But I've found just the opposite. It could be a good thing for children to do their learning online. It has helped me, an octogenarian child. I had no problem when I came across the word Bustier or Loa to call on Google and move ahead. Not only did I have a good story to entertain me, but I added two words to my limited vocabulary, too.
The slasher watched another victim fall.
Early frost decried a change of weather.
He's trembling cold but warmed by his recall.
The first one faced his knife some months ago.
A lithesome girl he wanted in the sack.
He learned she liked another better, so.
He left and said, "I'm never coming back!"
His conscience roared and kicked him in the butt.
"You want her, or do you just want to be
remembered as the one who missed the cut?"
"No way," she said. "At least it's not for free."
The snow is falling now. His sight is blurred.
By spring, will someone see where she's interred?
No attempt here to critique your fine verse. I Just wrote something inspired by yours
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