Young Writers Society

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Seasons

For Charlie, whose incredible writing style and view of the world I tried to steal for this. It can never live up to her work.

8-16-04

You gave me your heart beneath the budding leaves, and I asked what I was supposed to do with it; I had never had one before, and you knew it. So you chuckled beside me and slapped me playfully and pointed to your full chest and said, “make it beat.”
So I did, and it grew into two hearts and when school ended I gave you the one that I had called mine, before you pushed me into the sinkhole and dove in after me just so that you could say that we fell for each other.
The stars are different now with shadows of similarities, the sort of shadows that people see in them before saying that all humans have looked up and seen these wonderful stars since the beginning. They’re wrong (not just because some people are blind or live in cities) because when I looked up into them I was looking into you and dreaming through your eyes, and now I see them and you’re nowhere and I’m awkward with only myself and the needle-pricks of painful light.
We sat behind waterfalls and watched it all come spraying down. I asked you if you thought the water liked to collapse onto the weary but strong bedrock, and you laughed, and said that you didn’t think it did, and maybe it just meant that we were the only thing in the world that was supposed to work, and I laughed at the morbidity of it, because the water was so peaceful as it made its way down, always changing, always the same, like the leaves that we saw bud and then die as the bridges burned and something we had called “love” tumbled away.
I heard that you were out drunk driving that night that those four kids died. Did you think, ever, that you would be that water? Did you ever question your mad certainty? And when you swerved to avoid that cow that was standing out in the street that you could have seen standing there for miles and miles, were you at peace like that gentle water?
And I hated you when you were in the hospital, and I showed it to you in that get-well card I bought from Hallmark for a dollar, and I showed you when you looked at me and said that they had told you that you were dying, and I never ever cried, even though you wept for the world you had cast aside with your certainty.
You told me the doctors had said that you might have a few more days. I can’t remember what was wrong with you besides the arrogance you had sworn to me you had abolished and I had believed you.
I went to the sink-hole and searched for the bottom, and I couldn’t find it, but I remembered that you had that one time when we were together, before I learned that it was ninety feet down and you could only hold your breath for a minute and a half, just long enough for me to yell at you when you were on your death bed.
What was it that you had said that you believed about death? Something about, when you die, going to wherever you had thought you would when you were living? And I asked you where you thought you were going, and you looked into me with eyes that pressed like a cold stethoscope against my chest and ice down my back and seared into me and you said, and you were–we were both–terrified at your answer, and you said “hell.”
And when you died, I said “good” and I watched your ashes be scattered into the waterfall.
Now I sit, with the only heart I have, and it’s broken and it’s yours, and I know that we were each other before you died and I had first gotten you drunk. I watch the shooting stars tear the sky apart now in perfect incisions, and I don’t think I’ll ever quite know how this story ends, but maybe it was when your younger brother was born, a year after you killed us both, and your parents started smiling again. Maybe.

James T. Frugo wrote:(Does anyone know how to make tabs work?)

Unfortunately that's a problem that plagues us all. Nope, tabs don't work here, so you simply have to double space between paragraphs. Sorry for the inconvenience.

You gave me your heart beneath the budding leaves, and I asked what I was supposed to do with it; I had never had one before, and you knew it. So you chuckled beside me and slapped me playfully and pointed to your full chest and said, “make it beat.”

So I did, and it grew into two hearts and when school ended I gave you the one that I had called mine, before you pushed me into the sinkhole and dove in after me just so that you could say that we fell for each other.

I love the innocence of this part! It made me smile. And the little pun/play on words at the end was cute.

The stars are different now with shadows of similarities, the sort of shadows that people see in them before saying that all humans have looked up and seen these wonderful stars since the beginning. They’re wrong (not just because some people are blind or live in cities) because when I looked up into them I was looking into you and dreaming through your eyes, and now I see them and you’re nowhere and I’m awkward with only myself and the needle-pricks of painful light.

Interesting. I like how you introduce the conflict here and yet you don't elaborate until later. Nice touch.

We sat behind waterfalls and watched it all come spraying down. I asked you if you thought the water liked to collapse onto the weary but strong bedrock, and you laughed, and said that you didn’t think it did, and maybe it just meant that we were the only thing in the world that was supposed to work, and I laughed at the morbidity of it, because the water was so peaceful as it made its way down, always changing, always the same, like the leaves that we saw bud and then die as the bridges burned and something we had called “love” tumbled away.

Again, interesting... I got a little caught up in the long sentence, so you might consider breaking it apart. It's hard to tell, though, because this is such a poetic piece... I'm not sure. I think I got confused when the connotation seemed to switch to me. You went from almost philosophical to apparently morbid (which is fine), but then in the third section of the sentence it blends from peaceful to painful. I'm not a fan of blending unless it's a poem, and while (as I said before) this piece is poetic, I'd like to see a bit more of a dividing line, if you understand.

I heard that you were out drunk driving that night that those four kids died. Did you think, ever, that you would be that water? Did you ever question your mad certainty? And when you swerved to avoid that cow that was standing out in the street that you could have seen standing there for miles and miles, were you at peace like that gentle water?

Okay... I'd like a division between the first section and this part, since they're so different. If you spaced this piece normally, using indentations instead of double spaces between paragraphs, then I'd go ahead and double space between the first part and the second part. It won't lose the reader as easily, and it will probably heighten the dramatic effect a bit. Also... I have to admit I laughed when the cow was mentioned. Cows are very rarely taken seriously, so maybe you could choose a tree or a fence or a telephone pole or something. I don't know. Maybe it's a regional thing, although my town is full of cows... Maybe it's just me. Your call.

And I hated you when you were in the hospital, and I showed it to you in that get-well card I bought from Hallmark for a dollar, and I showed you when you looked at me and said that they had told you that you were dying, and I never ever cried, even though you wept for the world you had cast aside with your certainty.

You told me the doctors had said that you might have a few more days. I can’t remember what was wrong with you besides the arrogance you had sworn to me you had abolished and I had believed you.

Really liked this section. Good job.

I went to the sink-hole and searched for the bottom, and I couldn’t find it, but I remembered that you had that one time when we were together, before I learned that it was ninety feet down and you could only hold your breath for a minute and a half, just long enough for me to yell at you when you were on your death bed.

Hmm... another slightly confusing part. I like the detail, although I'm still trying to figure out if the sink hole is a metaphor for something... Anyway, the transition from holding one's breath to being on a death bed. Was this person on the death bed because of holding their breath for a minute and a half, or what? Forgive me if I'm being slightly dense, but it's something to consider.

What was it that you had said that you believed about death? Something about, when you die, going to wherever you had thought you would when you were living? And I asked you where you thought you were going, and you looked into me with eyes that pressed like a cold stethoscope against my chest and ice down my back and seared into me and you said, and you were–we were both–terrified at your answer, and you said “hell.”

And when you died, I said “good” and I watched your ashes be scattered into the waterfall.

Chills. I seriously got chills when I read that. I love the "cold stethoscope" detail - very nice tie-in with the setting. Clever.

Now I sit, with the only heart I have, and it’s broken and it’s yours, and I know that we were each other before you died and I had first gotten you drunk. I watch the shooting stars tear the sky apart now in perfect incisions, and I don’t think I’ll ever quite know how this story ends, but maybe it was when your younger brother was born, a year after you killed us both, and your parents started smiling again. Maybe.

*cringes* I'd love to say this was the perfect ending, but... again, I must be picky. Sorry! I liked it up until the section beginning with "but maybe it was when..." It seemed rushed from that point on, like you were trying to wrap it up and still include everything you needed to. It was on a completely unrelated topic and it threw me out of the depth of this piece. Not sure how you could fix it, though...

Overall, I must say I loved this. I'm always a little nervous when entering the Romantic Fiction section, but you've written something of worth here. Your imagery is beautiful and your storyline is addicting. Your diction pulled me in completely. Very, very nice job.

This was a really nice piece. Crysi did a great crit, so I won't bother repeating what she said. Romantic fiction can be stupid or great, and this was great (plus sweet). I just loved your writing style. Great job!