Angels

The title's a working one. I've been told this is a bit hard to understand, but go for it. I also never write romance, so it's not my best and is barely in the genre. Anyways, thanks for taking the time to read.

First, he breathed. In and out, in and out, stabbing his lungs with a spearhead until the blood was forced out of his mouth. His throat burned as he retched.

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. The timer only increased its pace, its old-fashioned hourglass broken so that the sand spilled onto the floor. It covered the dead bluebottle, burying it with the honour of art’s sacrifice. A little bit of his heart had leaked when he killed the bluebottle. It was buried in his morality.

Breathing was wasting time, and time he did not have. He ran a finger along the tabletop, and lifted it to see it coated in dust. In this place, dust strangled life until it crawled into the shadows with the rats, to hide under the bed. Monsters dwelt there now, and moths above, where once she would have slept. Dust had clogged the lenses, the channel to his heart.

No longer. He had cleared them until it was once again apparent that the angels were dancing on the head of the pin. There were two now, a mother and a babe in her arms, who had fallen asleep to the silent waltz. The mother smiled, content, as he took the plucked bluebottle hair from her side and dipped it in gold. He was to paint her eyes.

Training the microscope on her tiny figure, he brought a grimy sleeve up to his eye and wiped away the tear that twinkled there. She had always told him that he would be the one to comfort the baby when it cried, because he had always been the one to comfort her. He had always been the one to silence her – and he had silenced the bluebottle too.

His eye was sagging in the socket, but sharp, and it searched with glee for a focus where it could look into hers. In the poor light of dusk, filtering through a slit in ragged curtains, he struggled to find the clarity to see his creation. A caricature she was, Frankenstein’s mockery of a human being, but still he looked on and drew in a steady breath. Her eyes, round circles on ivory skin, were colourless.

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

He could change that.

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

His veined hands shook as he reached towards his model. This was his final task before the bluebottle lay buried in sand, entombed, its purpose served as he laid the makeshift paintbrush to rest.

This was it.

When he finished, she would be his again. Death could not take his creations away from him, but only he from his creations, and then he would meet the real angels and they would dance with him.

Tick.

He brought the hair, tinged with gold, closer.

Tick.

Paint flowed from her empty circles like the tears he had once wiped away, but to take them now would be to smudge her beautiful face, to lose every scrap of her existence to the fickle memory.

Tick.

Circles became eyes.

Tick.

Silence became music.

Tick.

Angels danced.

Tick.

And the hourglass ran out.

Jetpack wrote:The title's a working one. I've been told this is a bit hard to understand, but go for it. I also never write romance, so it's not my best and is barely in the genre. Anyways, thanks for taking the time to read. You're very welcome. Thanks for the warning.

First, he breathed. In and out, in and out, stabbing his lungs with a spearhead Good word choice here! until the blood was forced out of his mouth. His throat burned as he retched.

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. The timer only increased its pace, its old-fashioned Darling, you don't have to say old-fashioned. It takes up too much room. And too much description makes it sound like FanFiction, or worst, Stephenie Meyer! *gasp* hourglass broken so that the sand spilled onto the floor. It covered the dead bluebottle, burying it with the honour of art’s sacrifice. Art's sacrifice? Confusion is setting in... A little bit of his heart had leaked when he killed the bluebottle. It was buried in his morality. The last line made me shudder. Very good.

Breathing was wasting time, and time he did not have. He ran a finger along the tabletop, and lifted it to see it coated in dust. In this place, dust strangled life until it crawled into the shadows with the rats, to hide under the bed. Monsters dwelt there now, and moths above, where once she would have slept. Dust had clogged the lenses, the channel to his heart. Purple prose here! Drowning in pillowness. Think more simplistic in description.

No longer. He had cleared them until it was once again apparent that the angels were dancing on the head of the pin. There were two now, a mother and a babe in her arms, who had fallen asleep to the silent waltz. The mother smiled, content, as he took the plucked bluebottle hair from her side and dipped it in gold. He was to paint her eyes.

Training the microscope on her tiny figure, he brought a grimy sleeve up to his eye and wiped away the tear that twinkled there. She had always told him that he would be the one to comfort the baby when it cried, because he had always been the one to comfort her. He had always been the one to silence her – and he had silenced the bluebottle too.

His eye was sagging in the socket, but sharp, and it searched with glee for a focus where it could look into hers. In the poor light of dusk, filtering through a slit in ragged curtains, he struggled to find the clarity to see his creation. A caricature she was, Frankenstein’s mockery of a human being, but still he looked on and drew in a steady breath. Her eyes, round circles on ivory skin, were colourless.

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

He could change that.

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

His veined hands shook as he reached towards his model. This was his final task before the bluebottle lay buried in sand, entombed, its purpose served as he laid the makeshift paintbrush to rest.

This was it.

When he finished, she would be his again. Death could not take his creations away from him, but only he from his creations, and then he would meet the real angels and they would dance with him.

Tick.

He brought the hair, tinged with gold, closer.

Tick.

Paint flowed from her empty circles like the tears he had once wiped away, but to take them now would be to smudge her beautiful face, to lose every scrap of her existence to the fickle memory.

Tick.

Circles became eyes.

Tick.

Silence became music.

Tick.

Angels danced.

Tick.

And the hourglass ran out.

I see what you mean by people getting confused. You need to replace the aynomous person with a character, fully describe the situation in plain language and tone down the purple prose. It's an intriguing situation, but you made your wording the focus, not the situation. Writers only document a character's life. We use the character's words. The character's explanations. Breathe life into the character and your story will be better.

Grade: D

Hi Jetpack!

While a bit hard to understand, as you talked about, I did rather like this story. Though, it's rather not really a story, more a short sketch of sorts. This doesn't detract from it though. In instances like this, a short length seems to make it just that much more beautiful, with maybe a sense of intricateness intertwined through the piece.

My only complaint is that it's hard to see what the correlation between the person this man lost and the angel he is putting on the pin. It think it's just as a memorial to her, but you seem to imply something deeper, since I'm getting a feeling of sadness from all of this. And it's not a relieving sadness, but a burdening one. This is a problem that I'm not sure on how to fix. Maybe change the wording so that it is a bit more uplifting, perhaps. Get a second opinion on that specific point before you do that though, as again, I'm not too sure about it.

Overall, a good story. You just need a bit of polishing before it can be great. Good job, and good luck.

-Conrad Rice

Hey, thanks for both the reviews.

deafwriter: Thanks for the feedback, but I'm not sure I can act on it without rewriting and making this completely unrecognisable. I know this is purple prose, but as Conrad Rice said, it's not really a story but just a description, or a sketch of some sort. Even so, I understand your comments and bear them in mind. I know I need to start writing some proper prose at some point.

Conrad Rice: Thanks for the review (again). You mention making it more uplifting? Well, it's not really supposed to be.

Spoiler

I was trying to imply that perhaps my MC had some involvement in her death, as well as being wracked with grief for her, so that's probably the burden you picked up on. Google the question "how many angels can dance on the head of a pin?" It's a phrase used when people are having a worthless argument, and so the MC is having a worthless argument with his conflicting grief and guilt and also with Death itself.

And yes, I realise I shouldn't have to explain. My mistake was thinking the saying on which I based this was a bit more well known. Then I got sidetracked in description, so I think the whole thing comes off a bit hazy. Still, you can see that I can't make it more uplifting, really, after all that. xD

Thanks again. And now I realise this looks like a review of myself. Never mind.

Hi there!
So I have to say it was kind of hard to understand, be careful because it can turn out to be boring.
Also you have some punctuation mistakes but they were already corrected.
I have to say it was good, but keep trying, I did enjoyed it.
Best of luck!.

Hello!
Reading that spoiler really did help clear up some things for me, but some other things remained a mystery. Obviously you knew this was going to confuse some people, and it did. Still, I enjoyed trying to work out the conflict and meanins of some particular statements and overall it was a very interesting piece to read! I've read most of your works, and found that I've really enjoyed reading them but most people havealready said what I felt like saying in their own reviews, so right now I'm letting you know how much I generally enjoy your writing. Keep it all up