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Review by Jack Barnes Author IconMail Icon
Rated: E | (5.0)
Ryan

I like this. Your wife shows through as capriciously sweet and impulsively charming and adventurous. The perfect wife for a practical, technical, sit behind the desk all day doing computer stuff kind of guy that you are. And your daughter, Jennifer, seems a good combination of you both.

When your wife comes up with the idea of ripping out the old carpet before inquiring when the new hardwood floor could be installed (Impulsive people are adventurous, sweet and charming, but they are very poor at planning ahead. They can't help it. If they were better at planning ahead, they would not be impulsive; and, therefore, not as adventurous, sweet and charming -- right?), Jennifer readily goes along with her mother's idea without asking when the new hardwood floor would be put in -- an impulsive quality she inherited from her mother. But after the old carpet is torn out and her mother finally calls the installers to come put in the new floor, discovering that the installers won't be able to come for several weeks, Jennifer doesn't agree with her mother that if they put the furniture back in the room as it was before, maybe you, her father, wouldn't notice the missing carpet -- a practical quality she inherited from you, her father.

This is a well composed glimpse into the life of a particular family and the particular members of that family. It is a fine tribute to you all, especially to your wife. It is moving, both humorously and lovingly. I think your wife would be very proud of you and very honored by your tribute.

Jack
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Review by Jack Barnes Author IconMail Icon
Rated: E | (5.0)
Zeke,

Seriously, you should send this to Hallmark, the greetings card company. They would have to be crazy not to buy it from you. What a Valentine's Day card!

John
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Review of unABle  Open in new Window.
Review by Jack Barnes Author IconMail Icon
Rated: E | (5.0)
Excellant! There is a nice, graceful movement to this and an authenticity to the imagery. I spent my entire adult life going to sea. I retired from the US merchant marine last year as a Chief Engineer. I can relate to your poem. This line here -- The water laps and licks its
tongue like a cat at cream -- That is exactly what it sounds like.

Good Job

John
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Review by Jack Barnes Author IconMail Icon
Rated: E | (5.0)
This is a moving piece and very true. (I’ll send you an email about my own relation with “Pen and Paper.”) But it is not just what is said that I find moving; it is how it is said. There is a poetic, repetitious echo of the phrases “Pen and Paper” and “My Friends,” throughout this narrative, giving it a hauntingly affectionate mood; and I especially like the way you animate and bring to life your friends Pen and Paper. This was one of my favorite lines: Paper is always clean and fresh, somewhat introverted, but always open to new ideas. I never thought about paper quite that way, but you’re right.

I only stumbled over one line when you refer to the “soft lead” of the pen. Of course, a pen does not use lead. It uses ink. But I’m not sure how big a problem this is. The piece is poetic enough to earn a little license, and I like the image of soft lead better than I do wet ink. So I don’t know what to tell you here.

Good heart felt writing. Not too long and not too short.

John
5
5
Review by Jack Barnes Author IconMail Icon
Rated: E | (5.0)
Very good and very true. It is ashame that you were disqalified from the contest because the dash was included in the word count. You could have made the word count by a number of ways. One is that you could have deleted he asked. The next sentence makes it clear who asked the question. Good job.

John
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Review by Jack Barnes Author IconMail Icon
Rated: E | (5.0)
It is a shame that it often takes a life threatening awareness to make us aware of the value of small things. Perhaps they are not small things, though. The attitude you carry through life makes your life what it is. Maybe we just take certain things for granted. When our life is threatened, it is hard to take anything for granted. Thanks for sharing the experience of your life.

John
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Review by Jack Barnes Author IconMail Icon
Rated: E | (5.0)
Thank you for your service

John
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Review by Jack Barnes Author IconMail Icon
Rated: 13+ | (5.0)
A good broken heart, sad country song love story. Has "the misty taste of moonshine" to it.

John
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Review by Jack Barnes Author IconMail Icon
Rated: 13+ | (5.0)
TLK,

I’m giving you a five here for two reasons. First, you are new and I want to encourage you. Your writing is clear and well expressed. Your choice of words and your voice make a comfortable read.

Second, I want to balance your rating against a lot of the criticism I see you getting on this piece.

I’m a sixty year old man and not a fan of superhero fantasy fiction. So I cannot properly judge how your story will go over with people who read this genre. But what caught my eye at once was the way you were telling the story. You are going to get a lot of flak starting a story out with a whole paragraph of description enclosed in parenthesis. I was about to write to you and tell you this is not how to write a story, because it is not. Then I read on and saw what you are doing. You are writing a screen play. That is good. More screen plays get made into something than do short stories today.

But if you are writing a screen play, remember that all the story must be told in the dialogue of the characters. You cannot just say, parenthetically, off camera, that such and such is the cousin of such in such. You must bring this out in the dialogue so the audience can see it.

Go back over your piece and see what you need to take out of parenthesis and put into dialogue; or change your format and start writing a conventional story. That means you have to develop your narrative and take it out of a parenthetical info dump.

Perhaps you should study up on how to write and format a screen play.

Good luck, Newbie

John
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Review of Bikerider  Open in new Window.
Review by Jack Barnes Author IconMail Icon
Rated: E | (5.0)
This Mountain View remands me a little of the mountains I saw around the port of La Spezia in the province of Genoa. I don't know what those mountains were called, but they looked white, not from snow, and I always wondered if they were where the ancients cut their marvelous marble for the great statues and structures. Can you tell me about the mountains around La Spezia and about the Dolomites in the background of your picture?

Also, I can't find your story The Church Gate on your port. Can you guide me to it?

John
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Review by Jack Barnes Author IconMail Icon
Rated: E | (5.0)

Angelo,

Short and sweet; not a lot here for me to review, but I like the touches: a kid taking a last look around his room -- little league trophies, a model airplane, a prom picture. He thinks to himself that he won't be taking these things with him. I think to myself: Oh yes you will, you'll pull them out every night you lay in your hooch or squat in the rain in a bunker out by the wire waiting, waiting, waiting for what you hope never shows.

His girl comes in his room. There's a “going away party” for him downstairs. He's to be a Marine. His mother is proud. Why would his mother be proud? -- a father maybe – but a mother?

Anyway, this kid is loved, and his people are seeing him off in a way that lets him know it.

Unless he's part of the 10% the Marines drafted in those days, why did he join?

I'm always curious about why Viet Nam vets, those not drafted, joined the military; except, that with the draft hanging over their heads, it was hard to find a good job with a good company when you were of draft age and classified 1A.

It wasn't for the same reasons guys join today, I think.

We old men talk now about how proud we were to fight for our country, but that’s not how I remember it. No one wanted to be there. Before the lottery, you sweated from the time you were 18 (really 19, they never called you the first year you registered) until you were about 24. Kids thought it cool to protest the war.

We spent our time in country crossing out portions of the anatomy of poster girls on calendars. We called them "short timer boards." In the army, you did a year’s tour; in the Marine Corps, 13 months -- we Marines always seemed to get it in that last extra month.

In the Nam, when you were down to double digits on your short timer board, you were a "Short Timer." All you had was so many days and "a hook" – The “hook” was the day you boarded the plane and "swooped" back to "the world."

I know there were guys who were proud to serve their country back then, but that's not the majority of what I remember. In boot camp, I noticed three types of Marine recruits. The big, 6'3'' football jocks that were always too huge to feel threatened on the playground by other kids so they never learned fear. These guys often crumbled fast the first time they heard gunfire -- fear you should learn young, so you can learn to manage it. Then there were the legacy guys, the guys who's father's had been Marines; and then, the Little guys trying to prove something; and, of course, those 10% who’s luck it was to be drafted into the “Crotch” (that’s what we called the Corps, then). Oh yes, there was one other group: the juvenile delinquents, like me, who couldn't get into any other branch of the service (I failed the test for the Navy).

I know I sound cynical, but that's how I remember it.

Still, like all old men who served there, I was changed by it. Today I am proud of what we tried to do, for whatever reasons we went, and ashamed we turned our back on that country.

I like this sweet story of a family party to send this kid away -- him sitting in his room looking at his childhood memorability with his girlfriend. I especially liked the girlfriend. It must be wonderful, somebody loving you that way.

All I remember of my induction, was drinking the night before, down at the Red Witch Bar on West Fourth Street (a block from Washington Square), sleeping it off in the back room, and waking up early the next morning with a hangover. I grabbed my paper bag full of what they told me to bring, and started off to catch the subway to Brooklyn (I think it was the Broadway Local, the N train). Caesar, the ex-junkie bar tender who once beat up a tough fag who had me cornered in the back alley when I was little kid hanging out at the Red Witch to help in the kitchen and sneak beers, was sweeping up by the bar and making ready for the early morning rummies. "How you getting to Fort Hamilton?" he asked. I told him the subway. He said, "You’re going to fight for your country, kid… Go in style." Then he handed me a twenty-dollar bill for a cab -- It was a lot more than what a cab from lower Manhattan to South Brooklyn would cost.

I thought it was a pretty good send off.

John
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Review by Jack Barnes Author IconMail Icon
Rated: 13+ | (4.5)
Angelo,

This is not an easy story to write well; not just because of the subject it deals with -- war and those who wait at home -- but also because the scene has been acted so many times in the lives of real people, you almost know how it will end from the start. To make it moving and original, you have to make the people real. I think you did a fine job of this – But I also think you could do more.

I always like to know the location of a story. Where people live tells a lot about them. Are they city people or suburban? Are they from the North, South, East, West or Mid-West? Is Tommy enlisted or an officer (she polishes a silver bar on his collar)? Has he gone to college? What did he study? Did he meet Emma in college or was it high school? What does Tommy’s father do for a living? Does Tommy plan to follow in his father’s footsteps?

Tommy can’t see himself teaching a son to fish, build campfires, or erect tree forts in the back yard, so I’m thinking Tommy is a big city kid. But he and Emma have picked out a special star (sounds like Jupiter to me), and big city kids don’t usually notice the stars – well, not in Manhattan.

I think you get what I mean. You’ve done a good job of making their love for each other real. I would just like to know them better.

I told you before, when a good friend went down over there, I got real busy forgetting him. I only did the lesser, more easily handled, grieving for guys I didn’t know well.

After writing that to you, I realized that that's the thing been bothering me all these years and why I can’t write about the war. There are too many ghosts there I have not put to rest.

I always see these guys who died as stuck in time.

I have had a full, long life and grown to be an old man. They have remained kids. That’s how I see them: the ghosts of kids wandering around us like spirits – like young Tommy hovering beside a sixty something year old grandmother and trying to reach out to her and feel her young flesh and her young love again, and, just for one moment, not be forgotten.

John
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Review by Jack Barnes Author IconMail Icon
Rated: E | (4.5)
I enjoyed your story, but I also read it with a different eye than most. I followed the trade of going to sea most my life. I retired last year as chief engineer.

The ships I know are steam, diesel, and gas turbine – primarily steam. Sailing ships (masted ships) I don’t know a lot about. The one you have pictured looks like a square rigger to me – I could be wrong. But I do know something about how they operated, and I know the oceans.

I probably read it with preconceptions. When I got to the part where you said heavy, black locomotive heaved into the mist with its load, I read “mist” as “mast” because I was already on the dock, standing next to the ship, as Abel and Catherine said goodbye. My mistake, not yours. Anyway, the locomotive you referred to made me think of the old steam winches ships in the nineteenth century used on deck to hoist the sails. I wanted to write back and tell you the steam engine behind them was called a “steam donkey” not a “locomotive.” (in fact, we still call small boilers to produce auxiliary steam “Donkey Boilers”) As I said, my mistake. Still, you might like to know that piece of nomenclature. Also, a ship's compass is called a “binnacle” and it is balanced, to make up for the pitch and roll of ships, by two balls called “gimbals.”

One other thing that struck me odd was the Captain leaving his watch with his wife as a keepsake. I get the reason you do this for the dramatic way you use it at the end, but it seems to me odd a nineteenth century captain would leave behind such a necessary tool. Watches were not cheap then, and a sailing captain needed the best. Without a good chronometer, a navigator can’t chart his longitude. Ships back then had their own chronometers, but every captain and mate kept his own watch close at hand. Exact time is an obsession with ship’s officers. Still, I like the way you use this timepiece. Just thought I’d mention that one bit of realism.

Personally, I would have liked to see more of “the old salt” in this Captain. He’s seems a little young. His wife is having a baby and he is eager to give up the life at sea and stay home with her. I don’t know. Not even today do you become a captain (or the equal rank of chief engineer) over night. By the time you reach that position, the sea and the ships you sail are in your blood. The captain of a ship is called The Master – that is how his license reads: “Master”, not “Captain.” Once you are a master of a ship, that becomes who you are. You just don’t say, ”Hey, I think I’ll stop doing this now, stay home with the wife, and try something else." I know from my own experience of retiring.

I would have liked to see Abel struggle a little more with the idea of giving it up. I would have liked to see Abel being Captain on this ship, walking the decks, noticing what he feels beneath his feet, smells in the breeze, sees in the horizon, talking to his Mate and directing the ships operation and course. I would have liked seeing him in his element, being who he is, and struggling a little with the idea of changing. That is a hard change. It is good to be Master (or chief engineer).

I would also have liked some location. What port did they sail from, what port in England were they going. Did I miss that?

I Googled for a sailing ship called the Mary Bell and found this schooner http://www.mightyseas.co.uk/marhist/furness/ashbur... It disappeared off the Bay of Biscay in 1874. The captain, his son and five crewmen were lost with her. I thought you might like to read up on it.

As always, your voice, writing and descriptions were sharp and clear.

John
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Review by Jack Barnes Author IconMail Icon
Rated: ASR | (4.5)
Kitty (or is it Jen),

I really like your writing here: descriptive, emotional, intriguingly mystical -- and yet the mystical is addressed so common placed. Something is going on here, but I’m not sure what. An eerie recollection rises within me of Kafka’s “Metamorphosis.” Especially in these lines:

I begin to let my guard down and begin to relax, and then it will hit me. A road I’ve driven down for years is gone – completely gone, as though it never existed. Or I find rocks in place of the produce at the grocery store. Fish populate the streets, and humans bob contentedly in tanks. If only the changes were that simple, that manageable every day. One morning I awoke to find that my skin blistered and boiled in the sunlight. I stayed in that day and had no scars when I awoke the following morning.

I don’t know if it is your protagonist or the whole human race that is undergoing this metamorphosis. But I’m eager to find out. Keep writing.

John
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Review by Jack Barnes Author IconMail Icon
Rated: 13+ | (5.0)
Hi April,

Is this how you really write La illaha illalla? I like it.

There's a funny thing about this. When I first started going to the Persian Gulf, in the late 80's, this was one of the earliest phrases I learned. I used it to great effect once while crossing the creek between Deira and Dubai. I was coming back from the gold souk aboard a small river taxi called an “abra.” Do you know these little boats? Anyway, the abra I was on was filled with what looked to me like a clan of Bedouins. I felt very uncomfortable the way they all seemed to stare at me, and I was only inches away from the water. Finally, I looked at the guy to my left, smiled and said “La Illaha illalla.” He turned to the others and repeated what I said, much to their approval, and soon we were all chanting La illaha illalla the whole way across the creek.

When you mentioned changing the titles of your folders, the word “Couscous” for some reason brought back that memory of the abras, the Bedouins, the creek, Dubia and the gold souk. I remembered at the time writing a letter to my girlfriend about it.There was a lot more to the story than just the abra ride. I’d gone to the gold souk to buy her a gift. But I didn’t know anything about buying jewelry. I didn’t know the value of things. That is what the story in the letter was really about; a fellow who stumbles about looking for value and through a course of chance encounters finds it where he would least expect it, among a group of people he has nothing in common with but the words “La illaha illalla.”

I wrote this letter in pre-internet days. JoAnne, my girlfriend, swears she kept all my hand written letters, but she can’t find this one. I tried reconstructing what I wrote in a letter to you, but I've been ill this week and the medicine I'm on scrambles me up too bad. Someday, I’ll try to write the story again. There was a nice little lesson in it I think.

Thank you for showing me how this prayer is really written,

La illaha illalla,

John
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Review of Providence  Open in new Window.
Review by Jack Barnes Author IconMail Icon
Rated: E | (4.0)
Hi April,

This is good as far as it goes. Perhaps you only intend to take it this far. If so, what it says to me is that the speaker is separated from her love and wishes to be rejoined – obviously, a fairly common theme for a poem. But sometimes a common theme, even if it is cliche', can have new life breathed into it, if said in a new and interesting way. Here are my thoughts on how you expressed this theme.

The structure is interesting in that you start the phrasing in the first line with “What if,” then conclude in the final line with "What if." This creates a poetic balance between the first two lines and the last two lines; they each being inverted forms of the other. Also, in the first two lines, the speaker is addressing her loneliness; in the last two, she is addressing the loneliness of her lover. I like the way the inversion of the phrasing underscores this. It is sort of a male and female counterpoint.

I like the image too made with "the tempest of love's lonely sorrow." For me, I would normally not describe "love's lonely sorrow" as a "tempest." To me the loneliness and sorrow of love feels more like a desert, a vacuum, an emptiness of silence than it does the chaos of a "tempest." But a tempest it could be, with a raging squall of emotions churned up out of loneliness (especially, if we are talking "vampire emotions"). Sure, why does loneliness necessarily have to be calm? You do a nice job of offering a different image of loneliness.

The success in these four lines must be found in whether or not they make the reader wonder what causes the separation of the lovers. What is the impediment put between them? That is the “McGuffin” you want to hide and tantalize your reader with. If you leave your reader itching to figure out what underlies the separation of the lovers, then you have done your job. You have created something that breathes life real enough to touch the reader’s curiosity, and the reader will go back over the poem any number of times trying to find hints and hidden meanings. This is what makes a poem successful.

So what do I think? Is your poem a success? Well that is my “McGuffin” that I want you to figure out from my review.
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Review of Master  Open in new Window.
Review by Jack Barnes Author IconMail Icon
Rated: E | (5.0)
April,

Technically, this impresses the hell out of me: alternate rhyming couplets of “perfect” iambic pentameter! This is something I have never been able to do. I can write with a certain musical, lyrical alliteration – even compose simple songs to sing with the guitar that have some clever rhyme schemes – but I have never been able to master first alternate rhyming lines, and second, perfect iambic pentameter. This kind of technical precision takes a real pro.

This poem reminds me of your story “Three Tokens.” I feel it is Asma the jinn speaking to Shaytan, who in this poem represents the cunning, mocking, dangerous components of love. In your story, Asma is tempted by Shayton and ultimately destroyed by him. The same thing seems to be happening here. Love is tempting its prey, and once the prey takes the bait, it is destroyed.

I cannot fully understand something like this on a first or second read. I have to live with it a while, learn to speak it aloud until it touches the voice inside me where I can understand. That really is how good this writing is.

John
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Review of Three Tokens  Open in new Window.
Review by Jack Barnes Author IconMail Icon
Rated: 13+ | (5.0)
April,

I am sorry now that I told you I wasn’t interested in fantasy fiction. As a general rule, that is true. But good writing is good writing, and this tale is exceptionally good writing. I suspect that this is the kind of writing that comes most naturally to you. If I could write in this genre as well as you have here, I would never write any other kind of fiction. Your blend of history and fantasy is magical, even poetic.

That thing I wrote to you about what Hemmingway said of good prose, I see working here. I didn’t have to know that Shaytan was the Arabic word for Devil to figure out there was some evil purpose in his design. This is a case where the writer knows so well her subject, she can afford to under-describe and still make it so that the reader clearly sees what is going on.

This is the kind of stuff, My Lady, that you know well. It is in this land of history and fantasy that you will find your genius. Leave the streets of reality to blunt instruments like me. Stay in this special world of yours with its Jinns and Shaytans. Reap your harvest there. It is a harvest full of truths that I wouldn’t trade for “War and Peace.”

John
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Review by Jack Barnes Author IconMail Icon
Rated: 13+ | (5.0)
I love romantic tales that don’t wallow in sentimentality and that present complex situations and characters. You have certainly written one here.

Initially, the lack of physical descriptions of the characters bothered me. I wanted to be able to see Ivan and Patrick more clearly. I wanted to compare their attractive qualities. From the start, I liked Ivan best. He is upbeat and confident, takes things in stride. He is more concerned with his friends than he is with himself, while Patrick seems more nervous and self-absorbed.

Ivan also stays forefront throughout the story. He is the one that comes home and visits Marilyn, lends Marilyn his chauffer, and forces her to dance even though she is shy about it. I like the dance scene particularly. Ivan shows himself to be a strong man capable of truly leading a woman around the dance floor, as well as also being strong enough to bend her to his will when she starts drinking too much and is about to make a fool of herself. For a moment, I thought all his forcefulness might have ulterior motives to take advantage of Marilyn. I feared for her as he drove her home. But I ended up liking that moment of doubt about Ivan. When it turned out his intentions were honorable, it made him even stronger and nobler to me. He was just being the good friend he was.

Yet, for me, Ivan still, carries an air of danger about him. Maybe, it is in his foreign sounding name, “Ivan,” or maybe there’s a little “Captain Jack Sparrow” quality about him. Is he really all that good, or does he just seem that way? That kind of mystery keeps a reader reading.

I’m so glad that you saved the appearance of Marilyn’s first husband, Mr. Williams, for the second part. It had an especially nice effect.

I had initially thought Grace was Marilyn and Patrick’s daughter. It wasn’t until the end of the first part that I discovered this wasn’t so, that they were not yet married. This added a special intrigue to the story. Where did Grace come from? Was she illegitimate? No, I didn’t think so. Was Marilyn a widow? Possibly. The interesting thing for me was that divorce was not the first thing to come to mind. This was 1914, and divorce was not so common then. I’m glad you did not go into detail about Grace’s father in this first part. It would have interfered with the fast-paced immediacy of the events that were rapidly turning around the lives of these three young people.

Marilyn’s experiences working in the hospital and munitions plant artfully show the effect the war is having on her. I can feel her emotional scarring take shape. Especially, in the hospital. I was reminded so much of Scarlet O’Hara’s experience trying to help with an amputation in “Gone With the Wind.” Yet you presented it so well that it in no way copies that scene from “Gone With the Wind.”

In the very last part, it is Ivan again who shows up. This time, drunk and acting foolish himself. But for good reason: his best friend, Patrick, Marilyn’s husband, has been killed. We don’t know exactly how Patrick was killed – Intriguing -- Wasn’t Ivan watching his back? Does Ivan blame himself?

Or is there something more sinister going on here? -- Who really is “Captain Jack Sparrow”? -- All we know is we last see Ivan laid out in the deceased Patrick’s pajamas, Marilyn looking at him, dying of heartbreak and leaving Mr. Jameson to put Ivan to bed on the parlor's couch.

I can’t help wondering how long it will take Ivan to move from the parlor’s couch to Marilyn’s bedroom, or if he ever will, or really wants to, or… well, we will just have to see.

Very interesting.

Great writing. As you can see, I’m anxious to continue this story.

John
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Review by Jack Barnes Author IconMail Icon
Rated: E | (5.0)
I can't think of anything that would make this better. It is not Ann Frank, and it does not try to be. It is not sad, nor bitter, nor sentimental; just obervant and real -- a short, compelling read that needs no further ellaboration.

Well done.

John
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Review by Jack Barnes Author IconMail Icon
In affiliation with The WDC Angel Army  Open in new Window.
Rated: 13+ | (5.0)
Hi Carol,

The atmosphere of this poem is seductive and compelling. I don’t pretend to understand it all, but I don’t need to. The rhythm, rhyme and alliteration carry me through it.

I’ve recited it aloud so many times, I’ve about memorized it. I even found a way of saying the line that identifies the female gender of the speaker, “Reclaim the bitch that was the dame,” without burying it or sacrificing my masculinity. No kidding. I do your poem well. It fits my voice.

I’m always looking for new material to capture an unsuspecting audience’s attention. I like springing poetry I’ve memorized on people and watching their reaction. With your permission, I’ll ride your poem around the block a few times and let you know what the reaction to it is.

When echoed call of lonely howl
Replaces the longcase's chime,
Enchanted hooting of the owl
Cues emancipated time.
---------------- beautiful

Human ways obliterated;
Four legs have I, instead of two.
Lustful urge is satiated.
With each full moon, I'm born anew! ------ This stanza is the moment of metamorphoses, the changing from human to other. The symmetry of the construction of these four lines accomplishes this with smooth grace and sets the stage for the rising exclamation of rebirth in the next stanza. This is fun to read aloud.

Oh! Blessed rising of the moon!
Reclaim the bitch that was the dame.
Time opportune brings night's attune
And spites notorious defame------------ I know how to say these last two lines with such feeling, but I don’t
know what they mean.


In full moon's glow, I'm blessed to know
True pleasure at nature's own hand
It grieves me so to have to go,
For, on two legs, I'm cursed to stand.
------------ you used the word “blessed” In the previous stanza.

Some rue the rising dark of night:
Eyes, blind to see; ears, deaf to plea.
I crave the moonlit second-sight
And laud the joy she brings to me.

Perceptions pique, and toned physique,
Smooth silken fur, and pin-sharp nails
Create the aura, my mystique;
For at fang's length my charm prevails!
------------------------ sexy stanza. I love the final line

And lo, dear creatures of the glen,
I vow no hunters will harm you.
I'll force on them true fear again
And prey on their vernal menu.
-----. This stanza is full of venomous charm as the she-wolf vows to the dear creatures of the glen that no hunter will harm them. The she-wolf will force true fear upon the hunters, and they will run from the glen. Tonight the she-wolf dines alone. Oh, dear creatures, you have only escaped the hunters, not your place on the menu


Oh, woeful morn, I do so scorn
Your seemingly glorious wake.
To some the rose, to me the thorn,
As once more, hid'ous form I take.

This wretched thing that I become,
When golden orb does wake and rise
May fool the some but not the one
Who sees with wisened, open eyes.

Oh! Cur'sed setting of the moon!
At your leave, my torturous shame.
You rob me of my heart's attune
And smite with liar's cold disdain.

Until the hooting of the owl
Again steads human sense of time
I'll bow my head in anguished scowl
And long for freedom's cherished prime.

You have Shakespeare moments stitched all through this. Good job.
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Review by Jack Barnes Author IconMail Icon
Rated: E | (4.0)
I found your email this morning asking that I review the items in your portfolio. I see that you just came to Writing.com. Welcome. If you want your things to get exposure here, go to the link at the left of your page that says “Things to do and read.” This will pull up a window where you will find another link, “Reviews Requested;” or maybe, what would be best for you, “Read a Newbie.” Pull that one up, copy and paste the item number of the piece you want reviewed in the space provided at the bottom of the page, along with a brief description in the box also provided. Now you are on your way.

I have been on this website about three years. I started like you, with short pieces, not whole stories. Sometimes I just had an idea and wanted to know what people thought. Learning to write is like learning to talk. You begin by trying and then keep at it.

You need to explore this website and meet people. You will find there are various groups you can join where people work together reviewing each other’s work. I belong to a novel workshop where I do most of my review work. Reviewing is just that –work. You will need to practice your own skill at reviewing. Go to the links I suggested above, and review someone seeking a review. Do enough of these and people will reciprocate. Being a good reviewer is a step toward becoming a good writer.

As for your story, let me offer some comments.

There is a sadness about the boy in the story, but there is a glimmer of hope at the end. Working to bring out the cause and nature of this sadness and realizing the hope that resolves it is what writing is all about. Good! Your voice is clear and the mood you’ve set effective. You should use a word program to check spelling and grammar. You also need to learn to identify sentence splices. You have a lot of them. These are two and three sentences attached by commas when they should stand alone as sentences. I will do a line-by-line edit so you can see what I mean.

Normally, I do not do random reviews like this. As I said, reviewing is work; and I have obligations to the group I belong to. But I was helped when I first joined WDC, and so I want to return that favor. One day you will do the same.

LINE-BY-LINE: My edits will show up in blue.

One dark morning when the moon was still high, a boy named Alex woke up, just another day. He slowly and reluctantly dragged himself out of bed and rubbed his eyes, so he could see outside, the winters harsh frost smothering dead plants and flowers in his mothers now lifeless garden.

I would put a period after “woke up,” and then say, “It was just another day.” Also adverbs like “slowly and “reluctantly” are what writers call “telling” words. They “tell” not “show.” A writer wants to “show.” Too many adverbs {words ending in ”ly”) can drag a piece of writing down. Use them sparingly. Let me offer this re-write of your paragraph. See if you think this tightens it.

One dark morning when the moon was still high, a boy named Alex woke up. It was just another day. He dragged himself out of bed, rubbed his eyes and looked out his window. The winter's harsh frost smothered the dead flowers in his mother’s now lifeless garden.

Alex got dressed, no comma hereand went downstairs to make himself breakfast perhaps, a comma hereto provide him some energy for the day, and then brushed his teeth, got his school bag and set off to school. Everyday he walked by himself with no friend or companion. Today as he walked to school, the harsh cold nipped at him, the ice cold wind made his eyes water, a group of youths walked slowly ahead of him, Alex felt quite nervous and decided to slow his pace down and walk behind them. here is one of your sentence splices.One of the boys in front of him wore layers of clothing, grey gloves, grey coat, his skin, very pale, they all wore a black hat on top of their heads, however the rest of them all had different coloured gloves and coats. another sentence splice; and, unless you are British, “coloured” is spelled wrong. They suddenly stopped, Alex caught a glimpse of smoke, so he assmumedspelling they had stopped for a ciggarette. spelling

Here is my edit

Alex got dressed and went downstairs to make himself breakfast, to provide him some energy for the day, and then brushed his teeth, got his school bag and set off to school. Every day he walked by himself with no friend or companion. Today as he walked to school, the harsh cold nipped at him, and the wind made his eyes water. A group of boys walked slowly ahead of him. Alex felt quite nervous and decided to slow his pace down and walk behind them. One of the boys in front of him wore grey gloves and layers of clothing beneath a grey coat. His skin was very pale. All the boys wore black hats, but different coloured gloves and coats. They suddenly stopped. Alex caught a glimpse of smoke as one of the boys lit a cigarette.

Alex's heart started to pace fast, his breathing seemed restircted, spelling he felt as if he was being strangled, fear like he had never felt engulfed him, as he was fearful of what may happen when they see him walk past, Alex held his head low and continued to walk on. big time sentence spliceOut of the corner of Alex's eye, he saw one of them look at him, the boy with the dull coloured clothes, Alex ignored this and walked to school.

My edit

Alex's heart started to pace fast. His breathing restricted, and he felt as if he was being strangled. He was fearful of what might happen when they saw him walk past. Alex held his head low and continued to walk. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of them look at him. The boy with the grey gloves. Alex ignored him and walked on to school.

Another boring day for Alex, he sat in his maths lesson before break and was drowning in thought. Poor sentence constructionHe was thinking of his nan, Victoria. She had recently had an accident and fell down the stairs, she had brain damage. sentence splice, and watch out for over using the word “had.” Writers make this common mistake. “Had” is a word often over used and it has a tendency of making the writing feel distant, out of present time.Alex thought of her, she brung brought him strength in times of trouble, she was fearful of no one, and she would never back down from a fight. sentence splice Victoria encapsulated everything Alex was not, he was timid, shy, weak, his tear ducts had wept too many times, he let people manipulate and hurt him, he was a shell with no soul, a body with no heart.sentence splice

My edit

Another boring day. Alex sat in his math lesson before break, drowning in thought. His nan, Victoria, recently had an accident. She fell down the stairs, and was now brain damage. Alex thought how she brought him strength in times of trouble. She was fearful of no one, and she would never back down from a fight. Alex was timid, shy, weak, and his tear ducts had wept too many times. He let people manipulate and hurt him. He was a shell with no soul, a body with no heart. Victoria encapsulated everything Alex was not. Now she was gone.

Alex went to break and as usual, he sat on his own. He decided to sit outside, as hardly anyone was out there. The odd person walking past gave Alex dirty looks or made remarks at him, it went in one ear and out of the other, he was beyond hurt, words meant nothing to him anymore.sentence splice He just sat and stared at the grey dull sky which started sprinkling snowflakes, one landed in his right eye and it made him chuckle sentence splice

My edit

Alex went to break and as usual, he sat on his own. He decided to sit outside. Hardly anyone was out there. The odd person walking past gave Alex dirty looks or made remarks at him. It went in one ear and out of the other. He was beyond hurt. Words meant nothing to him anymore. He just sat and stared at the grey dull sky, which started sprinkling snowflakes. One landed in his right eye and made him chuckle.

Alex wiped his eyecomma and then he looked to his left to find a girl walking towards him, she smiled, introduced herself, she was called Anna. sentence spliceShe had rosey spelling red cheeks, a bright smile and wore colourful clothing. She was nice to Alex, and to Alex's surprise found out that she lived not far from him, so they both agreed to walk to and from school together. awkward sentence construction

My edit

Alex wiped his eye, and then he looked to his left to find a girl walking towards him. She smiled and introduced herself. Her name was Anna. She had rosy red cheeks, a bright smile and wore colourful clothing. She was nice to Alex, and to his surprise he found out she lived not far from him. They both agreed to walk to and from school together.
To be continued..

I’ve taken this time to do a detailed edit of your writing for one reason. YOU ARE A GOOD WRITER! You need practice, and you need to study the mechanics of the craft. But you have a heart, a sensitivity and insight. These things, with hard work, careful punctuation, and something to say, can make a writer. Good luck.

John
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Review of Savior  Open in new Window.
Review by Jack Barnes Author IconMail Icon
In affiliation with Mainstream Novel Workshop Group  Open in new Window.
Rated: 18+ | N/A (Review only item.)
If a writer of prose knows enough of what he is writing about he may omit things that he knows and the reader, if the writer is writing truly enough, will have a feeling of those things as strongly as though the writer had stated them. The dignity of movement of an ice-berg is due to only one-eighth of it being above water. Ernest Hemingway

Savior
by
Max Griffin

Hello, Max,

It has been sometime for me since I’ve reviewed, so forgive me if I blunder around here a little.

I read and re-read your story, trying to figure out how I felt about it. We are different kind of writers, and sometimes I let those differences get in the way of my understanding you. My first reading of this story only saw the sentimentality that I think gets in the way of your drama. I began a review which really was just an attempt to re-write your story. I apologize. But, after I did -- after I tried putting your story into my words -- I began to see and understand your drama. This story could really be great. Nobody needs to re-word it. I beg you though to consider the lines I have crossed out because of their sentimental side tracking.


Mary Ellen huddled behind the bombed-out wall of her bedroom and clutched a bedraggled doll to her chest. Good beginning

A rumble like thunder thumped outside.

A “rumble” is not a “thump.” A rumble is a drumb roll; a thump is a single bump. I have never heard the “thump” of thunder. Besides, “rumble” is a better verb for the scene you’re building. How about…

A rumble like thunder shook the ceiling above. "It's all right, Emma..." granules of grit and plaster trickled down -- the sound wasn't thunder; It was mortars. She kissed her doll's face and murmured, "It's just like lightning. If you've heard it, then it can't hurt you." Daddy had told Mary Ellen that, right before he left to get help.

She wished that he'd hurry back.

The golden fingers of dawn streamed in broken shards through the shattered windows of the room. Charcoal-laden fumes wafted through breeches in the wall and invaded Mary Ellen's nose. Next door, smoke floated in murky tendrils over the burned-out husk of Mrs. Niblock's home. A robin fluttered through the haze and settled on the window sill. It cocked its head and eyed her before it launched into song.

To me, the word "Dawn" carries enough itself. It doesn't need to be modified by "golden fingers" Just saying that "Dawn streamed in through the broken shards of shattered windows" lets the reader know, with all the force necessary, we are awakening to a bad place.

As for the charcal-laden fumes, they should "invade" the room, not Marry Ellen's nose. Her nose, they should burn. And murky tendrils of smoke should "hover" over the burned-out husk of Mrs. Niblock's home, not float. Hope floats; Fear hovers.

The robin I like. But, couldn't it be used to more effect if it "struggles" through the haze rather than "flutters". When it lands, I think, also, it should be quiet. Let it cock its head to look at Mary Ellen. She can hold her doll up to it -- "Hello, Mr Robin. I'm Emma."

On the other hand, Max, the way you have written it might appeal to another reader. There is nothing really wrong with it. Everything here moves the plot along. Maybe I'm just looking for you to sound more like me. Sorry about that. Let's move along.

An engine growled from the street, like a semi assaulting the steep hill outside her school. It sounded like the scary thing she'd seen yesterday. Daddy told her it was called a tank.

The robin fled. A mechanical clank lumbered in cadence with the roar of the tank's motor. Stones clattered, and pops rattled in the distance, like far away fireworks on the Fourth of July. A man's voice, hoarse and gruff, shouted, "Adams. Simmons. Check out that house. And watch for snipers."

Good descriptions. Good voice. Very nice and effective economy here. I think you could drop the "like fireworks on the Fourth of July" part though. My guess is you included that to underline this is a little girl wittnessing the events. Not needed; it doesn't add anything. The reader is intelligent enough to know that. Also, you don't need the "And" in the last sentence.

Mary Ellen crouched into herself. A stray beam of sunlight gleamed off the dark screen of her television and dazzled her for an instant, a reminder of better times. Footfalls thumped up the stairs toward her bedroom and she hugged her doll. "Be quiet, Emma," she whispered. "Maybe they won't find us."

Good. I like "crouched down" better than "crouched into herself," though. But maybe you should find another word than crouch to describe what she is doing. In the next paragraph you have the soldier crouching.

The door to her room crashed open and a man, enormous and filthy, stormed inside. The black rifle he gripped in both hands scanned across the interior while he crouched. He looked like a policeman on television, except that he wore a dull, gray helmet on his head. His eyes glowed like white saucers surrounded by grime, and his mouth cut a red gash across his face. His gaze focused on Mary Ellen and he pointed his weapon at her.

She whimpered and hid her face from the bore of the rifle. It looked big enough to crawl down.

A voice shouted from the hall. "What you got, Simmons?"

"Some kid."

She looked up at shuffling sounds from across the room. Another man, even dirtier, joined the first. They both wore ragged, green uniforms and muddy, black boots. They must be soldiers. Cold fear snatched at her stomach and fled in pinpricks out her fingertips. Daddy had promised he would be back before the soldiers came.

Overall, good. I thing you should say she looked "toward" the shuffling sounds, rather than "at." How do you look at a sound? Also, writing "They must be soldiers" makes the little girl sound unbelievably simple minded. Writing it "They must be the soldiers her father told her about" qualifies it in a way that restores her to normal intelligence.

The first soldier, Simmons, still had his gun leveled at her. The sunlight glinted in his eyes. For a moment, they glowed ruddy and feral, like the wolf's eyes in the zoo at Forest Park.

The second soldier pushed the barrel of Simmons' rifle aside. "Shit, man, she's just a kid. Ease up."

"Screw that. You were in the briefing. That doll in her hand could be a bomb. These heathen Yankees won't stop at nothin'. Our orders are to shoot first, and ask questions later."

I like the description "ruddy and feral, like the wolf's eyes in the zoo at Forest Park."

These "goddamn" Yankees -- yes. These "f--kin'" Yankees -- yes. These "heathen" Yankees -- Naw, I don't buy it, and it's important I buy it right here. This is the moment you spring the twilight zone trap, and I like the way that trap springs. I just don't like the word "heathen." It sounds wrong.

"I ain't shootin' no kid, and neither are you." His voice dripped with scorn, like Grandma's when she scolded Grandpa for using bad words. The second soldier slung his rifle over his shoulder and removed his helmet. He brushed greasy, chestnut curls from his brow and knelt next to Mary Ellen. A tentative hand reached out to touch her cheek.

She pumped her legs and pushed against the wall. A bit of broken glass bit into her bottom and tears welled in her eyes. Her sneakers slipped on the rubble on the floor. A headless Barbie doll rolled under her feet and settled in the dust. Mary Ellen opened her mouth to scream, but gagged on the stench of unwashed flesh that oozed from the soldier.

"It's all right, Sugar," he drawled. "We won't hurt you."

The crossed out lines don't add anything to the plot, and they get in the way of the sympathetic depiction you are starting to make of the second soldier. Don't let anything get in the way of that. This is a short, short story. You have only a small moment to get us to really feel for this guy.

His soft accent and gentle voice made her want to like him. Her eyes roamed over his face and then dropped to his tattered uniform. Her gaze fixed on the cross surrounded by black flames that was stitched over his heart. Pastor Mike wore a cross on Sundays. Maybe it was going to be all right after all. She looked closer, and read the name "Adams" printed on a tag on his shirt.

Good. Especially "the cross surrounded by black flames." More twilight zone.

"We gotta get out of here," Simmons insisted from the doorway. Tension wound his voice tight, like a string on her violin. He backed into the hall and his eyes darted first left, then right. The crump of mortars thumped closer. His rifle pointed at Mary Ellen again. "Let's finish up what we gotta do here and go."

Adams glared at him. He rapped out, "You ain't doin' nothin' to this kid." He picked up his rifle. "I mean it."

Simmons backed away, his eyes never leaving his comrade in arms. "You're fuckin' crazy, man."

Adams pointed his rifle and growled, "You don't wanna see how crazy I can be." Simmons lowered his weapon, and Adams nodded. "Look, this kid ain't gonna hurt nobody." His voice was softer now, like Uncle Brad's when he used to read to her. "I just want to make sure she's all right."

"The Lieutenant ain't gonna like it." Simmons twisted his head and held a finger to his ear. "Enemy units approachin' from the south. We're bein' ordered back to the river."

"Shit. Okay, look, just give me a minute here. You go on, and I'll hook up."

"It's your funeral, asshole." The soldier named Simmons stomped away. Mary Ellen was sure he would tell on Adams. She didn't like tattle-tales, and she warmed even more to the burly man in front of her.

Sometimes it seems like you are trying to make the reader like the soldier, Billy, because the little girl is warming to him. She doesn't need to warm to him for the reader to see the humanity in him and like him. Sometimes, her warming up to him too much can even get in the way of making him sympathetic. I don't know if you know this, but the real heart of this story is not Mary Ellen, it's the soldier, Billy.

He slung his rifle back over his shoulder. "What's the name of your dolly, honey bun?" His husky voice reminded her of Tigger.

She looked him in the eye. "Emma." The word tore at her throat. She swallowed and coughed. Dust gritted in her teeth.

"Emma. That's a nice name. I've got a sister named Emma. She's about your age." He smiled, and his teeth gleamed an impossible white against the grime that cloaked his features. "My name's Billy. Billy Adams." He offered his hand.

She hesitated. Momma always said to be polite. But..."Daddy says I'm not supposed to talk to strangers."

He nodded. "Your daddy sounds like a smart man." He reached out and shook Emma's tiny doll-hand instead. His voice changed to a falsetto. "My name's Emma. Nice to meet you, Billy."

Then, in his normal voice, he replied, "Nice to meet you, too, Emma."

A giggle bubbled up in Mary Ellen's throat. She hadn't giggled since the day that the airplanes flew over and fire fell from the sky.

Billy's face crinkled into a smile and his eyes danced. Mary Ellen thought he had kind eyes. He stared at the doll and asked, "Emma, will you introduce me to your friend here?"

His gentle hand turned Emma's head to regard Mary Ellen. He spoke again in a falsetto. "This is my friend Billy." He held out his hand to her and waited.

She accepted it. "I'm Mary Ellen." His enormous paw swallowed hers, and his calloused palm reminded her of their pet lizard, Cloverfield, at school.

His voice was grave and formal. "Pleased to meet you, Mary Ellen." He looked around. "Is this your room?"

She nodded.

"Are you all alone here, sugar?" He dragged a knuckle down her cheek.

She nodded again.

"Where're your mommy and daddy?"

"Mommy got hurt when the Arch fell down."

He frowned. "You mean the Gateway Arch, down by the river?"

"Uh-huh. We were there for a picnic, and then the airplanes flew over and the Arch fell down. Lots of people got hurt."

Tears puddled in his eyes and he blinked.Don't make him over sentimental. "I know, honey. I know. How about your daddy?"

"He went to get help." She looked at his rifle. "He said he'd be back before the soldiers came."

The mortars thudded again, this time rumbling in a staccato drumbeat. The tank engine growled from outside, and voices shouted. He glanced out the window, and then leveled his gaze at Mary Ellen. "Is there anyone else to look after you, Sweetheart?"

"I'm a big girl. I don't need anyone to look after me."

His chin trembled and a tear streaked down his cheek. "I'm sure that you can, Honey. I bet your daddy's proud of you."

She reached out and hugged him. "Don't cry, Billy. Daddy said that everything's going to be all right."

He clung to her and a single, lonely sob shook his body. "That's right, Sugar. I promise you, everything's going to be all right. I won't let anyone hurt you."

A sudden explosion reverberated from outside, and a flash of brilliant orange light filled the room. The reek of gunpowder and burning gasoline flooded the air. Men shouted and rapid-fire crackles and pops rattled into the gaping silence. Seconds passed like hours before quiet again settled over the battle-scarred suburban neighborhood. Somewhere, a man screamed and screamed, his voice gurgling up as though from underwater. A single, pitiless crack snapped through the air, and the man fell silent.

Billy unslung his rifle and crouched by the window.

Mary Ellen crawled to his side and tugged on his sleeve. "What's happening, Billy?"

He shook his head. "I'm not sure, sugar. Stay down here, underneath the window, okay? I'll keep you safe. Promise."

She stared for a moment into his blue eyes, and then squatted at his feet. She screwed her eyes closed and wrinkled her nose at his bad smell. But Momma said it wasn't polite to make faces and Billy was nice, so she tried to smooth her features.

An abrupt salvo of cracks sounded from outside the window, and a line of holes stitched into the wall above the doorway. A wet, splattering sound, like spaghetti thrown against a wall, filled her ears. Something hot and slimy slithered across her face. Billy collapsed on top of her, trapping her against the wall. A flat coppery odor melded with the foul stench of his unwashed body.

Mary Ellen screamed.

The stairs thudded again with footfalls. Daddy's voice thundered into the room. "Mary Ellen, where are you?"

Billy's body jerked up and revealed his features. His head sagged loose on his neck, but his mouth still curved in a slight smile. His blue eyes stared at her, unblinking. A neat, black hole gaped in the middle of his forehead. His body tumbled to one side in a boneless heap, like Raggedy Andy.

Daddy's strong arms picked her up and cradled her. "What did he do you to, honey? What did he do?" His voice quavered.

She looked down at where Billy's body sprawled, exposing the back of his head. Or, rather, where the back of his head used to be. Now there was only a bloody maw, oozing white and orange goo. He wasn't moving. She wanted him to move. She wanted to hear him tell her again that everything would be all right.

A new soldier slouched in the doorway. This one's uniform had an eagle stitched over his heart instead of a cross. "Just another dead Johnny Reb." May I suggest, "Just another dead Redkneck." Somehow, I think that would work better. He spat. "Good riddance."

Daddy hugged her close and hid her eyes from the ruin that used to be Billy. "You're safe now, sweetheart. He can't hurt you anymore. We won't let anything happen to you." He wiped at her face and his trembling hands came away crimson.

Mary Ellen clutched at Emma and sobbed.

Her tears mingled with the blood of her silent savior. She twisted to catch one last glimpse of him as Daddy took her away. Mortars thumped and rifles cracked, but they couldn't silence the words she whispered. "Goodbye, Billy. I'll miss you..."










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Review by Jack Barnes Author IconMail Icon
Rated: ASR | (4.5)
Very well done. Good clear, compelling writing. Good rhythm. I think, though, the spelling you are looking for is "finale" (Phonetically written Fi naalee, as in "grand finale") when you are refer to the coming climax of the battle the boy is writing about.

Really, a very good quick insight into the imagination of a boy and writer.
25
25
Review of Jack 'O Tens  Open in new Window.
Review by Jack Barnes Author IconMail Icon
In affiliation with  Open in new Window.
Rated: 13+ | (4.0)
Good story, very original and entertaining. Again, you need to proof read ("prolly" ? -- I think you mean “probably").

This really is a good bar room tale. I wonder why you use such extravagant spacing, though. I find that a little difficult to cope with. Two spaces between paragraphs is usual and more reader friendly. It would make for a tighter read.

Good job, otherwise.

Jon
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