[deleted]

x

Holy [expletive]

This stunned me. It was touching, and cute, sometimes, and a bit creepy (in a good way) and I really shouldn't be surprised since you're the author but I thought it was unbelievable, the way you described Marge and George especially in the beginning and the end...and the middle...I'm really sorry I have no constructive criticism, but I don't.

You get a gold star for making me cry.

Thanks so much, kissthewitch. Sorry if it depressed you. But I suppose it's fulfilled its intention then. Thankyou again.
Sarah
xxx

I wanted to be mean, because you disagreed with me on Cooper's piece

But you're too good for that.

Do you want juice?” he asks.

“No.”

“Do you want tea?”

“No.”

“Do you want some breakfast?”

“No.”

This was the only bit I didn't like. I don't think I've ever come across people talking like this; the repetition and sameness of question and response is boring. A more natural way would be:

"Do you want some juice?"

"No."

"Tea?"

"No."

"How about some breakfast, then?"

*

It just reads better in my opinion. But that's pretty much the only suggestion I have. This was very well written and executed. Great job.

Cheers

Hehe. *flails* Remind me never to disagree with you again.
Thankyou so much, Jiggity. Very much appreciated.
x

Picture Prompt 2. Enjoy!

Waiting.

Hey, Sarah. If this is picture prompt two, where's one? Or is there one?

The bed is crooked. Two hands intertwined, fingers twisted in knots like the roots of a tree. His face is a slice of oak, gnarled into an ‘O’ shape where the darkness of his mouth meets the darkness of the wood. You could count each ring and make an age, if you wanted to.

Dude, I like the whole interpretation of him being like oak. I can totally picture that.

Weak ages, when arthritis starts to creep into the bones. It crippled her like an orchid frozen in the snow. He’s been lucky enough to escape the disease, though has a weak bladder, and a dimming brain. Their minds and bodies are still ticking, though at a slower pace.

Man, I'm really liking this. It's really good. Oh, I like how you put her as a orchid in snow. Very cool.

She wears an old-fashioned nightgown and he wears faded blue pyjamas. The window is open and the door is locked. The phone and radio are silent, unplugged. It’s been three hours and still nothing has happened.

I have to ask, how is it old-fashioned? What does it look like?

“No.” Marge saps her lips in a decisive manner. “Magnolia’s nice. Makes me feel at home.”

Wow. I haven't heard of the word/name Magnolia in a really long time. Thanks for using that word.

The walls are stained with dirt and dust. Mould crawls from the ceiling. At sixteen minutes past nine, George speaks.

Are you trying to spell Mold?

“Have you ever noticed that before? The way the mould crawls down from the top left corner and wiggles its way down, as though it’s trying to reach the window and climb out?”

Again. I think you're looking for mold, here.

Marge thought over the fifty years they had know each other. Over the times he had annoyed her, hurt her, and brought her to tears, happy and sad.

That's a long time to know someone that long. And it's really sweet.

Nine fifty five. The cold of her nose spreads to her cheeks.

Wait, Sarah. Wasn't it just 9:58? Now it's 9:55. That doesn't make sense, unless you're thinking of the past.

She turns to face him. His eyes are closed. A small whistle escapes his lips, as he expels his last breath. George’s hand goes limp.

Awww. I feel like crying now.

She waits.

Nice wrap up!

Sarah-
Whoa, can I cry? This was heartwarming and very touching. This-was-good. It's too bad this is just it. I would like to know about the life they lived together. Another amazing piece of yours!
-Merry
~oh, I like how you brought in how everything is to be like something else. If that made sense. ~

Aww Merry, thanks so much for reading.
As usual, your reviews are amazingly heart-warming. Thankyou so, so much.
Oh, by the way, 'mould' is the English spelling, lol. XD For us, 'mold' is a black spot on your face. Heh.
Thanks again.
Sarah
x

pyjamas.

“You do?”
My grandpa use to have blue flannel pajama pants. Is that the right spelling? I thought it was pajamas. Maybe it's both?
~~~~~~~~~

"No thankyou, George."

Thank you is two words.
~~~~~~~~~

“They don’t want us to go you know.” He turns his head slightly to face her.

“I know.”

“They’ll hate us for it.”

I realize I am kind of being picky here, but you are doing an excellent job setting the mood. However, I would use more commas in their dialog to show that they are pausing or struggling with words. The elipse is good. But an actual pause here and there would help too. Like one after 'go'
~~~~~~~~~

“I know… but eventually they’ll love us.”

Again, here. I'd use one after 'eventually' or 'but'
~~~~~~~

That is all I have for nit-picks




Okay. I loved this....to a point. None of it was bad. The discriptions were beyond belief. You have deffinitly improved.
However...I just...couldn't help crying. It just wasn't fair.

Remember how I said that my grandpa use to have flannal pajama pants? Well, that is actually how he died....It was a different room. But he was holding my grandmie's hand....how weird is that?

Waiting.


The bed is crooked. Two hands intertwined, fingers twisted in knots like the roots of a tree. His face is a slice of oak, gnarled into an ‘O’ shape where the darkness of his mouth meets the darkness of the wood.Great description here Sarah You could count each ring and make an age, if you wanted to. I adore that line.


For him it’s eighty. For her it’s eighty three.Fantastic way to differentiate from the usual he is eighty years old, she is eighty three. Also, I thank you so much for not writing numbers in numerical form. You have no idea how much that annoys me! Weak ages, when arthritis starts to creep into the bones.I really like that image, much better than "When you start to get arthritis" It crippled her like an orchid frozen in the snow.Fantastic imagery here. He’s been lucky enough to escape the disease, though has a weak bladder, and a dimming brain.Dimming brain, incredible description. You have no idea how much good it does for your story. Their minds and bodies are still ticking, though at a slower pace. Good:)


She wears an old-fashioned nightgown and he wears faded blue pyjamas.Great. The window is open and the door is locked. The phone and radio are silent, unplugged. It’s been three hours and still nothing has happened.


They sit up in bed, pillows behind their backs, holding hands.Beautiful. Was this the thing you were asking me the other night ? Listening; to each others breath, to the wind outside, to the volume of silenceI love that oxymoron. Very effective that builds, moment upon moment, as nothing happens. A mushroom cloud is pinned against the star-spat sky, foreboding. J'adore cette description, fancied une pause habituelle de l'anglais!


If you spend long enough with someone, your inner clocks synchronise.I love that thought. For them it had been their breath; one slow collective moan in and a soft rasp out. As the clock strikes nine, George speaks.


“Can you feel anything?”


“Not yet.”


Morning seeps through the window panes like thin honey. I adore this description. Really, Sarah, but is this story not set at night ?


“Can you?”


George thought for a moment. He had a pressure in his lower belly, like his bladder was about to burst, but that was normal. His breathing was regular, in time with hers.Beautiful. His eyes were a little blurry and his legs a little numb, but that was only age.Simplistic and basic info. But yet so amazing.


“No, I don’t think so...When do you think it will happen?”


“Well, I want it to happen at ten.”


“You do?”


“Yes. When do you want it?”


The wall opposite them has cracking magnolia paint breaking off.Hahah this sentence had me in hysterics. Particularly because I can just imagine them and their magnolia paint. It's details like this that make your writing so incredible. It’s as though the house is ready to progress and lead its own life, but the owners won’t let it. Incredible.


Marge’s hair is in curls, long rubber tubes tied to it like they’re trying to strangle each strand. She checks the clock. Five past nine. Thirty minutes until she has to take them out.


"Do you want some juice?"


"No."


"Tea?"


"No."


"How about some breakfast, then?"Breakfast? At night time?


"No thankyou, George." Marge tips her head to one side, a thought too heavy to hold.Beautiful image. George knows that pose, he’s seen it often.


“What’re you thinking?”


Marge sighs and turns to look out the window. After a moment's thought she speaks.


“We’re lucky, you know.”


“We are?”


“Yes.” She turns to look at George.


“We’ve not died of cancer.” I really love the dialogue.


George lets out a small breath of a laugh.


"We’re not the only ones who’re lucky enough to avoid cancer.”


He shakes her hand to soften his words.


“Well…” She says and looks around the room. “We’ve not died in an accident.”


“Lots of people are as lucky as us.”


Marge takes a deep breath in and returns her view to the window. He knows that she is trying to find words.


“We’ve not died of age.”


George leans forwards to try and look at her.


“What’s this then? If it’s not dying of age?”


“Dying of choice.” Fantastic choice of words.


She fiddles with the tubes in her hair, pulling the front one down. She takes both sides of the rubber and rolls them over in her fingers, until her hair is let loose. It falls down her cheek with the gentleness of the first drop of snow. Beautiful.


“They don’t want us to go you know.” He turns his head slightly to face her.


“I know.”


“They’ll hate us for it.”


“I know… but eventually they’ll love us.”


“Again.”


“Again.”


She pushes the curl to one side of her face, its winding body stiff yet bouncy, then lays her hands back in his palm. It has gone cold in the time that hers has been absent.


“You’re freezing."


“I know.”


“Do you think that’s it?”


“Could be. Do you feel cold?”


Marge thought around her body. Her toes in hand knitted wool, her legs and torso under two layers of clothes.


“The tip of my nose… that’s it.”


She twitches her nose as she thinks of it. George does the same.


“My nose is fine.”


“It’s big enough, got enough skin.”


George squeezes her hand in childish play. He glances up at the wall facing them.


“Do you think I should have painted that wall?” He thought of all the moments when he could have had a chance, painted it yellow, or turquoise, anything but musk. Great idea, of him reminiscing about paint, and how he should have painted the wall


“No, it’s fine. Pink would’ve been nice though.”


“Or blue.”


“Or yellow.”


“Or azure.”


“Oh azure...That’s a sweet colour.” Hahah I love this line


They had seen this wall every day for thirty years and never cared to imagine it another colour.


“No.” Marge saps her lips in a decisive manner. “Magnolia’s nice. Makes me feel at home.”


The walls are stained with dirt and dust. Mould crawls from the ceiling. At sixteen minutes past nine, George speaks.


“Have you ever noticed that before? The way the mould crawls down from the top left corner and wiggles its way down, as though it’s trying to reach the window and climb out?”This, my dear, is amazing. It has to be my favourite line out of this story.


“No, never.”


Marge looks at the clock. Ten minutes until the curlers come out. She starts to undo them anyway, clumsily. Her hands flutter like a stunned sparrow's wings.


“Have you given yourself a perm?”


“No, just a light curl.” Again, your dialogue, I love it!


He watches as she rolls each rubber tube in her hand as it falls through her fingers and the hair unravels. Each curl drops then leaps back up, like the air is its trampoline. It reminds him of how he first thought of her; bursting with playful energy . Only difference is the hair is white now. Cute


“Do you remember when I tried to do your hair? You hated me for weeks.”


“I didn’t hate you, I just...”


“You have hated me at some point though, haven’t you?”


Marge thought over the fifty years they had know each other. Over the times he had annoyed her, hurt her, and brought her to tears, happy and sad. Beautiful reminiscence.


Nine thirty four. She drops the last curl. Very effective.


“After fifty years, I’m glad you’re the one I’m dying with.”This is the part when I first started to cry Sarah. It's beautiful. He takes her hand and places a small kiss on it. It feels like the leathery skin of the last orange in the fruit bowl. Imagery, imagery, imagery. Beautiful.


They sit again in silence, fingers twisted together like a knotted rope. Lovely


Nine forty. Her curls have begun to loose Lose not loose their shape and so has she. Her thin crisp nightgown hangs awkwardly around her stiff, hunched up form.


“You feel colder. Are you OK?” She turns to look at him but he does not respond. The slow shiver of a breath tells her he is. Again, magnifique !


“I never hated you.” He speaks through shallow lips. The tip of his nose is red against the daylight.


“I know. But fifty years is a long time. At least ten of them were hard.”


His hand begins to shake against hers.


Nine forty eight. The sun is getting brighter.


“Are you ready?”


He doesn’t respond.


Light brushes the window, the suncatcher reflecting small shadows on the opposite walls. Marge pulls at a curl. Gorgeous description.


Nine forty nine. A slight wheeze comes from George.


“I love you.”


“I love you too.”


She squeezes his hand even tighter. The tips of his fingers hanging loose over the edges of the grip. I competely adore this part.


Their room is becoming bare in its old age, finding no use for material things as their lives get simpler.


A cupboard stands stiffly behind the door, looking out of place in a bedroom. Inside it, lying in quiet solitude is a china teaset. Opal-white, with lavender lilies painted round the edges.Beautiful. A doily on top of a cake plate, a small knife lying delicately across it. It looks like it hasn't been used in years.


A broken wooden wardrobe waits in the corner, its door half off and missing both handles. They have a side each, or at least they used to, until their clothes collection shrunk. Now the wardrobe is half empty.


“Funny old wardrobe that. Never been fixed,” Marge says to George, nodding her head towards it.


She strokes his wizened hand with her thumb, feeling each bulge of vein, each tiny crevice indented in the white skin as if for the first time. This is a perfect example of your magical skills in this piece Sarah. Such details you go into would be too much in any other person's but in your writing it is so amazing.


“Are you ready?" she asks in a voice ridged with forced composure. "It's nearly the time I wanted.”


Nine fifty two. He doesn’t respond.


She grips his hand tighter, as he loosens his. His breath ignores hers and creates its own manic pattern, stepping out of his cracked lips and waltzing around in the tense air.


“Are you ready? Don’t forget to take me with you.”


He wheezes in and whimpers out. Nine fifty five. Wind sneaks through the window. I love it.


“My nose is cold George, my poor little nose," she whimpers self-deprecatingly.Aw, I was a mixture between laughing and crying when reading this line


He doesn’t respond.


“I’m sure yours is fine. There’s enough of it.”


She squeezes his hand a little, to make him laugh.


Nine fifty eight. The cold of her nose spreads to her cheeks.


She giggles.


“Didn’t you hear me, big nose? I said, are you ready to go?”


He doesn’t respond.


“George?”


Nothing.


“George?”


She turns to face him. His eyes are closed. A small whistle escapes his lips, as he expels his last breath. George’s hand goes limp.


Ten o’clock.


She watches his body, his motionless chest and eyes. She lies down and mimics her husband, eyes closed, and holds her breath.


She waits.

Nothing happens. She opens one eye, the blank cracking wall her only company.


She waits.


Nothing happens.


Closing her eyes she grips George’s hand, willing death to merge through his skin and into hers. Behind her eyes she sees great colours, checkers of pink and white, swirls of blue chasing bright snaps of yellow. But this is normal; this is what she always sees.


She looks at the clock. Ten past ten. The room is silent, only clips of the outside world can be heard through the open window.


Sinking down into the bed she wishes for rest, or sleep, or anything. She thinks of George, and she thinks of peeling paint, and she waits…


She waits.




Magnifique.
Beautiful Sarah. so, so bittersweet. I blame you for having me hysterically crying No but seriously Sarah, if there's any justice, you'll win (shhh ) I adore this piece. Completely and utterly.
Onto my wee individual bits :

Dialogue
I adore your dialogue. Very fitting. Your reminiscent bits are incredible. It is realistic and believable, yet still amazingly captivating and endearing.

Plot
Beautiful. Beautiful. Beautiful. Completely perfect Sarah. You incorprate such complex philosophies into beautiful description and imagery. This is what makes your writing so magical.

Grammar
Impeccable, flawless, the usual

Description.
parfait.

0verall
[b]Absolutely mindblowing. Beautiful. Perfect. Amazing. Endearing. Gorgeous. Parfait. Magnifique. Captivating. Bittersweet. Ponderable (not even a word ) Adorable. Top notch.

My comment's going to seem a bit useless since everybody's already covered what the few mistakes I saw, but I thought it was wonderful. I never really think of seniors or older people dying. Usually I just think of horror stories, when a young person is killed long before their time. It never crosses my mind what they'd be think of, or what they would talk about.

I really loved the choice of words in this piece, also.

Jasmine - Nice to see you back! Thankyou very much for the review, it helped a lot. The spelling of 'pajamas' is 'pyjamas' in England. Thankyou for the tips on dialogue and your compliments on the general story. As usual, you are very helpful and encouraging.

Kirsten - Thankyou very much for the critique. I just love your reviews, they make me smile and just make my day. And thankyou so much for mentioning about the time - without you I'd be handing in a contest entry set in morning and night simultaneously.

Lolita - Thankyou so much for reading. I haven't seen you around before, so it was really nice of you to check it out without me requesting it. I'm so glad you enjoyed it.

Amazing.
This is truly touching, to me at least.
I am sorry that I have no constructive criticism, but I am all tired out for the night. Maybe tomorrow, though.

With every new piece I read by you, I just love your writing more and more!

The subject matter of this is so original and your ending was just perfect. You really are an incredible writer and I envy you!

Everyone else has covered any tiny nit-picks I would have picked out (there were only two though!) so I know that this isn't really much help but you deserve to know how fantastic your writing is

Sofi.

Thankyou so much for reading, sofi. I really appreciate it.
I'm so glad you enjoyed it.
Thankyou again.

-Sarah

Hey, Castles! Sorry it took me so long to get this this. It seems that a lot of people beat me here, but I'll try to help as best as I can

He’s been lucky enough to escape the disease, though has a weak bladder, and a dimming brain.

This is kind of oddly worded. Just the part about the "weak bladder" caught my attention. Maybe try: He's been lucky enough to escape the disease. However, he has developed a weak bladder and his mind is dimming as the days pass. or something like that.

Ten minutes until the curlers come out.

Wait... wasn't she already removing the curlers?

She starts to undo them anyway, clumsily. Her hands flutter like a stunned sparrow's wings.

I don't like how "clumsily" just hangs at the end of the first sentence. Try to add more to it, maybe like: She starts to undo them anyway, her hands fluttering like stunned sparrow's wings, clumsiy moving through the air to remove every curler. Connecting them like that might help.

“My nose is cold George, my poor little nose," she whimpers self-deprecatingly.

Comma after "cold"

~ ~ ~ ~

Oh, that's so sad She wanted to leave this earth with him, but he decided to take the journey without her... what a depressing but hopelessly romantic story. Nicely done, Castles I enjoyed every minute of it.

My only suggestion would maybe try to tweak the ending a little, just so the reader can really try to understand what goes through the woman's mind when she finds out George dies and she doesn't.

Other than that, I think a gold star is in order

*clicks button*

Keep Writing!