our development of a villain does give us an opportunity to view how and why the character came to be the way he is. It also lets us consider several aspects of storytelling and how to present them to the reader.
First, consider the formatting. No paragraph breaks make it nearly impossible for the reader to keep the place. The second is the telling style. It may come across as boring to some readers.
The elements are here to convey your message, but, it needs rewritten from an action Point of view to make it more interesting.
We're told money cannot make us happy
but, lack of it sure makes things crappy
We put it away
for that rainy day.
Then find that we're just being sappy.
Now, how does that fit with the world?
The stock market jigs and it twirls.
Living high on the hog
we sleep like a log.
but still have to hock momma's pearls.
The question booms; the answer dooms.
Where are those gods of joy?
The eldest says, their fortune looms
But, is he just a crazy boy?
Dreams arise from decayed wants in life
left screaming in the night for all to hear.
Will turning up the volume end the strife,
or make the coal dust dance as something dear?
The generations pass but not alone.
He takes a load of wealth upon his back.
We hear no feeble cry nor moan and groan.
He's died! Now, who will keep them all on track?
The coal dust settles on the mansion floor,
with memories a wealth that is no more
In few words, you have shown the path quite well
we ponder raindrops and what we should feel
when summer's broiling heat begins to tell
and I Will boldly makes its last appeal.
Reluctantly, there is one thing to say.
If broken into quatrains this verse might
present more like the standard versal play,
and add some to the reader's great delight.
To non-believers like myself, it seems
apparent this condition can not be.
For when the light of understanding beams
we think solution’s there for all to see.
We find conditions such as you describe
as gone when truth exposes where they hide.
There must be more to this distinctive vibe
than something used to conquer and divide.
But slowly, just a bit may spill our way
and we grasp to the slippery sloping fact
that there is really light within the gray
and though we cannot see it’s not an act.
I hope the skills you need are tucked away
within the in-depth look, we see today/
We think of nightingales, but is that right?
with notions everywhere dispensing dread.
Tradition has it they will sing at night,
but can we trust a single word that's said?
One listener placed a hand upon his hip,
grinning, heard them tumbling to the bottom,
His smirk enhanced, he curled his upper lip,
and said, "I think this time we really got 'em."
The birds arose and chased them all back home
then sang for joy while hearers held their heads
then plugged their ears of each of their dome.
but silence is the thing the listener dreads.
We listen through the years for one more sound.
we can't believe a single bit is true.
For those old birds will never come around
to shake our fantasy with what they do.
Another premise muddies up the rules.
A winning strategy, or just more grief?
The author signals all us nodding fools
to jump right in expecting quick relief.
Assumption politics now steals the show
and points the way down still another track
where party handles show we do not know.
Let's throw assumptions in the trash out back.
Another feeble play to fix the blame.
We'll play the NAZI card, without a hitch.
Can broken propaganda win the game?
No? Then toss eugenics squarely in the ditch.
Assumptions of what's true belong in church,
and leave the left's assumers in a lurch.
The gift of love cries out, both loud and clear
though we must read it through to find the why.
So, on we go, with nothing much to cheer.
We see our boring selves and start to sigh.
It's when we see the hostage stake its claim,
we look inside and find a thought to fear.
Love gives no chance for us to cut and run
till sadness claims the right to one last tear.
We see that empty stone along the way.
The sinking POV wants all we know,
depriving life its chance to save the day.
We’re cut off from the final chance to grow.
The life-long search for endless love is fine,
but that's not what those empty stones design.
A fragile hope arrives and we all cheer
The glass heart cracks as we have seen before.
The stone of trust compartment lends an ear
but hears no evil nor new hope for more.
We, clueless optimists, turn down the fear
and send forth shouts of "Broken down again."
It scatters us aside from what we hear,
acknowledging our longing for a win.
The search for beating hearts not shards of glass
shows us that mother nature needs a hand
to plant the flowers and to make them grow
to something so magnificent and grand
You show us of the weak and fragile hope
supported by the strength with which to cope.
To be honest, and this has nothing to do with your writing talent, the first thing I did when I opened your story was wince in shock. No line breaks make it nearly impossible to keep one's place and become engaged with the story. Making your story easy to read is one way to keep your readers interested. Leaving it the way it is will most assuredly make it more difficult to get meaningful feedback. Notice that no line breaks make it difficult for you to tell if said anything worth reading. Good luck, Norbanus
As nature carves the stone both orange and deep
We stand in awe, but cannot see them grow
The wind cries for the parts that we can keep
Irregular and patient is the flow.
When I find poet's words strong and sublime
I wonder at my change of worldly view
A few words turn our thoughts away from time.
These gems not only shine but blossom too
We watch for swirling masses to appear
but never see a speck of all that mess
remember how this happens for a year
and park our current needs as they progress
Those walls grow thin, but we can watch all day,
and never find a single word to say.
Those searching for the backdoor to reverse a sentient robot run amok should pay a visit to this imaginative wordsmith. We have another example of Sci-Fi getting ahead of Sci.
I wish I could find a few opportunities for improvement, but I have no suggestion. You are way ahead of me.
No rescue in sight for this doomed resident of the twilight zone.
We talk a lot about stories that the reader cannot put down. We have one of those in The Remedy of Space. You've made perfect use of the prompt and I want to read more from this delightfully skilled author.
You've managed to perfectly capture the tone of faery lore through this story/poem. You utilize repetition well with "Back in the mists of Ireland" which acts as a refrain for the poem. There's some really nice flow and syntax. it was a joy to read.
The green-eyed monster screams, but we go on
and wonder at the sadness on the news.
I turn my mind to thoughts of being gone
to shuffle off this pain and pay my dues.
The pierced and burning heart seems such a mess
to follow in the lead right to the grave,
and drive apologies and build distress
in places where the muse can still behave.
A death defined by couplets bold,
encased in mysteries untold.
Love abnormal piques the mind
but clues remain there undefined.
The mystery of the fabrics sought
defies the sun and moon for naught.
On we search, through dancing night
and find the flow to our delight.
But, low! That love encased in tulle
seems harsh and bitter; almost cruel
Alas, we find the mystery deep
filled with many thoughts to keep.
Bu George, Percy, you've thrown out a chunk of raw meat for the "I know everything" crowd to chew on. In my own case, I'll jump right in with you. Who knows what the educated elite wants us to think? We can make our judgments based on the bits and pieces that are filtering to us now. That we have the ability to find what's out there.
Yep, all it takes is a brain and willingness to look past the officially allowed knowledge.
This piece seems to have stopped before the end. Is there more coming?
The time has come for Lilith's final rule
Her open eyes bring only added grief.
A thoughtless nod, Bolt thunders, like a fool
Corrupted Flair will promise quick relief.
Now, when clear conscience wakes and all is real
we know that being ‘right’ is not the track.
To get along could be a better deal.
Sometimes there really is no going back.
The truth soon takes its toll, and then we say
'I've put my wrath away and hold my tongue.
I’ll not say that again (least not today)’
Irration sometimes rules us when we’re young
"Making love on a bed of roses." What an imagination spurring scene. I visualize it with long stem roses, so we have lots of thorns (and someone else to do the low making, in this case. Now, we can picture scene two: taking turns, with needle-nose pliers plucking thorns from each other.
We watch helping spirit and we see,
ourselves dragged to a brand new world of thought
While learning at the same time that it's we
who have a chance to learn what you've wrought
What helping others does is likely rare,
But still, it fills our heads with notions neat.
Ideas of new friendships fill the air.
Has helpless Hanna gained from here retreat?
When reading helpful hints and all such stuff.
We must believe, as some of it rings true.
For all of what we know is not enough,
to shake the need for friends from what we do.
Delighted, at the inspiration said,
we know it will still be here when we're dead.
The metaphors like 'blood' and 'shark' and 'deep',
prompts us to sit, and sip a cup of tea.
Attention drifts to feelings we can keep,
then read the verse again so we can see.
Goodbye…No words to squander on lost nerve.
Although such worlds can prove confusing when
a poet's long-sequestered needs deserve
to shine a light on this well-guided pen.
But now, we see spilt milk—the words withheld
until we know the simile holds true.
We sit and wait. The secret silence swelled,
then shrank beneath the weight of our adieu.
The inspiration soars. Is it alone?
The answer's like a droning dial-tone.
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