The scented invitation on the wind knocking your senses is a great image. I question the use of “suicidal” here, as opposed to something like “the executioner’s noose”. The rest of the writing seems to show contrast between the world out side being somewhat unwelcoming and the bouquet offering a soft distraction. The “suicidal” word seems to distract from the rest. Although contrast and conflict can be a useful tool, here, I think it doesn’t truly add. The tactile sense at the ending is really well played. Great job.
@4StarViewMusic that was a really valuable feedback. I really liked the
suicidal knot but I agree that it doesn’t feel in the right place. I can use it somewhere else though. that’s the power of object writing
I know we all see things differently, and I like the “suicidal knot” as well, just here it seems to distract from the overall sense of the piece. Definitely use it in something else, maybe one where internal conflict is leading, verses the internal/external conflict. We are all here to help each other (and that being said, also be confident in what you write. If you think it works, don’t let us talk you out of it )
Love’s hourglass ticked away. Each velvet grain riding indecisively back and forth through the air to its chosen resting place. The stems bowed pleadingly with each day. I hold back my wild snarl. I will not forgive her. Yet, they are there—out. Memories remain like remnants of a cheap sticker. I grab them before they protest. They do not get to choose their resting place. I ring their dry, shriveled necks in my hand; they fight back, stabbing me. They beg and plead for me not to bury them as they hang over a death’s abyss. The grave beneath them reeks of banana peels, apple cores, and mango skins. I ignore their cries and bury them. As they fall, they take the shackles with them and I feel light, light as a petal on the wind.
I, like 4starviewmusic, like the picture snapping time and time again. I don’t think you need to add the portion after it “a clock counting down…” because it almost tells what was already shown with the camera.
I do think there is more opportunity to show a bit more than telling. For example, I think “slight discomfort”, “fragrance fills my nose”, “majestically flows to the ground” give you opportunities to really utilize our senses by showing. The elixir you can taste in the bitters for cocktails was a good example that brought me to both a sense of smell but also kind of nostalgia.
Good job overall!
The metaphor of the bouquet to the hourglass is super impressive. The petals being the sand and ticking down is a wonderful image. The contrast of the pleading petals with the protagonist’s resentment is a great tension building technique. The thorns fighting back is a good use of personification, and brings in the tactile sense as well. A subtle comment: I feel like scrapping “a” before “death’s abyss” would be a little stronger, more finality. I love the ending where you bring it full cycle back to flower, and release the tension by being at ease. Great work!
The tall stems sway to the time of the wind, and nature’s fireworks dazzle my eyes. The sweet cacophony of smells draw me in like a hummingbird to drink in each flower one by one. Wilting, crumbling petals remind me that this precious living gift will inevitably expire. I must act now, palms and back sweating, to discover if my feelings are requited.
I like the hummingbird being drawn closer simile, and drink is a nice verb in that context. You could have made the palms and back sweating more sensory perhaps, although saying that sweating does seem to be a particularly visceral verb on its own. Well done for getting back into it!
Tumbling yet frozen in midair all eyes on the prize. An old tradition rooted in suspicion and magic but still believed by the crowd of sweaty anxious souls pushing up against one another palm sides stiff arming blocking views of the potent symbol of “Me next” the same attitude can be felt in waves emanating off the bridesmaids in their sort of ugly dresses designed to make the wearer look less than the bride but right now they only care about being brides to be
crinkling plastic sheath houses a stem ridden with thorns like a thousand small cuts drawn gently and placed in a vase of lukewarm water still bubbling from the tap. the rising pitch as the glass fills and your face distorts like a funhouse mirror warping our bodies, kettle corn trail drawing us close to a metal drum that bangs like a marching band snare as popcorn kernels ricochet off the tin, dinging, salt rubbed into the wound on my lip sizzles crystallized sugar leaves micro abrasions on the roof of my mouth. like cuts from paper thin petals pastel yellows i used to chew like tobacco my back teeth stained
The crimson roses suspended time at the apex of flight. As quickly as they flew up, they nosedived just as fast. I was not there to prick my finger from the impact. I was not there to have warm blood percolate on my skin. I was not there. I was somewhere else with some man without a petals satin touch. I was somewhere else with some man who did not intoxicate with fragranced morning bloom. I was there with a man whose never been entranced with the roses dark smile and seen his own blood spread thin on the thorn. I was with a man who could not fall closer to the ground. As that band of roses thudded on the laminate floor, I was not there to fall in love.
hi k_o , I really like the imagery you have in this. You start off strong with an auditory and visual image of the plastic sheath on flowers, and this strong imagery you carry out through the paragraph. I love the use of poetic technique such as simile and alliteration. (I definitely can learn from you in this regard!). Because these images are so strong, I suggest (super nitpicky) playing around with their meaning to carry the paragraph. I am just getting a lot of images strung together in one sentence.
thank you ;_; i just start writing and “let (my) senses drive the bus” as pat pattison says. the poetic technique is mostly subconscious—i should hone it more. i love yours, the hazy narrative drew me in. it can be hard to balance story and color. i think my feedback is a mirror of yours, it felt emotional but i didn’t ‘see’ much after the first half. (if you care, i was in the backyard of my childhood home. a sycamore tree canopied the wooden deck and ‘nosedive’ is how i saw the seeds spinning. as for the man, i saw magritte’s ‘the son of man’.)
pick a fallen magnolia petal of the countertop and fold it in half. pull from the center til the wet velvet flesh gives way under pressure like a salamander’s skin, its blood is the florida-honey scented moisture on my fingertips. i look up from my imagined kill, my gaze meets those graffiti sprays of color in the vase before me. we gathered the flowers illegally this afternoon from protected land, humped through the jungle on the hunt armed with garden shears and t-shirts tied into baskets on our shoulders. returned home with our bounty which we de-bugged, pruned, arranged with care. swamp lillies white and purple intertwined with magnolias, their branches sprouting dark green leaves like absinthe framing hot orange gasps of foxglove. i watch a deer tick we missed find its way from foxglove bud then across the black satin ribbon tied round the whole bunch. AC blows from overhead onto my knees and into my heart wafts the smells of wild fickle honey, bleeding jasmine, and the sweaty day we squandered away far from electricity or engine.
the smell from the pedals attracts the bees but the smell from the stem is a cry for help, a silent scream released as a last defense mechanism before a beautiful thing is taken from its home for the enjoyment of a human. a human will smell the pedals, but bees aren’t allowed in their house. so begins the short cycle of drinking water until you’ve withered too much to do so anymore. so begins the short cycle of being looked at in clear water in a clear glass behind a clear window but clearly you are not open to the eyes of them. whatever is open will slowly close and the smell of the pedals will mix with the smell of kitchen scraps and leftovers.
It’s a cold, blustery February afternoon in Manchester. Im staring at my beat up nikes. Pacing clumsily. I am trying to walk like a normal human but I can’t find my balance. I never can. Not when I’m like this. My stomach is dancing. My throat is trying to suffocate itself and my tongue sticking to the roof of my mouth. My hands tremble rapidly as I clutch the smooth plastic wrap which has now become warm and slippery from the sweat that is somehow forming from my frozen fingers and palms. The scents from the roses and freshly cut stalks escape the cold wind trying to steal them away and make it all the way to my nostrils. Reminding me again of why I’m doing this. It’s my only chance.