Choose one piece of work from the application of an accepted member or mod and give constructive feedback on it. You may find the 'accepted' tag on the right-hand side of the community page helpful. Let us know which piece you're critiquing.
i read a few pieces, and settled on ellymelly's, Apologies for Leaving. i enjoyed the piece, the sense of quiet doom, the various reactions of those who were on the same ship... that sense of each pair of eyes has a different vision of the same event. i loved some of the phrasing, and felt the way she attributed the ship with a sense of being a living thing added to the intensity of the story. most of those who sail do see their ships as 'alive'. it kept me wanting to know what was next, or was this a different view of the titanic or the andrea doria... what was this? to find it unique, and not bloodthirsty in it's need to feed the sea....
Post 1-5 samples of your writing, up to 2000 words. These can be an extract from a novel, short stories, poems, factual pieces, essays, lyrics...anything you like. If it's an extract, let us know the title of the piece, a brief synopsis, and which part of the piece the extract is taken from</b>
i work in flash fiction, so, long pieces are not my forte...
Perhaps I had
shown neglect in the past, allowing my time and attention to be taken by other, less important, matters. You didn&rsquo;t hesitate to take advantage of that, slipping around into other places, other lives. No surprise that I showed no jealousy-- instead I simply left. Parenting was hard. To walk away took no effort at all.
He lay still, keeping his breathing even, listening to his parents on the other side of the bed curtain. The train moved south, carrying his family home; his parents, himself ill from scarlet fever and his older brother, who lay not in the lower bunk as usual, but, in a casket in the freight car. He heard them as they mourned, asking each other why God had not listened to their prayers. Their voices angry, sorrowful, puzzled wondering why in all His wisdom, this decision... choosing to grant the miracle of recovery to the wrong boy. He lay still, keeping his breathing even, understanding now what his life had become. He was six years old, an only child, and would never know their love again.
She walked the patio, slowly advancing towards the feast displayed on delicate china. Her eyes flicked over the carefully placed setting, taking in the perfectly broiled chicken, cooked to perfection and covered with a sauce that was created just for this recipe. I stood to the side, anxious over the presentation, confident she'd find this meal, God willing, to her satisfaction. She stretched, examining her nails, finally settling in front of the plate with her preferred night meal drink of water to one side. Leaning forward, her nostrils flared as she sniffed, then took her first bite. She stood abruptly, closing her green eyes, obvious in her body language the dish offended her. Her head turned towards me, disdain in every line. I sighed, picked up the offending dish, scraping the food into the trash. Damn her and her jaded palate! Reaching for the tin of chopped kidneys in gravy, made by her favourite brand, I again questioned my decision to ever let a cat own me.
It is a ritual - her pliant body's white skin eager to absorb the red pain from his hand. He had thought it a game, not noticing when it slid into something more, something different, something she needed. Absorbed by the intensity of her reactions, he willingly went into that place, feeling his arm vibrate as his hand met her flesh, her moans falling around them. Afterwards, she lies with her head on his stomach, while their breathing slows, her tears dry. Now is when they talk and laugh, when they revert to that which is seen as normal-- what is acceptable to others. Later, she will yank on her jeans, sucking in her breath as they press against the reminder of when, for a short time, she is free of the meltdown of emotions that constitute her internal world... and she gives thanks he is clueless to her duplicity.
They kill the sweet baby cows before their eyes turn brown, you know. Pale fleshed, silly creatures, blindly trusting, going into that dark place with the filtered light, hearing muffled voices, growing complacent... coaxed by soft hands that touch with gentle movements, moving forward from one place to the other, no stress, content with the attention received. Little innocents, who walk into a room to see what is there, sensing no danger, held down, forced into an uncomfortable and scary position-- then it's over. She was aware of these facts before, but it never affected her ability to enjoy veal. Now, she hates the taste of veal. It was on his breath that night, when he raped her after dinner.