buckit

They never expected it turn out the way it did. They never expected the ease of it, the confortability of being not two people living separate lives but two lives living as one. When they would sit back now, a generation later, on their comfortable wooden chairs on the handmade deck enjoying the last easy rays of the hopeful spring twilight sun, one of the two would reach a wrinkled hand out to find the others already entwined in their own. They would sip their homemade lemonade, the acidic taste of barely enough sugar delightfully teasing over their lips and down their throats and they would stare off into their memories. Never would a word be said, for never was a word needed. And they would sit there until the eerie moonlight was the only source of light for seeing past their rickety old steps, no longer beautifully looked after. Shy soft dew danced in the pale air glistening against the flowers planted so tenderly so long ago, now a wild hodgepodge of color and scent. Silence hung all around them like a comfortable blanket anciently worn in the right places so one knew exactly how to sit upon it, knew exactly how to lie upon it, knew exactly how to wrap it around their shoulders so that the warmest spots, the ones not worn through and no longer important, would sit upon their tired old frames and hug them to its quiet embrace.

Eventually a time would come that one or the other would let out a melancholy sigh and squeeze the other's hand tighter. Perhaps if the memory permitted a ruefully grin, or perhaps a silent tear would light their face for a few brief seconds. The unspoken words no longer necessary would jump from mind to mind; the sights seen, the places been, the people loved, the friendships lost, the friendships that never could, the arguments that where of life and death now the importance of these words said in anger long forgotten. They would each remember back to the times so long ago when all of this was so young and new. Back to a time when each day that passed and not being together was the end of the world. When words where so harshly used one day, so loving the next. To a time when it seemed as if the world would only spin upon its axis if the other made it so. They would remember the tears spilt together, the laughter that would ache to their bones. Their memories now slipping away slowly, as the sea to the beach, stung them both and every now and then a cloud would pass across their eyes as they searched for the correct response to their inner monologue. Occasionally they would stop their gentle rocking, turn their heads a little and look in the others eyes to search for these lost memories as if the key to their own mind lay in the others soul.

Once in a while their only child would join them upon the porch. They would try as hard as they could to start a conversation but never a word more then a grunt or a little smile would pass from parents to child. Try as they might to steer their minds to matters in the here and now the old couple’s wistful smiles and distant eyes would tell them their parents weren’t living on this porch on this night. Perhaps they were in their teens again remembering their first fumbles at love, perhaps not. Maybe they were a holiday in a time where the seconds together passed so fast they didn’t know if indeed they had been. In time the visits would become less and less frequent until at last with a misunderstood shook of their head they gave up the old couple to their memories, their lemonade and their comfortable chairs.

And to this day I will always see the olc couple sitting upon their comfortable wooden chairs with lemonade in hand and I will remember coming and resting a while upon the bottom of the stairs and dreaming my own silent dreams. I never spoke a word, my only role to fill the pitcher should it ever run low. I sat at the old couple's feet and without a word being spoken they teach me life and love.

Now a lifetime later I look upon my new born son sleeping so tenderly in his crib. I reach for my wife’s hand and silently thank the old man and his wife for the gifts I can never repay easily until it is my time to sit lemonade in hand remembering these times that shape my soul, until it is my time to pass on the knowledge I was blessed to be taught by the two old lovers, the knowledge that when one finds it don’t ever let love by for there will be a time at the end to sit and think back upon this life and love. One day I will take him there to that porch, to the place where the old couple now nothing but a memory, sat their last days the only possesion one needed was the other. I will pour him a glass of lemonade and I will sit back on the wooden seat and dream that dream they dared to touch. That dream of contentment.

Hakeem

-conformability = comfortability

-...being not two people living separate lives, but two living as one...

I wouldn't write hopefully here if I were you, because you can't hope for the last rays of the sun, well.. eventually it's going to end.

-Instead of using: the taste of not enough sugar you can use: the taste of the insufficient sugar.

NOT teasing down their throats, but: teasing their mouth and running down their throats. You can use that if you like.

Two Run-on sentences ... Check how to fix them here.

Quote:

Originally Posted by buckit Eventually a time could come

You cannot give time the probability of coming, it will eventually come, so you would want to replace that by will.

-...and squeeze the other's hand...

Try to reward that as it's not entirely clear.

I couldn't complete because the piece is extremely full with ideas.. no no.. too many ideas! Try to re-write this as to be more simple. I can tell that you write very good but you need to brush a little on the writing style. If you want anything I'll be more than happy to help.

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"The great art of life is the sensation, to feel that we exist, even in pain." -Lord Byron

buckit

So i tryed fixing it up some but any more suggestions would be useful thanks for the help so far though Hakeem its very much appreciated.

RachelA

You have some very original ideas and beautiful descriptions in this piece. There is a bit of work needed on it. If you like, I can copy it, correct it and send to you in a PM with the corrections highlighted for you. PM me if you are interested. It's a lovely, well thought out piece though.

Hakeem

Welcome anytime buckit, if you need anything just ask, I'll be happy to offer the help for ya.. after all, you have a writing style don't you?

__________________
"The great art of life is the sensation, to feel that we exist, even in pain." -Lord Byron

buckit

They never expected life to turn out the way it did. They never expected the ease of it, the comfortableness of being not two people living separate lives but two lives living as one. They would sit outside in the crisp evenings on their comfortable wooden chairs enjoying the last easy rays of the hopeful spring twilight sun. One of the two would reach a wrinkled hand out to find the others already entwined in their own. They would sip their homemade lemonade, the acidic taste of barely enough sugar delightfully teasing their lips and their throats and they would stare off into their memories. Never would was said, for never was a word needed. And they would sit there until the eerie moonlight was the only source of light for seeing past their rickety old steps, no longer immaculately looked after. Shy soft dew danced in the pale air glistening against the flowers planted so tenderly so long ago, now a wild hodgepodge of color and scent. Silence hung all around them like a warm comfortable blanket and hugged them to its quiet embrace.

Every now and then one or the other would let out a melancholy sigh and squeeze the other's hand tighter. Perhaps if the memory permitted a rueful grin or even a silent tear would dance upon their face for a few brief seconds. The unspoken words no longer necessary jumped from mind to mind; the sights seen, the places been, the people loved, the friendships lost, the friendships that never could be lost, the arguments which were of life and death importance, long forgotten. They remembered the times so long ago when all of this was so young and new. Back to a time when each day that passed without being able to hold the other in their arms was the end of the world. When words were so harshly used one day, so loving the next. To a time when it seemed as if the world only spun upon its axis if the other made it so. They would remember the tears spilt together, the laughter that would make them ache to their bones. Their memories now slipping away slowly a slow ebbing tide of evitable time stung them both and every now and then a cloud of forgetfulness would pass across their eyes. Occasionally they would stop their gentle rocking, turn their heads a little and look into the others eyes to search for these lost memories as if the key to their own mind lay in the others soul.

Once in a while their only child joined them upon the porch. He would try as hard as he could to start a conversation but never a word more than a grunt or a smile would pass from parents to child. Try as he might to steer their minds to matters in the here and now the old couple’s wistful smiles and distant eyes would tell them their parents weren’t living their lives on this porch on this night instead they were both living away in a time long distant and forgotten by any but them. Perhaps they were in their teens again remembering their first fumbles at love, perhaps not. Maybe they were on holiday, in a time where the seconds together passed so fast they didn’t know where they went, or even if time had passed, or if it stood still just for them. In time the visits would become less and less frequent until at last with a misunderstood shook of his head he gave up the old couple to their memories, lemonade and comfortable chairs.

And to this day I will always see the old couple sitting upon their comfortable wooden chairs lemonade in hand and I will remember coming and resting a while on the bottom of the stairs, then in pristine condition, and dreaming my own silent dreams. I never spoke a word, my only role to fill the pitcher should it ever run low. I sat at the old couple's feet and without words spoken they taught me about life and love.

Now a lifetime later I look upon my new born son sleeping so tenderly in his crib. I reach for my wife’s hand and silently thank the old man and his wife for the gifts I can never repay until one day, without me knowing, it will be my time to sit lemonade in hand remembering those times with my amazing wife that will shape my soul. Until it is my time to pass on the knowledge I was blessed to be taught by the two old lovers, the knowledge that when one finds love don’t ever let it pass you by for there will be a time at the end to sit and think back upon this life and love. One day I will take my sone there to that porch, to the place where the old couple are now nothing but a memory, where they sat their last days safe in the only thing one needed was the other. I will pour him a glass of lemonade .I will sit back on the wooden seat and dream that dream they dared to touch. That dream of contentment.


So the updated version thanks Rachel for all the help. Im not to sure on my last paragraph and haven't been since I wrote it but I can't quite sort out why I dont agree with it any thoughts? More feedback is always helpful of course

Hakeem

Well... it's better, but didn't you notice that you repeated the word "time" too many times?

Again, this sentence is wrong. It's either: The arguments which were of a life and death importance, OR The arguments which were about life and death's importance. But I gather you meant the former, so it must be your choice.


Now honestly... don't you find those two a run-on sentences???????????

Do you find something wrong in this sentence?

-A couple is, NOT a couple are...... son NOT sone (but I'm sure it was a typo).

Even if this is metaphoric, it's still old. Those kind of metaphores are called Dead Metaphores (scroll down for "Mixed Metaphores"), they are metaphores which have been used too many times during the history of writing until it's gotten old. (Example: Touch a dream.. Drink her love... feel her emotion...).

A vivid metaphorical imagination is a sign of a good writer; a bad one is a sign of a bad writer.

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All in all, I still think that the piece is full of un-needed ideas and packed with them, try to make it more simple. Show this piece to other people and see what they make of it..

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"The great art of life is the sensation, to feel that we exist, even in pain." -Lord Byron