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Do You Know Me?

That would be a "No." 0.4018691588785 40.2% [ 43 ]
Of course! We're BFFs! 0.046728971962617 4.7% [ 5 ]
Who really knows Anyone? 0.28971962616822 29.0% [ 31 ]
Gold? 0.26168224299065 26.2% [ 28 ]
Total Votes:[ 107 ]
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The Solarised Night
I wish I could find something better to write about but I have mega writers block.

There is a couple contests that I've been interested in and sort of can help you figure out what to write about


http://www.gaiaonline.com/forum/writing-contests/he-is-mine-a-short-story-contest-700k-in-prizes/t.77616479/

http://www.gaiaonline.com/forum/writing-contests/open-4-all-good-or-evil-dl-june-20/t.76922471/
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Bait-kun
The Solarised Night
I wish I could find something better to write about but I have mega writers block.

There is a couple contests that I've been interested in and sort of can help you figure out what to write about


http://www.gaiaonline.com/forum/writing-contests/he-is-mine-a-short-story-contest-700k-in-prizes/t.77616479/

http://www.gaiaonline.com/forum/writing-contests/open-4-all-good-or-evil-dl-june-20/t.76922471/

I troll the writing contest section regularly and have already seen those two. They don't really strike my fancy. It's not that I am out of ideas; I have a problem writing because of some real world shiz going on that is a bit distracting. It is only temporary 4laugh
calviness
Wing - You know that our affectionate fear is what you were going for all along - don't deny it.
Yes... yes... things go according to plan. lol
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Wing McCallister
calviness
Wing - You know that our affectionate fear is what you were going for all along - don't deny it.
Yes... yes... things go according to plan. lol

-insert evil laugh here-
Edited Version. Finally . . .
Now let's see if I can format this nicely.

The Midshipmen
Piggg

I’m heading north on I-83. It’s after ten. The road’s finally emptied out. I slow down a few miles per hour as I drive under an overpass, smiling when I remember why.

* * *


“That’s where the cops like to hide,” my brother told me. “They back in at an angle so the bridge blocks their taillights.”

“Why?” I asked.

“So your headlights don’t reflect off.”

As he said this, he hit the gas and weaved into the left lane, then back into the right lane to pass the next car.

He was sixteen and had been driving a few months at the most.

“You know, some day, I bet, they’re going to have sensors on the white lines and in your car so you won’t even have to steer on the highway,” he said.

“Dad was saying that they could put infrared sensors on the front of cars and that way, your car would match the speed of the car in front perfectly and you could tailgate safely.”

He laughed. “I tailgate safely.”

“No you don’t,” I told him. “No human being can safely tailgate. It’s a reaction time thing. You take so many seconds to react and in those seconds you travel a certain distance and if you don’t keep that distance between you and the car, you’ll hit it.”

“I have a very fast reaction time. Watch,” he said, stepping on the gas, full of enthusiasm and recklessness.

* * *


I signal right as I pass the minivan and wait until I can see both headlights in my rearview mirror. I turn around to clear my blind spot and then pull into the right lane. It starts to snow. I turn the heat up, hoping the flakes don’t start to stick until I get there.

I lose my radio station about thirty miles later and hit scan until I come up with something else. I remember the station my brother always used to listen to at Cornell. It was the Star or something like that, but I can’t find it.

It’s eleven when I hit the back roads. Slowly, things become familiar. In the dark, I can make out the shape of a bike shop and a video games store, followed by the café where his girlfriend worked. She was never around much, so it wasn’t surprising when they broke up.

* * *


It was just before they split when I visited. He invited me to his military ball celebrating the two-hundred-and-thirty-eighth birthday of the Navy. Katie was, not surprisingly, out of town. We were sitting with Morrissey, Thomson and their girlfriends.

Mary was talking about college and giving me plenty of unsolicited, but well-meaning advice on why I should really be applying to Cornell and the best essays to write for college applications.

I was starting to tune out when Thomson got up and got some cranberry juice.

“What, are you on your period?” my brother said when he came back.

“******** you, Josh,” Thomson said.

“It’s from a movie,” I told him. He didn’t hear me.

“Nobody even drinks cranberry juice for their period,” Mary said, not having heard me. “But it’s great for your complexion.”

“Yeah, cause that’s so much ******** better,” Morrissey said.

“You know what, Mary? I’ll fight you,” Thomson said leaning into her face.

“Come on, man,” Morrissey said. Morrissey was six foot six then and thickly built. He was playing rugby.

“No, Mary, take it back. No, screw that. Let’s go outside, and I’ll fight you.” She punched him in the arm, and he punched her back.

“The funny thing is, she could take him out,” my brother whispered to me. I laughed.

Then the Captain got up to make a speech. “The US Navy was founded in 1776,” he said. “The British Navy had one hundred ships and the US Navy had but twenty-five. Yet, with American spirit within us, we prevailed. They were Goliath. And we were David. Today, more than two hundred years later, we have grown strong. We are now Goliath and surrounding us are Davids. Davids who hate us, who are willing to bomb us, and shoot us, and fly planes into us. Now more than ever, the US must be a strong Goliath and fend off these Davids.” The Captain took his seat, honest to God, thinking he had given an excellent speech.

“Dude needs to brush up on his Old Testament,” my brother said to me.

“Is it just me?” I asked, “Or is it still funny after two years that his name is Captain Weed?”

“Still funny,” he said.

We went out for cookies after the ball was over. It was Thomson’s birthday – his and the Navy’s – and my brother had organized a surprise party. He gave Thomson a ride home, and then instead, drove to Insomnia Cookies. Everybody was there. It didn’t matter that nobody liked Thomson; my brother asked, so they came. There were platters of cookies, all with “22” written on them in Navy-blue icing. We sang, and then as a joke, somebody handed Thomson a glass of cranberry juice, but he was too busy beaming to notice.

* * *


I turn left and pull into the parking lot outside Barton Hall. It’s locked, but I can see the lights on inside. I wish I could go in. It used to be an airplane hangar until they turned it into a massive gym. Inside are six basketball courts and a track as well as all of the ROTC clubhouses. My brother always took me into the Navy clubhouse. He showed me the closet with all the muskets that only he and the Gunnery Sergeant had a key to. He showed me the room that Jon Stewart used as a dressing room when he came to Barton Hall. He was trying to impress me with the fame of the place, but what I liked best was the fact that it was a real, working clubhouse. We’d spent every summer building clubhouses in the backyard, but they never came with real guns and real soldiers to fight our pretend battles.

I pull out and drive off campus. I was going to pass the frat house and Katie’s apartment but it’s late and I’m tired. I park the car in front of the Homewood Suites and get my suitcase out of the back seat. I pull my coat on and button it up. I always forget that it’s ten degrees colder here than in Phillie, guaranteed. I’m shivering as I push through the revolving doors into the lobby.

I can’t sleep in my room so I turn the TV on and the lights off and lay there on top of the bedspread thinking of the page in the Worst Case Survival Guide Handbook about dirty hotels. It had a diagram of a typical hotel room in which everything that should not be touched was highlighted red. It included the toilet, the shower, the sink, the doorknobs, the carpet, the remote control, the drapes, the alarm clock, the switches on the light and the lamps, and of course, the bed.

In the morning, I switch the TV off and get in the shower. I can’t remember if the shower curtain was highlighted red, but I still touch it. I blow-dry my hair and pull on the dress. I put on the high heels, and then switch them for flats so I can walk in the grass. I look in the mirror. I remember Thomson’s date telling me how much I look like my brother. I don’t see it. I pack the suitcase, put on the coat, and check out.

* * *


I sit in the car outside the church for a while. I’m early at first, and then on time, and then borderline late. More cars are still showing up. I never wanted to go to this anyway, but he asked. The heat is blasting and my lips feel chapped.

“******** it,” I say.

I turn the car off and get out, slamming the door and locking it behind me. I stuff my hands into my pockets and hurry inside as my breath condenses before me. I don’t pause to remember being a dragon on cold mornings at the bus stop.

I try to sit in the back, but Mary sees me and waves me up to their pew near the front. Her lips are curled in tight and her eyes are red. Morrissey leans forward with his elbows on his knees and chin on his hands looking straight forward.

Mary nods and I nod back. I don’t ask her about work or about the baby and she doesn’t ask me about school. I sit there and fold my hands and then take off my coat and hold it in my lap as we stare at the coffin in front of us.

That’s all I do the entire service. I sit there and stare at the polished wood and the colors of the flag. And then we’re standing and they’re carrying Thomson out and we’re all following.

* * *


My car has a magnetic purple flag on its roof and I wait until the parking lot is nearly empty to follow the procession. I can start to feel my heart cracking open so I focus on keeping my right wheel exactly on the white line. I maintain the speed limit to the mile per hour. I crack the window. I pull up to the cemetery.

Somehow, I end up standing next to Morrissey. Mary’s not beside him. He looks at me. He’s still six foot six and he’s still big enough to make anyone else look small, but all I can think is that he looks gray.

“He asked you to come, didn’t he?” he asks. He looks like he might cry. I hope he doesn’t.

I nod. “He’s still over there.”

He nods. “Yeah. And for a while.”

* * *


When I got to the building where they were holding the ball, I couldn’t tell which one was my brother. They were all dressed in blue and wearing swords. All of their heads were buzzed down to the skin. I tried to examine their faces, but only when my brother jogged up to me with his arms open for a hug could I recognize him.

“You gotta watch this,” he said. “We’ve been working on it all morning.”

He steered me over to a folding chair in the middle of the room and I watched as all of them marched in step, some of them carrying flags in special flag-carrying-belts and others carrying muskets, which as he told me later, had the barrels filled in so they couldn’t be fired.

They marched in careful formation until they reached the center of the room and then one of them produced a laminated card from his pocket and read a commemorative birthday message off of it. His jacket was too large on him and his sword-belt was on was tight, so it made the uniform look almost feminine the way it pulled the fabric. One of the midshipmen was a half step behind all the rest and another was always a second faster. They reminded me of a third grade talent show. None of them cracked a smile.

When it was finished, my brother ran over and asked me if I was impressed. I told him that I was and dutifully did not laugh.

* * *


Morrissey and I stand together in the cold as the flag is folded.

“With the red and the blue showing,” my brother once told me. “We screwed it up the first time we did it and had to read the part about the stars and the stripes being evident even though all we had showing was the stripes.”

These marines get it right. I’m glad. Thomson’s mother doesn’t seem like the type who would smile if they messed it up the way Thomson and my brother did.

Morrissey folds his hands behind his back and attempts a smile. Then he tries to mold his face into the dutiful look the marines are wearing. Neither works.

They lower Thomson down. Morrissey shakes my hand. “It was nice of you to come,” he says. “Tell Josh we’re thinking of him.”

“I will,” I say. His hand is too large for mine and his grip is too light. He walks away to find Mary. I look around. Thomson’s girlfriend isn’t here. They must not have stayed together. Neither is Captain Weed. I doubt he has a good reason not to be there. ******** him. ******** Captain Weed and his ******** stupid a** name.

I walk back to my car. It’s not ******** funny and it never ******** was.

I sit down and yank the door shut and hit the lock button and stick the key in the ignition but never bother turning it. I put my head on the wheel and let the tears come, hot and salty and dripping down my nose and into my lap. I let my chest heave up and down while my nose stuffs up until I can only breathe through my mouth. I stop myself. I take a tissue and blot my face and pick up a water bottle from the floor in front of the passenger seat and take a sip. It’s cold. It’s been in the car for weeks.

I drive through the gates and onto the highway. After sixteen miles, it’s four o’clock, and I pull over into a Dunkin Donuts and call him.

“Yeah, it was a nice service,” I assure him. “Happy to go for you. I miss you. I love you.”
He has to go because the guy in line behind him needs to call his wife. I hang up and get back on 83 and drive back to school. I put on the radio and reassure myself that there is some great cause motivating this, that this is not waste, that I’ll get a call next week, and the week after that, and the week after that, but knowing all along that there’s always the chance that all the wishes on birthday candles were worthless, the assurances were moot, and he’ll be the next one laid out under that flag.
Anne Greene
This one is called Empty Smiles -

Seasons come and seasons go,
Days go by and years go slow.
Silent sounds fill the night,
As darkened angel wings take flight.
Corruption and regret fill the day.
The pain can all be willed away,
But these wounds won't seem to heal.
No one understands the pain I feel.
Whispered voices at my ear
Tell me things I don't want to hear.
The truth drives me insane,
My soul can't take this pain.
It may heal, but it will take a while,
But for now I'll continue with an empty smile.


I don't know much about poetry, but I'll give critique a shot.

The content of the poem is a little typical (rough times, depression), but it's done in a way that shows real effort. You have rhyme and a fairly consistent meter. What could improve it is if you used unexpected imagery and language. "Darkened angel wings," for example. I've heard it before. The same with "no one understands the pain I feel." If you rephrased these lines in a more creative way, it would take your poem to a new level. One of my profs has an exercise which I think could really help you. Try rewriting your poem (you can ignore rhyme and verse here) without using any of the same phrases. You have to find a new way to say "Days go by and years go slow." Do this five times, each time working off the copy you just wrote. Obviously these won't be structured as beautifully as this version is, but it can really help to generate new ideas since you're forced to say things in an atypical way.

I hope this helps. If I wasn't clear, just ask me what I meant and I'll try to explain.
The Solarised Night
NO WING; YOU'RE NOT ALLOWED twisted

So I started something but I'm not sure how to finish it. It is really drafty and needs a lot of work so why doesn't someone take a stab at it and make some suggestions?


Virtual Obsession
With excess freedom comes an endless void. Sometimes the absence is only temporary; other times it can manifest into a fixed state. We are slaves of habit, and thus when the purpose of our ritualistic ways is lost, we must adapt another.

For me, it was the internet. It served to fill the developing cracks in my lifestyle by allowing me to explore and connect with the world far beyond my own. I embraced this method of entertainment and communication willingly. It no longer mattered that I was in a small, desolate town; I always had someone to talk to online.

In the schoolyard, I was the prey of countless students. Threatening glares pierced my flesh where ever I walked; there was nowhere to escape from the torment. The same cluster of boys would stalk me to all my classes, and breathe derogatory threats in my ear. The longer I pretended to be oblivious, the more fiercely they pushed. When online, I always had an escape. If someone became vicious or cruel, I could simply hit those handy little buttons: block and delete. I never had to carry a knife in my purse in this fantasy world. No one could hurt me here.

Before long, the glaring white screen became of paramount importance. I never wanted to leave my pixelated friends; they were the only ones who cared about me. My whole life became absorbed into the omnipresent monitor, and I no longer cared about my physical form. All that mattered was that my avatar looked perfect.

I’d click away at the keys long into to the night, until I could no longer decipher meaning from the blurred walls of text. Often, in bed, I stared at the ceiling and watched the aftermath like a strobing rave. The screen burnt patterns into my retinas; they flickered behind my eyelids for hours before I could sleep. It seemed normal to me.

The more days that passed, the more became numb and unconscious to the real world. My eyes remained open, but they did not see; I didn’t register the full extent of my surroundings. My hand was programmed to move the mouse back and forth. The reflex to collect falling gold on a virtual game is hardwired into my mind, yet my lips had forgotten how to smile. When did illusion become stronger than reality?

I became so absorbed into this new life, that I lost touch with what it meant to live. I forgot the importance of eating, and that of sleep. Sometimes I forgot to shower, or to brush my teeth.
“What’s the point?” I’d ask myself, “I am isolated and alone; no one is going to see that I haven’t shaved my legs in weeks.”

One day while typing to a friend, I jolted back to consciousness. My head throbbed like a hang over after a bad binge. The sight of the computer made me feel ill; I couldn’t stand it anymore. I stood up, and walked away; my legs felt like rubber, as they tried to reacquaint themselves with motion.

As I walked over to the full length mirror, it reflected something unrecognisable. My waistline crept up a size, my clothes were littered across the floor, and the dishes were piled high. I was dumb-struck like a stunned mullet plucked from the sea. I struggled to process the information.
“What the hell has happened to me?”

I turned to the dishes. Flecks of butter chicken were caked along the surface of the bottom bowl; I didn’t remember eating that.
“Am I so removed from reality that I don’t even remember what I ate last night?” I asked with a frown. I quickly scrambled for my phone. My question was answered by a glance at the date and time.
Where did two months go?


I think this piece has the potential to be really interesting. The topic is fresh. I haven't read a bazillion stories with the same basic narrative. You choose good, specific details to create the world your character inhabits. Some examples, the butter chicken, not shaving her legs, and the way the screen feels burnt into her eyes. You also have a great vocabulary here. I loved the phrases "omnipresent monitor" and "derogatory threats."

Next, some proofing errors.

"wherever" not "where ever"
"long into" not "long into to"
"the more became numb and unconscious to the real world" -> reword this
"hangover" not "hang over"

You mentioned you didn't know how to end this. When I got the paragraph where your narrator is talking about not shaving her legs or caring about her appearance, I thought it would be interesting if it took a turn for the surreal and somehow she fades away from the physical world and becomes her avatar. Just a weird idea, though. Anyhow, I do agree that this needs a conclusion. I think the narrator needs to choose one world: the Internet or the physical world. Maybe she could venture back into the real world and find it still unsatisfactory and immerse herself once again online. Or, she could realize what she's been missing.

Content aside, I think you have a pacing issue. The opening paragraphs that introduce what your narrator is about to go through all are about the same length which makes it less interesting to read. Maybe you could go really in depth and detail-heavy in some of the paragraphs, and more concise in others?

My last comment is that I think your opening paragraph needs to tie in better to the rest of your piece. You refer to a lot of vague concepts like "fixed state" and "ritualistic ways" which could really work if you bring them in later in the story.
WTDH Mule
The day goes by

The day goes by,
One minute sun, the next moon;
Petals close and the trees cry.

Morning; flowers open and sigh;
Open-minded and young, but soon
The day will go by.

Noon; growing is the rye;
Up towards the sun's friendly croon
But petals will close and the trees will cry.

Evening; trees lift branches high,
Though darkness begins to loom
Since the day is going by.

Twilight; the end is nigh;
Foliage starts to wilt and swoon,
And petals close and the trees cry.

Night; it's time to say good bye;
Was once standing; but quickly prone
The day went by;
The petals have closed and the trees have cried.


This is one of the nicest poems I've read on Gaia. The structure is nice, the rhyme works, the meter is good. I just have one question about it. You write in the second line of the second stanza "open-minded and young" which made me think you were comparing the cycles of nature to a person growing up. When I read it over again, I can see that this reading still works, but it's a little too vague. If this is what you were going for, I think you could throw in more references to human things, like open-mindedness, into the rest of the poem. If not, maybe change the line "open-minded and young.'
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piggg
The Solarised Night
NO WING; YOU'RE NOT ALLOWED twisted

So I started something but I'm not sure how to finish it. It is really drafty and needs a lot of work so why doesn't someone take a stab at it and make some suggestions?


Virtual Obsession
With excess freedom comes an endless void. Sometimes the absence is only temporary; other times it can manifest into a fixed state. We are slaves of habit, and thus when the purpose of our ritualistic ways is lost, we must adapt another.

For me, it was the internet. It served to fill the developing cracks in my lifestyle by allowing me to explore and connect with the world far beyond my own. I embraced this method of entertainment and communication willingly. It no longer mattered that I was in a small, desolate town; I always had someone to talk to online.

In the schoolyard, I was the prey of countless students. Threatening glares pierced my flesh where ever I walked; there was nowhere to escape from the torment. The same cluster of boys would stalk me to all my classes, and breathe derogatory threats in my ear. The longer I pretended to be oblivious, the more fiercely they pushed. When online, I always had an escape. If someone became vicious or cruel, I could simply hit those handy little buttons: block and delete. I never had to carry a knife in my purse in this fantasy world. No one could hurt me here.

Before long, the glaring white screen became of paramount importance. I never wanted to leave my pixelated friends; they were the only ones who cared about me. My whole life became absorbed into the omnipresent monitor, and I no longer cared about my physical form. All that mattered was that my avatar looked perfect.

I’d click away at the keys long into to the night, until I could no longer decipher meaning from the blurred walls of text. Often, in bed, I stared at the ceiling and watched the aftermath like a strobing rave. The screen burnt patterns into my retinas; they flickered behind my eyelids for hours before I could sleep. It seemed normal to me.

The more days that passed, the more became numb and unconscious to the real world. My eyes remained open, but they did not see; I didn’t register the full extent of my surroundings. My hand was programmed to move the mouse back and forth. The reflex to collect falling gold on a virtual game is hardwired into my mind, yet my lips had forgotten how to smile. When did illusion become stronger than reality?

I became so absorbed into this new life, that I lost touch with what it meant to live. I forgot the importance of eating, and that of sleep. Sometimes I forgot to shower, or to brush my teeth.
“What’s the point?” I’d ask myself, “I am isolated and alone; no one is going to see that I haven’t shaved my legs in weeks.”

One day while typing to a friend, I jolted back to consciousness. My head throbbed like a hang over after a bad binge. The sight of the computer made me feel ill; I couldn’t stand it anymore. I stood up, and walked away; my legs felt like rubber, as they tried to reacquaint themselves with motion.

As I walked over to the full length mirror, it reflected something unrecognisable. My waistline crept up a size, my clothes were littered across the floor, and the dishes were piled high. I was dumb-struck like a stunned mullet plucked from the sea. I struggled to process the information.
“What the hell has happened to me?”

I turned to the dishes. Flecks of butter chicken were caked along the surface of the bottom bowl; I didn’t remember eating that.
“Am I so removed from reality that I don’t even remember what I ate last night?” I asked with a frown. I quickly scrambled for my phone. My question was answered by a glance at the date and time.
Where did two months go?


I think this piece has the potential to be really interesting. The topic is fresh. I haven't read a bazillion stories with the same basic narrative. You choose good, specific details to create the world your character inhabits. Some examples, the butter chicken, not shaving her legs, and the way the screen feels burnt into her eyes. You also have a great vocabulary here. I loved the phrases "omnipresent monitor" and "derogatory threats."

Next, some proofing errors.

"wherever" not "where ever"
"long into" not "long into to"
"the more became numb and unconscious to the real world" -> reword this
"hangover" not "hang over"

You mentioned you didn't know how to end this. When I got the paragraph where your narrator is talking about not shaving her legs or caring about her appearance, I thought it would be interesting if it took a turn for the surreal and somehow she fades away from the physical world and becomes her avatar. Just a weird idea, though. Anyhow, I do agree that this needs a conclusion. I think the narrator needs to choose one world: the Internet or the physical world. Maybe she could venture back into the real world and find it still unsatisfactory and immerse herself once again online. Or, she could realize what she's been missing.

Content aside, I think you have a pacing issue. The opening paragraphs that introduce what your narrator is about to go through all are about the same length which makes it less interesting to read. Maybe you could go really in depth and detail-heavy in some of the paragraphs, and more concise in others?

My last comment is that I think your opening paragraph needs to tie in better to the rest of your piece. You refer to a lot of vague concepts like "fixed state" and "ritualistic ways" which could really work if you bring them in later in the story.

Thanks Pigg. This helps a lot. I'll let you know when I conclude it so it can be looked over again.
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Lonely Prophet

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madametrixie
There's a princess in a tower. But just wait. This isn't your typical fairy tale. Our princess's tower isn't one of stone guarded by a dragon. Rather, it is a tower that she built herself out of thousands of blocks of ivory. As to the guard? For this princess, only her own insecurities. They are positioned around the entire tower to keep everyone away from their princess. After all, they might hurt her.

Her sanctuary is the tower. Here she can hide; here, no one can harm her. Her only companions are her writings. Pure white sheets of paper with jet black ink, so much safer than the gray of the outside world. Not even her guards are allowed to gaze at these. If the eyes of anyone but their princess were to even glance at them, they would surely burst into flames.

A storm rages outside the tower. Lightning crackles and thunder rumbles in the distance. The princess doubles her guards and huddles in a dark corner of her tower. She is safe inside. The storm cannot hurt her. She repeats this to herself over and over as she clutches her sheaf of papers to her chest.

The storm comes closer to the tower. It ravages all of the surrounding countryside, laying waste to the farms, houses, schools, and hospitals. The clouds gather even closer. Lightning strikes the tower, reducing it to nothing but rubble. The guards are all dead. Only the princess and her writings are left.

The princess picks herself up from the ruins of her ivory tower, leaving the dead bodies of her guards behind, her head held high.

I like the idea of this story. There are several places where you can add detail to make it more interesting. You could describe the princess, like what she looks like. Also, at the end, the princess walks away from the tower; where is she going? Does she take her writing with her? Adding details like these make your piece more interesting and leaves the reader with less questions.
"She is safe inside. The storm cannot hurt her." I think this part should be in quotations and written as the princess herself is saying them. It makes the reader feel more in the scene with your character.
I hope this helps. wink
You are all fantastic! This is coming out so much better than I hoped. I'm updating the front page with all these pieces and crits now.
Kivery5
madametrixie
There's a princess in a tower. But just wait. This isn't your typical fairy tale. Our princess's tower isn't one of stone guarded by a dragon. Rather, it is a tower that she built herself out of thousands of blocks of ivory. As to the guard? For this princess, only her own insecurities. They are positioned around the entire tower to keep everyone away from their princess. After all, they might hurt her.

Her sanctuary is the tower. Here she can hide; here, no one can harm her. Her only companions are her writings. Pure white sheets of paper with jet black ink, so much safer than the gray of the outside world. Not even her guards are allowed to gaze at these. If the eyes of anyone but their princess were to even glance at them, they would surely burst into flames.

A storm rages outside the tower. Lightning crackles and thunder rumbles in the distance. The princess doubles her guards and huddles in a dark corner of her tower. She is safe inside. The storm cannot hurt her. She repeats this to herself over and over as she clutches her sheaf of papers to her chest.

The storm comes closer to the tower. It ravages all of the surrounding countryside, laying waste to the farms, houses, schools, and hospitals. The clouds gather even closer. Lightning strikes the tower, reducing it to nothing but rubble. The guards are all dead. Only the princess and her writings are left.

The princess picks herself up from the ruins of her ivory tower, leaving the dead bodies of her guards behind, her head held high.

I like the idea of this story. There are several places where you can add detail to make it more interesting. You could describe the princess, like what she looks like. Also, at the end, the princess walks away from the tower; where is she going? Does she take her writing with her? Adding details like these make your piece more interesting and leaves the reader with less questions.
"She is safe inside. The storm cannot hurt her." I think this part should be in quotations and written as the princess herself is saying them. It makes the reader feel more in the scene with your character.
I hope this helps. wink

Honestly, I felt that it doesn't matter where the princess is going. The point was that she was leaving. I agree with the other stuff though. Am I allowed to edit it?
As much and as often as you'd like up till the deadline.
The Love Mutt
Simmons College for an MSW is my 2nd choice.

First choice is Lesley University, for an MA in Expressive Therapies (hopefully, namely in writing and drama therapy). I'm actually currently taking a course there and it's already broadened my horizons, expanded my thinking, and raised my own confidence in theatre. Clearly, I'm a little bit in love. xD.

"The truth is that the best ideas are often psychotic, obscene and unoriginal." - Johnstone.

Sounds like fun. Are you looking at a 2 or 3 year program?
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The Love Mutt
Simmons College for an MSW is my 2nd choice.

First choice is Lesley University, for an MA in Expressive Therapies (hopefully, namely in writing and drama therapy). I'm actually currently taking a course there and it's already broadened my horizons, expanded my thinking, and raised my own confidence in theatre. Clearly, I'm a little bit in love. xD.

"The truth is that the best ideas are often psychotic, obscene and unoriginal." - Johnstone.

Sounds like fun. Are you looking at a 2 or 3 year program?


2 year, most likely. Unless I find out halfway through that working part-time just isn't cutting it, in which case I could extend to 3 years. XD But I'd rather just pump through it.

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