Drowning.

Water gurgles with a splashing scoosh. Scoosh is not a word, I know, I know. Rap on the knuckles, mister, wear the dunce hat now. Laugh and smile. Lord in heaven how my cheeks hurt from smiling. The water gurgles still, scoosh, scoosh, it sings, a flush of droplets raining down to die on porcelain.

Can water die? They say it can’t. Who they are, I never know, but they seem to say everything that is worth saying. Then again, what is worth when there’s no one listening? Is someone listening? One never knows when the water is running, the noise drowns sound. Perhaps not. It crackles and falls into pieces, small, deliberate pieces that soak and choke along the ground until they're ripped back up into the clouds. Clouds… I wonder about clouds. How they change and grumble way up high. And when it rains! How those clouds swell and pout until their tears touch earth. Such a colour, those clouds. As if God has beaten them for lingering too long. Lord God has no temper, but sense. Those clouds lie dormant and soulless, flitting and flirting along the blue-boy skies. He takes them in hand. He takes us all in hand.

I think a pipe is broken. The water sprays a spyssh, dotting the ground, flooding the ground, pounding the ground. Pound, pound, pound. How does the ground feel to be broken so? Not that it breaks. The ground never breaks. Maybe gives a little, wears away in the onslaught. But never breaks. People break. They're nothing like the ground. Oh, they give a little; let their soft flesh bruise like the clouds God deforms, let the red marks of fingertips waste away their smooth colours. But they take little more to break.

It's never clean. The ground. Or the break.

The breaks seethe with mess - a fornication of disease. And the ground writhes with disgust at the feet that slipper it. Snap, snap, crack. Breaks are beautiful things. Like the curve of porcelain on the skin of the palm, kissing white. Kissing knight. If you kissed the Queen on the chess board, would she yawn her great lips and touch her scepter to your tongue? No, no, for she is the Queen and the Queen does not touch.

Touch me, touch her. Touch him, touch them. Can you touch?

Touch.

Say it too many times and it looks wrong. Touchtouchtouchtouch. They never touch. While white plays black, the Queen is never tired, and the water splashes on.

But it never does touch.

(This is meant to be a stream-of-consciousness piece, using a stimulus image. Kylan's contests rawk)

I really really liked this, and for a short piece (I assume you are not going to be adding anything else???) it works really well. You said it was a stream of conciousness piece but it also sounded very poetic, it flowed really well and I really enjoyed.

Well done

Meevs
x

This was a very good piece. I have to admit that I'm not very good with stream of consciousness, but I will try my best. The piece did flow together, there was nothing that was really out of place or anything. I didn't see any spelling or grammar errors, so that's good.

The water sprays a spyssh, dotting the ground, flooding the ground, pounding the ground.

I like the word spyssh. It's completely random, but perfect onomatopoeia.

That's about all that I can see. It is a nice little piece, that fits perfectly as it is. I hope you do well in the contest.

Great story. Flows together peacefully. Not my thing but its a good story. Really makes you think. Does water die? Who ever said it doesn't live like the rest of us. Flowing through life. One day it may see the Eiffel Tower and the next day it could see the Hollywood Walk of Fame. Possibilities are endless. I know I'm taking it far out of context. Great story though.

Hehe. Hello Pingu.

Rap on the knuckles, mister, wear the dunce hat now.

I assume this refers to God but this bit stuck me as kind of odd. I think it's because you haven't defined as to who you are talking to. I'm thinking that you should reposition this so that it doesn't seem like it's hanging by itself.

Laugh and smile. Lord in heaven how my cheeks hurt from smiling. The water gurgles still, scoosh, scoosh, it sings, a flush of droplets raining down to die on porcelain.

I quite like this and your word choices. It does well in creating a sort of hyperactive attitude within the narrator.

I think a pipe is broken. The water sprays a spyssh, dotting the ground, flooding the ground, pounding the ground. Pound, pound, pound. How does the ground feel to be broken so? Not that it breaks. The ground never breaks. Maybe gives a little, wears away in the onslaught. But never breaks. People break. They're nothing like the ground. Oh, they give a little; let their soft flesh bruise like the clouds God deforms, let the red marks of fingertips waste away their smooth colours. But they take little more to break.


It's never clean. The ground. Or the break.

I think this bit is probably the highlight of the piece for me. I can pretty much associate this with concrete jungles like that back in my homeland. From my experiences, the roads are pretty worn out but still holds strong in spite of the hectic traffic that happens in the city. However, some of the people that I see on the streets look rather solemn or unhappy whereas compared to NZ where there is a sense of life in them. When it rains where I once used to live, it just adds to this emotion that I felt. It makes me wonder if the scenery in a country is important or whether its the attitudes of its people.

The breaks seethe with mess - a fornication of disease. And the ground writhes with disgust at the feet that slipper it. Snap, snap, crack. Breaks are beautiful things.

Love it. It exactly describes the feeling that I get with concrete jungles like Hong Kong.

Overall impressions:

Well what can I say? I can pretty much relate to this piece because of my past. I like how you used the idea of rain to create a contrast of ideas. The narrator views rain in a rather happy and hyperactive way whereas it also shows contrast in that others may not view rain in the same way because of their attitudes. I think I sympathized for the character because she doesn't seem to belong where she lives. Her persona doesn't seem to be acknowledged from what I've gathered.

The only flaw that I'd found with the piece would probably be the chess piece idea. With Lord God, it says "He takes them in hand. He takes us all in hand" whereas for the chess piece idea, it says "They never touch. While white plays black, the Queen is never tired, and the water splashes on."
I get the God idea, but I don't get what's the queen referring to. There's a difference in ideas here, but it isn't fully clear as to what there is a difference in. As a result, it seems more like a contradiction of an idea rather than establishing contrast.

But anyway, I liked this piece and I think you deserve a gold star.

I hope my review helped Pingu.

Andy.

Excellent.

I really liked this peice of exquisite work.



It is very easy to read and understand, and also very interesting.

Well Done x.