Note on The Receiver
Day 18: I figure I have about a good four foot buffer until I start to pick up on the thought patterns. Generally by the time I'm within arms length it moves well beyond patterns and feelings and ends up pure lucid thoughts.
The lady in line at Target scared the hell out of me. All she could think about was shooting her husband with his own gun. I watched her get in her car and was tempted to follow her home. I can't seduce myself to get involved. How do I incorporate this burden into my life?
I love it. It's amazing the feelings one can get from an incredibly short story. The way you write makes me feel that I really understand this person's thoughts and feelings. The story almost gives me an eerie feeling in my stomach that I like very much.
Note on My First Bully
I unclenched my fists and took deep breaths as I stood over my first bully. Everyone watched. Blood trickled from his nose and was smeared on his shirt collar. There was dirt and yellowed grass in his hair. He still held my Twins cap in his hand, his fingers on it in a weak, loose grip. I bent down and whipped the cap out of his grasp and pulled it on my head.
"You're crazy," he muttered.
I kicked him in the ribs and spat on him. He started crying. Everyone watched. My first bully was my last bully.
Ha, and now his essence is immortalized on Scrawlers!
Note on The Receiver
Day 18: I figure I have about a good four foot buffer until I start to pick up on the thought patterns. Generally by the time I'm within arms length it moves well beyond patterns and feelings and ends up pure lucid thoughts.
The lady in line at Target scared the hell out of me. All she could think about was shooting her husband with his own gun. I watched her get in her car and was tempted to follow her home. I can't seduce myself to get involved. How do I incorporate this burden into my life?
I had to read the story twice and triple check the title to understand the story, though now that I do it's all quite clear. The most interesting part to me is "Day 18," implying that this speaker has been wrestling with this new-found power for over two weeks and isn't sure what to do with it, to the point that they still cannot take action on their burden of knowledge. A lot is said in that small piece of setting.
Note on My First Bully
I unclenched my fists and took deep breaths as I stood over my first bully. Everyone watched. Blood trickled from his nose and was smeared on his shirt collar. There was dirt and yellowed grass in his hair. He still held my Twins cap in his hand, his fingers on it in a weak, loose grip. I bent down and whipped the cap out of his grasp and pulled it on my head.
"You're crazy," he muttered.
I kicked him in the ribs and spat on him. He started crying. Everyone watched. My first bully was my last bully.
Is this from personal experience?
Note on The Curtain
It's a new time. A new world with new efforts toward new ideas. What started as an internet social novelty, had exploded across the globe. And with the assistance of governments and their greatest technological concerns, the movement had reached its zenith.
On a chilly October night, the lights of the world for a brief few minutes were extinguished. People of the world stood transfixed under the stars. The band of the Milky Way and constellations never before seen soared above. For those few moments, we all felt like rock stars. The world our stage, the stars our audience.
As I read the second paragraph I kept thinking, "No, this could never happen." I had to keep reminding myself of your world building in the first two sentences; they're so important in setting up this piece and they work.
Note on Small
Its amazing how small one feels while sitting in a Cessna 207 hanging in the air over frozen tundra. Alaska "bush" does that I suppose...miles and miles of snow and frozen ice in every direction the eye can see,....the only thing keeping me from certain death is a few sheets of metal, a couple of bolts and a tiny engine..."Man I really should remember to pack an emergency kit with me on these trips"...I thought, as I plugged in my headphones, watched the sunrise or maybe sunset, gets confusing, being so close together,...and fell asleep.
This feels like part of an unwritten tale of Indiana Jones. I like the notion of the Alaskan "bush," never thought of it that way. I wonder, do you need the ellipses at all?
Note on Flower Pots
When the flowers from my father's funeral died, I threw away the dirt and dried-up leaves and roots and used the empty pots to collect other things over time. One pot I filled with paper clips. Another I filled with half-used rolls of tape. The big green one held pennies. A pink one with a daisy painted on it collected fishing lures. I filled fifty-five pots with all sorts of stuff.
A year after the funeral, I had a garage sale and sold all of the things I'd collected.
I used the empty pots to start over.
It's very nice. I wish I were able to write something with such meaning in just a hundred word. :)
Note on Limbo
I was cold. The struck of something hard and painful emblazoned my skin. I was out of breath. I was panting for the last air to save me from falling through oblivion. I was fighting for my life and he was just standing there. Staring at me like a complete stranger. Like someone who never promised to love me forever. The gush of water below me was hampering on the rocky slopes. He released my hand.
He was laughing like a maniac. I looked at the traitor's eye and nothingness swept through. I was falling and I was unloved.
Such a sad tale.
Note on do not say she is lovely
unless you have lain with her
in such impossible tangles
that you forget which limbs are hers
and which are yours.
and you cannot
compare her to anything
until you have seen her delicate face
grow brighter and brighter
with the approaching dawn.
and, when you are stumbling home
with sleepless eyes,
and your clothes are heavy
and sweetened with her memory,
ah, then and only then
will i allow you
to speak of her at all.
There's something effortless and beautiful about the whole poem. It just seems to kind of wrap around you and feel so realistic it's like magic or something.
Note on 5AM by CauterizetheCacophony
It's 5AM. And you are nowhere to be found. The skeleton hand creeps along the glass, pounding away our fears and dreams. The repeated sound causes my fingers to miss keys, turning structured thoughts into garbled sentences. The hand creeps farther and farther. If only you were here it could stop. The bones are a bleached white, long and almost angular. In the darkness they glow, calling minds to surrender to them. If you were found I could stop them. The pounding shakes through me. Each audible beat a nail into my soul. But I cannot find you today.
I liked this. What is the symbolism in this story?