thanks for the honest critique. I think one of my biggest obstacles is that I love clarity, so I often feel the pull to clearly sum up what I’m saying, which can certainly work against “show, don’t tell.”
I will work on that, thank you. 
Clouds have weepy eyes on a day like today, a day in May in the Northwest. I grasp the handle of my umbrella, round and thick in my hand like the bottle of wine I plan on consuming this evening. Stepping into my boots, I stroll out to my porch, meandering down the steps, one, two, three, four and begin my walk. My hands work in tandem, sliding up the shaft of the umbrella, waiting to hear the click. The rain dances on the green fabric, tiny dancers pitter pattering while I stomp through every puddle I see. The Ponderosa Pine and Douglas Firs shower, releasing their scent into the world, filling my nostrils as I walk down the rocky path. Salt water is taffy in my mouth as the Olympics stand tall in their place, peering down at me as I navigate this beach walk. The path is wet, but I am dry. My umbrella creates a shield and takes in the daily dose of water. A rare sight for a Seattleite to be holding an umbrella, but nonetheless, here we are.
3 Likes
This is really good! the handle being like a bottle of wine for later, the dancing rain drops and the scent of the trees being released from the rain. Some very lovely sensory stuff throughout.
My only critique would be (and we all go through this) is the Telling of things like this
like how do your boots feel on your feet? are they wet or a little to tight or loose? Or maybe your steps creak as you walk down each one, like an introduction to the soundtrack of your walk.
long story short, show me what your boots or porch or steps are. To know that there is 4 steps is alright but it doesn’t pull me in.
1 Like
Thanks for all the great feedback y’all! I appreciate it!
Well done on getting all five of the senses in there - that deserves a special mention! The smell of the Douglas firs in the rain on the rocky path really brings it to life for me. Great critique from @Tofu4 in picking out the weaker line, but generally great stuff in here well done!
The battered trunk lying in the depths of the wardrobe was shedding its pale green colour, trapped musty air rushed to take its last breath as I forcibly opened the jammed box, revealing the treasures of my grandfather. One of which was this black umbrella, it’s once brown glossy handle, now riddled with scratches, the proud shaft that carried the weight of my grandfather is crooked. He would always carry it with him, clanking the metal edge to the ground as he strutted through the neighbourhood.
1 Like
Hey this is great! a very different perspective from just using the umbrella when it’s raining and instead having it be a meaningful family heirloom. the musty air rushing for its last breath gives life to the battered old trunk. good job!
Hey there Homesh! Some nice stuff in here. The fading colour of the trunk is a very visceral, sensory-based description. As I read the writing on this site, as well as my own, I often find myself thinking “what can I get rid of to make this tighter”. Little bits like “one of which was”, which is telling us something, can probably go, you could just start that sentence with “a black umbrella” and it will pack more of a punch. But overall great work and as @Tofu4 says the air rushing in is particularly strong!
Translucent blurs streak downward as the clouds weep. I wield my arching shield, defending myself from the onslaught. I fumble, juggling around the barriers to the outside world as I search a small ashen cloth from my cavernous pocket. Autofocus fails momentarily as I polish smooth, damp glass. Sharp lines soften as if tears on ink and the world disagrees on plurality, coalescing into a smooth chaotic mess. Petrichor flows into the vacuum, filling what was lost, seeping into me. I shut out the world and invite it in. My chest rises as I welcome it; my palate cooling as I accept it.
3 Likes
This is a very sharp and concise piece of writing, every word is serving a purpose, and filled with sensory detail. The wiping of the glasses especially, which transports us directly into your point of view of this scene, and is a really clever device to let us feel the colour rushing into the vacuum - excellent!
1 Like
This is a beautiful read! The way you describe cleaning the water off glasses (if I’m interpreting that correctly) is awesome and is a great example of explaining a simple act without revealing what you actually mean.
I feel the wind first, it makes my hairs dance and brings sweet, pungent ozone to my nose and humidity into my lungs. The beginning of rain is next, but so light that I don’t feel any droplets fall. Condensation begins to form on my hair and jacket, so I push the button on my umbrella and feel the protective extension burst forth. The sky and surroundings darken as the I hear a muffled cacophony atop the new upward growth of my hand. As wind picks up, I splash into a shallow puddle while trying to adjust to my center of gravity being pulled to and fro. Streetlights glitter off of the reflections from the ground, guiding me back to the warm comfort of the hearth at home.
2 Likes
As an aside, feel free to introduce yourself here.
The first sentence is dripping with imagery. You have tactile, olfactory, taste, and internal physical all in one sentence. That is a good springboard to allow you to explore those senses more deeply. The umbrella bursting forth is good wording and gives us a muscle response feeling of gripping it tightly and opposing the forceful extension. The darkening of the sky is a nice visual that shows time passing. As far as the shallow puddle, that offers you more sound and tactile opportunities. You could explore feeling the water in your shoes or the sound of the splash, and make them unwelcome. The streetlight reflections as breadcrumbs leading you home is a nice touch. Well done.
Some lovely writing! You are getting the hang of engaging the senses.
This is one example, however, where I would say you are more telling us information rather than showing. What does that condensation look and feel like? The same with pressing the button, is there a way to capture that sensation?
rain falls over like the sky is weeping with me. i cringe at the sight of happy people and avoid confrontation like an umbrella avoids rain. i feel scattered like drops on today’s glass-preserved grey painting. and if i had to leave this sacred confined place, id pace in spite of the tear-spitting clouds, chilling winds, hurried ,umbrella as my armor to the very next distraction.
1 Like
Bent handle of purple umbrella. Spokes turned and rusted from years of catching rainfall offering shielding like armor for those underneath. Used, secondhand from a stately older woman given as a token to her granddaughter so she does not melt away in the constant drip drizzle Downpour of the winter fall that is plagued with clouds dark and dismal. Purple umbrella new and old.
1 Like
rain collects into small puddles in craters in the tarmac. heat absorbed and sun showers sizzle on the black asphalt. metal spikes extend an umbrella to cast a shadow over me clicking, rainbow trails of motor oil swirl in flooding water. my shoes swim, heavy with each step to pick up and place back down like treading snow covered hills as a kid. dragging a blue trashcan lid behind me. criss cross, my uneven weight shifts to the left and i flip, rolling down like a pin knocked down, wind knocked out by a bowling ball spinning on sleek oiled wood, air is cold and presses on my arm, waiting for the return. the hairs stand on my neck and small tremors. dimly lit bowling alley with drinks under an amber lit canopy poured foaming beer on tap into red solo cups. rumbling under my feet other lane
My car is loud with junk I don’t need. I contort my arm behind the seat, fumbling for an umbrella. I’m sweating just looking for this silly thing, and the velcro on my jacket is caught in my hair, and my hair is caught in my mouth, and there really is no need for an umbrella to walk into a store… and finally, the nylon rubs between my fingers and I lug the parasol over the center console. A gust of relief exhausts itself from both my lungs and car. I tear apart the velcro keeping the wings down, hold my breath, and throw the door open, quickly pressing the button to launch my umbrella up to the sky. Like a rocket it shoots up, and the wind is so strong I’m nearly blown away. There was no real use for that charade anyways. As the rain comes in parallel to the ground, I tuck away the umbrellas protective wings, spread my own towards the sky, and smile with strings of hair between my lips.
1 Like
You got nerve damage where she’d beat you with her antique umbrella. Worse than me. My welts turned inwards eventually, lost color though perhaps not saturation. But sensation was gone from the small of your back for years, did it ever heal? We called her death with his scythe, she called herself christ bearing that steel-frame spider wherever we went, regardless of natures temperament, grasping the hickory handle with its oft-polished gleam, the waxed canvas skin and its dry rustling. Do you remember how the smell of beeswax and wood lacquer would mix with her night cream? Mornings when we went to market, if you spoke too loud she’d grasp the thing upside down like a drunk yankee’s player and swing at your shoes so that hickory hook would uproot you. Do you remember how the red dust would kick up when we fell? Sometimes you’d get back up for more but I never did.
1 Like
Abandoned by our ally in the sky, the enemy naturally takes advantage of the situation. An ominous doom is felt by everyone around. Frightening graphite clouds fill the sky and suck all the colour from the surroundings. Hot, angry air encircles us, teasing the hairs on our arms and legs, shouting in our ears and scaring us with the odd pocket of icy chill. Cannonballs of water pelt us from above like savages. We are under attack. But our trusty shield ‘flips’ and ‘flaps’ aggressively in retaliation. Rainbow coloured, in contrast to the enemy, it launches the cannonballs back in the direction they came. Our saviour. Good old umbrella.
1 Like