Diverse

I am a fan to the first one. I like how your words flow, and how the "big words" are used in good timing, yet they do not throw off the passage of the whole sentence. I do not agree that you use lengthy words too often. It upgrades ones voacbulary, in which we all need!

Cancer was interesting, and more obvious of it's point than the Autumn. The Autumn kind of left me thinking after the first scan. I was confused between two objects: leafs or people. Maybe both?

I like them, however, they are both worthy of a second read.

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Ratchet: The boys pheromone level suggests he wants to mate with the female..

Slartibartfast

I love a complex style sometimes...but I'm sorry German, your's confuses me, and gets in the way. I like the imagery you provoke...but it's even a tounge-twister in my head.

Try cleaning it up a little, right now it's a melted package of Twizzlers.

Azmakna

i'm going to be honest with you here. if you removed every adjective or adjectival clause, you would be left with very little. you need to write very simply about deep things, because the things are intrinsically deep anyway. i feel i need to show you what i mean, and believe me i talk from experience of visiting cancer wards twice, with my mother and father, who unfortunately lost the fight.

this word is getting in the way of reaching into me and evoking what i saw. cancer is raw and unforgiving, it does not deserve literal description, let alone alliteration. perfect/simple/heartbreaking. 'paisley bedspread' makes it personal and real. but then you take the truth away from me with complexity and wordiness. perfect. trust me when i say, when i saw the way cancer had stripped my mother of her pride, this metaphor is a million miles from what i saw. 'the rarest of species'? 'vista'? we are talking about people fighting death here. that is so inappropriate.

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Voodoo

Okay, I'll try to revise Cancer.

Voodoo

Cancer Edit


[Okay, I wrote this on the fly, tell me what you think]


Youth, a blasted treasure dimmed under blacklight. Worlds of it have been lost in this building, a center of healing. White walls conceal the hidden grief and stagnant agony of its patients.

Youth is lost in a firestorm, given to death only with battles. Sawed from its threads, luminous beauty floats as a hurricane to its epicenter, broken from its calmer oceans. Lost, dead, the uncarried young are scars on the face of a titan.

The little girl has fought against the malignant life growing inside of her for months, beginning the victorless war with the first shed tear at the announcement among the quiet cannonades. Through arguements, through grief, waiting, shivering patience. At an end, she gripped the paisley bedspread with such useless fury to rival a geist. Her eyes rolled white in their sockets, mentally ripping at herself, at her own flesh that is killing her milkless.

Tensed muscles relaxed forever. Dull memories fired off of her parents- choppish but real, not just memories but REAL. No longer did she share a world with them, however. An insanely quiet playground for the mature of heart. Dead, cancerous bodies, a concert of reverie. A playback of misery.

Struggles rarely merit triumph. Nor did this one. A irradiation had little effect on her blood tumors. They served only as purveyors of false hope, and to rip her little girl's hair from her precious head. Vanishing into thin ether, a phantasmic little girl. Left to play alone, squander nothing. Her birthrights held in place until her visitors numbered everything.

Her father had loved her as much as her mother. Limitless virtue, as a child she was. Conflict in such troubled hearts do not yield forgivensss however. A suicidal cut of taste had crossed parental minds before- keyed and loud and dreadfully silent.

Gripping the sheets and spitting clear, the girl of dead of flesh and dead of lonely mind, passed. Among little pity, a party of none. Image forsaken for the holy grit of human death. Kernel of truth, this passage.

Neverending cycle, this passing.

Shawn

I just can't connect with prose anymore... or at least I can't connect with this. I can't see any characterization still. Perhaps drawing it out to something more than flash fiction?

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Voodoo

Howso, Shawn? I'm trying to steer away with prose, but I can't do any better than show and tell... its a curse.

Beethoven

This is poorly written.

Voodoo

What the hell is wrong with you?

Offer some bloody advice if you're just going to shit on it.

Better yet, don't make me write like you, mate.

Just tell me what pisses you off so.

Beethoven

Your writing is not clear.

Voodoo

Your understanding is that of a young child if thats all you can say. Don't leave a critique like that, because its not a critique.

Beethoven

You should strive for clarity. This is pretentious drivel.

Voodoo

And the usage of pretentious drivel is absolute vernacular, yep.

Thats ego speaking for you. I've told people they should strive for clarity- its quite useless.

But thank you anyway.

Beethoven

If you want some advice, go read some books by Ernest Hemingway.

Voodoo

The singular syllabic drunk, great.

No, mate, I'd prefer to hear from the man who says my work is poorly written.

Much better than speaking with the dead.