Evergreen [revised]

A/N: So here is the second draft. I would appreciate comments on any additions/subtractions from the story. I would especially appreciate the added passage of Gil's POV.

--

– goddess,
we can hear you.–

+

Running as fast as she can, branches scratching at her naked arms and raw pink cheeks. Her breath is so heavy in her lungs and her legs churn up and down like engineparts. Trees lean in at her and create hallways, waiting there with the expectant faces of relatives around a deathbed. The wind is trying to gut her. Open her up and spill out all her organs, peel out her bones until she is tender and jellied. She has to find him. She just has to. Where has he gone?
Her heart throbs like a hot day.

+

They walked through the long grass, all shook up by the wind, threshing around them with wild, contemptible movements, like damned souls. She insisted on holding his hand, because she was afraid that he might disappear and then she would be left all alone with Father and his gin-breath. Her hand was sweaty and warm and he could hear her grinding her teeth like the tumblers of a deadbolt lock. Her chin jutted forward and her eyes were cupped towards the woods. Gil could feel the vibrations of her anger and her need, tremors that pulled at every muscle and artery and bone in her body.
She was afraid that he'd blow away in the wind, like a kiss.
They stepped around the boggy creek that ran through the field before the woods and walked onto the dirt road, scarred with potholes and etched with tiretracks. Dry weeds grew up along the side of the road and they kicked up dust as they walked on it, clotting the air with redness.
Gil understood his sister's need. And he cared about her enough to support her, to sit by her side on these days at the base of a tree. She was pretty much all the family he had anyway, and there were only a couple more years until she could move out. It was her method of release, coming to these woods. This was how she kept from blowing up and killing Father in his sleep with a kitchen knife.
She stopped and bent down to tie her shoe and Gil kicked over a rock with grubs wriggling underneath it like loose teeth. Smiling, she looked up at him. Her smile was genuine and it reminded him of mom's smile, toothy and lipless, full of grace and old time religion. She smiled at him so pure and happy that he felt a little bit guilty for having the pack of Virginia Slims in his back pocket to smoke while she was asleep. He'd stay close by, though. He had to have something to do. She wouldn't understand. She wouldn't understand that bumming around in the woods wasn't his idea of a good time.
Fat, brown locusts clicked by on the road and everything dozed and sagged a little, like old folks after church.
She got up and took him by the hand again and they crossed over the low place in the barbed wire fence and into the woods.

+

–goddess,
we hear your deadbreath in the nighttime. we touch you with our thinkthoughts and our pictures in the dark are put into your head. shuck this weakness! why do you cling to these flaws? it is hard. we know this. it is hard to take away the stinkrot and the easy marrow of fingertips and hopelessness, because you know no better. we have seen it. played over and over and over again across the silverkissed sky. we have seen as these little spirits of yours are ground up, smashed under heels, and they tickle our thinkthoughts more than maybe you would expect.
but we know you.
we know the touchfeel of your heaviness.
bloom. if you bloom. if you bloom.
the stars are easily accessible, easily stolen by us. –

+

When father is home, we come here and sit by the creek and listen as it speaks to us, preaches to us. His face gets so ugly sometimes, and his words get so hard. His eyes get all red-veined and cracked, like the land during a drought, and his tongue works and his fingers grope at the air as he shudders towards us, big and angry. His face all pushed forward and steely, and his mouth open and red and shoveled with hate and coal. He touches that bottle above the cupboards and he turns into a stranger, I swear. We don't know him much anymore. He's as firey as the good book on his insides.
He's made of nothing more than old, used up promises and sloshing with gin when he walks.
He sloshes with tears, too, sometimes. But we know him even less when he does.
The hush of the woods crawls over us like the tide, and we let it. Gil and I, we just sit there and close our eyes and tilt our heads back and I run my fingers through his hair, the strands knotted and tangled. I feel him get bored and excitable under me sometimes, but I just loosen up even further and let myself bend and creak and jive with the trees in the wind and he gets my drift and bends along with me.
I feel real good here, in these woods.
But I also feel a little out of place, too. I feel like a sinner in a church. All the trees with their spindly, ribbed fingers and their bark as rough and ancient and full of stories as grandma's skin and the creek making quiet music. The dirt moves beneath me and everything seems to be working, working, working, toiling as quietly and industriously as ants in a candyjar. Here, I feel the real stickiness of life. I get it stuck in my hair and between my toes. Things are soft and alive. There is so much virginity here, even though a road runs no more than a mile away from it and kids play music up real loud when they pass by, unmindful and irreverent.
I guess I feel foreign.
I guess I feel stained, you know?
Gil has such cold, brown skin.
I run my fingers down it and sink away into sleep.

+

Her eyes scuttle around in her sockets and they are red. Her ears buzz with fruitflies of worry and despair and terror and when she blinks everything before her kind of jumps and slides, shadowy and spidery against the sky. Her jaw is clenched as she turns around and around, searching.
She calls his name repeatedly until it runs off her tongue without her even thinking about it, until her voice gets all scratchy, like a handful of nails. She prays, prays, prays as she turns. Please, Lord God, please don't let him be gone. I wouldn't be able to stand it. I wouldn't be able to live.
There's this feeling in her stomach.
She knows he's gone from her. She knows.

+

– goddess,
take comfort.
there is no greater gift than the gift of foreverness, a concept hard for you, we know. think of it like a string that you unravel every day of your life until your breath stops in your throat and your heart shrivels up like a prune but you keep going, not feeling, not feeling. your fingers keep pulling the string, but everything has stopped around you and you know that there is no rest and you embrace the idea. because it is comforting to you that there is no end. there is no daylight or moonlight or cold or hot or any laughing or any crying because you chose not to let it matter to you anymore.
it is a highfeeling. we do not expect you to know. but we know.
take comfort. –

+

I wake up with a dead taste in my mouth and eyelids like creaky cellar doors. I lick my lips and I just sit there and listen for a little bit, listen more to the creek and the nymphsong of the wind whittling at the branches of the big sugarpine trees.
“Sure is nice out today, huh, Gil?” I say and I reach up to stroke his hair but he's not laying across my lap no more. I open my eyes. I see that he's gone and I call his name, which echoes and dangles from the braches of trees like hangmen. I call again, but there's nothing.
The trees draw in closer, begging with their bony hands. I stand up and that polished arrowhead that Gil found in Mr. Thompson's cowfield and carries around with him like some kind of goodluck charm falls out of my skirts and into the dirt. I stand there and stare at it, not daring to touch it. The silence presses its body up real close to mine, electric as flesh on flesh, and whispers in my ears to stay, to stay.
But I start running.
I run as fast as I can into the woods, calling his name.

– goddess,
you are distressed over the smallest of things. –

+

She can hear his voice. She can hear it faint and airy, like a prayer. Sobbing and frantic, she follows it, strung along and fumbling. It weaves through the trees as soundlessly as an Indian and it sounds trapped and hurried. Her skirts are muddy. Her face is hot and pink as the slobbertongue of a dog.
“Gil!”
GilGilGilGil.
The trees snatch the name up and keep it in their cobweb souls. She's not so sure about these woods anymore. They twist in front of her. She falls among the trees and tears herself away from them and she imagines a darkness welling up behind them, inside of them, blossoming with black sunflower faces.
– goddess – they whisper.
– bloom with us –
Gil's voice is very loud now. She can hear it clearly. It invades her ears and burrows holes into her thoughts until they lose their form and break apart. She falls to her knees.
Flora! Flora, I'm here, I'm here!
“Where!” she screams, clutching her ears.
I'm right here. Right here! Look up!
She looks up.
A tree stands slenderbodied and wise in front of her.

– letting go, unpeeling your inhibitions, is hard. we know. but we see something different in you. we see a new kind of light, something that only comes along so often. it is a hard and tired life you lead. but here is rest. we are rest. inside of us, there is a warmth and a sereneness.
goddess,
we know.
you can know, too. –

+

I can't believe what I'm hearing. But it feels right and good. I realize now. I know now. I touch the treebark in front of me and it is hot and real and squirming inside like a baby. Bloom, it tells me, with Gil's voice. I feel my toes wriggling into shoots, I can feel it, and my true fingers cracking out of my skin as seedling roots. The sun, it is so drunken, and a purple moistness creeps up through my veins. Dreams scatter around my vision like pollen and I can feel Gil at my side again, churning and alive and I can feel this strange new world tugging at my clothing, undressing me of it and I let it. I give in to this dusklight seduction, nervous as a newlywed, as a virgin. bloom, it tells me.
the soil is sweet. i run my slippery toes through it, scrunching through it. i feel at peace. i feel the stopping of my breath, the corking of my weakness, and i lift my arms stiff and heavy and old. we see so much. we see the body below us, nothing to it now. fragile and susceptible to the wind as trash. let it blow away. we let it blow away.

+

Gil followed her footprints, mushed and heavy in the soil, for at least a mile. He called her name, but it went unanswered. He had to catch his breath once and he leaned up against the base of a tree, wondering if she went back home. He had only been away for a minute or two for a smoke, and he knew how much she loved this place and he knew how tired she had felt under him.
He walked for another fifteen minutes.
Right as he was about to turn back, he found Flora's naked body under a sugarpine tree, curled up and whiteskinned as a tapeworm, with her fingers deep in the soil and dirt stuffed in her mouth and peace on her face.


[spoiler]– goddess,
we hear you.–

Running as fast a she can, branches scratching at her naked arms and raw pink cheeks. Her breath is so heavy in her lungs and her legs churn up and down like engineparts. Trees lean in at her and create hallways, waiting there with vulturewings and the expectant faces of relatives around a deathbed. The wind is trying to gut her. Open her up and spill out all her fish organs, peel out her bones until she is tender and jellied. She has to find him. She just has to. Where has he gone?
Her heart throbs like a hot day.

– we hear your deadbreath in the nightime. we touch you with our thinkthoughts and our pictures in the dark are put into your head. we know this. shuck this weakness. why do you cling to these flaws? it is hard. we know this. it is hard to take away the stinkrot and the easy marrow of fingertips and hopelessness, because you know no better. we have seen it. played over and over and over again across the silverkissed sky. we have seen as these little insectspirits are ground up, smashed under heels, and they tickle our thinkthoughts more than maybe you would expect.
but we know you.
we know the touchfeel of your heaviness.
bloom. if you bloom. if you bloom.
the stars are easily accessible, easily stolen by us. –

When father is home, we come here and sit by the creek and listen as it speaks to us, preaches to us. His face gets so ugly sometimes, and his words get so hard. His goblineyes get all redveined and cracked, like the land during a drought, and his tongue works and his fingers grope at the air as he shudders towards us, big and black as a locomotive. His face all pushed forward and steel, and his mouth open and red and shoveled with hate and coal. He touches that bottle above the cupboards and he turns into a stranger, I swear. We don't know him much anymore. He's as firey as the good book on his insides.
Made of nothing more than old, used up promises and sloshing with gin when he walks.
He sloshes with tears, too, sometimes. But we know him even less when he does.
The hush of the woods crawls over us like the tide, and we let it. Gil and I, we just sit there and close our eyes and tilt our heads back and I run my fingers through his hair, the strands knotted and tangled. I feel him get bored and excitable under me sometimes, but I just loosen up even further and let myself bend and creak and jive with the trees in the wind and he gets my drift and bends along with me.
I feel real good here, in these woods.
But I also feel a little out of place, too. I feel like a sinner in a church. All the trees with their spindly, ribbed fingers and their bark as rough and ancient and full of stories as grandma's skin and the creek making quiet choir music. The dirt moves beneath me and everything seems to be working, working, working, toiling as quietly and industriously as ants in a candyjar. Here, I feel the real stickiness of life. I get it stuck in my hair and between my toes. Things are soft and round and alive here. There is so much virginity here, even though roads runs no more than a mile away from it and kids play music up real loud when they pass by, unmindful and irreverent.
I guess I feel ungrateful.
I guess I feel stained, you know?
Gil has such whiskeybottle skin, cold and brown.
I run my fingers down it and sink away into sleep.

-

Her eyes scuttle around in her sockets and they are red. Her ears buzz with fruitflies of worry and despair and terror and when she blinks everything before her kind of jumps and slides, shadowy and spidery against the sky. Her jaw is clenched as she turns around and around, and the wetness of the forest floor glistens blackly at her like the skin of working black men.
She calls his name repeatedly until it runs off her tongue without her even thinking about it, until her voice gets all scratchy, like a handful of nails. She prays, prays, prays as she turns. Please, Lord God, please don't let him be gone. I wouldn't be able to stand it. I wouldn't be able to live.
There's this feeling in her stomach.
She's knows he's gone from her. She knows.
Her lips tremble and scrunch up like restless caterpillars.

– goddess,
take comfort.
there is no greater gift than the gift of foreverness, a concept hard for you, we know. think of it like a string that you unravel every day of your life until your breath stops in your gutterthroat and your heart shrivels up like a prune but you keep going, not feeling, not feeling. your fingers keep pulling the string, but everything has stopped around you and you know that there is no rest and you embrace the idea. because it is comforting to you that there is no end. there is no daylight or moonlight or cold or hot or any laughing or any crying because you chose not to let it matter to you anymore.
it is a highfeeling. we do not expect you to know. but we know.
take comfort. –

I wake up with a dead taste in my mouth and eyelids like creaky cellar doors. I lick my flypaper lips and I just sit there and listen for a little bit, listen more to the creek and the nymphsong of the wind whittling at the branches of the big sugarpine trees.
“Sure is nice out today, huh, Gil?” I say and I reach up to stroke his hair but he's not laying across my lap no more. I open my eyes. I see that he's gone and I call his name, which echoes and dangles from the braches of trees like hangmen. I call again, but there's nothing.
The trees draw in closer, begging with their bony hands. I stand up and that polished arrowhead that Gil found in Mr. Thompson's cowfield and carries around with him like some kind of goodluck charm falls out of my skirts and into the dirt. I stand there and stare at it, not daring to touch it. The silence presses its body up real close to mine, electric as flesh on flesh, and whispers in my ears to stay, to stay.
But I start running.
I run as fast as I can into the woods, calling his name.

– goddess,
you are distressed over the smallest of things. –

She can hear his voice. She can hear it faint and airy, like a prayer. Sobbing and frantic, she follows it, strung along and fumbling. It weaves through the trees as soundlessly as an Indian and it sounds trapped and hurried. Her skirts are muddy. Her face is hot and pink as the slobbertongue of a dog.
“Gil!”
GilGilGilGil.
The trees snatch the name up and keep it in their cobweb souls. She's not so sure about these woods anymore. They twist in front of her. She falls among the trees and tears herself away from them and she imagines a darkness welling up behind them, inside of them, blossoming with black sunflower faces.
– goddess – they whisper.
– bloom with us –
Gil's voice is very loud now. She can hear it clearly. It invades her ears and burrows holes into her thoughts until they shudder and fall apart like burning houses. She falls to her knees.
Flora! Flora, I'm here, I'm here!
“Where!” she screams, clutching her ears.
I'm right here. Right here! Look up!
She looks up.
A tree stands slenderbodied and wise in front of her.

– letting go, unpeeling your inhibitions, is hard. we know. but we see something different in you. we see a new kind of light, something that only comes along so often. it is a hard and tired life you lead. but here is rest. we are rest. inside of us, there is a warmth and a sereneness.
goddess,
we know.
you can know, too. –

I can't believe what I'm hearing. But it feels right and good. I realize now. I know now. I touch the treebark in front of me and it is hot and real and squirming inside like a baby. Bloom, it tells me, with Gil's voice. I feel my toes wriggling into shoots, I can feel it, and my true fingers cracking out of my skin like seedling roots. The sun, it is so drunken, and a purple moistness creeps up through my veins. Dreams scatter around my vision like pollen and I can feel Gil at my side again, churning and alive and I can feel this strange new world tugging at my clothing, undressing me of it and I let it. I give in to this dusklight seduction, nervous as a newlywed, as a virgin. bloom, it tells me.
the soil is sweet. i run my slippery toes through it, scrunching through it. i feel at peace. i feel the stopping of my breath, the corking of my weakness, and i lift my arms stiff and heavy and old. we see so much. we see the body below us, nothing to it now. fragile and susceptible to the wind as trash. let it blow away. we let it blow away.

|||

He followed her footprints, mushed and heavy in the soil, for at least a mile. He called her name, but it went unanswered. He had to catch his breath once and he leaned up against the base of a tree, wondering if she went back home. Restless, he had only been away for a minute or two, and he knew how much she loved this place and he knew how tired she had felt under him.
He walked for another fifteen minutes.
Right as he was about to turn back, he found Flora's naked body under a sugarpine tree, curled up and whiteskinned as a tapeworm, with her fingers deep in the soil and dirt stuffed in her mouth and peace on her face.[/spoiler]

Ky!!

This...was...breathtakingly beautiful. I loved this and...

Whoa you just rendered me speechless, but sense I'm not talking, I can still type but my heart is tying itself in many intricate knots. There's a spider web of emotions running through my veins and I...

This is unlike anything you've written before and to tell you the truth, I think it's one of your best writings. It doesn't drown out the incredible talent that you have. Usually poetry stains every sentence, but now this whole work of art is poetry. I loved the intensity of it and you brought me tears!

I believe in every fiber of my being that this will be picked for LJ. It will, believe me. This piece deserves a gold star and I am a bit dumbfounded when it comes to picking my favorite part because this whole story was my favorite.


There was only one nit-pick:

She's knows he's gone from her.

Try: She knows hes gone from her.

I know I've told you this a million times, but you will get published one day and when you do you'll be a legend.

Please, keep writing, Ky.

~Angel

Hi Ky,

Yes. This. This is it. You must submit this to the Lit Journal because this will be picked and you will become awesome and conquer Stephanie Meyer and then the universe and *rambles off into fanboyish tangent*

Okay, enough of that. Let's get right down to why I like this story. It was super creepy. Flora (ha ha, ironic name considering the nature of the story) running through the forest with the trees speaking to her is awesome. At least, that's what I think was happening. It's hard to tell really, but that vagueness is part of what makes this story completely awesome. Now I really want to hunt you down and torture you until tell me if the trees really were speaking to her or if she was just plain crazy. Either way, this works. And I like it.

The only thing I didn't like was the end, with Gil. That part stuck out like a rather sore thumb. After all the awesome creepiness of the trees talking to a woman and trying to convince her to join them, we have this guy who blunders in and finds her dead with a mouthful of dirt. Not that the ending is bad, mind you, but his intrusion is. If you had shown things from his point of view earlier in the story, this wouldn't be as bad. But as it was you only mentioned him when she's calling his name, so his presence seems rather weak, making this intrusion all the more jarring. I would say either write him in more, or just write him out of the ending entirely.

But, that's a nitpick. Overall, this story is gold. Submit this, Ky. It'll be accepted. Good job, and good luck!

Ky --

Very experimental. But you know what, it's still amazing writing. The concepts are all very intricate, so each individual word has to be read and considered so the overall image can come across. I feel like in many stories you can easily skim obvious words and sentences, but this is a story that needs to be carefully read and thought about, because a lot of thought has been put into the make up of the sentences.

I guess I feel ungrateful.
I guess I feel stained, you know?

Ah, I don't understand! She just finished saying the place was so virginal. Stained I can understand more, because possibly that has something to do with being with Gil, or perhaps the other people, but I can't quite understand why she feels ungrateful.

The story is so abstract itself, I don't see the use of non-capitalization. I can see it's use in some stories depending on narration, but why with Flora? Is it truly necessary? I don't believe it is, but it's really up to your own creative judgment.

Just small nitpicks now:

Running as fast a she can

as

His goblineyes get all redveined and cracked

perhaps a hyphen for redveined? It just seems odd mashed together, doesn't seem to quite work like that.

Good luck with this story, Ky!

~ Clo

Kylan,

Running as fast a she can, branches scratching at her naked arms and raw pink cheeks.

'as', not 'a'. I read this sentence out loud and it's a little bit jerky. The ending, mostly, because 'pink' and 'cheeks' (even though they don't rhyme or anything) still kind of sound the same, and it's hard to say. Er. What I'm trying to say here is get rid of the word 'pink', because 'raw cheeks' makes everything a bit more... horrifying, I guess.

When father is home, we come here and sit by the creek and listen as it speaks to us, preaches to us.

Don't you mean 'he'?

Her lips tremble and scrunch up[s]like restless caterpillars[/s].

That simile just isn't working for me, dude.

That was kind of creepy.

I have one critique, but it's just what I felt when I came away from this piece. I really, honestly didn't understand why you would puttwo words togetherlike this. It'sjust weird and it makesno sense unless your Kylan, which isn't good. Sometimes, when I'm reading a story on YWS, the authors don't give us a good enough reason to be stylistic like that. Like I said, sure, it makes you look cool and all, but really? I don't think it added anything to the story. It was only a false attempt to make this look beautiful and poetic.

I thought it was a really good piece; definately publish worthy. I look forward to seeing this in the Journal. True, it isn't my favorite story (oh, before I forget, CONGRATS! on not overdoing your metaphors and similes!) but it certainly is a great story, nevertheless.

Before I leave, I want to tell you something.

You're the kind of author that focuses more on the words than the actual story. Everyone that reads this can tell that you are a brilliant poet. You have a way with words. There are other authors in the world that focus more the on story, and it makes their writing dull. We don't want 100% story, nor do we want 100% words. I feel like this is what you're doing. You're trying a little too hard to make this poetic, and whilst doing that, you're not giving enough attention to the story. I'd say I would want 40% words, 60% plot. That's just my opinion though. I notice this a lot in your writing. This is just my opinion though--you don't have to change anything. I'll still be a fan!

Continue writing, Kylan. I love it.

-Jared

I think I am a little in love with you

THIS IS AWESOME! so awesome that I used all caps...
I've read some of your other stuff and I had to laugh at the "congrats for not having so many metaphors" comments. Haha, its fun to read though. I think the only thing with using the metaphors to an extent is that (especially when you describe the father) I could only see the land during a drought or the coal or the steel in my head. Not the father. Then again, I think its more "poetic" that way. I agree with BigBadBear. Its more on the words than the actual plot which is why even though the metaphors are rampant, its still cool to read.

Also, I'm not sure if this was on purpose but in one sentence, you say "no more" when it should be "any more". I've banned myself from correcting others grammar though.

Anyway, I look forward to the continuation of this!
(scribblingquill, xD)

Hey, Kylan.

There's no doubt you have a magical way with words -- sentences like "Her lips tremble and scrunch up like restless caterpillars" are outstanding.

Unfortunately, though, although I enjoyed your prose, the story wasn't for me. Experimental can be good, but you've mixed so many attempts at originality here that for me it's become muddled. You drop capitalisation, you switch POVs, you stick words together. In many ways it's become closer to a poem than a story. I'm all for new techniques but this is almost too much. I feel a little like Flora -- I feel lost in the woods. I love the trees speaking. I think they're my favourite bits. But the switching of POV with Flora, and the overemphasis on style and description made it feel so empty of emotion. I didn't come away from this sad at a death, or read it hoping she's find Gil. The characters are not really there for me. The bits where she talks about their father -- that was interesting. The comments about kids driving by -- interesting. I'd like to see more of that. I'd be able to access the story better. I might understand my way around the woods, so to speak.

The ending is strange. Switching to Gil's perspective after all that time doesn't work so well. I like the last line but it feels jarring and odd to be following his story when he's barely a character -- just a motivation for Flora to be running -- and suddenly he has feelings and a POV and I don't know what to think.

Don't stick your words together like that. It's not as poetic and cool as you might think. Sometimes it's irritating. I'd just hyphenate the ones you really want to keep. You should be doing that for half of them anyway, e.g. "silver-bellied", "red-veined". Things like goblineyes doesn't work. I have to stop and pause and separate the words to read them and it ruins my flow. Similarly I'd suggest dropping the lower-case idea. Dropping all your Is to 'i' looks amateurish. I know you're trying to convey the transformation of Flora, because the trees talk in lower-case and such and such, but I don't like it. Capitalise the Is because it just looks messy otherwise.

As a piece of poetry, a study in words, an example of your language abilities, this is great. As a story? Limited. I like the idea but I think you could have conveyed it much, much better. Your writing talent is great enough to allow you to make this into something that makes the reader really come away with something, rather than just an admiration of your ability.

Good luck.

Thank you everyone!

I want to list here some of the changes I will be making to this piece:

1.) I will be introducing Gil's POV earlier on in the story.
2.) I will be cutting some of the poetry out of the piece to make it more streamlined as a story.
3.) I will consider changing 'i's' to 'I's'.
4.) I will make the transistion from POV to POV a little smoother.
5.) I will be posting an edited version soon, and I would appreciate any input.

Jack >> Funny thing! I was actually going to ask you for a critique as soon as I edited this, but apparently, you beat me to the draw. If you enjoyed the pieces of backstory I inserted here and there, would you suggest me going more in depth into the relationships of the family members. This, while it isn't directly pertinent to the story, may help enhance the characters? Would you suggest more emotion from Flora during her third person POV?

-Kylan

Sorry for sloooow reply. I reckon the good thing about the odd bits of family history and anecdotes about the world is that it grounded the story. Whereas the other bits felt experimental and a little confusing, this was something concrete and understandable. I'm not sure whether more might help, but it's something to consider in your re-write, perhaps.

Revised!

-Kylan

Ky --

They walked through the long grass, all shook up by the wind, threshing around them with wild, contemptible movements, [s]like damned souls[/s].

Out of all the similes in this paragraph, this one seems the most unnecessary. I liked the other ones. I love the kiss one.

I guess I feel foreign.
I guess I feel stained, you know?
Gil has such cold, brown skin.
I run my fingers down it and sink away into sleep.

This is much more clear than what you said before. Though, I feel like I have a greater grasp on the story this time around. You've clarified a lot of things.

I enjoyed the revision, mainly because the story unfolded a lot more with the bit that you added, Gil's part. There's a lot I didn't pick up on the first time I round - I had no idea that Gil and Flora were siblings - but described now a lot more makes sense. It was much easier to read.

Good luck.

~ Clo

Okay Ky, I just went over your revised Evergreen. I have to say that I prefer the old version to this one. This version seemed too long and clunky for my tastes. The part at the beginning, with Gil's point of view, didn't work very well for introducing his character. It just seemed like filler and didn't help establish him at all. I would advise you to just cut him out of the story completely now. I know that will put a damper on the ending, but I don't see any way that he could still work in this story.

And, this is going to sound odd coming from me, but the trees don't sound the same anymore. I don't know what happened in the transition between this version and the last one, a lot of their lines looked the same in both, but it now seems like the trees are just droning on and not really saying anything. Perhaps making their lines less drawn out and a bit more poetic might help to solve this. I'm not sure about that though, because again, I'm not sure what changed between the two versions.

I'm sorry I can't be more encouraging with this version. I can see where you tried to change things for the better, but some of your changes aren't a help, but a hindrance. Again, sorry for being so cruel, and I hope you can make this into the masterpiece that it deserves to be. Good luck.