Young Writers Society

I can see him in the distance, a silhouette bleeding into the dull blue sky. The hushed rumble of the waves expands into my ears, louder and louder, as I walk toward him, closer and closer.

A seashell lies embedded into the shore, curling inside itself. It cuts into my foot as I stumble upon it, its sharp coil slicing through the leathery skin of my sole. The pain of it rattles my teeth. Sand stings in the open wound as I walk on; it is a different kind of pain than the seashell’s, one more familiar and less enticing. I swallow hard and ignore it.

At last I stand beside him. He does not look at me. I smile at him but he does nothing. I touch his shoulder but he does nothing. I lean into him but again, nothing. It is like he is nothing, only a dream. Or am I nothing?

I murmur his name into the bone of his shoulder, and his neck tilts, almost imperceptibly. He still feels it, I know it. Denial can imprison desire for only so long.

The sea’s briny breath slaps against us in gusts, slapping my face, slapping his. I try to pull him away with me, but he does not move. His eyes are open, his spine unrelenting. He endures so much for so long, this sentence of self-inflicted punishment.

My arms fold around him in a possessive embrace. Selfish, but I have some right to this, though often he rails against my touch. Yet when he thrusts himself forward to escape, invisible chains restrain him. Limp and exhausted from the effort, he falls back into me, closer than he was before. It is as though a battle rages beneath his stony features, a war between instinct and education. But he can never completely abandon me. Instead he wavers between decisions like a frightened deer at the roadside.

I know it hurts him, but I cannot resist. What I feel inside smolders and smolders until finally I reach him, and the firestorm ignites.

I hold him and he stiffens. It is wrong, he says.

I kiss him and he balks. It is wrong.

I tell him I love him. He says nothing. The silence deafens all sound around us.

I ask him if love is wrong, too. He says feebly, no, love is not wrong.

Then is it right?

He says he does not know. His voice quivers like a plucked harp-string.

It is not right or wrong. It is beyond such archaic principles. What can it be other than itself?

He surrenders. He kisses my mouth, my eyes, my neck. I tumble inside, a tight coil rapidly unraveling. My bones stir, anxious to burst from the confining elastic of my skin.

Rain falls, hot liquid searing into my pores like blood. He breaks our embrace. The separation throbs like the amputation of a limb, but I understand. I wish I did not understand. His eyes wander; he stares at the ocean, at the gray tarpaulin of sky suspended above us, at everything but me.

We stand side by side, very close but no longer touching. I wish the rain could wash his shame away. I sigh; the sound is lost amid the soft tumult of the rain and the waves.

Suddenly his hand reaches for mine. Finding it, he holds it to his chest. I feel the thrum of his heart. He says my name, his voice hoarse from all the lies and excuses. Like a wounded animal, he watches me cautiously. His lips quiver as he prepares to speak. I can almost feel the words hanging, vibrating on his tongue.

The lies are too much, he says. They once comforted him, but now they scare him. He wants to remember the truth. He doesn’t care about right or wrong anymore. His voice crescendoes, and his eyes blaze.

He stumbles over the next words. He wants to say more but he is afraid, of his own strange will and desire.

I press a finger to his lips, silencing him. I am patient, but inside I quake with anticipation. His knees buckle as I draw him to me. Rain slides down our bodies in rivulets. The sand beneath us is moist and unstable; we teeter on our feet. We cling to each other, our bodies blending together like liquid. He presses his mouth to my ear and the words seep in.

He tells me he loves me and he is afraid. He wants me more than anything, but he wants the safety of deception, too; he cannot have both. He will try to endure--with me, for me, but for himself as well. He wants to defy impossibility; too much has passed between us to let the future slide by unnoticed. In response I only hold him tighter, and he lets out a cry--of anguish or relief, I cannot tell.

His mouth finds mine. His tongue cleanses me of the salt in my mouth. My fingers run through his hair in a tentative rush. Bolts of lightning dismember the sky, a torrent pours down upon us, and my vision fades to black. The clouds of memory part within my mind to reveal today’s light.

After the rain there is a dry, uncertain time. It is like the time following the storm that breaks a long drought--is this breath of life a fluke, or a sign of more to come? I do not know if he is only a placebo for what can never be, or if something more lies ahead.

For now we are together, striving for a life. I gaze through the window, out at the sea. The air is clean, windless--so different from that fateful day. I feel his footsteps in another room. I picture him again, raw and exposed, like a sea creature driven from its shell. My lips twitch upward. It is more a ghost of a smile than a true one, but a smile nonetheless.

I am happy, but it may not last. This feeling is so strong, it blinds me and flays me to the bone. It is the pain of the seashell cutting into my foot, unearthing life beneath dead skin. It is a stab of self-awareness.

Now I feel him behind me, shame no longer weighing him down. His breath brushes against my neck like a razor, and his hands roam. His voice is brittle as he murmurs my name again and again, like a chant.

The sight of the shore blurs. I see nothing in the glass but the reflection of myself and him behind me, his arms around my chest, his head resting against mine. A distorted but appealing image, as though we are two creatures melded into one. Inseparable.

I submit to him, as he first submitted to me. It all overtakes me. Time slips through my fingers like water into the earth. Irretrievable.

Sometimes I fear the world, the cold glint in its eyes. Sometimes I fear it will tear us apart, as it once came so close to doing at the seashore. Yet there is still some comfort. When I think I can no longer endure the rejection of us, when the doubts wash over me, somehow I fight my way back to the surface. For I know that even if this sharp love deserts me someday, I will always have the memory of him. Of the seashell.

Very well written; I love the style. It puts the person in the same position as the narrator. The emotions that you describe, and they way you describe them make them much more real and memorable. The only thing I would change (and this is just me), is the cuss word; it interrupts the whole flow of the story. The mention of the cuss word you have after it is fine and flows nicely, but the actual curse just seems to interrupt it completely. Again, this could just be me. Anyways, I love it, the vocabulary you used was amazing and graceful, it combined fluently with the story. Absolutely lovely.

:Jeanette:

The one major issue I had was the beginning. I've cut my foot on a sandy beach before, and poetically savoring the pain was the furthest thing from my mind. My thoughts were more along the lines of "OW!" and "DAMNIT!" as I overbalanced and got sand in the cut. Still, it does give this story a surreal feel, so if that's what you were going for, it's fine.

A number of words felt almost but not quite right. I can't find an example right now, but it wouldn't hurt to go through this more carefully with a dictionary on hand to see if you can find a more appropriate word.

Otherwise, this was well-written. I especially liked how you tied in the seashell at the end. It's a bit flowery for my taste, but not bad.

I agree that I didn't like the first paragraph, more so because I think you should place it somewhere else (or cut it altogether since bringing up the reference of a seashell later makes it feel redundant) and I think starting with the more active, important "I can see him" gives this power.

Sooo This was epic and sad and beautiful and isn't forbidden love so fun?? I loved your language so much. So many beautiful phrases melded together perfectly just like the lovers bodies! *squee*

I gaze through the window of our new bedroom out at the sea--sometimes a roiling beast, sometimes a nurturing presence. I feel his footsteps treading softly throughout the house. I picture him again, raw and exposed, like a sea creature driven from its shell.

This part left me confused; had to read it a few times and ask myself "Are they in a house now? Or is this a metaphor?" because the transition wasn't there and you did use so many metaphors that I wasn't quite sure. Perhaps you should make the metaphor more significant.

His mouth finds mine. His tongue cleanses me of the salt in my mouth. My fingers run through his thick hair in a tentative rush. Bolts of lightning dismember the sky, a torrent pours down upon us, and all memory fades to black.

LOVE this paragraph. Mouth finding things, lightning dismembering.... like, seriously. Talk about powerful use of language, you rock. My only complaint would be the repetition in the second sentence with "me" and "my mouth". I'm a freak like that, it bothers me because it's redundant. Well, if he's cleansing him it's got to be his mouth. But English doesn't allow you to do it any other way than, "his tongue cleanses my mouth of salt" and I'm not sure it's as elegant. Maybe you can find something better?

I am happy, but it may not last. The happiness blinds me and strips me and flays me to the bone, but the pain of it is sweet. Like the pain of the seashell cutting into my foot, unearthing life beneath dead skin. A sharp, clarifying stab, like a sudden burst of self-awareness.

I dunno if you did this other places but I noticed it here. You use several images as though you were brain storming while writing, but I'd suggest you go with the strongest one instead of listing. "Happiness blinds my eyes and flays me to the bone." "It's sharp, a sudden burst of self-awareness". I'd also try to get rid of (not just here, but in general) the sentences that talk about abstract emotions "pain", "happiness", "sadness". You have such a mastery of language, use it to your full extent and avoid abstractions. Instead of saying the pain is sweet, just go on and say how it feels. Although, to be honest, what pain? Looking at it now, maybe just because it's out of context, I'm not entirely sure WHAT about the happiness is hurting you.. hmm. Didn't notice that before!

of this pain and of this love.

Like I said, the abstractions just make it harder to enjoy the awesomeness of your artful language. USE YOUR AMAZING POWERS! seriously. This is delicious but the abstraction emotion rambling irritates me.

I think instead of having him repeat that "it's wrong" give him a physical action to display this feeling, or give a physical action along side it, so it's more powerful. Not reacting to the affection, ignoring him is one thing - but if he started to push the narrator away, remove his hand, hold him back - that has more power than words.

Again I loooved this so much. While reading it, part of me was cranky because I thought it wasn't going to have story and in a way, it didn't, but it's much less about story and more about capturing feelings and, you know, YOU AMAZING LANGUAGE POWERS! I'm very happy with those. Sooo enough of my lovey-rant. Rock on, you.

Hey,
Sorry it took me so long to come and give you a review, but I just came back from an amazing summer camp. i read through your reviews and most of them are redundant in what i want to say. You did an awesome job with description, and word usage. I loved your style it just needs spruced up, and with the help of these reviews you'll be on your way. Thank for asking for a review feel free to PM me if you have any questions or need another review.

Have a great day,
Tiffany

Very, very well written (to echo the others) and, as you mentioned, polished. I have a few nitpicks of my own that I'll add at the end of this for your consideration, but for right now, what you wanted me to look at.

I think I can answer all three of your questions in one, because apart from the nitpicks, the one area you can improve on is the "plot" (for a lack of a better term) and, in consequence, the emotional impact.

By "plot", I mean the emotional... melody of the piece; I don't think you need to add any details about why the love is forbidden, or more substance or length. One of this piece's strengths is its dream-like feel, and I think adding anything concrete would take away from the sort of gentle, seaside, memory-like surrealism/expressionism. But what you can do is make the emotional melody (bear with on the metaphors) of it crisper. There's no need for that to be hazy, after all, and right now, the piece isn't impacting me as much as it could.

I don't know for certain, but I have a hunch that weak link in the emotional chain is the transition between the seashore and the house, the past and the present.

While I don't think it's necessary to make it clear whether or not the first section is a memory, that is one option you have. I'd caution against it because it might reduce style to mere effect, at least if the shore scene is in fact a memory being remembered.

Another option to strengthen the ending and strengthen the melody as a result is to make it clear(er) what, if anything, has changed since that occurred. We get some sense of that--'he' is more confident--but we don't get as good a sense of how the narrator, once the confident one, has changed. Or at least, I had to think about the flip-flop, and I'm not sure if it's intended or not.

I guess that's literature, in the end, and so maybe the ending itself is fine and you shouldn't touch it at all. But, I do think that something must be done with the transitioning lines themselves. I didn't realize until just now, when I went back through to catch some nitpick things, that this actually is a memory being remembered by the narrator.

Part of that confusion comes from the line Rain falls because I thought that was a metaphor, not actual rain, and so I also thought the storm was metaphorical. Maybe the blend was what you were going for, but know that it muddles the effect on the reader.

In short, that transition and the ending is where I'd look to strengthen this piece overall.

Now, for some nitpicks.

Selfish, but I have some right to this, though often he rails against my touch. This line seemed to address the reader more directly than any other line, but I don't know if this narrator needs to justify anything to the reader.

Rain falls. I already talked about this, but it brings me to another point. You use a lot of metaphors and similes, which I love, but it's wearing on the reader to draw so many comparisons. Better a few metaphors and similes that relate and mesh together/have something in common/otherwise complement each other than a wild lot. You might, for instance, stick to all sea-related things and leave the weather out. But maybe the scattered-ness of the comparisons was another effect you were going for.

Like a wounded animal, he watches me cautiously. This comparison bothered me because I don't associated wounded animals with watching cautiously. Or at least, caution's not the word that I think of. Something with more fear, more adrenaline. Caution is simply too passive.

Instead he wavers between decisions like a frightened deer at the roadside. This one bothered me a bit too. Deer usually don't waver between decisions. They freeze. But I don't think this sort of humor was what you're going for.

His tongue cleanses me of the salt in my mouth. This struck me as rather...clunky due to the double prepositional phrases. As a result, it breaks the flowing, sealike, well, flow that you have in this piece, and phrased like that... it makes the embrace sound kind of unromantic, at least to me. Maybe something like "His tongue cleanses the salt from my mouth"?


...damn. Now that I've skimmed over everything, looking for new things to nitpick at, I'm picking up on all these things I didn't see before. I should redo the review, but I don't want to delete what I've written up until now, as you might be able to glean something from it.

My new advice, post-reread, is to:

1) Tighten up your similes, because I keep finding more that aren't exact, that don't achieve the intended purpose of clarifying through comparison for the reader. Make sure every single one's precise. (, like a chant, for instance, makes me personally think of high school students at a football game, rather than monks saying praises to a deity.)

2) Pay attention to the ending, even still. Only, now I think you should expand it, explore more deeply into the emotion of the narrator now versus then.

I hope this gives you some ideas to try out, even if none stick. And sorry this is so disjointed. I got interrupted, and then my opinions kept changing, but at this stage, it's sometimes helpful to get someone's thoughts anyway.

PM me if you'd like any more help, or if something I said didn't make sense!

Rach