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Young Writers Society


Daffodils



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45 Reviews



Gender: Female
Points: 2556
Reviews: 45
Mon Jun 27, 2011 2:32 am
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Jelly says...



My road is its own quiet shoe box world, blue sky prettily painted delicate and solid across the cardboard lid of the box, light that filters through little construction paper trees, a neat little diorama of seasons.

(so clear so clearly fake except for the part where it’s real)

My road enters spring with tentative wariness. It dances over and across the border. The snow melts; the sun brings warm summer smell out of the ground, daffodils shoot through the dead leaves, the snow comes back, and sunny little flowers are bent down under the slush, bowing and kissing the ground they rose from.

(and -

My road is named after the fall. It starts with spots and speckles of yellow, cardboard diorama splatter-painted by someone who doesn’t exactly mean to do it, like they’re shaking the yellow paint off their hands and the flecks just happen to land on their pretty little project. Then the painter adds daubs and strokes (apparently they figure they should finish the job) of paint (watercolor in the sunshine, oil in the cloud cover, the in-between either a lot of pigment or a lot of thinner). But the leaves crinkle like printer paper soaked with watercolor, the oil fades and crusts and they flutter down (down down) to the corrugated cardboard ground. They crunch with the satisfaction of tapping letters in a keyboard, of peeling away congealed paint, of erasing the pencil marks to see what picture the ink makes when it’s alone (free).

(and all -

Summer. Green tissue paper swathing the rolled up tree trunk cylinders, the pretty filtering light makes the prettiest shadows and dapples.

(and all the pretty moments -

Winter. Clean pure sheet after sheet of untouched paper tailored to fit every dollhouse slipping quietly into place, the harsh unhindered light bounces and blares off the perfect surface.

(and all the pretty moments in between -

)))))

My road doesn’t have any clocks. The time is kept by falling feet (short increment), passing cars (long increment), and finding roadkill (long increment, if we’re lucky). The beat of the footfalls goes thump thump thump thrumming its way through the empty street.

My road has a different sort of time. (thump thump not tick tick tick) Little shoebox tilted this way and that, not little pebble spinning in space. (thump thump thump not tick tick tick) We get the prettiest shifting seasons (the paint the light the paper the everything ) We get years, which are when you get dumped right on that same spot for the first time in months and there’s this golden watercolor everywhere and that exact moment of pure familiarity: that is where the year starts.

My road has a different sort of time.

The footfalls go thud thump thump treading across the perfect painted sky.

We watch the birds swoop sweep flit fly fly fly between the trees (nothing but stripes spanning the ground to the sky) rising and falling in a breathtaking fleet of ink shapes (everything and anything there is to this world) rolling away in the air until nothing but faded marks splattered across my eyes- the ripples in the air- the soaring soaring wonder in my memory
remains

(fly)

We watch the bodies smash scrape grind smear sink into the warm dry ground, fur and feathers and scales and skin and guts and blood but mostly parts of the, body completely indiscernible (rainbows of colors of flesh) worn away until nothing but a faint stain is left-
(and then there’s nothing)

(crash crash crash)

We watch the daffodils grow.

(thump) Sprout. (thump) Bud. (thump) Bloom.

My road is my little diorama, cute cardboard habitat for the girl who slips and steps and strolls, walks up the road every day since- since (count the days, Ching Ching: thump thump thump whoosh) The girl who struggles to find footing; a proper place. The girl that sits down on the dry paint crust leaves like she does this every day, feeling the sticks protruding from the ground like shriveled gnarled fingers reaching, reaching for her, feeling the damp dirt grit ground against her shoes butt back elbows palms. The girl that waits and wills for the sun to cast some nice lilting warm buttery (the prettiest) light her way, squints through the trees and waits some more. The girl that smiles when it obliges.
(thump )

The girl who draws the daffodils.

(fly fly fly -
Last edited by Jelly on Thu Jul 07, 2011 4:40 am, edited 6 times in total.
  





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336 Reviews



Gender: Female
Points: 805
Reviews: 336
Tue Jun 28, 2011 12:22 am
Jas says...



Spoiler! :
Hey,

Welcome to YWS! It's a great site and while my review will be rather useless and unhelpful, in due time, you'll see that the majority writes incredibly thoughtful and valuable reviews.

So onto the review,

this is a mess of pretty sounding words and descriptions. That's not necessarily a bad thing, but you have to know where you're going with this, because at this point, it sounds like something a mental patient in an asylum would write to describe what life is to her. You have fantastic vocabulary and a talent of weaving together words that put vivid imagery in my head. I can see the birds flying, flitting, swooping through the air, I can see the daffodils bursting through the round. I really, really loved the way you described the shoe box being "life" and taking all these artsy-type paints and papers and oils and using it to illustrate the seasons; I loved the way you describe "life" as a road and time as a thumping of feet hitting the ground rather than a tick-tock. It was great.

However, you said it yourself, I'm not seeing the point. A story normally has these things, an introduction, a conflict, a resolution. All I see here is description, description, description and while description is great, you need an actual story . Do you follow? I mean this, as only a way to help you improve. Towards the end, I can see a bit of a story, this girl who sits in this diorama and waits for the sun and draws flowers but it honestly isn't telling me anything. It seems like you ate a dictionary and word vomited all over the skeleton of this story, filling in what should be conflict, developing characters, plot, with delicate words.

This has fantastic potential. Unleash it.


As I now realize this is in Other, rather than Short Stories, disregard everything I said above. Here is your review:

this is a mess of pretty sounding words and descriptions. That's not a bad thing though. You have fantastic vocabulary and a talent of weaving together words that put vivid imagery in my head. I can see the birds flying, flitting, swooping through the air, I can see the daffodils bursting through the round. I really, really loved the way you described the shoe box being "life" and taking all these artsy-type paints and papers and oils and using it to illustrate the seasons; I loved the way you describe "life" as a road and time as a thumping of feet hitting the ground rather than a tick-tock. It was great. It's extremely abstract and weird and funky but all in a very, very good way.

This is a fantastic piece. I really wouldn't change a thing.
I am nothing
but a mouthful of 'sorry's, half-hearted
apologies that roll of my tongue, smoothquick, like 'r's
or maybe like pocket candy
that's just a bit too sweet.

~*~
  





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41 Reviews



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Points: 240
Reviews: 41
Tue Jul 19, 2011 5:54 pm
BelarusBirdy says...



I agree with jasmine. This is a beautiful piece. Don't change a thing. It is perfect. I love all the words and the comparisons. THey were so unique.
A falling star fell from your heart and landed in my eyes. I screamed aloud as it tore through them and now it's left me blind.
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Reviews: 279
Wed Jul 20, 2011 3:51 pm
MasterGrieves says...



Don't change anything. Not a single thing. You are extremely talented in what you do. You write exquisitely and precisely and intelligently and you have an awesome way of expressing yourself through the art of writing. You use metaphors, similies and personification to the best of your abilities, and I love every thing you've ever written. You have such an abstract way, a very delicate way, of describing something. This should be developed- the potential is off the charts!
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Wed Sep 28, 2011 3:19 am
IKnowAll says...



This is beautiful, I felt I would cry at one point, it's hard to explain why exactly, it was just... Yep, I'm unable to describe it. It's just that beautiful.
"It ain't what you don't know that gets you into trouble. It's what you know for sure that just ain't so."
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Sometimes I'm terrified of my heart; of its constant hunger for whatever it is it wants. The way it stops and starts.
— Poe