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Review of Emily  
Review by John Yossarian
Rated: E | (5.0)
I'm not qualified to judge poetic prose. I can only say; I enjoyed it. I think that's enough.


*Gold* My review has been submitted for consideration in "Good Deeds Get CASH!.
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Review by John Yossarian
Rated: ASR | (5.0)
What a wonderful piece. Sharp intro, excellent flow, and a nice storyline. Very well done. If you haven't yet, you should be sending this out to magazines for publication. A very well deserved five stars.

She hadn’t spoken a word in days. Not an utterance had passed her lips—not even to remark on the odor that was spreading a palpable maleficence throughout the entire house. Each breath he took speared his lungs with a gust of sour air.

“You expect me to do it all,” The man spat vitriol as he prepared coffee. Crooked fingers, warped from years of hard labor, violently fished sugar cubes from a stubborn box—a brand that he quite despised. Why did she always insist upon this one? “I work all day. I come home to you sitting around doing nothing. Least you could’ve done after all these years is give me a kid. You can’t even do that. Useless. What are you good for?”

She combated him with an aggressive, stifling silence. Of course. The man clucked his tongue against his teeth and worked a spoon into his drink. One sip confirmed that it tasted exactly the same as it had the day before—like s***.

His joints ached rebelliously upon sliding back into a rickety armchair beside her. Beady eyes stared straight ahead, studying the faded floral wallpaper that framed the kitchen window. His wife had placed it years ago, right after they’d gotten married, effectively sealing their small home with whimsy and zeal. She loved those garden prints. They’d promised that each daughter birthed would be named after a flower. Tulip, Rose, and Daffodil sequentially. And yet, their dreams had hardly flowered to fruition, wilting upon discovering her infertility. His wife was barren. She’d never be able to give him children. Their marriage began to breed a necrosis, deadening them from the inside out, never allowing them to recover. He grew angry; embittered irrevocably by his fate. And his wife? She began to deteriorate beyond his recognition.

The man brought his coffee cup to his chafed lips. The rough taste was more bearable this time than it had been before. He suddenly decided that it was fine.

“You think you have it worse than me?” He growled. Accusatory eyes swiveled in her direction, regarding her with a virulent disdain. “Is that why you sit around sulking all damn day? You think you have it worse? Try working like me every single day. Let’s see--” He croaked, seizing up as a series of sickly coughs shook his thin frame, “Let’s see how you’d handle one day in my shoes!”

The man sniffled, finally recovering with a soft breath. The very least she could do was smile. The sunlight, cold and stark gray as it was, did very little for her complexion. His wife used to be beautiful. Alabaster, prim, and delicate. Now wrinkles carved sunken hollows into her cheeks, molding her face into ghastly shadows. When did she stop taking care of herself? Was it when he stopped calling her beautiful? Was it when he stopped telling her that he loved her? When was the last time that he’d kissed those acrid lips of hers?

He was briefly betrayed by a surge of guilt, and his stomach tightened, cramping painfully as he fought to resurrect his justifications. This was all her fault. Their marriage was a torturous bind founded on lies; held together merely because death had yet to do them part. She sat before him, self-righteous and smug, gloating in her victory. She had trapped him!

“I do everything I can for you! What have you given me in return? Nothing! Absolutely nothing!” Spittle passed his lips in his mad fervor. The man swaggered to a stand, his long torso lingering over her, eyes bulging out of his sockets. “You’re not better than me. You’re not smarter than me. You’re nothing.”

He slammed his coffee onto the table with an ear<-> shattering crack. Fire was running through his veins, quivering through his fingertips, and yet she refused humor him with a response. She was a barren whore. Barren in the body and mind; eternally cruel for reducing him to a frothing, manic mess. He hardly recognized himself! Before he could raise a hand, the man escape<d> through the door, heading to work with his hands curled into white fists.

- - -

“I’ve been fired.”

He slumped defeatedly into his favorite armchair. His wife was, once again, concluding their one-sided interactions with her potent silence. For once he didn’t mind. The buzz of the day had left him worn and endowed with a decent day’s grime. The odor from the morning wasn’t too horrid, and he found himself content with the way the moonlight shimmered against his wife’s silver locks. He vaguely wondered what she’d done to them. They appeared less like broom straw.

“I’ve been told not to return. I’ll have to start looking for work elsewhere.”

Silence. Guilt and regret melded with the day’s lethargy, and he hunched forward, heaving a labored sigh to stave off the intensity. His words and thoughts from earlier in the day had undoubtedly been acerbic. She had not deserved the brunt of his frustrations. The man’s teeth pressed into his lower lip. He reached for her fragile hands, massaging her hard joints, a stray tear streaking a clean path down his dirtied face.

“I love you. I’ll never speak to you like that again. I’ll find work, we’ll start over. And you know what? We’ll get a kitten… and we can name her Tulip.”

His lips pressed to her crevasse of a cheek. Saying no more, the man smiled, finally carrying himself to bed.

- - -


She hadn’t uttered a single word in days—not even to remark on the putrid stench that was slowly but surely driving him insane.


*Gold* My review has been submitted for consideration in "Good Deeds Get CASH!.
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Review by John Yossarian
Rated: E | (4.0)
First off, welcome to WDC. You'll find it a place of GREAT opportunity and active members. There's so much to do and see. Contests, stories, poetry, novels, groups. Here you'll find other writers struggling along the path of creativity and self-doubt right along with you. Sometimes it's nice to know you're not alone.
So what would I suggest for a newcomer? Contests and reviews would be my personal recommendation. Contests offer myriad ways to present your stories and most come along with a review as well as some GPs. Which brings me to the second strong point of WDC. Reviews. You can use those contest GPs to request a review, or ask for a freebe. Just look under 'Community' menu item and you have many options for reviews. You can get a free one by 'Request a Review.' Sometimes ppl respond, sometimes they don't . You can also use your GPs to 'buy' a review. Reviewers typically advertise the type of review they do so you can pick how supporting or harsh you want them. For me, I'm a little harder shelled than most and welcome a scathing review. If I didn't need a harsh appraisal, then I'd sit at home and save my stories to my hard drive where they'd never see the light of day.
Like all writers, you'll find that what you thought was perfectly acceptable may not shine so brightly beneath the probing gaze of another. BUT, you obviously are not one of those. As evidenced by your hanging out your story here in the noobs section for everyone to see.

So here we go with the review.
As always, the disclaimer. I'm not a professional editor, nor an expert in writing. What follows are the observations of an avid reader and struggling writer. I hope this review proves useful.

First off, nice job. Great descriptions, easy to follow and (probably realistic) dialog. Period dialog is difficult at best, particularly fantasy, but your characters came across as real ppl. Next, your descriptions were nice as well. Not too much and not too little. The story itself was good although they'll tell you that now-a-days readers like some 'POP' right at the beginning. Current thinking is that if you don't capture them in the first paragraph, they're likely to switch to another story. Not really my opinion, just something I've learned.

Now to my comments. The lions share of comments seem to deal with active v.s passive voice. Easy to recognize but more difficult to fix. You'll soon pick it up. The examples I provided are a good starting point. The other main change were non-necessary words. Ex: We know when someone nods, that they use their head. No need to say 'nodded their head'. Just 'nodded' is fine. There are several instances where words are cut simply because we know, by context, what they are.

So cudos on a great story. I didn't go all the way through with comments (only about halfway) but reading yourself, I'm sure you'll pick up on the same things I noted above.

Final words? Yeah, I've got some suggestions. Grammarly. This is a free tool you can use to pick up grammar errors. I ignored the advice of other writers for months about this product, then finally picked this app up. It's FANTASTIC. Secondly. Get a thesaurus. I use the online version, but some type of thesaurus is ESSENTIAL. In your story, you reference 'horse' fifty times. Besides naming the horse, which might add some more empathy for the characters, there are myriad names to use: steed, beast, stallion, mare, etc,etc. It breaks up the read for the reader. The same goes with those commonly overused words. Walk, look, pull, push, etc. Instead of walking have them stroll, march, plod. Instead of pulling they are drawing, yanking tugging. But beware. Like a little extra spice in your recipe, too much, and you'll ruin the flavor.
Lastly, there are the groups. Look into joining one. They're a great way to meet like-minded people and explore your talent.

Anyway, welcome to WDC and here's a thousand GPs. Have a review on me.



The horses' hooves beat a steady rhythm upon the grass. A kaleidoscope of glaring patterns bounced upon the ground and the few spare trees that dotted the way, as the light of the midsummer sun shone down on the two armored men <riding. Active vs Passibe> who rode side by side. A slight breeze blew across the way, giving the few swallows and blackbirds <dotting A vs P> that dotted the sky a pillow upon which to glide as they sang short bursts of notes.

"Tis a good blessing, that wind," said the blonde man as he moved his face so that the wind could pass through his hair.
('That' and 'had' are great words to search for and terminate. Most times, they're not needed)

"Indeed," said his companion, the darker of the two. "Tis a penance to ride fully armored under a full sun."

"Aye, that is the truth," said the first. "I myself look forward to the changing of the seasons. Autumn, with its chill, is more to my liking."

The darker haired man--Sir Henry of Nottingham--smiled at his companion, a small and rather sad smile. "I hope that we shall see the coming of autumn. Who can tell what the end of this day will witness?"

The blonde knight--Sir Robert of Leigh--returned the smile to Sir Henry but not in kind. His smile was filled with the hope of seeing many, many more autumns come and go. "The end of this day shall see us victorious over the beast," he declared boldly. "We shall have much to tell our fellows this and many nights to come over the fires. <I think this needs to be eliminated or moved up in the sentence>"

Sir Henry gave the ghost of a nod. "I hope so, my friend."

Sir Robert gave another bedeviling smile in answer and then turned to face the future. The two knights rode on in silence, the quiet of the earth pierced only by the clank of the armor they wore and the sounds of the world.(leave out or specify what the sounds are) The swallows and blackbirds continued their dance in the sky, as well as their songs. Occasionally, a hawk would appear to declare his mastery of the air to the smaller birds.<while> Closer to the earth, the sound of deer could be distinctly heard. Several times, Sir Robert saw a doe, escorted by a buck, run in the opposite direction of the horses, away from the woods that loomed before them. Sir Robert took his left hand and took hold of the hilt of his sword that hung by his left side. They were coming nearer. <took used twice here>
<BTW: deer are pretty quiet, i'm not aware of any sound they make. Maybe sound of deer moving throught he brush?>

"You have noticed?" Sir Henry asked him.

"The deer? Aye, I have seen at least three pair race away from the forest. Tis not natural, but, we already know the cause of their fear."

"And I have seen two pair, just as you say, a doe and her mate, though it is too late in the year for mating," Sir Henry said. "Much more, I have seen a family of foxes loping away from the forest and through the open land. I fear that it is worse than what we first believed."

Sir Robert said nothing, only smiled again--a little tighter, to Sir Henry's eye--and urged his steed onward.

At last, the forest loomed before them. The tree trunks twisted and weaved together so that it seemed a wooden wall <rose> was raised before them. Though their foliage was still green, the branches were bound so closely together that the trees took on a blackened and gloomy appearance. In the middle of the forest, and extending as far as the eye could see, was the path, overhung with gloom. The two knights sat upon their horses, small and stunted,<who was small and stunted? The horses? The men? Both?> before the towering mass of the trees. Neither one spoke.

Sir Henry finally broke the silence. "We cannot press on until our mounts have watered and rested. They shall need every scrap of strength which they can muster, as we shall as well. Where did the farmer say was the stream?"

"He said 'twas half a league from the entrance," Sir Robert answered. "He said that the stream would cut across the path, underneath an ancient bridge."

"Then we must make for the stream," replied Sir Henry. "Hopefully the beast will not have defiled it to the extent that we cannot drink, and the trees will offer us some shelter from the midday <heat? sun?>."

The men clicked their tongues and touched the flanks of their horses with the heels of their feet. It required more coaxing now, penetrating the forest. The horses' nostrils flared every now and again, as the wind brought some scent to their attention. Their eyes widened with anxiousness.<IMO needs to be joined with prior sentence>

The two knights gripped the bridles of their steeds tighter as they rode deeper into the gloom. The path on which they rode was still wide enough that they could ride side by side but it was malevolent <word doesn't fit> compared to the easy plain from which they had come. Wells and shallows dotted the path, concealed by tall grasses and the leaves of autumns long dead, eagerly waiting to suck a horses' leg<s> into their maws. Clumps of stones, the bones of some ancient road, jutted out to the surface, transforming the road into some devil serpent, slithering ahead of <the> travelers. Sir Henry felt a chill shake his limbs, though the midsummer heat still surrounded them. The road, which seemed to actually undulate under the sheet of summer haze, the ancient <stones?> road pieces shifting with the movement of the serpent, was a sign of what lay ahead. Now, under the canopy of the forest, even nature would no longer allow them to rest easy in her folds.

Sir Robert's cry brought Sir Henry out of his reverie. "Hark! The stream--it be ahead of us."

A bridge, so old that moss and age had made the once white gleam of the stone into black, arched across the stream which quietly gurgled in its bed. <stream used x3> As softly as possible, the two armored figures descended from their horses<mix in some different words for horses> the, bridles in hand, made their way to the water's edge. The horses nickered nervously, ears pulled back, forcing the knights to exert their strength in pulling them to the stream. At last, the tug of war was won, and the two horses stood by the edge of the water, gingerly lapping the water as it lolled by. Sir Henry and Sir Robert followed suit, each drinking from his own small wooden cup which <they> had nested <nestled?> in their respective saddle bags, ignoring the putrid taste emanating from the water. <IMO add earlier in sentence. Kinda hangin' here>

"Tis an ill day, indeed," Sir Robert finally said, "when even foul water, such as this, seems sweet when compared to the heat of the day."

"Aye," Sir Henry replied. "It makes me wish most fervently for the wells of Nottingham which..."

The horses neighed in terror as the wolves, a full pack, deadly and silent, rushed into view. Sir Robert gave a shout, dropped his cup, and unsheathed his sword towards the approaching beasts. The wolves swarmed over the bridge and the banks of the stream, almost seemingly oblivious to the two armored men, both of whom now held swords in one hand while the other strained to hold the bridles of their horses who know screamed as the wolves bounded to the exterior of the forest.

The wolves' eyes shone red and yellow in the twilight mist <hovering A vs P> that hovered in the forest. Their tongues lolled as the breath came from their lungs, hot and rotten. The ones on the opposite side of the bridge and the bridge itself paid the horses and riders no mind. The others tried to keep up with the rest of the pack but were maddened by the horses. They screamed and reared, trying desperately to trample the wolves that warmed by them. Sir Robert and Sir Henry both fell, caught unbalanced by the horses maneuver. The bridles fell from their hands and the horses, now free, began a mad dance around the wolves, trying to pin them down. The wolves, in response, directed their frantic eyes to these new enemies and began a counterattack. As they struggled to rise in their armor, both knights could tell instantly that some madness possessed them. They did not patiently circle their prey, inching them to an inevitable trap. Rather, they rushed with no rhyme of a pack but as individual wolves. Some snapped at the horses' legs wildly, catching emptiness. Other tried to leap unto the horses' backs, increasing the fear of the horses even more. All the while, more wolves rushed passed them, oblivious to the melee.

Sir Henry and Sir Robert retrieved their swords, from where they had fallen, and rushed into the mad sea of fur and fang. The gleam and smell and breath of steel sent the animals into a greater frenzy and both wolf and horse now turned against man as well as themselves.

From deeper in the forest, came a bellow, reptilian and hateful.

The storm stopped as the roar wrapped around wolves, horses and men. Wolves and horses disappeared towards the plan. Sir Henry looked at his friend. Sir Robert's face was pale, much of the confidence gone. But his eyes were firm. He nodded.

Another roar tore its way through the trees. The two men ran towards it.

The forest almost immediately changed. Where the woodland had been thick and green before, now the trees were black and twisted. The grass was withered and the stones of the ancient road were blackened ash. The further in the knights ran, the sparser became the trees until there were no more trees at all. The two companions found themselves standing in a rough circle of blackened, cracked earth. The air scorched their faces as if they were standing in the middle of a fire. No birds flew in the air above them. No green thing raised its head. And there, in the middle of the circle, wrapped around a huge stone, what might have been the pedestal of some ancient, stone giant, was the dragon.

Sir Robert looked at the beast, his eyes glazing with fascination and revulsion. The beast resembled a huge snake in that its body was long and windy, its muscles rippling as its coils loosed from the rock, its dull red and yellow scales screeching against the stone. Four clawed feet and the rows of bone that sparkled on its back disrupted its snakeish appearance. A frill decorated the back of its head while a row of horns, starting at its snout, ascended up its head. The dragon's eyes were twin emeralds that almost glowed with their own power. Cat-like pupils split each eye down the middle. These pupils narrowed as they focused on the knights. Its mouth opened, teeth gleamed, saliva steamed and sizzled as it left its mouth and the dragon bellowed again at the strangers who had dared defy his rule.

The blast of the roar and the terrible heat of the dragon's breath forced Sir Robert to his knees. His swordless arm came up of its own accord to shield himself from the terrible heat. He could feel blisters start to form on his face. Some dim corner of his brain told him that the dragon had not even spewed out flames yet. He turned and saw Sir Henry, some twenty feet away, also on the ground, both arms across his face. Sir Robert's heart screamed in terror. This was not what they had planned; this was not what he had expected. The beast was too large, too terrible; against its scales, teeth, claws, and fire, his sword may well have been a rose thorn. They had to escape, make for the trees; they would provide some shelter. Then, they could return with an army.

The dragon rattled in its throat. Its eyes shone the brighter with greed. It landed on the ground, cracking the earth with its weight.

They had to escape now.

Sir Robert stood up and pivoted, ready to rush into the trees. It would only take a minute to seize his friend...

His eyes met Sir Henry's. The dark-haired man's face was the eye of a storm. His friend simply looked at him. Sir Henry gave a small smile, lacking optimism but full of peace. Sir Robert nodded in understanding and acceptance. He turned again, facing the dragon. It was closer now, only a hundred yards away. It roared again, shaking the woods.

The blast of Sir Henry's horn, pure and defiant, met the dragon's bellow, the notes fighting the savage sound in the air above. The dragon reared its head, nostrils flared. Above the din of horn and roar, Sir Robert heard Sir Henry's voice, crisp and rich, "For God and the king!"

"For God and the king!" Sir Robert answered. From the corner of his eye, he saw Sir Henry, sword raised, charging toward the beast. Sir Robert matched the strides of his friend, step for step.

The dragon blinked, shocked at the attack. Recovering, it roared another challenge. Its entire body glowed a bright, sickly light before blue and yellow fire erupted from its maw. Sir Henry leaped away from the onrushing death. He felt the edge of it lick his heels for an instant, melting the soles of his armor. Ignoring the pain, he rushed toward the dragon again. The beast was distracted, its attention upon Sir Robert who, somehow, had managed to reach its flank. Sir Henry heard a war cry and then a clang. The dragon roared again, and thrashed its body, coiling for a counter-attack. Sir Henry took the opportunity to drive his sword between two of the beast's scales. The dragon shrieked and wiped around. Its spiked tail whipped forward. Sir Henry saw it for a moment, lithe and lethal as any snake. He dropped down but the spikes of the tail still caught him, swatting him away like a rag doll.

Sir Robert yelled in anger and fear, raised his sword and brought it down again upon the dragon's hide. The dragon's neck looped back and down, jaws clanging. Sir Robert managed to dodge the fangs but the head turned around, the frill extended, the beast began to glow...

"Robby!"

Sir Robert blinked as sword, armor, forest and dragon shimmered and dissipated into the growing twilight. The last few people were making their way to the parking lot and Robby could see Mr. Woodley locking up the park's main building. On the ground, Harry sat up, his dark hair a wild mop on his head.

"Dang it," he said. "We almost had it that time."

Robby looked at the mass of moss and vines that stretched over the patch of rocks where the dragon had been. "I guess we'll have to try again tomorrow."

"Yeah," Harry answered, "We'll have to do better especially with the wolves. Galahad wouldn't have let his horse go."

"Right," Robby agreed. He closed the book's cover on the dragon that glared out from its pages. "See you tomorrow," he said as the two boys raced towards their parents. Behind them, in the fading light, the dragon blinked and smiled.


*Gold* My review has been submitted for consideration in "Good Deeds Get CASH!.
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Review of The Treasure Map  
Review by John Yossarian
Rated: 18+ | (5.0)
A cautionary tale about the pitfalls of greed and a peek at the life of the leprechaun. The prose ran smoothly and internal thoughts were great. If there were weakness to the story, I'd say there were two.
Although the lead in was adequate, I'd say it was a little ho-hum. Which being the lead-in, needed a little more pop. The second weakness was the falling section. It was a little confusing. A few more words or another sentence I think would help.
Of course, you're running into the word count ceiling so, as far as the contest goes, I'd change nothing. Maybe a couple suggestions marked in blue but the story sounds good.
When the contest is over I think a couple more sentences in the fall would clear up the story. Also, IMO there's some room to paint the leprechaun's home with a little added terror in terms of description. Not much, maybe a sentence or a word here and there. But again….more words words words.

Good job and good luck.

Samantha Swales pushed through the tourist throng that blocked the sidewalk. She loved her job in D.C., but these summer crowds drove her crazy. Brushing a blonde lock from her face, she glanced around. The midday sun threatened to blister her freckled arms, but a nearby bookshop offered respite. She darted inside. This was no Barnes and Noble; leather-bound volumes filled the shelves. Antiquarian books fascinated her, which was why she'd majored in English Literature at UDC. A display cabinet caught her eye, and she chuckled when she discovered a “treasure map”.

She recognized the Shenandoah River flowing across the yellowed parchment, but an unfamiliar script rendered the annotations incomprehensible. A rainbow stood out from gray mountains near the top.

A bald man hobbled over. “May I assist you, miss?”

“It's beautiful.”

“Indeed. Drawn in 1450 by Patrick O'Hara… that's what it states here in Gaelic.”

“1450?” She checked the price tag. “Surely it's worth more than a hundred bucks?”

“Well, it's a fake.”

“Oh.”

“Wonderful craftsmanship, though. The parchment feels real, the details hand painted.”

She examined the fine brushstrokes forming trees to suggest forests. This would look wonderful on her living room wall. “How do you know it's fake?”

“The date.”

“Of course.” Her cheeks warmed. How could this possibly be pre-Columbian?

“The accuracy of geographical features suggests it was copied from a Victorian survey map. This sentence here claims there's treasure behind the rainbow.”

“You understand Gaelic?”

“No, but I know a lady who does.”

She bit her lip. “However old it is, it sure is pretty.” Tasteful prints adorned every wall of her apartment, but she'd never paid more than twenty dollars. Perhaps it was time she invested in some fine art. “I'll take it.”

The shopkeeper shrugged apologetically and gestured to a label. “Sorry, it's reserved.”

On a whimsy, she said, “I'll pay one twenty.”

The shopkeeper glanced at the door, then at the wall clock. “Well, it was an internet sale, and he promised to come before noon…”

She fluttered her eyelashes. “Pleeease.”

“All right. One twenty for cash.” He slid the map into a protective tube and passed it over.

She smiled; men were such pushovers. As she turned to leave, a really short man entered wearing the green uniform of the National Park Service. “Sorry I'm late.”

“Sir?” said the shopkeeper.

“I'm Thomas O'Hara.”

“Ah.” the shopkeeper glanced at Samantha. “This is awkward.”

“How so?” The newcomer ran a hand through his ginger mop.

“I've sold this lady the map.”

“But I drove all the way from Shenandoah.” The diminutive man approached Samantha. He smelled… woodsy. “You bought it?”

“Why does it mean so much to you?”

“It's a family heirloom.”

“How did it wind up in a bookshop?”

“After my Uncle Mick died, it went missing. Yesterday, I spotted it on Ebay.”

Samantha sighed and made to hand it over. “I suppose it's only fair you should have it.”

“Thank you. It's been in my family for four centuries.”

She snatched back the tube. “Four hundred years?”

“Yes.”

She placed her hands on her hips. How could she have believed his lies? “You must have kissed the Blarney Stone.”

“Pardon?”

She prodded his chest. “This map isn't that old, buddy.”

“Please—”

“Please, nothing. I've watched White Collar. I know a con trick when I see one.”

The man clenched his fists. “You don't want to mess with me.”

Samantha had listened to this jerk long enough. “Back off, Ranger Smith. I don't know how they run things at Jellystone, but around here your knot-tying badge don't mean diddly squat.”

“My name is O'Hara, lady, and I don't take kindly to your attitude.”

“My attitude?” She turned to the shopkeeper. “Telephone the police.”

“Don't bother,” said the man. “I'm outta here.”


***

Samantha took a step back from her living room wall, then stumbled. How much had she had to drink this evening?

“It's a little high on the right,” said Alice.

Ever since her best friend got promoted to junior partner, she'd acted like she could do everything better than Samantha, even if it was just hanging a map.

“Oh, let me.” Alice bustled over, her brunette ponytail bouncing as she walked. After she nudged the frame, the map did look straighter, but Samantha didn't give her the satisfaction of admitting that. Instead she lifted the glass of Bollinger to her lips and savored its sweet flavor. She only got to drink Champagne when her more affluent friend brought a bottle over.

Alice pointed to the rainbow. “Are you going to check it out?”

Samantha collapsed onto the sofa. “The map's fake.”

Her friend sat beside her. “I've never been to Shenandoah, and it would be a great day out.”

“It's a two hour drive.”

“It'd be fun.”

“You're not seriously suggesting a treasure hunt?”

Alice's eyes sparkled. “Where's your sense of adventure?”

Samantha downed her glass. Was that her third or her fourth?

“We should go,” insisted Alice.

Samantha poured herself another, the cool wine dribbling over her fingers as she missed the glass. “There'sh no treasure.”

“Let's go tomorrow.”

“Got Chursh.”

“We can skip.” Alice punched her shoulder. “We'll take confession midweek.”

Samantha examined the red stains on her jeans. Did she drink that last glass or spill it? She'd better have another in case. She giggled. Treasure hunts were <'were' sounds like she's done it before. Maybe 'could be' or 'sounded'?> fun. “Okay.”

“Really.”

“Yesh.”

“Yay! Road trip.”

***

“We're here,” said Alice from the driving <driver's> seat of her BMW sedan.

Samantha's head pounded like the Washington Monument had collapsed onto it, stone by stone. “Who cares?”

Alice smirked like some IRS guy at an audit. “It's a glorious day.”

“Ugh.” She glanced at the gigantic firs. “How on earth did you convince me to do this?”

“You were all up for it last night. Remember how you pinpointed that pond on Google Earth?”

“When was that?”

Alice pulled on the hand brake. “Just before you pulled your panties over your head and declared undying love for Donald Trump.”

“I didn't!”

Alice squeezed her shoulder. “Don't worry. I was joking about Donald Trump.”

“Thank God!” She clambered out of the car, and her pumps squelched into mud. “Great.”

“Told you to wear boots.”

“Didn't think you were serious.” She glanced into the forest. The green canopy cast a gloomy shadow across the ferns and bushes. Alice probably knew the names of each plant. Samantha sighed and reached back into the car for the map.

“Be easier if you took it out that frame?”

“And get it dirty?”

“You should've made a copy.”

Samantha shrugged. If the map was accurate, their destination was only a short distance away. Seeing a trail head, she walked that direction. “Hey, Alice. Do you think there'll be bears?”

“This close to the road? I doubt it.”

She stepped onto the gravel path. “You know this is pointless, right? A thousand people a year must pass that pond. If there was treasure, someone would have found it.”

Alice patted her backpack. “I brought food. A pond in the Blue Ridge Mountains sounds an idyllic spot for a picnic.”

Samantha's stomach churned, and bile rose in her throat. “Oh, great!” The last thing she wanted was to eat.

The path was easy to follow, and the fresh breeze actually invigorated her. Quicker than she'd expected, they walked out from the trees into a clearing. Bright sunbeams illuminated a small waterfall filling a green pool.

“Look!” said Alice. “A rainbow.”

Sure enough, a rainbow arched across the waterfall's spray. “Oh my God.”

“Let's go look.”

Up until this moment, Samantha had assumed the mapmaker never visited this place. Discovering that the rainbow was real squeezed her thoughts into sharper focus. She followed Alice with renewed determination, not minding when the firm path transformed into a boggy trail.

“I think there's a cave behind the fall,” said Alice.

“Don't bears hibernate in caves?”

“In midsummer?”

“Oh, right.” Her cheeks blazed.

The track led behind the sparkling curtain of water. She considered leaving the map behind, but it was inside its frame.

Alice disappeared behind the curtain. “Wow, look at this.”

Samantha joined her and gasped at the huge cavern the waterfall so effectively concealed.

Alice peered into the depths. “We must come back with proper equipment and professional help.”

“What do you mean come back? We've just arrived.”

“It's pitch black in there. If there's a hole in those shadows, we'll fall in.”

“We could walk a little way—”

“I'm not going one step further without a flashlight.” Alice turned to leave.

“We're going now?”

“Unless you want to eat our picnic inside that damp, gloomy cave.” She smiled. “And we should think about who we'll call. There must be a local spelunking club. Bet they'll know all about this cave.”

Samantha followed her friend back out into the sunlight and was struck by a sudden thought. Alice had dragged her out here. Against her expectations, they'd found a rainbow. Could there be treasure? Was Alice getting rid of Samantha so she could claim it for herself?

As they skirted around the pond, this idea nagged at her. Once they reached the trees, she halted. “Wait a second.” She made a show of crossing her legs. “I need to pee.”

“There's a ranger station two miles down the road. They'll have a restroom.”

“I can't wait.”

“Okay.” Alice's eyes flicked toward the map. “Want me to take that for you?”

Samantha gripped the map tighter. “No, I'm good, thanks.”

“All right. Meet me at the car.”

Once Alice had walked out of sight, Samantha jogged back to the cave. She'd just take a quick look.

When she stood in the cave mouth alone, the dark interior appeared more foreboding, but a fanciful image of gold doubloons and sparkly jewels urged her on. Samantha stepped gingerly across the uneven surface. Deeper in, her eyes grew accustomed to the gloom. Alice was overcautious. This wasn't dangerous at all.

The ground disappeared. She tumbled into a dark void. Her stomach lurched. Cool air rushed past. Screaming, Samantha crashed feet first onto a hard surface. Pain shot up her left thigh, and her legs crumpled. She collapsed onto a rough, stone floor.

Dazed, she glanced around, shocked there was light enough to see. Even weirder, she'd fallen into what looked like a room inside an old house. No windows broke the monotony of the rough stone walls; the light came from a fireplace with a river-stone mantle. A black cauldron hung from a hook over the eerie green flames. A garlic smell suggested it may contain soup.

Someone stirred in an armchair facing the fire. A silhouette stood then transformed into a short man in a green uniform. She recognized him.

“Mr. O'Hara?”

“Nice of you to drop in.”

“Please, I'm hurt. Help me.”

“Help you?” He laughed. “I'd wondered how long it would take you.”

Rainbows, treasure, little men—assorted facts and childhood fairy tales came together with a click. “You're a l-l-l—”

“Please don't use the 'l' word! It's offensive. We're not 'wee folks', either. I'm a forest guardian.”

He strolled over and plucked up the map in its shattered frame. “Thank you for returning my prop. They take so long to draw each time.”

“I d-don't understand.”

He grinned, revealing teeth like a saw blade. “I'd like to invite you to brunch.”

As understanding dawned, dampness spread out from her crotch and warmed her inner thighs.

“You see”—he licked his lips—“there's a reason we guardians spread rumors about treasure at the end of rainbows.”


*Gold* My review has been submitted for consideration in "Good Deeds Get CASH!.
5
5
Review of Pop Dolls  
Review by John Yossarian
Rated: E | (5.0)
Speaking of great flash fiction. Wow. You should send this off if you haven't already. There are several publishers looking for <= 500 word flash fiction. I believe this is a candidate.


*Gold* My review has been submitted for consideration in "Good Deeds Get CASH!.
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6
Review by John Yossarian
Rated: 18+ | (3.0)
A fun story little story, Buffy the slayer meets Dusk til Dawn. You've got some good dialog going and an interesting story line. Personally, I like paragraph breaks. For me, it makes the read easier, but I understand it can be a matter of personal taste.

I've included a few opinions interlaced in the story. These are marked in blue. Remember, these are opinions of a rank amateur. Use what seems useful and discard the rest.

Good job and keep on writing.

Jean woke up groggily on a Saturday afternoon after a busy night slaying vampires. She was dead tired and was receiving instructions from the voice of God in her head. Apparently, Dracula himself (going by the pseudonym Alucard) <ha>, had shown up and was amassing an army of vampires to control the underworld of vampires and demons. Without anyone to combat this fiend, he would be able to kidnap many young virgins and abuse them as he saw fit.
Locking herself in her bedroom, Jean proceeded to create a magical artifact using her skills as a witch and her instructions from God. With a pentagram drawn on the floor and numerous candles, she was able to create a ward against hypnotism, which God said would be needed to fight Alucard. One of Alucard's joys was using his hypnotic powers to force young girls to give him oral sex before he would bite them.
After clearing her bedroom floor of the things she used to make the artifact, she heard her mother call out to her from the kitchen. Jean went there and was pleased to see a large box on the kitchen table <either leave out this…from the mailman.>f <or ‘from the mail. In the next sentence>
"Jean, this came for you from the mail. What is it?" Jean's mother asked.
"Oh, it's the silver katana I ordered!" Jean said with glee.
"What?! A katana? Why on earth do you need a katana?"
"Well, uh, it's to kill vampires," Jean said with a smile on her face.
Her mother laughed, assuming Jean was making some kind of joke. Luckily, she didn't press Jean with why she would need a katana. She just figured it was another of her daughter's eccentricities, like her dyed hair and black clothing.
Jean also used her powers to create more holy water to load it<drop ‘it’> into the super soaker she had also bought online. These and her other magical talismans, her silver knife, her brass knuckles, and her trusty crossbow completed her<the instead of her?> weaponry that she would use against Alucard and his subordinate vampires.
Before she would go ahead with the plan to kill Alucard, she wanted to get high at least one more time<comma? Not sure> in case she died. She went to an alleyway in back of her house and smoked a joint <of weed not needed…implied>of weed with her neighbor, Nicole. Nicole wore similar clothes as Jean and they both enjoyed smoking weed and occasionally drinking liquor with their mutual friends.
"So Jean, are you going to come with me and some of the guys to the club tonight? My boyfriend, Mark, says he can get us in because he knows the bouncer. If we are lucky, we might be able to get some drinks."
"That sounds great, but I can't. I have a pressing engagement," Jean said with disappointment. She hated how her secret life of slaying vampires ruined her social life and made her feel like she was missing out on life.
"A pressing engagement? Are you hiding something from me? Do you have a boyfriend?"
"I wish. It's just... I told my parents I would go out to dinner with them and a couple of their friends."
"Oh, that sucks," Nicole said.
As Jean continued to smoke weed, God's voice started to get vulgar and derogatory (as usual) and criticized her for not devoting even more of her nights to slaying vampires. There was nothing Jean could do to stop God from being an asshole, so she just sucked it up and told herself that she was doing good for the world and was already heavily invested in slaying vampires.
That night, Jean collected her weaponry and rode her bike to Alucard's location: an eerie warehouse that was in a nearly deserted shipyard. The night was calm and there was an unnatural fog in the air. There were many containers stacked throughout the shipyard and the sound of a freighter could be heard from a far distance away.
Jean rode her bike to the entrance and saw it was being guarded by two young vampires. Jean shot them both dead with her crossbow before they had a chance to react. <how would she do that? A crossbow is a single shot..super slow to reload weapon. Maybe one guard? OR a quarrel and a knife?>
As Jean entered the warehouse, she saw that there were at least twenty vampires in the midst of a bacchanal and vampire orgy. The lead vampire, who looked as pale and emaciated as a corpse, was pleased to see a pretty teenager. The vampire, Alucard, smiled and showed that except for his long fangs he had rotten teeth. His fingernails were long claws and were coated in blood and dirt.
"Well, well, well. Isn't this a surprise? Another girl to force into submission with my irresistible charm," said Alucard.
"Fuck you!" screamed Jean as she fired holy water through her super soaker. Though it was very painful, the holy water wasn't enough to kill the vampires as they collected their wits after being interrupted in their reveries. They began to rush Jean as she fell back outside the warehouse. She pulled out her silver katana and chopped a vampire in half as he exited the warehouse. Another vampire emerged and dodged the deadly katana, but Jean delivered a painful kick to his exposed genitals and finished him by stabbing him through the eye with her silver knife.
Just then, a vampire bat flew out through the door to the warehouse and in flight <comma?>shape shifted back into Alucard once he was able to fly behind Jean. Jean was caught off guard when he landed on her back and pinned her down.
"You little bitch! This is the end for you!"
Alucard proceeded to stare into Jean's eyes; he was fully expecting her to become transfixed and submissive to his very will. However, Jean's amulet protected her and she shocked Alucard by stabbing him through the throat with her silver knife. This infuriated Alucard and he transformed back into a bat and began to fly away.
"Hey! Get back here, asshole!" Jean screamed out as Alucard continued to retreat. She pulled out her crossbow and fired wildly at Alucard but she wasn't able to hit him.
<I guess this is a crossbow a’la. Van Helsing. You might describe it as such to avoid the confusion>
Just then, some of the vampires from the orgy emerged and began to rush Jean. She was distracted by this and defended herself with her katana.
Once she was finished with those vampires, she asked God to tell her where Alucard went. God responded that he was on his way to the very same club that Jean's friends were at. Apparently, the club was run by vampires that would prey on innocent youngsters and feast on their blood. Jean was pissed that her secret life as a vampire slayer would be exposed and she knew this would cause numerous problems <for her not needed…implied>for her. However, she knew it was up to her to protect her friends and that there was no other option but to go there and save the innocents.
Jean got on her bike and rode towards the club, "La Trampa Sangrienta.<ha again>" As she rode, she was worried both for her friends' safety and about how she would ever explain that she was a witch that slays vampires.
As Jean approached the club, she saw that the front door had been locked and that it would need to be unlocked from inside to open. Jean went around to the alleyway on the side of the building and saw an open window that was out of reach from the ground. Jean pushed a dumpster with a closed lid under that window and then climbed on top of it before jumping up into the window.
Jean was then inside a dark room and could hear the sounds of sexual intercourse. Jean used a special amulet that she had created with God's help to light up the dark room with a bright green light. A mischievous vampire was surprised to see the interruption and was helpless as Jean stabbed him with her silver knife. The girl that the vampire was having sex with was also a vampire and she screamed for help as Jean stabbed her too.
A door burst open and two vampires busted into the room to see what the problem was. Jean pulled out her katana and beheaded the first vampire. The second vampire retreated and sounded the alarm that they were under attack <I’d stop the sentence here> to the other vampires in the club.
Jean emerged from the dark room and saw that she was close to the dance floor where vampires were fighting with some human survivors. Jean was pleased to see that her friends and others were surrounded by vampires and that the vampires were prolonging their feast by killing the innocents one at a time.<I’d reword this sentence. She’s probably not happy to see them surrounded but happy they were alive because of the prolonged feeding>
Jean was then spotted by Nicole, who was understandably shocked that her friend was there.
"Jean! What's going on?! Are these vampires?!" Nicole hysterically yelled.
"Get down!" Jean screamed.
Nicole ducked low and Jean fired a crossbow bolt into a vampire that was behind Nicole.
The vampires ignored their human prey and focused their attention on Jean. Jean jumped on top of the bar and started to spray the vampires with holy water from her super soaker as a distraction. As she did this, the human survivors were able to unlock the doors of the club and make their escape. Just then, a vampire jumped onto the bar and rushed Jean. She kicked him in the stomach, then used her fire amulet to light him on fire. She then kicked the burning vampire into the bar shelves that housed the various liquor bottles. This caused a small explosion and spread flames throughout the entire club.
Just then, a vampire bat flew through the room and descended on top of Jean. The bat transformed into Alucard and he shoved her off the bar onto the club's floor. He then jumped from the bar and was going to land on Jean when at the last second she pulled out her katana and impaled him through the stomach. He then retransformed back into a bat and started flying around the room in a panic.
More vampires began to surround Jean, who used a broken wooden table leg as a torch when she exposed it to the flames as they continued to engulf the club. She then threw the torch at a vampire and started to wildly swing her katana. She was able to get all of the vampires (except Alucard) to retreat in fear and then pulled out her silver knife. With a well timed throw, she was able to pin Alucard by the wing to a wall<I’d reverse theh wing and wall. To the wall by a wing>. From his helpless position, Jean pulled out her fire amulet with the intention of lighting Alucard on fire.
However, Alucard transformed back into a man and was able to pull free the silver knife with his free hand. Jean pulled out her katana and swung it in hopes of beheading Alucard. Alucard ducked under the blade and stabbed Jean in the stomach with her own knife. Jean was in a tremendous amount of pain and started bleeding profusely. Before Alucard could stab her again or pin her down to bite her, Jean made one more desperate swing with her katana and was able to behead Alucard.
As Alucard finally went limp and died, Jean started to lose consciousness from her blood loss and sat down with her back to the flaming bar. Because of the smoke from the flames and her blood loss, Jean started to drift into unconsciousness and was fearful.
"God? Am I going to die?"
God didn't have an answer for her and she started to cry thinking that was the end of the line<drop ‘for her’> for her.
When Jean regained consciousness, she was shocked to see that she was in a hospital emergency room.
"Jean! You're awake!" cried out Nicole.
"What? What happened?" stammered out Jean.
"When the flames were engulfing the club, Mark ran in to get you since we hadn't seen you leave <drop yet>yet. You were unconscious and bloody. We called the ambulance and they took you here."
"So it's over?"
God's voice then started to talk to Jean again. He congratulated her on a job well done, but told her that she was going to have a hard time coming up with an explanation for her adventure.
"So Jean, were those freaks in the club, were they vampires?" Nicole asked.
"Yeah..."
"And you killed them?"
"Yeah..."
"So you're just like Buffy?"
"No. I am not like Buffy. I feel like I'm a lot more altruistic than Buffy. She still has friends and family that support her. I'm on my own out there."
"Well, you have my support. Myself and the others from the club will keep your <I’d drop this secret>secret double life a secret."
"That's awesome," Jean said with a smile. "By the way, there's something I must ask of you..."
"What is it?" asked Nicole.
"Do you have any weed?"


*Gold* My review has been submitted for consideration in "Good Deeds Get CASH!.
7
7
Review of Silent Night  
Review by John Yossarian
Rated: 18+ | N/A (Review only item.)
Great story Max. And done in under 400 words. Personally, I find flash fiction one of the hardest
to write in, so kudos on a great piece.

The only time I drifted from the story was the transition from outside to inside. I'm not sure if there is a way to put your ghost through the walls or indicate this passage but as I assumed, at first, the MC was corporeal, my mind worked at how he was seeing the candle, which briefly moved me out of the story until if figured he was inside the room and a ghost.

Although sweet, still a little creepy LOL. Which is the point of ghost stories is it not, so again, kudos.

Ummm.....Okay...Well, for some reason I don't see the 'stars' to give you on the review.

If they were here, I'd give you 4 1/2.


*Gold* My review has been submitted for consideration in "Good Deeds Get CASH!.
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Review of Autumn Remembered  
Review by John Yossarian
Rated: E | (4.0)
This is a poignant story, espero. I liked it very much. I had almost no suggestions on my first read and thought it rather lazy of me. I put in a few comments after a second read, but they are mainly opinion.

Fine job.


Today is October first. As I sit in my chair by the window watching the squirrels chase each other around the tree, I feel nostalgic remembering many Autumn's past.

When I think of Autumn, I think of family. The seasons come and go; likewise so each of us have our time. My mind drifts back, remembering.

I was very young, perhaps seven or eight. It was early on Saturday morning and our family was having breakfast together as we always did on weekends. It was a time to be together, to voice our opinions, tell everyone what was on our mind and just relax. Dad made the announcement that today we were all going to pitch in and get the yard raked. Most of the leaves had already fallen but there were still a few floating past the window in glorious colors of orange, brown and gold. Of course there were a few grumbles from us children, but truth be known, we all enjoyed our annual raking get together.

Out we went to the garage where a rake was waiting for each of us. My sister Sarah and I, the two youngest, worked on a pile together. John and Ben, my older brothers, and Dad made the biggest piles and Mom did her fair share. Sometimes we would get tired, throw our rakes down and run in circles, finally jumping on top of our pile. Leaves flew everywhere and our clothes and hair were covered with them. We didn't care, to us it was funny. Dad, wanting to get the job done, shouted out, “Let's get these all in a line and then we can get the tractor and cart out and go down to the pumpkin patch.”

I jerked in my chair, startled awake from the half asleep state I had been in. I thought about Sarah, so far away now that I only saw her at Christmas. John had died in a car accident when he lost control of his car in the winter, almost ten years ago now. Ben lived just down the road but was only a shell of himself since his wife had passed away last year. He came down for supper a couple of times each week but never had too much to say. We would sit in silence on the porch, each lost in thought, both enjoying the crisp fall air.

I smiled to myself thinking about those days in the pumpkin patch. Excitement built up as soon as we heard the rumble of the tractor starting up in the shed. Down the road it came, Dad driving, Ben and John standing in the back of the cart. It rolled to a stop and we jumped in, picked a bale of straw to sit on, and we were off; all bragging about getting the biggest pumpkin and making a scarier jack o lantern than everyone else. Mom was concerned that she get the best ones for pumpkin pie and I could already taste her delicious creamy pie with just a drop of whipped cream on the top; the spicy smell of it baking making<baking and making kind of took me out of the story…could be me> one drool. Just thinking about Mom's cooking made me miss her even now. Dad had a heart attack years ago. John and Ben helped with the farmette <confused. farmette?> as long as they could but eventually had families of their own and it was<became?> too much to keep up. Sadly, Mom sold the farm and moved into town in an apartment. She learned to enjoy her remaining years, always missing Dad, but making many friends with whom she played cards and bingo, even having pot lucks once in a while. I miss them both but they live on in my memory.

Goodness, I thought, I must have taken a little snooze, it's already getting dark outside. I slowly unwrapped myself from the chair, regained my wobbly balance and walked <I’d add something more interesting that ‘walked’…strolled…meandered?>to the door, then went out on the porch. It was chilly weather this evening, too cold to sit comfortably outside. I thought maybe I'd see if Ben wanted to go to town tomorrow and help me pick out some pumpkins and gourds, maybe even a couple of corn stalks so that I could decorate a little for Halloween. It was a far cry from the days of heading out to the pumpkin patch but it helped me keep up a tradition. I wasn't fortunate to have a family of my own; I hoped that my nieces and nephews were carrying on.

I heard a little screech and thought it must be a cat out there showing everyone who was boss. The fog was moving in, it was going to be a damp night. I closed the door and went to the kitchen to make a little snack before I retired for the night. Sitting at the kitchen table looking out the window I could see the clouds passing over the moon and one could easily imagine that they were goblins or ghouls out practicing, getting ready for their Halloween pranks. There was no need for me to buy Halloween candy, no one came out this way any more.

So many things had changed, so much time had passed. I smiled to myself and thought,<in quotes for internal thoughts>some things never change. Autumn never changes, she still appears each year like a queen in dazzling brilliance<nice>. Her wind still smells fresher than any other <season? Time of year?>. Her skies shine brighter. She brings her colorful orange and yellow harvests to completion and makes ready for the dark days of winter. She leaves with the promise of return again next year.”

And so, like Autumn, we too will leave someday, and perhaps return as the sound of wind, a drop of rain, a cloud passing by or maybe even the biggest pumpkin in the patch.


*Gold* My review has been submitted for consideration in "Good Deeds Get CASH!.
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Review of Marigold  
Review by John Yossarian
Rated: 18+ | (5.0)
Ha! What a coincidence. Believe it or not, I'm not reviewing this story due to your fine review of 'Glass Ceiling'. It was a boring Friday afternoon at work and I thought I'd grab something out of 'Please Review.' This story was at the top.

Okay, now that that's out of the way. I've put a few comments inside the story, marked in blue. There aren't very many and they are opinions only. So use what you will.

Other than that, I thought you did a great job. You've got an interesting plot going here and a good hook to lead us further into the next part of the story. I found the writing smooth and easy to follow and of a quality I'd expect to find in a published book. Cudos.

I like the use of 'non-typical' words inside the story. What a great way to expand your vocabulary. I'll have to figure a way to work that in to my regular writing.

Well, keep up the good work and Happy Halloween.

J



Leaning on the garden gate of number thirteen Thornfield Hall Avenue, Marigold Green surveyed Mom's latest catastrophe. Their new home was one of those “semis” the British loved so much, though Marigold couldn't see what was wonderful about sharing a wall with your neighbor. The surrounding jungle of grass suggested nobody had lived in the old stone house in years. A dark shadow appeared at an upstairs window—a blurry face with long tresses. Marigold sighed. Freaking fantastic; the place was haunted.

“Gee, isn't it wonderful,” said Mom in her usual ebullient tone, pushing past and entering the front yard. “We're going to be so happy here.”

Marigold scratched her stubbly scalp. Somehow she didn't share Mom's optimism. She followed her up the cracked tarmac path and inside. Mildew coated the living room walls, and the kitchen stank like moldy bread. The best she could say about the place was that the furniture abandoned by the previous tenants looked usable.

She imagined she was back in L.A.. Entering her senior year, she'd be planning for graduation and prom. Christina would criticize her boring lumberjack shirt and denim jeans, but not refuse when Marigold invited her to the diner after school. She checked her iPhone. No messages.

Mom bounced around the house with wild abandon, the skirts of her floral dress lifting as she spun, her fiery red hair mirroring the effect. One reason Marigold shaved her head every morning was to avoid that ginger scourge. She'd inherited enough curses from Mom's side of the family.

Mom threw windows open, those that weren't jammed, and enthused about original features. She didn't mention the ghost, though. Mom was blind to the supernatural. Good for her!

“Look,” she said, pointing at a lump of iron over the kitchen door. “A lucky horseshoe.” She wandered to the fireplace and pointed at a metal wedge sticking out of the brickwork. “Ooh, a vestigial bracket from the original cooking range.”

Marigold snapped. “Jeez, Mom. Get a grip.”

“Is there something wrong, sweetie?”

She put her hands on her hips. “Do you realize I start back at school next week, and”—she gestured to the surrounding, chaos—“we don't even have the basic necessities to live here.”

Mom's face dropped, and Marigold felt a twinge of guilt when she saw how woebegone she <needs ‘mother/mom’ to distinquish> looked, but she must remain firm. Mom was an artistic type who only <or always?> saw the mystical in the mundane. She was incapable of recognizing that the mundane pays the bills and puts food on the table.

She massaged Mom's shoulder. “We can make this place livable, but we have to start now.” She didn't mention the truce she'd have to make with the ghost. Mom had enough worries without concern over her daughter's mental health.

“Thanks, sweetie.”

Marigold jogged to the car and located the bag of cleaning materials. She decided she would also carry the suitcases and boxes inside before starting to clean. She brought in her special box first, the one containing her dark secret.

Three hours later, the kitchen smelled of pine disinfectant <this sentence begs an ‘and’>. She checked her iPhone again. Still nothing. Five here, so nine in the morning there. Since the school year hadn't started, perhaps Christina was still in bed.

Pushing aside her disappointment, she entered the living room. Mom had scrubbed off the worst of the mildew.

“You're doing a great job, Mom.”

“Why, thank you.”

She walked to the window and surveyed the street. A “To Let” sign outside another semi caught her eye.

“Mom, why did you choose this house?”

“Because of its history.”

She raised an eyebrow. This house was old, but not that old. A hundred years, tops.

Mom turned in a circle. “I see sumptuous oak-paneled walls, Chippendale furniture and tall, stained glass windows.”

“Mom, did you take your medication today?”

“Of course, sweetie.” She covered her mouth with one hand. “Oh, I must sound cuckoo.”

Marigold nodded.

“When I was researching for my book, I came across plans of Thornfield Hall.”

“huh-uh.” <I’m getting lost in who said what. Needs a ‘she said here’. Also is she agreeing or disagreeing? If agreeing then uh-huh …right?>

“Where we're standing is the site of the grand entrance hall where the Rochesters welcomed their guests.” Mom closed her eyes and waved her arms around. “The Rochesters remodeled the hall many times. From here, labyrinthine corridors took windy paths around the Gothic pile.” She opened her eyes. “I've got pictures.”

Marigold forced a smile. “Maybe later.” The irony was Marigold loved history. In fact, one of the A Levels she studied was history, along with English and French. But a manor house destroyed in a fire might mean a whole gaggle of ghosts.

She shook her head. She'd worry about that later. “I'm going to unpack.”

“Oh, okay. I'll order food. Chinese?”

“Not the Sichuan chicken. It gives you heartburn.”

Mom pouted, but nodded.

Marigold scooped up the most important box from the hallway. After climbing upstairs, she entered the smaller of the two bedrooms, the one where she'd seen a ghostly face. The bed wasn't too bad. She turned the mattress to hide the stains, praying there were no bed bugs, then dumped her box on top.

Inside, the first layer appeared innocent enough. She pulled out her letter pad and envelopes and placed them on the bedside table for later use. Next came an admissions prospectus for Newnham College, Cambridge. Though originally she'd been upset when Mom announced plans to relocate to England, Marigold had to admit it made her own dream more attainable.

She sat on the bed and flipped through the brochure. Imagine standing in the hall where Virginia Woolf spoke, reading in the library where Sylvia Plath wrote poems, or eating in the cafeteria where Germaine Greer shocked the principal with her talk of “bras” and “tits”. Marigold smiled and traced the coat of arms on the cover. Newnham was the mother ship.

A woman popped into existence beside the bed. Her face was grotesquely burned, flesh hanging off in strips, one eye missing. The stench of putrid flesh filled the room.

Marigold dropped the brochure. Her heart pounded. “Jeez, lady. Can't you knock.” She wrinkled her nose. “And bathe, for Christ's sake. You stink.” She looked at the ghost.

The ghost's surviving eye widened, and she glanced behind.

“Hey, lady! I'm talking to you.”

“Y-you can see me?”

“Wish I couldn't. I wanna eat some time today.”

The ghost popped out of existence.

“Hey, lady. Come back.”

Typical. First contact, and already Marigold had scared away her new client. She really ought to work on her people skills. Perhaps if she let her hair grow out a little then they might not find her so scary? Nah! If she had to accept their missing body parts, they'd have to take her warts and all. Besides, she'd be back. They always came back.

She recovered the brochure and placed it on the table with her letter pad, then returned her attention to the box and her secret.

Smiling, Marigold lifted out her copy of Silk is for Seduction, held it to her chest and inhaled its papery smell. Though she'd never admit it to her new friends here, she had an obsession with bodice-rippers—Regency romances that erred toward the naughty. Though Austen's novels were fantastic, they didn't cut it in the bedroom department.

She'd shared her dark secret with Christina, of course. See closed her eyes and relived a precious memory. Her last Halloween in L.A. when they went trick or treating. Christina dressed as a witch with the tightest bodice the costume store stocked. Afterward, they returned to Christina's place. Her parents were out. That's when Marigold ripped off Christina's bodice. The costume was ruined but, Jeez, it was worth ever cent of that eighty dollars. The stench of rotten meat brought her back to reality.

She turned. “You're back.”

The ghost stepped backward, toward the window, her translucent form disappearing where sunbeams passed through her body. She hesitated a moment, then whispered, “You really can see me.”

“I said so, didn't I.”

“Nobody ever saw me before.”

“That's just as well. Look at the state of you.”

“I do not understand.”

Marigold sighed. This was one of those ghosts; ones who somehow understood nothing about Limbo. She sat on the bed and patted the space beside her. “Sit.”

The ghost cocked her head, and her jaw fell loose. She looked flustered as she wobbled it back into place, then sheepishly did as requested.

“What's your name?” asked Marigold.

“Bertha.” She straightened. “I am Mrs. Bertha Rochester. How do you do?” She smiled politely, which looked creepy with half her lip burned off.

Used to such formal introductions from ghosts, she said, “I'm Miss Marigold Green, and I'm pleased to meet you, Bertha.” She held out her hand.

Bertha raised a singed eyebrow and stared at the hand.

“Jeez, you really know nothing.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Never mind. I'll start with the basics. Do you realize you can change form?”

“Form?”

“I mean, you don't have to spend eternity looking burnt. You can look how you did before… er… What did happen to you?”

Bertha bit what was left of her lips.

“Promise I won't judge.”

“I burned down the house.”

“You mean Thornfield Hall? You caused that fire?”

“Yes.”

“That was eighteen sixteen, wasn't it?”

Bertha held her jaw and nodded.

“So you burned to death.”

“No. I threw myself from the roof.”

“Ah, that explains it. Suicide. That's why you're in Limbo.”

Bertha scratched her head. A clump of hair fell away, dropped to the floor, and popped out of existence. “Limbo?”

“You're no longer in the physical world, but not yet in the afterlife. You're between, and that's the problem.”

“I see.”

“Listen, Bertha. I'm going to teach you a neat trick.”

“A trick?”

“Yeah. Sort of magic to help you with your appearance.”

“Are you a witch?”

“I've been called worse, but this isn't witchcraft. It's to do with what's in your mind, with what holds you together in Limbo.”

“Very well then. What must I do?”

Marigold leaned toward Bertha. “Say after me: I am Bertha, I am me. I control my destiny.”

Bertha's forehead furrowed, but she whispered, “I am Bertha, I am me. I control my destiny.”

“That's it.” Marigold smiled in encouragement. “But also imagine yourself as you used to be while you say the words, and this time<comma?> really mean them.”

Bertha's one eye focused. “I am Bertha, I am me. I control my destiny.”

The foul odor dissipated to be replaced by a faint scent of roses. Two brown eyes appeared on Bertha's face. Her skin healed and took on a darker tone, and black tresses flowed down the back of her blue dress. A bodice materialized and squeezed her body into a more feminine shape.

Marigold gasped. “You're beautiful!”

Bertha's cheeks flushed, and she glanced away. “Please, don't mock me. I know how I look.”

“What are you talking about?” Images of aristocrats dancing at balls flashed through Marigold's mind. “You're perfect.”

Bertha examined her elegant, bejeweled fingers. “You are mistaken. Can you not see the unhealthy tinge to my skin, the evidence of my curse?”

“You mean your tan?”

“Can you not see I am Creole?”

“You're spicy food?”

“I mean I am impure. My grandmother was Carib.”

“Oh, you're mixed race. Me too.”

Bertha's eyes narrowed as she looked Marigold up and down.

“No, really. Dad's people were half Irish and half Scottish, but Mom's folks descended from the Iroquois.”

“Iroquois?”

“First Nations, what you'd call Indians.”

“Like the Carib.”

“Suppose.”

“Then why are you pale?”

“Lots of blending, I suppose.”

Bertha shuffled closer. “So, we are both Creole.”

Marigold couldn't help but glimpse Bertha's cleavage. She licked her lips, then glanced away, her cheeks heating. If she was getting turned on by dead people, she really needed to get out more.

A floorboard on the landing creaked. The door cracked open. Bertha popped out of existence, and Mom's face appeared. “Sorry to disturb. Were you talking with Christina?”

“No, I was reading aloud,” she lied. Over the years, she'd grown accustomed to hiding her curse from Mom.

Mom entered and frowned. “How long is it since she last called?”

She looked down at her interlinked fingers. “Six days.”

Mom dropped into the space lately vacated by Bertha. “Brr… it's cold in here.” She glanced at the closed window. “I wonder where that icy draft is coming from.

“I don't feel cold.”

“Must be me,” mumbled Mom, then placed a hand on Marigold's shoulder. “I've been meaning to have a girl talk. I keep putting it off because it's difficult, but I don't want to see you hurt.”

Mom stroked Marigold's scalp, her soft fingers soothing where they touched. “Sweetie, it's five thousand miles from here to California. Next year, you want to go to Cambridge for another, what…?”

“Three years.”

“And you've been here a year already. What does Christina want to do next year?”

Her eye began to sting. “Engineering and physics at Caltech.”

“Four years?”

She gripped the edge of the mattress. “I don't want to talk about this right now.”

A banging at the front door drew Mom's attention. “Sounds like the food's here.” She squeezed Marigold's knee. “Come down when you're ready.”

She nodded. As soon as Mom left, she sniffed and wiped a tear from her cheek. Christina wouldn't dump her. She wouldn't!

A fragrance redolent of a flower park in springtime flooded the room, and Bertha reappeared. “I do beg your pardon, but I could not avoid hearing. I am sorry to hear about your friend. Believe me, I understand. When I departed from Spanish Town, I left behind all my friends. I wrote letters, but they took six weeks to reach Jamaica. My friends' replies took the same. We drifted out of touch.”

Marigold's throat tightened, but she refused to cry. “Thanks for your concern, but I'll be fine.”

Bertha sniffed and wiped her nose. “You are stronger than I. After my friends stopped writing, I hid in my room and refused to see anyone for months. I felt so wretched because there was nobody here I could speak with, nobody who truly understood me. Because of my skin, those of my station shunned me, and the servants could not follow the most simple discourse on Wordsworth's poetry or Wollstonecraft's pamphlet.”

“Pamphlet? You don't mean Mary Wollstonecraft's Vindication of the Rights of Woman?”

“Why, yes. You are familiar with Miss Wollstonecraft's writings?”

“Yeah. She's awesome.”

Bertha beamed.

“But, let's get back to you,” suggested Marigold. “How did you deal with your isolation?”

“Not very well, I am afraid. My husband sent for the doctor, who was frightfully concerned by my megrims.”

“Megrims?”

“I was melancholy.”

“Oh, depression. Mom's bipolar, too. She has meds for it, but I guess they didn't have those in your days.”

“The physician prescribed opium.”

“Wow! What was that like?”

“I do not remember. In fact, I recall little of the following years except seeing things that were not there and drinking large quantities of gin.”

“Gin?”

“I think it was to keep me… sedate. My husband locked me in an attic room. For my own safety, of course.”

Marigold stood and walked to the window. Here she was feeling sorry for herself because her girlfriend hadn't called in a week, but Bertha had all her friends and relations ripped from her and then was force fed drugs and imprisoned. No wonder she killed herself.

A chill on her scalp drew her attention, and she turned. Bertha snatched back her hand, feigning innocence.

She grinned. “Did you just try to stroke my head?”

Bertha avoided Marigold's gaze. “I am sure I do not know what you are talking about.”

“Okay, have it your way.”

“I do not wish to sound rude, but may I inquire what illness caused you to lose your hair?”

She laughed so hard it turned into a coughing fit. After recovering, she said, “I'm not ill. I shaved it off.”

“You mean you shaved your scalp as men shave their chins?”

“Yeah.”

“But, why?”

She shrugged. “Dunno, really. Some people say it's because I want to look like a boy, but actually I just feel happier this way.”

Bertha colored and glanced away.

“Out with it.”

“Please, do not take offense. When I first saw you, I mistook you for a boy.”

“Happens all the time.”

“Really? I would be most stricken.”

She took in the ghost's hourglass figure. “Somehow I doubt you had that problem.”

“Marigold!” shouted Mom. “Are you coming, or do I have to eat all this myself?”

“I'd better go down before she blows her top.”

“Her head explodes?”

Marigold smiled. “I won't be long. Read a book or something.”

She bounced down the stairs and into the kitchen where Mom was sitting at the table surrounded by foil containers.

“Sichuan chicken! I told you not to get that.”

“Itsh my favorite,” said Mom with her mouth ful.<full>

“Ugh, gross, Mom. And you'll get indigestion.” She took a seat opposite. “Well, don't eat too much.”

“Okay, Mother. I'll be good.”

Marigold grinned and helped herself to rice. The chicken smelled wonderful. She popped a prawn cracker into her mouth, and groaned in pleasure as the savory snack melted on her tongue.

Mom glanced around the room. “Can you hear that?”

“What?”

“Sounds like Katy Perry.”

Marigold stopped chewing and listened. Dark Horse drifted from her jeans pocket. “It's my cell.” She dragged out her iPhone. “Christina.”

“Aren't you going to answer?”

She stood and walked into the living room. “Hi.”

“Hiya, Goldie. How you doin'?”

“Fine, thanks.”

“Didn't you say you were moving this week?”

“Today, actually.”

“How's the new place?”

“Basic, but I think I'll be happy here.”

“Good.”

Marigold perched on the edge of the sofa and bit her lip.

“You still there?” asked Christina.

“Yeah.” She paused a second. “Say, Chris. I've been thinking.”

“What?”

“Five thousand miles is a long way, and I'm not returning to the States anytime soon…”

She heard Christina catch her breath. “Are you breaking up with me?”

Marigold squeezed her eyes shut. Was she really going to do this? “Yeah, Chris, I am.”

“What did I do wrong?”

“Nothing. It's the situation. I'm happy here, and you don't want to leave California. I can't see this working.”

“Have you met another girl?”

An image of Bertha flashed through Marigold's head, but she shook it off. It wasn't as if she could have a physical relationship with a ghost. “No.”

“A boy? That Jordan you mentioned?”

That ridiculous notion tickled Marigold so much she had to giggle.

“It is him!”

“God, no.”

“I knew this was coming. That's why I haven't called much recently. Whenever you talked about your life over there, it was obvious you wanted to stay.”

“Hey, Chris, I'm really sorry.”

“Nah, don't be. Like I said, this is expected.”

Marigold settled back on the sofa. “Well, you were always a lipstick lesbian.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. You always liked boys more than you liked girls, and it won't be long before you're knocked up by some jock at Caltech.”

Christina laughed. “Hey, give me some credit. He won't be 'some jock'. He'll be a jock with an SAT of one thousand six hundred.”

Marigold scratched her head. “You want to get knocked up by a moron?”

“God, you're so out of touch. The SAT changed. That's the new maximum.”

She chatted with Christina another fifteen minutes, then the battery icon flashed. “Hey, Chris. My cell's gonna die.”

“No problem. Gotta go, anyway. Keep in touch.”

“Course. You'll always be the first girl whose bodice I ripped.”

“And you'll be the only girl I ever let do that…though it might be interesting to see how it goes with a guy.”

Marigold faked a gasp. “You wanton wench!”

“Don't you know it.”

Marigold smiled, ended the call and walked into the kitchen.

“What did Christina say?”

“She's going straight.”

Mom's eyes widened. “Oh, I'm so sorry, sweetie.”

“Nah, don't be. I dumped her.”

“You what?”

“I split up with her.”

Mom sprang from her seat and placed a hand on Marigold's forehead. “Well, you're not running a temperature.”

“Relax! I thought over what you said, and you were right.”

“Now I'm definitely calling the doctor.”

Marigold turned to the table, which was bare.

“I stowed the leftovers in the ice box,” said Mom. “Want me to heat some up?”

“Nah. I'm not hungry. I'm going upstairs to chill.”

When she entered her room, Bertha was standing by the shelves, examining the book edges. She turned and smiled. She'd lost about five years in age, gained some fat around her cheeks, and her tight bodice was now under considerable strain.

Marigold swallowed. “Er, hey. You're getting the hang of the 'me' thing.”

“Why, thank you, Miss Green.”

As she connected her iPhone to the socket and placed it on the table, she asked, “Did you find anything good to read?”

Bertha pouted. “The titles sound so interesting, but…” She swept her hand across the bookshelf and through every book.”

Marigold covered her forehead with her palm. “My bad. I meant to show you another trick.”

Bertha's face lit up. “You know more magic?”

“It's not magic. You're as much part of God's creation as a tree; you simply need to accept it.”

“I do not follow.”

“Let me show you.” She gestured to the prospectus on the table. “Open that.”

Bertha looked from her to the prospectus and back again. “But I cannot.”

“You only think you can't.”

Bertha eyed the prospectus doubtfully.

“Place your finger on the cover and say, 'I am Bertha, I am me. What I want, you will agree.' Then turn it.”

She sighed, but did as Marigold asked. The cover lifted an inch, then dropped. Bertha jumped back and squealed, “It moved!”

“Of course it did.”

“I can really move things.”

“I know.”

“This is a miracle.”

“All life's a miracle, but most people are blind to it. If you practice you'll be able to open and read any book. I've known ghosts who gained enough confidence to move furniture before they moved on.”

Bertha smiled in wonder, but then her lips dropped into a frown. “What do you mean, 'before they moved on'?”

“It's what ghosts do.”

“But, what does it mean?”

She shrugged and gestured to the sky. “They go up to the next level.”

Bertha covered her heart with one hand. “But I took my own life. I shall descend into the bowels of Hell.”

“Well, no. That's exactly your problem. You're not bad enough for Hell, but you won't allow yourself be raised to Heaven.” She took a deep breath. “Theology isn't my strong point, but it's something to do with God's grace. God, or the Great Spirit, or Allah. Whatever you call Him, He wants you to join Him, but first you have to abnegate your guilt.”

“Abnegate. What does that even mean?”

“It means I've read Divergent too many times, and I really should think of a better way to explain this.”

She sat on the bed. “Basically, it's like your appearance and how you can move things. You can't go to Heaven because you don't think you can go. Once you accept it's God's decision, not yours, it's like, 'Beam me up, Scotty.'”

“How is it you know so much about… Limbo?”

“Because I'm a harbinger.”

“Like a magician?”

“I wish! The only magical thing I can do is see ghosts.”

“What does a harbinger do?”

“It's my job to show lost spirits the way, to help my clients pass on.”

Bertha casually flicked the pages of prospectus. “How did you become a harbinger?”

“Not everyone can do it. You have to be born with the ability and be initiated by a spirit guide.”

Bertha sat beside her. “Please, tell me about it.”

“Picture this. I was six years old, dressed in my Super Girl outfit, playing with my G. I. Joes.”

“G. I. Joes?”

“Dolls.”

“Ah, I owned a beautiful collection, with silk ballgowns and parasols.”

“Yeah, these were pretty similar. <lol>Anyways, there I was, enjoying being a regular kid. Then Grandma Mackenzie walks into my bedroom and shouts at me for making a mess. I literally wet myself.”

“I become upset when Mama chastised me, but I do not recall… wetting myself.”

“We'd buried Grandma Mackenzie two weeks before.”

“Oh. That casts a different light on the situation.”

“You can say that again. So, once I'd stopped screaming, Grandma Mackenzie had me sit cross-legged while she explained what I had become because she'd passed.”

“You inherited your skill from your grandmother?”

“Exactly. My ancestors were clan mothers among the Iroquois with powers that passed down the female line.”

“What about your mother?”

“Have you met Mom? The ancestors' spirits decided to skip a generation.”

“So your grandmother taught you these wonderful tricks.”

“And much more. She was a whole mine of information, not to mention a hoot, until she decided it was time to move on.”

Bertha smiled. “I can see you miss her.”

“You betcha. She helped me cheat in class tests.”

Bertha covered her mouth with one hand. “Miss Marigold Green, you shock me.”

“Hey, I never said I was an angel.”

Bertha turned to the table and put her hand on the letter pad. “You are planning to write a letter? To your friend Christina, perhaps?”

“I've already talked with her today.”

Bertha glanced at the doorway. “She is here?”

“Nah, she's in L.A..”
“I don't understand. How could you talk to her if she is in California?” <Would the ghost know about los angelos…much less the abbreviated slang?>


“How stupid of me. You won't know about cell phones.” She scooped up her iPhone and showed it to Bertha.

Bertha examined the iPhone skeptically. “Your friend is inside a small glass and metal box?”

“Let me demonstrate. I'll call this guy who crushes on me.”

Bertha reached over to grab her arm, and this time Marigold actually felt her icy fingers. “Is that safe, calling on a man who wishes to squash you?”

“That's not what I meant.” She shook her head and grinned. “Just watch.”

She selected the Facetime icon and waited. Within seconds, Jordan's freckled face appeared on the screen.

“Hey, Marigold!” He smiled, and swept back his blond hair. “Great to see you.”

“Hi, Jordan. You all ready for school?”

“Yeah. Can't wait. Hey, how about we get together sometime and talk through that history project?”

“Er… we've just moved house, and there's lots of tidying up to do. Don't think I'll have time.”

“Oh.” Jordan's smiled dropped. “Well, maybe we could catch a movie the following weekend?”

Marigold bit her lip. “I kinda promised Mom I'd go to Haworth with her on a museum trip. You know, the Brontë Parsonage.”

“That's too bad. I'll still see you in history, right?”

“I'll save you a seat.”

He beamed out of the screen. “Great!”

“Gotta go now.”

“See ya!”

She ended the call and turned to Bertha.

Bertha took a step back, staring at the iPhone. “You are a witch. You bewitched a boy and imprisoned him inside your box.”

Marigold laughed. “He's at home. My cell enables me to speak with him over a distance.”

“Oh. That is magic.”

“It's a machine. Everybody has one.”

“So, you can talk to your friend Christina any time you wish.”

Marigold shrugged. “If I wanted.”

Bertha turned to the shelves and touched the end book. It toppled to the floor with a bang.

“Great! Now I've got a poltergeist.”

“Sorry. I shall have to work on that.” Her face clouded, and she glanced away. “Though I suppose I shall not have much time.”

Marigold walked over. “What do you mean?”

A tear rolled down Bertha's cheek. “You have friends you can talk to at any time using your magic box. Now you have explained your role as a harbinger, and that I am your client, you want me to… move on.”

“Hey, no. It's not that I want you to go. It's just that the other place is better.”

“What if I don't want to move on? What if I want to stay and learn more about your world and the magic you have? What if I want to get to know you better?”

Marigold felt an unexpected warm glow in her chest. “I guess I'd kinda like that.”

“You would?”

“Yes. There are questions I'd love to ask about your life and times, and I'd like to get to know you better, Bertha.”

“And I you, Miss Green… Marigold.”

Bertha reached across and ran her finger over Marigold's scalp, which tickled.

“You're getting better at the touching thing.”

Bertha smiled shyly.

Perhaps Mom


*Gold* My review has been submitted for consideration in "Good Deeds Get CASH!.
10
10
Review by John Yossarian
Rated: E | (4.0)
Hello Jorga, I saw your short in the newbies section and thought I'd give it a read. Please be aware that the following comments are those of a fellow new writer. Take what you will and grind the rest beneath your angry boot heel.

This is a very nice, poignant story with a lot of feeling, good descriptions, and a nice pace. I liked the emotional descriptions of all the relatives. It gave me that feeling of visiting my wife's family.

I've marked a couple specific comments in blue in the body of your story. However, my main criticism would be the paragraphing, or lack thereof. Personally, and i think many readers feel the same, I dislike reading huge chunky blocks of text. It quickly becomes unwieldy and hard on the eyes. If this story were properly paragraphed it would earn another half star in my opinion.

As to WDC, welcome. I suggest you take advantage of the contests as a fun way to motivate yourself to write. If you are writing a book there is the Novel Workshop. A great group of ppl who are helping edit each others work. For tools, you should check out 'Grammarly'. It's a free download that attaches to your editor (on line that is) and does a fantastic job of picking out misspellings, grammar mistakes, that kind of thing.

Anyway, great story and keep up the good work.

As always, critical reviews of my own work are always welcome.

J




I can’t recall why we went to Aunt Nan’s that day, but I’m sure it was an important event; not Christmas because Christmas was always at Bee-Bop’s; and besides, there was no snow on the ground. It had to be some occasion because we just didn’t go to Aunt Nan’s without a reason. Maybe it was someone’s birthday. Most likely it was early spring because the air had the kind of crispness to it that scratched at my throat when I inhaled. And Aunt Viv had me bundled up as if we were on an Alaskan expedition. Of course that I was bundled wasn’t unusual. Aunt Viv’s area of expertise was making sure I had enough clothes on to fill a small closet. Never mind I couldn’t move. We were early as usual. Uncle Ralph’s area of expertise. Everything laid out to the letter, all “T’s” crossed and “I’s” dotted, never late!
We were in the breezeway, between the kitchen and garage. Aunt Viv peeling the layers off me I had just thirty minutes before dutifully put on. The smell in the breezeway was not exactly welcoming. Damp cement, mixed with leather, horse blankets and livestock fodder fed the earthy, musty smell. Oily garage smells crept in from the left; rich kitchen smells crept out from the right, and all the smells seemed to follow me into the house. I always had mixed up emotions about going to Aunt Nan’s. It was too small. Too small for her own family. With all the aunts, uncles, cousins and grandmas it became a sea of people, scrunching past one another, looking for a vacant perch, and a ponderous line outside the bathroom door. The bathroom had a lingering odor also, of what I now know to be a very high iron content in the water. As a child I assumed it had something to do with raising boys, who never did inside chores and were known to be slobs. But Aunt Nan’s boys were all that made being there tolerable. She had four. Danny who was too young -- too young for me to play with; was a big momma’s baby, so I didn’t want to play with him anyway. David was just two years older than me and I suppose my favorite. He always invited me to go places even though I was a girl, and he didn’t treat me like a girl. He taught me how to ride in the back pasture, in spite of the trouble we would catch if Aunt Viv or Uncle Ralph found out. Maybe I had a crush on him. Chuck was a teenager, an Eagle Scout and would take David and me down to the Tastee Freeze; that is until he found a girlfriend. Aunt Nan’s oldest, Jaime Lee was married and more like a fun uncle, unlike the ones seated around me on the worn gold velvet davenport where I waited. Patiently I sat waiting,<waiting used twice close together> while the stout aunts bustled around the kitchen, scooting past each other with their wide hips. Preparing the food, laying out huge bowls of fried chicken and uncovering Jell-O salads packed with so much fruit and chunky stuff it couldn’t wiggle. Patiently I sat half listening to the balding uncles smoking their filterless Camels in a blue cloud and discussing the union strike at the John Deere plant. Patiently, while more family arrived and was greeted and hugged and kissed, I waited. Patiently waiting for David or Chuck to show their face so I could sneak out from under the watchful eye of the adults, with them.
The phone rang. Although I could only hear one side of the conversation I could tell from the inflection of her voice it was a special call.
“Vivian, Go get on the extension, it’s Mary Louise.”
Mom?
Why was she calling me here?
How did she know I was here?
Why didn’t she ask for me?
<Thoughts…in itallics?>
Finally . . .
“Abby, it’s your mother, dear, come to the phone.”
“Hi . . . Moma . . .”
It was wonderful news. Daddy and she were getting back together — again. I felt the lump ascending in my throat and I choked on it. I couldn’t talk. I handed the phone off to someone and ran to David and Chuck’s bedroom. I closed the door softly so not as to draw any more attention than I already had. I turned my back to the door so if anyone entered they couldn’t see my crying. And there I stood. Rigid. Afraid to move. Afraid. I stood staring out the window at Stardust and Starlight in the meadow, the twin palominos grazing so tenderly. As I stood staring, I concentrated on crying as quietly as possible. I could already hear the hushed voices outside the door.
“I’m sure she is okay Vivian —she just needs some time.”
“Poor Abagail.”
“She has been through so much.”
“I know and now Mary is uprooting her again.”
“How can she?”
Oh, deliver me from those shrouded noises. I guess I had heard them all my life. I don’t know that I can bear them even one more time. Don’t they know I can grasp the difference between love and pity. Don’t they know I love her; she’s my Mother.
Momma and Daddy had married when I was two. It had been Grandpa that decided I should continue to live with Grandma and him till they were ready to begin a family of their own. Grandpa died shortly after. Living with Grandma was effortless. She and I got on very well. She was unruffled and I understood the necessity for good behavior because of her maturity. I was eight and starting second grade when I moved to New Orleans to live with my parents and my new baby sister, Zeke. She was nick-named for an uncle on Daddy’s side, and she was so very cute. Living with Momma and Daddy was an adventure in the least. <adventure ‘in’ the least doesn’t sound right. ‘at’ the least?>Daddy was a truck driver and gone most of the time. Momma worked nights and we spent a lot of time at the sitter’s. When we were all home together, it was a roller coaster. Steak and wine or beans and Koolaid. We could be having so much fun; and the next moment the voices would begin to rise and rise. I learned to take Zeke and go to our bedroom and I would sing right into her ear while cupping my hand around the other ear. Just loud enough so she couldn’t hear what was going on in the next room but quiet enough so they couldn’t hear me sing. At the beginning of the fourth grade, they split up not for a week but permanently. I was sent to live with Aunt Vivian and Uncle Ralph. Zeke, still a kind of baby, was sent to Aunt Donna and Uncle Kennard.
Aunt Viv and Uncle Ralph were remarkable. They were childless and somehow it seemed as though they needed me desperately. Uncle Ralph was an accountant, the town treasurer, a deacon in the First Presbyterian Church and a 32nd degree Mason. He wore ties and starched white shirts. He was balding, smelled of hair tonic, Old Spice and tobacco, and he was all the things that appeared right and normal. Aunt Viv was his perfect mate. Harriet Nelson only overly plump, with a little too much rouge on her cheeks and lipstick on her teeth. She wore bright floral house dresses and her breath was of stale coffee. She doted and baked. She sewed, quilted, ironed and gardened. And she doted some more. They were routine. They were overly protective and frugal. They listened to Lawrence Welk and farm-to-market reports, mowed neighbor's yards and carried food to shut-ins. I know they loved me. Because they were childless, because I was motherless, because I was family. They were safe.
Still standing at the bedroom window, my tears dwindled to quick short gasps for air, I had not noticed the palominos leave the meadow. The wallpaper had replaced my gaze; repeating patterns of cowboys on horseback and racing covered wagons in dull shades of brown. A cowboy with his arm arched in the air riding a bucking bronco followed by a covered wagon pulled by four stout horses with their manes and tails streaming behind them. Where were they running to or what were they running from? Soaked in heartache and my attention on the racing cowboys, I didn’t notice Chuck had entered the room. He laid a warm and comforting hand on my shoulder. I started. I began my uncontrollable crying again. How long had I been standing there? Did they send him in? Listen to all that clamor; everyone had arrived. How can I face all my family, when they knew what I had been crying about? How do they know when I’m not sure? Without saying a word, he told me it was okay to cry. When I was settled he guided me out of the room, sheltering me from the sidelong fretting gawks, out of the house and we escaped to the back


*Gold* My review has been submitted for consideration in "Good Deeds Get CASH!.
11
11
Review by John Yossarian
Rated: 13+ | (3.0)
Thanks for the opportunity to read your work. Please take these comments as the suggestions of a novice writer trying to help. Use what you will and crush the rest beneath your angry boot heel.

You've definitely got a start here, and a place to go from. If your intent is to write a book I would suggest you write all the way through and edit after instead of trying to get each chapter right before moveing on. Steven King's advice...which I accepted gratefully. (Personally, I liked his book own how to write. I recommend it).
Anyway, you did alot of showing and not alot of telling. That would be my biggest criticism. This is true EXCEPT in the last 1/3 of the chapter. Then you start engaging the reader. You have interplay between the characters. Thoughts and description intermixed with dialog.THATS what you need throughout.

Anyway. Good start. I've put my comments such as they are.
Keep writing and keep reading.

As always, critical reviews of my own work are always appreciated.

pm. Time to wake up. I've got a hell of a lot to do today.

Shifting out of the blankets feet somehow make their way to the floor. A warm floor. It's nearly 110 outside and at this point there's a prevailing heat that's somehow seeped through the tight gaps and cracks and found its way to the heart of my air conditioned apartment.


Stumbling through my sleep I catch a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror and run my fingers through a mess of blonde. Mascara and the glimmer of eyeshadow cling to odd parts of my face. A warm wet washcloth wipes away all traces of last night, leaving behind a reflection I'm much more used to.

Shower. Coffee. Bagel. Three texts from a 702 number that I don't text back to. Heat strikes me <like a …something I think would help> as soon as I step out of the door, it makes the walk across the parking lot feel like an expedition through the Sahara <maybe some description of smells..sweat..dry wind>. My car races to the government building where they process the licenses. I still can't believe I need a license for what I do, they finger print me and everything. the clerks speak to me in serious tones and I pretend that I'm signing up for some sort of life threatening mission, my face expressionless and still as they snap my photo. The lady gives me a funny look as she hands me all the paperwork, I give her the brightest smile before exclaiming "thanks!" and walking off with the documentation I need for another year of employment.
<this paragraph is full of ‘telling’ and ripe for description, activity, immersion. Don’t tell us about the walk through the DMV show us. The dialog with the crazy license lady. Standing too close to the guy who’s been working in the heat for days and forgot the objective of showers. That kind of stuff will draw the reader in AND will add nicely to your word count>

A year of employment. I never thought I'd be still working after a year. Hell, I didn't think I would still be in this city after six months, but the nights catch up to me, and months have flown by.

I readjust the shades poised precariously on top of my head back over my eyes before setting out for the car again.<again is a rarely needed word> This time headed out for my soon to be new apartment building to sign a lease. I blow a red light or two trying to make sure I get there right at five, just as they asked, they still make me sit and wait as soon as I get there. I suppose this is all to be expected, I've been playing their game for a while now. It used to be that there was so much housing available places would advertise new amenities and price discounts trying to raise interest and make their property stick out, now you wait, you play their games, you beg for a place to allow you to move in and pay a high price for it if they do.

There are three other people in this room, all avoiding eye contact, immersed in their phones. I do the same. Safe in a screened sanctuary I flip through headlines to pass the time. "Nebraska farmers sue the state, lack of subsidies causes halt in production" "18 killed in suicide bombing in Madrid" "Strange lights reported over Buffalo, NY unlicensed drone use suspected" "New technology in 3D printing may change the pizza industry" I pause my finger on the last one, only to be disappointed when the article pops up. It's more gimmicky than anything, stating that they may have the technology soon to make something that sort of resembles what they're talking about. More of the same. I am saved from flashing advertisement trying to convince me of how much money I would save by switching to an insurance companies that covers loses due to food borne illnesses by a young girl in oversized glasses calling my name.
<how about descriptions of the room? The ppl? Maybe one of them bumps her head in acknowledgement. Or a finger wave is met with a smirk of disqust? What’s the room look like?>

I pick up my things and start walking towards the office but the assistant takes three steps to the right to perfectly block my path. She stands there, slightly swaying, with her hands balling up the fabric of her skirt at the sides.

"I'm sorry, it looks like they won't be able to accept your application at this time"

The words sink like a stone in my stomach. "You've already accepted my application, I'm here to put down my deposit." It come out a little more curtly than I had anticipated, my tongue shoots up to press against the top of my mouth.

"I'm sorry. They told me to tell you you're welcome to apply again at a later time"

I'm sure I am. It was $100 just for the initial application. Non reimbursable of course. Legs and arms are stiff, rigid as I make my way home. Pulling into my parking spot is my cue. In one swift move I pound my dashboard and pull my knees up to become a ball of self pity sitting in my drivers seat. Completely screwed. It took me months to find this place. Half my stuff was already boxed up. My landlord expects me to be moved out in ten days. Completely screwed. This becomes a mantra that repeats itself on a loop inside my head. Maybe they haven't rented my place out yet. Maybe I can stay. I doubt it. Back to throwing money at a crappy hotel till I can find a place. A cry of frustration burst out of me but at the same time movement catches my attention to the left. I didn't hear the car pull up next to me but it's driver was staring right at me. <me used twice in close proximity>

Perfect. My body moves to slide as far down in my seat as possible. I wonder how long he has been there? Wait. I really don't want to know. I can feel the heat on my cheeks as the color rushes to them. Then, the softest knocking against my door.
<she doesn’t see him walk up? If not why. If so describe the man, his expression, etc>

I look up through my slightly spread fingertips to see hazel eyes on an attractive face <Looking down on me not needed> looking down on me. He looks like he just got home from a busy day at work, a very official looking shirt slightly unbuttoned on top, I can see a small coffee stain on one of his rolled up sleeves. His slightly messy dark brown hair looks like he's spent a good deal of time today running his hands through it.

"Hello...are you okay?"

How embarrassing. Straightening up in my chair <seat?> I brush the tears off my cheek and do my best to clear my face of its previous emotions. He looks like a nice guy, I haven't seen him around before. Perhaps he's new. His face has slight bags under his eyes, the kind you get from stress or lack of sleep.

"Sorry. Yeah, It's fine, I mean I'm fine." I can't help but cringe at my own awkwardness.

"You didn't look fine a second ago." A half smile breaks across his face.

"Ha," his smile is a bit disarming, "yeah, I'm just kinda frustrated. I'll get over it." Turning from the window I busy myself shutting off the engine avoiding eye contact. I glance over to see he's moved from my door to half sitting half leaning on his car parked right beside mine. I take my time grabbing my things and <this sentence is rough with the two ‘my’s> opening the door. I catch him looking off at no where, his mind far off in some unimaginable place. <point of view shift. Try and keep your 3rd person POV if possible> He lets out a very controlled force of air, a specific sigh it sounds like he's done a million times before, this one's aimed in my direction.

"I need a drink," he says as such a declaration and a flash of amusement courses through me as I watch him run his hands through his hair in exasperation, "seems like you could use one too." Another half smile, "Care to join me?"

My lips start to form the word "no" before I stop myself. Why not? I don't know him. My red flags are always there in the background, ready to not trust. He seems harmless though, nice even. Today has been such a disappointment, it doesn't seem possible for it to get worse. Sure. Yes. I want to.

"Sure."

A full smile. Something lights up in his eyes that wasn't there before. I watch him stand up, look around, and spot the bar a block <away> a way. "Is that place any good? I don't really know the area yet."

"Not sure, I've never been there," I don't want to see his excitement drop so I quickly add, "I've heard good things."

"Great! Uh..." He glances back at what looks like a computer bag and lunch box spread across his passenger seat, "let me take care of a few things. Do you want to meet over there? Let's shoot for half an hour or so."

"Works for me." I turn to lock up my <Civic> civic.

"My name's Michael, I didn't introduce myself before."

"Jessica" I smile before turning to walk away, "I'll see you there."

"Great. See you."

I glance back over my shoulder to see him moving some things around in his car. A flutter of excitement moves through me as I walk up the stairs to my place. My place. My heart sinks a little as the feeling of despair fights for its place at the front of my mind. I throw my purse on the tile floor and collapse on my couch as soon as I walk through the door.

What a headache. I can't stay upset. Scratch that. I certainly can stay upset, but it'll do me no good. A solution. There's always a solution, but right now a better solution is have a drink with the cute neighbor and get this as far from my mind as possible.

I wonder what's happened in his day to put him in such a mood. There was a definite tenseness around him. Could be anything I suppose. The clock in the corner catches my attention and I <try not to use passive verb like ‘make my way’ eliminate them with extreme prejudice. Instead: sauntered, shuffled, strode, marched..you get the idea> make my way over to the closet to pick something to change into.

After rummaging through my endless piles of clothes for a good ten minutes I settle on zipping up a bright yellow sundress I bought a few weeks ago but never got around to wearing.<describe please> I almost immediately regret my decision. Smooth skin transforms into frown lines in my reflection as nervous mixed feelings wash over me. It looks good, but that makes it look like I tried to look good. I don't want him to read into it. What if he takes it for over excitement? Desperation? Men are so difficult in the real world and I wonder for a moment what I was thinking by saying yes. I tend to over think these things like a game of chess that only I'm playing, only problem is I don't tend to win.

My door shudders as I close it harder than I meant to.<what door?> I'm over thinking it by even thinking about it that way at all.<that sentence was confusing> I'm sure he just wants someone to complain to about his day. I can feel heat <from the weather? The emotions? >on my cheeks as I head down the stairs and I mentally chastise myself for letting my vanity make such quick assumptions about his intentions.

The sign for Platform looms in front of me. It's one of those places that looks like it's trying way too hard to be relevant with mild atmosphere lights and a falsely luxurious exterior that's about as high class as a plastic chandler. True Vegas style.
<You’ve got her at the club I Imagine but don’t have a progression. Also , the club name was not mentioned earlier. At some point you probably want to mention the club name. Maybe she saw if from the car. Or he mentioned the name? She read it when she walked up? What does the sigh look like?>

It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dim illumination coming from oversized hipster lightbulbs hanging above the tables. <where are they? What kind? Anyone else here? What’s it smell like?> The dining room is nearly empty and after a sweeping look over at the bar it appears my new neighbor is nowhere to be seen. Figures. The bartender <a young, good looking kid with too large gauges >gives me an inviting smile between wiping down dirty glasses, <What’s your pleasure? He asks. I order a glass of wine and drop into a seat> so I have a seat and order a glass of wine. A cool sip of Pino Grigio sends a familiar sense of calm through me. The taste is sweeter here and I can't remember the last time I had a drink outside of work. It's a lovely feeling to pay for my own drink and not have to pretend to be overly grateful.

I can feel a wave of hot air pass over me from where I'm sitting by the door. I turn to see my neighbor squinting at the dining room and watch as his eyes turn to catch mine. Their expression is slightly flustered and apologetic.

"Sorry I'm late, damn cat." He mutters the last bit as he takes a seat on the bar stool next to mine. "Apparently he hates my new place, he made a run for it as soon as I opened the door. Have you been sitting <sitting not needed> here for long?"

"Nope. I just started settling in. Here," I hand him the drink menu that I realize I'm still holding, <period>" <caps What’s> what's your cats name?"

"Terrance,<period>" <caps>he glances over the menu and flips it over to the beer selection, "<caps>he kinda looks like Garfield, only fatter." The bartender looks at him expectantly <Give me a Guiness>” and he orders a Guinness.

"Terrance?" I flash him an amused grin.

"I didn't name him," he returns with a half smile, "he's kind of a relic from a past life of mine." He moves to almost physically shake off the direction the conversation is moving, "So, I've been imagining what in the world caused the panic attack I witnessed in the parking lot, but I'm at a loss."

"It wasn't a panic attack."

"Oh?" His eyebrows raise expectantly, a smirk hides somewhere in his calm face.

"I told you, I was just,..frustrated." I can see he's waiting for more of an answer, instead I take a strategic sip of wine.

His expression lingers, unphased by my obvious attempt to shake him off. "And what," his body leans toward me ever so slightly, "was so frustrating?"
<now we’re talking. You’ve got active descriptions going on>
"Life."

The smallest of chuckles. He raises the glass of foamy beer newly placed in front of him and gives me a pointed look before taking a long sip.

"Your day wasn't so easy either."

"What makes you say that?"

I return his pointed look.

He rolls his eyes as he turns his head away from me for another frothy sip.

I let a moment of silence pass through us before trying to satisfy more of the curiosity building inside of me. "You're not a gambler, you're not an alcoholic...so what made you move to Vegas?"

"How do you know I'm not a gambler or an alcoholic?"

"Because you're not."

A muttered sound of amusement. "Good point." He lets out what's quickly becoming his signature sigh in my mind and takes a moment before answering. "I was relocated for work. Not my ideal destination, but it was worth the sacrifice. Some things you just can't miss out on. I wasn't expecting it to be so <caps>god damn hot though."

"What do you do?"

I can see a shift in his careless demeanor, "Just some government work, I'm a geneticist actually, it's mostly staring at screens all day. Nothing too interesting." He says this last bit quickly, a forced casual tone.

"That actually sounds fascinating." Though I want him to go on I can't help but be fascinated by him more than anything. Cute and intelligent. A nice mix.
<two actually ies>

"I guess."

"What does a geneticist do in Las Vegas though? I'm imagining you running around genetically modifying tigers not to eat Sigfreid or something." I flash him a ridiculous grin, letting myself fall into unabashed flirting.

He leans closer to me in mock seriousness, "It's completely confidential," and turns to grab a food menu but not before giving me a sly wink. "Are you hungry at all? I'm starving?"

We take a few moments flipping through the heavily stylized pages of the menus. I settle on a light cranberry salad with candied pecans, a club sandwich for him. Michael insists on paying for our food since he was too late to buy my first drink. He orders me another glass of wine as well, and some sort of whisky for himself.

"Is it my turn to ask you the obligatory question of what do you do for work?"

Ugh. His hazel eyes are so playful I can't help but smile even though I had dreaded the inevitability of his question. "I suppose so. I'm a dancer."

"That's awesome! What kind of act? You're not in Cirque de Soleil are you?"

"Kinda like Cirque, but with a little more champagne, and a little less clothing." I can visibly see the understanding appearing on his face. "I'm a stripper. Well, entertainer is what they legally call it here if you want to get technical."

He bursts out laughing and awkwardly trickles off his amusement as he realizes I'm not joining him in the fun.

"You're serious?"

The question is uncomfortable when anyone asks my occupation, reactions are different and I never know what to expect. There is a terrible prejudice about women in my field which I can't help to acknowledge might be there for a good reason when I talk to some of my co-workers. I hate being automatically categorized with them. I hate when people suddenly look at me like I have some sort of addiction I'm hiding or cripplingly unresolved daddy issues. I can feel the need to explain myself welling up inside me, but I hold back and instead respond with a cool, confident "what?," as if I can't fathom why he would react in such a way.

"I just," he takes a moment to clear his face and regain his casual composure before letting out a softer laugh "I just didn't expect that. I guess this is the place for it after all. You don't seem like the type. Then again I don't know what the type is really-"

"Don't worry about it," I cut him off playfully, "I get that all the time." His genuine surprise is so endearing it cuts through my own personal discomfort. "I always tell people I'm really more of a therapist than anything, you'd be surprised how many people just want a shoulder to cry on. It's the easiest job out there."

"Damn...I couldn't get out there and...shake it for the world to see. That's something."

"I love what I do. Everybody wants to feel loved, feel special, it's part of the human condition. I give them the attention they long for."

His cocky half smile reappears on his face, "What a saint."

I give him a humble, mother Teresa-ish, nod. I do love it. The glamour and excitement is as intoxicating as the beverage in my hand. I feel a pressure inside of me releasing. I find that my occupation elicits one of two responses, in varying degrees which ever way, either disgust or excitement. This situations appears to be the lather.

I take on a few of his questions before changing the conversation to safer ground. We sit there long after the platters of food are placed in front of us and removed. Shooting the s***. Talking about everything and nothing. It's fun the way meeting anyone new is, with an added excitement of mutual attraction. There's a certain pleasant feeling that comes from discovering the small mysteries of someone you've never talked to before. I learn he's from Washington, but has spent the last few years in New York. He learns that I'm a middle child, that I love sudoku. Simple things lead to deeper matters. I learn he's fresh out of a four year relationship, he learns I haven't talked to my family for years.

Michaels smiles start getting interrupted by yawns, the three drinks on top of whatever he went through at his work today seems to be taking a toll.

"It's late." I hate cutting it off, I could easily stay and talk the night through but sleep surrounds him. It's a Wednesday, he must have work tomorrow. We exchange numbers. He tries to walk me back to my apartment but I shoot him down. I want to avoid any lingering at the door, as cute as he is I'd rather not get into it. Not tonight. Another night maybe.

Instead I head to my patio to spend the rest of the night alone. With my new liquid confidence my earlier frustrations seem far more manageable. Hotels will be fine to stay in till I secure a new place. It won't be that bad, but not what I wanted. I settle into my chair to watch the chaotic city that's become my home. The neon of the strip creates a unique brightness <brightness is a dull word for such a unique city> of the sky, filled with airplanes and helicopters passing over<wouldn’t they be beneath?> the distant stars. One light in particular catches my eye, faster and brighter than the others, it zips through the night then suddenly begins to descend<make these sentences shorter to build tension> down, down, till its light disappears behind the mountain side.


*Gold* My review has been submitted for consideration in "Good Deeds Get CASH!.
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Review of Mexican Standoff  
Review by John Yossarian
Rated: ASR | (3.0)
Note that these are just my opinions and nothing more. Provided by a novice writer struggling to get better. Take what you will and crush the rest beneath your angry boot heel.

First off, let me say that IMO flash fiction is one of the hardest to do. That being said, you have the basis of a really great story. The turn at the end is quite unexpected and the body is good enough that some cleanup would warrant an excellent story.

There are definitely some issues with commas. I would suggest reviewing all of them and checking with comma usage documents about proper usage. I had/have much trouble with the pesky comma. I made use of youtube (among others) as a resource for punctuation learning.

I think that in flash fiction and short stories that having multiple Point of Views (POV) is going to be quite a challenge. Setting your sights on one POV, I think, would help the story. Your main character can express the thoughts and feelings of the other by showing what they are doing, their expressions..etc.

Also, watch out for word repetition. Unless artistically intended the recurrence of 'restrained' i found slowed me down on the reading.

Great start. As I said before, I think you've got the great beginning of a wonderful flash fiction story.



*Gold* My review has been submitted for consideration in "Good Deeds Get CASH!.
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Review of Finding Meat  
Review by John Yossarian
Rated: 13+ | (3.5)
Keep in mind these are my opinions, and should be considered as such..opinions.

Yes, this was indeed a classic story. I liked your flow and original perspective on the zombie mall attack.

Some brief ideas:
I think that if you added a name to your central character it would strengthen the story.

In the sentence having "to take small bite of his hand" i didn't think this added anything to the sentence, just made it kinda klunky.

Also, the last part, where she is captured and taken away. That part was kinda out of left field. If it was a lead in to a bigger story I can see it, but I thought the story would be just as good ending with her squirming in the garbage.

Good job and keep on writing.
As always, critical reviews of my own work are greatly appreciated.


*Gold* My review has been submitted for consideration in "Good Deeds Get CASH!.
14
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Review of TIME TO BE A MAN  
Review by John Yossarian
Rated: 13+ | (3.5)
I'll preface by saying that all comments are simply my own ramblings, and should be taken as such, ramblings.

I liked your story, and the flow was very good. I think a strong point of the story was your dialog.

I noted that you didn't paragraph your dialog sentences as grammar rules dictate.

There were also occasions where you 'told' us what what going on instead of 'showing'. Ex: The sentence that begins 'Until now, few of us '. You do a fine job of showing in this story...do more of it and it will draw the reader in.

Lastly, from an accuracy standpoint, I don't believe any troop transports were loaded as late as June 5th. By then they were all parked off the coast and many had been sitting there for days.

Also, based on my limited knowledge of the military, the interplay of main characters was more appropriate for a sergeant and corporal v.s captain and sergeant.
Captains rarely trouble themselves with the level of discipline shown in the story.

Great story and keep on writing.
As always, critical reviews of my own pieces are appreciated.
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Review of A Dogs Life  
Review by John Yossarian
Rated: 13+ | (4.0)
This is a really great story, but needs some polish. I noticed a few missed commas, and 'Smiled then' is missing something.
Your flow was engaging and the story was fun and original. imho, i dont think the story needed the insanity parts. I know it was the lead in and exit, but the rest of the story didnt really deal with insanity. All in all, great story.
As always, critical reviews of my own shorts are appreciated.
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Review by John Yossarian
Rated: 13+ | (3.5)
Let me preface by saying, these are my opinions, and opinions only. These ramblings should be taken as such.

I liked the dept of this piece but found it more poetry than prose. That being said, I thought there was alot that could have been done with the paragraphing and word layout to make the points more..impactful...Is that a word?
Again, I'm not a poetry expert, and the block style may be artistic intent.
All in all though I thought it was a nice piece, but should probably be labeled or tagged with 'poetry' so readers of that style can enjoy as well.

As always, I enjoy critical reviews of my own pieces.
AND, check out the new contest 'Blown Away'. If you see something on WDC that you find really cool, nominate it for the 'Blown Away' contest.
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Review of Ol' Man Doolittle  
Review by John Yossarian
Rated: 13+ | (4.0)
As always, these comments are my opinions and nothing more..opinions.

This story is nicely done with good descriptions. I'm not a grammar expert, but I didn't notice any problems along those lines.

I particularly liked this little sentence: whispery scuttling of cockroaches in the dark...nice touch.

I like the foreshadowing of the coin's properties, it left the reader with a question of what was going on with it.

I think you missed an 'is' on this sentence: "this my home".

If there was a weak point to the story, I think it would be dialog. Although there was nothing 'wrong' with the dialog, it seemed a little stiff. Example:
No one is to go into the basement. I think in an actual tense situation that ppl would clip things.
No one go into the basement...a simple thing but just clipping a few words in the dialog would make it smoother. imho.

Great job and keep on writing. As always, critical reviews of my own work are always appreciated.


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Review by John Yossarian
Rated: 13+ | (4.0)
A dark and well described plunge into a hellish trap.
My favorite part is the dark, smokey description of the temple.
Comments for improvement. (These are my own opinions..nothing more)
Pernicious is a memorable and unique word. To be used more than once
tripped me up a bit.
"I try to revive more about it". In this sentence the word 'revive'
doesn't seem to fit.

Great read, and keep writing.
As always, reviews of my own work are welcome.
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Review of Cub  
Review by John Yossarian
Rated: E | (3.5)
Keep in mind that these comments and opinions are just that..my opinions. Take them as you will.

First off, this story has a great plot and you do a great job in 'showing' the story when you do....'show the story'.
My favorite line: 'Cool as the other side of the pillow'.

I thought the major problem with this story was too much 'telling' the reader instead of 'showing'. The first 3 paragraphs were primarily comprised of telling the reader things instead of showing them. Although this was the setup and maybe a bit difficult to work in, I think more showing would help.
Later there many examples of telling instead of showing.
For example. In the excellent scene at the rickety old bar you say:
"Never saw a seventy-year-old codger run so fast in all my live long days"
This is telling the reader, when you could have said something like, "The old codger grabbed his walker and beat out a tapping waltz as he raced for the door."
I think if you work on the 'showing', instead of 'telling' you would have a most excellent story as it's obvious that you can 'show' well.

Reviews of my own work much welcome.
Keep up the good work and keep writin'
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Review by John Yossarian
Rated: E | (3.5)
Nice little piece. I can envision a trip to Colorado and a walk along the trail. Good solid descriptions, and good story flow made this a nice philosophical read.

Two comments which are just my opinion only and regarded as such.
I've been told that use of verbs strings such as 'make my way' are considered 'weak' and thus inferior to stronger verb forms such as 'leapt', 'sprang', 'strode'...you get the point. Anyway, the stronger verbs are better for the reader.

Also, 'childlikeness' is quite a mouthful. It could be artistic intent but slowed me.

Anyway, fun story and welcome to WDC. I'm new myself but have found this site to be great for presenting your writing.
Check out the contests for inspiration and a 'push' and if you want reviews of your work there are at least two great options. There is a review page where you simply post requests. You may get reviews, maybe not. Then you can check out the list of reviewers and for a small GPS fee they'll provide a review. Most do an awesome job.
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Review of Wings  
Review by John Yossarian
Rated: E | (4.0)
A good read. The descriptions were vivid and the story flowed well beginning to end. I noted two wording errors. 'ice skate(r)'? and 'run opened attempted' on the dive into battle sequence.

I understand the ending clipping off but either a lead in at the beginning which indicates the person he/she is speaking to, or a longer ending would be more satisfying to the reader. IMO

Again, great read.
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Review of Lullaby  
Review by John Yossarian
Rated: 18+ | (5.0)
Great story. Your lead in to the main story line was well laid out and descriptive. I particularly liked your character descriptions.

My favorite part was the 'tick tick tick' lead into the scary part of the story and your timing really built the stress into the encounter with the monster.

As to these suggestions...simply my opionion.
I thought 'eating for dinner' didn't sound quite right.
'now it's been two day's since then'. Didn't think it needed 'now'.
Describing his location 'i'm in upstairs'. Didn't think that was needed either.
In the interview room and he didn't meet the man's eyes. I thought 'chris's eyes' would sound better.
ANd lastly when he was working on 'bill payments' I think would flow better with just bills.

Great great story.

If you have time I would love a review on Judge & jury.
Keep on writing.
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Review by John Yossarian
Rated: E | (4.0)
I liked this story. Your flow was good, although a bit 'thick' at the very beginning. Your descriptions I found to be fun and vivid.
My only criticism would be Constantine. He kind of appeared out of no where, much like the cheshire cat, the disappeared as suddenly.

Anyway, good job and keep on writing.
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Review of I Had a Dream.  
Review by John Yossarian
Rated: 18+ | (4.0)
Ah a nice dose of LSD with that 70s Beatles cartoon. I could almost imagine the Green Meanies stomping in the back ground. Well done.
You had so many good lines it's hard to pick out a favorite. "The machine rattled like a toolbox in a spin dryer" sticks in my mind tho.

There were a few usages which I at first thought incorrect then chalked it up to region differences. Being as I'm in the center of Oklahama USA and you are on an island that is most likely the case.

Great job and keep writing.

Would love a critical review from you if you get time.
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Review by John Yossarian
Rated: 13+ | (5.0)
Great story. I can see why you won the contest.
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