Young Writers Society

A/N: Kay, so this is my entry for Azila's Roulette contest! My catagory was 'Allegory' and it had to be or have something about a famous poem in it. I chose to use Fire and Ice by Robert Frost. Citiques are welcome and wanted!

Also, I just re-edited so its a lot longer and a little less dreadful if you'd like to take a look!

Fire and Ice

When I think back on it, I’m pretty sure they were the worst thing to ever happen to me.

A thought, I suppose. A petty inkling on the things that I’ve done wrong. Like a paper crane with its wing crinkled from being tussled back and forth in an effort to create perfection without measurement of any sort. The ambitious without logic. A cause without a background.

But nothing deemed perfect has ever been achievable, especially by the likes of me.

And life? Well, life is as fucked up as we make it, not that life had much to give me. I was the type to sit and let everything pass. To be as insignificant as possible so that the wrongs in this world would go to them who deserved it. But when has life ever been fair, huh? Not to me. Not to anyone.

So forgive me for being pious. I’m not usually one for conversation, let alone a word or two from my own journal of incessant spite. Its rather dull, in any case, and unfortunately nothing that should make the reader thoroughly enthused.

But first, let me tell you a little something about myself, if you should be so inclined as to read it. Not that it really matters if you do. Won’t change that this story will end one way or another.

Either way, my names Christian Desmarais. Once a rich plantation owner in the best part of New Orleans. Inherited from my father, of course, seeing as I’ve never been the type to try for anything. All the real work was left to an old family friend. I’m sure he snaked away quite the pretty penny on cotton sales but who was to ever know, right? Like I said before, I’m not much for caring.

So, in any case, my life had been easy. Nothing worth calling living if you ask me. I drank only the best. I ate only the finest. I slept in a bed of Egyptian silk, so smooth one would never need to darn them. My childhood had been of importing rare French books. When reading was far too much of a hassle, it was hiring and firing all the greatest landscapers so that my plantation would look like perfection, even if the inside was dull. Everything was of indulgence for aesthetic purposes.

Now, I’m sure you’re wondering when the punch-line will ensue, and as honestly as I can, I will give it to you, but you must be patient with me. I am but a drunkard, after all. A shell of what was once beautiful in life, for all that is living is beautiful once upon a time.

I want to tell you about two women. Two very special girls who consumed what was left of the intoxicated heart I once bore. The first, of rosy cheeks and crimson locks was like an uncontrollable blaze. Her soul was passion. Her world was fire. The other… well, the other was cool and tempered. Her skin was pale and as fair as winters first snow, her heart as cold as ice.

When I had first met Valentine Blanchard, I had been impaired beyond recognition. The pub was warm. The ale was terrible. The sound of fiddles spoke of only the sinful delights a man with no future could partake upon. I was vastly in love with the sharp, forbidden sound.

When she had floated near, that fiery hair flowing down her back in a wave of soft curls, I instantly knew what she bore within her. The heat of one who burned. One who cared not of the destruction she caused, nor the hearts she broke. Her hips swayed, skirts flying. Her wide blue eyes took in everything without a single shroud of decency. She was shame itself.

It wasn’t hard to want her.

My own stumbled inaction amused her when I first approached. Women like her weren’t hard to find in the French Quarter, though I had never seen one so beautiful. With a face like hers, she could have been married off to someone far richer than even myself if it ever was to be. Her eyes, though. No, they spoke of sinning. They were eyes that could not be trusted, but one could be easily indulged in the shameless exuberance. Nothing could hide from them.
Either way, she was achievable. It was visible when she peered through her lashes or the way her lips curved ever so softly into a muted smirk.

“Valentine,” she had said, resting her hand on her hip whilst jetting the free one forward. Her voice sounded like velvet; smooth and silky sweet. “And you, monsieur?”

“Christian,” I mumbled, reaching for a mug of ale that was no longer there due to having gulped the last of it in an act of killing nerves. “Damn.”

She smirked, pressing her soft palm down against the top of my own, brow perked up in that mischievous manner only a woman could achieve. “The next rounds on me.”

I suppose it was not in my place to accept ale from someone who was of a lower social standing than myself but her act of generosity had taken me by surprise. Women like her were flighty. Gypsy souls who could no more stay to a certain location than I could sustain from drinking. It was a truth of which always applied, and one like myself needed to apply constant attention if wishing to succeed in.. well, I’m sure you get the just of it. She, though, did not appear to be in the mood for disappearing.

When she had returned, the pints balanced precariously in her left hand, she perched herself quite close and spoke in a tone that was simmering down. Not the silky sweet velvet anymore. “Drink.”

I did as was told, sipping the horrid ale with much more enjoyment than I would have if I hadn’t already been quite intoxicated. This amused her greatly.

“You’re trying too hard,” she replied. “No need to impress.”

“And why wouldn’t I, miss?” I asked.

She shrugged, her bare shoulders gleaming in the candescent lighting. Her lips pulled back in a toothy grin. “Because you’re not here to woo me, are you?”

Brutal, like fire. “No, I’m not.”

“And you’re not here for pleasantries either, I presume,” she continued.

“If it pleases you than no, I’m not.”

“And if I told you that I’m not here for pleasantries either, than you would be fine with forgetting about such things as common decency?”

“I suppose I would, ma’am.”

“Then forget.”

The rest of the night blurred into a sheer manner of utter enjoyment. I was no longer the shroud of a drunken fool but an actual drunken fool. I spoke of things I’m sure I never would have to a lady before, and she returned with the same amount of senselessness as I. Maybe that’s where the connection really began, though I’m sure I’m only kidding myself with that one. I am, after all, the vainest creature to have ever lived, if you even call this living.

But I digress.

Either way, to me, this girl was perfection. One of which no laws of propriety could muster. Her will and determination was that to have no will and determination. Her heart was as free and flippant as a birds.

I, on the other hand, was wood. I was hard and impenetrable but living still. Easily forgotten. Easily unchangeable. The kind of substance that could be strong in certain circumstances, I’m sure, but in my case, never really seemed to be used in any positive light.

She took to me like flames to newspaper; hot and fiery as she was, I became lost within her until there was nothing more than ashes. With but little left to burn, she disappeared. The end of Valentine. The end of a senseless bout of passion.

I never really blamed her for it. I was not oxygen. I was not the thing she needed to survive. As much as my actions were solidly immoral, my being was still that of a roped in, societal fool. I would never change, and so she disappeared.

I suppose I should have learned from her, but as any young man would say, there is no shame in trying. With the loss of one, I wanted only to find another, and so my search began.

It didn’t take long before I found the next object of my insatiable desire. Thérèse Pelletier. Daughter or Renaud Pelletier, or in other words, that trusted family friend of mine. She was more ice than water and not the type to flow or be poured; neither wilful nor easily led.

Her skin looked soft and unblemished like that of an infants, her lips merely a shade darker than the ivory, and the panels across her cheeks as predominant as that of aboriginal decent. She was glorious in every sense of the word.
I was infatuation. I was past the point of interest. I made my intentions known to her father who was excited nonetheless, and approached with a calm, composed air. The air of someone who was not a drunkard but that of a rich plantation owner to the best of my extent. Mimicking what I could remember of father, really.

She had been walking along the garden path of her home, hands running along the thick ferns, nose dipping ever so slightly to catch the fragrance of the thick wisteria. Her feet stepped in an effortless pattern that floated almost, as if the laws of gravity did not pertain to someone of such simplicity.

“Mademoiselle,” I murmured, intruding upon her moment of peace with about as much elegance as a rodent. She flicked her eyes in my direction, the calm smile slipping into a muted scowl, arms wrapping around her slim figure. The hand I had outstretched went unnoticed, or ignored. More likely the second.

“What is it you want with me?” she stated plainly, her eyes narrowing. Sharp, like daggers. Cold, like ice.

“To exchange pleasantries, of course,” I replied, bowing my head to her in the most apologetic manner I could. “Your father is a close family friend.”

“Ah yes,” she sighed, turning her back on me once more as she sifted forwards. “As if I couldn’t already tell who you were. I am not clueless, Monsieur Desmarais.”

“So you know my name.”

“I know only what my father tells me,” she replied sheepishly. “And, to be quite frank, yours was not a very interesting story.”

I was hurt by her words. More than I should have been. “What would you have wished me to be, then?”

She paused, plucked a flower from the garden, and turned to me with that glint of amusement in her eyes I had so wanted to create. “Nothing like what you are now.”

My efforts, as I’m sure you realize, were futile. Every chance I could, I would try to capture just a little bit of her respect, but her disinterest pushed me a step back when she stepped forward. Her flippant way of batting me off made it more and more clear that I was not the one she wished. Why would ice want anything to do with wood? Ice needed something just as strong and cold as itself. It would only ever freeze and kill one like myself.

I suppose my behaviour deserved the consequences it bore. Why should I gain when I have never lost? Is there really such
a purpose to that of a man as hopelessly vain and shallow as myself? I had hoped so in my conquests but returned without the fruits so often sought. Passion is for those willing to risk.

I merely reached for what seemed like perfection. The heat of fire first, with its deep intoxication seemed like the top of all things and if I could have retained it, I’m sure I would have found insurmountable happiness.

Ice was hard and blunt but beautiful. The perfect solution for healing burns, and bringing moral happiness that could not be brought from that of fire. The kind of companionship I could have received would have been that of utter excitement, but unrealistic. Ice could not settle for anything less than it deserved.

So I… well, I chose the breakers of my heart. The death of the only thing left in me that was really human. I, who did not deserve passion or wit strove for both and returned with naught. I dealt my own death.

~Walker

Hey, DW! :D I should start of by saying that I'm not too familiar with Ice and Fire, so apologies for if I mention anything that would make sense if I had a greater understanding of the context!

I really like some of your imagery, the idea of the paper crane with wrinkled wings is really nice, and you've got some really nice descriptions, but this piece seems to move quite slowly. There's quite a bit of introspection, with Christian being pretty philosophical about life, and for me, personally, it was a little difficult to get through as a beginning. I much prefer if there's there's something physically happening to start off with, so there's something to visualise. It becomes a little hard to read, because there's all of these different ideas and thoughts floating around and there isn't really a lot of context to it yet, if that makes sense?

It's hard to really care that much about Christian, I'm not sure if that was what you were hoping for though XD he admits that he's had an easy ride in life, that he doesn't have to try at anything, and that he's quite apathetic towards life in general.

We drank. We ate. We listened and we forgot all that was wrong in this world with sweet, simple intoxication. When all was said and done, she burned my flesh with desire.

I was wood. I was hard and impenetrable but living still. Easily forgotten. Easily unchangeable.

I think I'm very juvenile here... When you say 'she burned my flesh with desire', that is a reference to sex, yes? Following this up with wood and hard just doesn't sound quite right. I have a bit of a giggle, I have to admit (as I said, I'm as bad as a teenage school-girl :3)

The descriptions here seem a little at odds with each other here. It seems like on the one hand it sounds like, despite all of this fiery passion from Valentine, Christian is still apathetic and unfeeling, but at the same time is completely consumed by her desire? I get that you were trying to get the contrast between Valentine and Thérese; with his feeling towards them being like opposites and I think it's interesting. I guess I just find it hard enough to really wish Christian well XD

Her skin looked soft and unblemished like that of an infants

This is more of a personal thing, but I really don't like it when child-like attributes in women are described as attractive. I mean, we're not attracted to them when they're in children, y'know?

Overall, I think that this is quite an interesting piece, and I really like the contrast you've got between the two women. I suppose that, while they feel a little flat, that's almost a reflection on how Christian saw them; not so much as multi-faceted people but as how they appeared in his own blinkered world-view.

One thing I think to watch, is that sometimes your sentence structure falls into a very repetitive single-clause pattern and there's little variation. Mostly this just needs a bit of tweaking with a few more commas and perhaps some semi-colons to give it a bit more variety. Short sentences can have a massive impact, but that tends to be when they're interspersed among longer ones.

Anyway, I hope that I've been of some use to you, and explained everything coherently! If you want me to elaborate and explain anything I've said, then juts shoot me a PM and whatnot! :D

-Tinny

Why hello there my dear! I must say I was very excited when you told me about the context of this piece and the idea to write it on Fire and Ice is a great one, but I was rather disapointed by your execution. There wasn't enough intrigue or suspence in the beginning to really hold my attention or make me care about the story Christian was about to tell and to be honest by the time he was telling it, I was just annoyed and frustrated by him as a character. If anything I was glad to hear he'd done badly in love. I might even have revelled in his failures had I been more interested in the two female characters you created. I think that there's your first flaw: the characterisation. I didn't really care for or find interest in any of the three.

I think I'm getting ahead of myself though. Here's some specific suggestions and comments first:

When I think back on it, I’m pretty sure they were the worst thing to ever happen to me, not that it really mattered. [You've immediately lost my attention. If it didn't matter to him, why should it matter to me? Also, you could cut some words out of that first sentence to make it more dramatic like 'pretty' and 'ever'.] Just a thought, I suppose. A petty inkling on the things that I’ve done wrong. Like a paper crane with its wing crinkled from being tussled back and forth in an effort to create perfection without measurement of any sort. [A very pretty image but I'm not sure that it fits or serves much purpose? Also, the culture of it threw me off because I then expected other cultural references throughout this which I'd have really liked to see. I mean, he's a drunk character but he shows a pretty solid knowledge of paper cranes. I'd have liked to know where that came from, maybe his cultural background as I said or maybe because he tried origami a few times when he was bored?] The ambitious without logic. A cause without a background.

What is my story then? Hell, if I knew, I wouldn’t be writing it, that’s for sure. [The lack of self interest is off putting because it makes you think he hasn't much to say which wouldn't be so bad if his story turned out to be monumental but since it's just about two girls, mmm.] There can’t be anything good of this. Nothing that makes any difference. I’ll write it anyways, though, as all cookie-cutters do. I’ll feed the masses what’s left of this poor, forgotten sap of a man. I’ll watch as the rest is torn to shreds.

So, in any case, my life had been easy. Nothing worth calling living if you ask me. I drank only the best. I ate only the finest. I slept in a bed of imported sheets, so silky smooth one would never need to darn them. The world was my oyster, and because of that, I lost myself in greed. [I'm sure the cliches were intentional but it would have been nice to have a few original descriptions. What was being rich to him? That's what being rich is to everyone else but to him? Did it mean he endulged in a hobby of owning expensive planes but never flying them, of eating lobster just because it was expensive?]

I want to tell you about two women. Two very special girls who consumed what was left of the intoxicated heart I once bore. The first, of rosy cheeks and crimson locks was like an uncontrollable blaze. Her soul was passion. Her world was fire. The other… well, the other was cool and tempered. Her skin was pale and as fair as winters first snow, her heart as cold as ice. [Nice. I quite like this part, though I'm not sure you should have made the girls quite so stereotypical as to give the fire one red hair and the ice one pale skin. I think I'd like and appreciate them more if it was all down to their personalities or unique attributes about them, such as a solid gaze from ice or the warmth of fire's skin.]

When I had first met Valentine Blanchard, I had been impaired beyond recognition. The pub was warm. The ale was terrible. The sound of fiddles spoke of only the sinful delights a man with no future could partake upon. I was vastly in love with the sharp, forbidden sound. [There's some nice descriptions here, keep those.]

I suppose I should have learned from her, but as any young man would say, there is no shame in trying. With the lose loss of one, I wanted only to find another, and so my search began.

It didn’t take long before I found the next object of my insatiable desire. Thérèse Pelletier. Daughter or Renaud Pelletier, or in other words, that trusted family friend of mine. She had the widest blue eyes, so lacking of in pigment that they appeared glassy and crystal-like in comparison to water. [End of this sentence is a little awkward. I'd suggest removing the 'in comparison to water' part. Or having that as another line, or combine it with the following, like, 'She was more ice than water and not the type to flow or be poured, neither willfull nor easily led.'] She was not the type who flowed anyways.

Not a bad ending.

Characterisation

Alright so this needs work. You should either aim to make the girls people we can relate to and love so that the audience will be glad that he is getting what he deserves, or, give Christian a more sympathetic air. Characters don't have to be nice for us to like them, they just have to be good at being bad or the type we can relate to or bad enough that it interests us and we want to know why they're like that, how they tick. Christian isn't any of these and he is in fact self pitying which is a terrible quality in a guy already so annoying. His slightly studious way of thinking is the only thing that's currently getting him any marks from me. I'd want to see more that that. Are there observations he can make which are lewd but funny? Mean or selfish but entertaining? Are there things he can tell us which makes the reader feel like they're on his side, like they're his co-conspirators? Rather than have him so reluctant to recount this, he's a drunk, right? Well why not make this a monologue he's recounting in the pub? You can imagine an audience for him, which of course is us and set rhetorical questions, pauses in the conversation and the like. That I think would fit nicely with his character and make him more chummy and likeable.


I think I'll leave it there for now as there wasn't anything wrong with your descriptions and no dialogue to speak of. You had an alright variety of sentence lengths, though a few less of the mid-length ones wouldn't hurt, and the plot fits your concept. Drop me a pm if you have any questions or make edits though and good luck with the contest,

Heather xxx

Hey there Walker!

Well, I must say I haven't read Fire and Ice, so this is based solely on what I've just read.

Unlike everyone else, it seems, I enjoyed this. I was intrigued by your Mc's tone and lack of interest. Was he always like this, or did the girls make him this way?

Of course, as Heather said, it would have been nice to have a bit more on the characters than the typical fire/red hair, but on the other hand, it was very visual for me, I could picture it clearly. What I have to wonder is this: which time period is this set in? ¸

Because it feels old and in those times, father's married off their daughters and they didn't have a word to say about that. So why was this one given a choice?

I don't have much else to say except to thank you for this read. I enjoyed it

Tanya

Why hello again! Sorry I didn't get to this yesterday, got totally distracted by revision and a really cool game xD

Right then. Well I see you have a few small typos. The 'its' in paragraph five is missing an apostrophe and paragraph six goes on to another paragraph when it shouldn't. In paragraph eight, should be 'name's'.

So, in any case, my life had been easy. Nothing worth calling living if you ask me. I drank only the best. I ate only the finest. I slept in a bed of Egyptian silk, so smooth one would never need to darn them. [The single of silk and then the plural of them is slightly off putting. Maybe 'Egyptian silk sheets' or 'never need to darn the sheets'. Also, not sure what smooth has to do with darning. Generally you darn sheets because they get ripped so... maybe so fine you'd never dream of darning them? You'd sooner buy new ones than have darned sheets on the bed?] My childhood had been of importing rare French books. When reading was far too much of a hassle, it was hiring and firing all the greatest landscapers so that my plantation would look like perfection, even if the inside was dull. Everything was of indulgence for aesthetic purposes.

I want to tell you about two women. Two very special girls who consumed what was left of the intoxicated heart I once bore. The first, of rosy cheeks and crimson locks was like an uncontrollable blaze. Her soul was passion. Her world was fire. The other… well, the other was cool and tempered. Her skin was pale and as fair as winter's first snow, her heart as cold as ice.

When Ihad first met Valentine Blanchard, I had been impaired beyond recognition. The pub was warm. The ale was terrible. The sound of fiddles spoke of only the sinful delights a man with no future could partake upon. I was vastly in love with the sharp, forbidden sound.

“Valentine,” shehad said, resting her hand on her hip whilst jetting the free one forward. Her voice sounded like velvet; smooth and silky sweet. “And you, monsieur?”

I suppose it was not in my place to accept ale from someone who was of a lower social standing than myself but her act of generosity had taken me by surprise. Women like her were flighty. Gypsy souls who could no more stay to a certain location than I could sustain from drinking. It was a truth of which always applied, and one like myself needed to apply constant attention if wishing to succeed in... well, I’m sure you get the just jist of it. She, though, did not appear to be in the mood for disappearing.

“If it pleases you than then no, I’m not.”

“And if I told you that I’m not here for pleasantries either, than then you would be fine with forgetting about such things as common decency?”

Either way, to me, this girl was perfection. One of which no laws of propriety could muster. Her will and determination was that to have no will and determination. Her heart was as free and flippant as a bird's.

“I know only what my father tells me,” she replied sheepishly. [I think that's the wrong word. She doesn't seem the type to be sheepish, certainly doesn't seem embarrassed by her limited knowledge.] “And, to be quite frank, yours was not a very interesting story.”

I suppose my behaviour deserved the consequences it bore. Why should I gain when I have never lost? Is there really such

a purpose to that of a man as hopelessly vain and shallow as myself? I had hoped so in my conquests but returned without the fruits so often sought. Passion is for those willing to risk. [You've split a paragraph again ^^ Also, would love to see more of his infatuation. When a man is obsessed, he chases and chases and makes excuses for the girl's actions; reasons. How does he interpret hers? Does he see her pushing away of him as a kindness because she knows she will only destroy him? After the carelessness of his last relationship is it that kindness he craves from her? Or does he see it as cruel, as harsh rejection?]

Alright, I think you've improved this a lot. I really like the dialogues, I like the way the two meetings reflect one another in the attempts at pleasantries and I like how they contrast with each other in the different ways that the pleasantries are turned down. The characters are much more lively now and I do like the girls, though fire less than ice. Your MC is more interesting, though he's more changeable than he suggests. Can he so easily give up the boozing that seems to define him in order to woo the second girl? I'd like to see slip ups. I'd like to see a further meeting between them where he's as drunk as he was with the other girl. That would help reinforce him as wood because at the moment, his personality doesn't seem all that solid. If anything, he should be more degraded by the second girl because he's been burned to ash. Maybe play with the idea that he is ash now, a new substance. I don't know, just something for you to think of.

I did enjoy the changes though. I think it's better now. It's perhaps a little wordy in places but I got the feeling that was your character's personality so no worries. I'm just clearly destined to dislike him and since that was your intention, you needn't change it. I saw a little more of his 'perfectionism' this time so that helped the paper crane description fit.

Well I'll leave you with this for the moment. Get in touch if there's anything else you need/ more questions/ more changes. Good luck!

Heather xxx

Hey Walker. Pretty sure you know the drill.

When I think back on it, I’m pretty sure they were the worst thing to ever happen to me.

A thought, I suppose. A petty inkling on the things that I’ve done wrong. Like a paper crane with its wing crinkled from being tussled back and forth in an effort to create perfection without measurement of any sort. The ambitious without logic. A cause without a background.

I'll be perfectly honest: This transition from simple line to waxing poetic almost stopped me from reading the piece.

The transition is just so sharp it's hard to follow. You don't focus on the last part of the sentence, who "they" are, but instead focus on the first part of the sentence, about thoughts, which I personally skipped over because of the introductory nature of the statement.

Another thing that happens with this sharp transition is you kill tension. You have a hook. We want to know who "they" are. Why they were the worst thing to happen to him. And you take half the story to get there. Makes the beginning very difficult to read through, because it feels like filler: dry and unneeded. I had completely forgotten your hook by the time I reached the actual people, I'll get to that in a bit, which really made the following backstory information feel shoved in. Satisfy your reader's curiosity first, before getting to the pretty words.

As for these pretty words. I expected the images conjured in the second paragraph to be referenced again, or to play an important part in the story, but they don't. They're just pretty for the sake of bring pretty, and that is clogging your story.

But nothing deemed perfect has ever been achievable, especially by the likes of me.

And life? Well, life is as fucked up as we make it, not that life had much to give me. I was the type to sit and let everything pass. To be as insignificant as possible so that the wrongs in this world would go to them who deserved it. But when has life ever been fair, huh? Not to me. Not to anyone.

And here you go again with the sharp changes that lead to a semi anti-climactic coupling of paragraphs.

Your first paragraph acts as a bit of a transition, but because of the aforementioned "lots of pretty words" the reference was nearly lost on me. I'd skipped over the mention of perfection because I started skimming the paragraph previous. You do have a redemption by making this another (rather needed) hook, but then you change topics yet again with "and life." You didn't have much mention of life before, just waxing poetic, so "and" is really out of place. It makes the line sound like he was giving a list of other people's problems, and suddenly he's tossing his own life in there. I found he was talking about his life in the first place, so the sudden switch to life makes me raise my eyebrow for reasons I can't exactly describe.

I do commend you on the strength of voice you have with the f-word and the continuing self-deprication. At the same time, this comes from so out of the blue it feels forced. Again. You do, however, reference this paragraph later on so it's not a total waste. It's just so shoved into the prose I had to read this couplet a few times to have things make sense. And they still don't.

So forgive me for being pious. I’m not usually one for conversation, let alone a word or two from my own journal of incessant spite. Its rather dull, in any case, and unfortunately nothing that should make the reader thoroughly enthused.

Pretty much echoing a reader's feelings, and this would be why the above feels forced. If it's not his character, come up with a reason for it to be his character or cut it.

But first, let me tell you a little something about myself, if you should be so inclined as to read it. Not that it really
matters if you do. Won’t change that this story will end one way or another.

This ended up as a paragraph break. A bit jarring.

As for the wording itself... I'm not fond of it. You're dissuading people from reading, and not exactly doing it in a way that makes us wonder why this story is so bad we wouldn't want to read it. Appeal to human nature. Make us so curious about a juicy piece of gossip or sap story that we want to dive in and just read.

Once a rich plantation owner in the best part of New Orleans.

I'm honing in on the word "once." You never finish addressing what made him use this word; why he fell from a high position to where he apparently is now. I think this would make for a much stronger allegory to the poem, because then you weave in how his world ends.

So, in any case, my life had been easy. Nothing worth calling living if you ask me. I drank only the best. I ate only the finest. I slept in a bed of Egyptian silk, so smooth one would never need to darn them. My childhood had been of importing rare French books. When reading was far too much of a hassle, it was hiring and firing all the greatest landscapers so that my plantation would look like perfection, even if the inside was dull. Everything was of indulgence for aesthetic purposes.

Again, you never reference this, or even say why it's important. Rereading the beginning, I want to know why he fell from his high position.

Now, I’m sure you’re wondering when the punch-line will ensue, and as honestly as I can, I will give it to you, but you must be patient with me. I am but a drunkard, after all. A shell of what was once beautiful in life, for all that is living is beautiful once upon a time.

A couple things with this.

Firstly, the whole "punch line" thing. It got me back to being interested in the work, because it meant the end to all the waxing poetic and stuff that didn't really seem to have a place. However, you do not deliver the punchline by the end of the piece. Because of how much time you have spent talking about how good his life used to be and just recently mentioning drinking, I expected the punchline to be related to his fall from a social status. As I said, I'd completely forgotten about "they" all the way back in the opening line, because you changed topics so completely after that first line it's almost not relevant anymore.

Secondly, the whole "but a drunkard" thing. I read that and raised an eyebrow, because the label does not match the narrator's voice. I expected a drunkard to have a much different sentence structure and general voice than this. Again, if you can come up with a good reason for it to happen, that's fine, and I rather like the implications: he used to be this way, so he clings onto formal writing as a way to preserve who he was.

However, right now all that the line about being a drunkard is making me feel is I'm reading your voice, not the character's. Past the mentions of drinking, his tone is too perfect, too much like your normal speaking voice (I can forgive a similarity to normal speaking voice if the character is very close to the author in terms of worldview and experience; I'd like to think this is not the case here) for me to truly believe it.

Two very special girls who consumed what was left of the intoxicated heart I once bore.

I pull the line out because you never really show us the end result of this; the story ends with a whisper instead of the flourish I find this line promises. You're especially weak in the ice section. This line promises some sort of closing to the story, but, as I'll get into in a minute, it doesn't really deliver.

That being said, I'm glad you take the time to reintroduce the women. It refocuses the piece, after it had lost focus with all the backstory, and reminds us we're in for a romance. Immediately the reader's attention is captured again, because they left him heartless but he doesn't seem to be angsting about it; there's so much room for finding out cause/effect, the actual women, the heart he once had. You never really finish up on that.

The other… well, the other was cool and tempered. Her skin was pale and as fair as winters first snow, her heart as cold as ice.

You lack a certain poeticness with this line you had for the fire character. It feels repetitive, even though not a single word repeats. I think it's because of "cool" and "cold." The words are similar enough to feel repetitive.

She was shame itself.

It wasn’t hard to want her.

This is what I was talking about when I said to appeal to human desire. This also sounds so much like a guy he starts getting his own character, and I'm drawn into the scene and the story.

Daughter or Renaud Pelletier, or in other words, that trusted family friend of mine.

So it is indeed the same family friend, but I find you never really explore how the relationship could be strained, or his thoughts on certain complications with courting an old family friend come up. It makes this early section feel weak, and you lose the grasp on his character— never really forming a grasp on hers.

I suppose it fits with the poem, but for the story I find this lack of personification of ice weakens the prose. Especially since the MC only has snatches of his own voice; the rest of the time I feel like I'm reading another of your stories (My Hiro comes to mind). After you'd finally gotten a grip on his character, you lose it again as the story focuses more on waxing poetical and not the conflict between love interests that I find would be much stronger.

The air of someone who was not a drunkard but that of a rich plantation owner to the best of my extent. Mimicking what I could remember of father, really.

Now, this line makes me think he hasn't lost the plantation, yet pretty much the whole story previous has implied he has. At least to my eyes. This uncertainty drives me a bit nuts, because it allows flip-flopping in who he is. Is he a drunk because he lost the plantation, it's in dire straights, or he just enjoys drinking? It's one of the things making me doubt his strength as a character, which undermines the whole story.

“I know only what my father tells me,” she replied sheepishly.

Sheepishly implies shame for me. That there's something to hide, or that she dislikes. I can see why she would feel this way, but at the same time it's such a disconnect from her earlier dialogue/description that it feels off.

Is there really such
a purpose to that of a man as hopelessly vain and shallow as myself?

Another odd paragraph break.

As for the line/paragraph itself, this is what I was talking about when I say there is no ending. We don't really have a solidity for how she feels, how he feels, or what happens after he stops attempting to court her.

Also, where is the grounding in this self-deprication? At the start I could sort-of tolerate the comments about himself, because they weren't so much about him, persay, but general comments. Now, though, I'm wondering just who he is and why he is so self-aware to be telling us all his flaws. I'd rather be shown his flaws and have him be oblivious to them. Or be shown the flaws and told about them. But not just told about the flaws.

This, I suppose, is where your prose falls flat for me. A first person narrator being so aware of himself, and telling us about himself instead of showing his actions for us to see them (even in a diary-style setting) make it a bit unbelievable. And cold. If you clarified that he's had a lot of time to think about what has gone on, and the story he is telling us is one long past, it would make a lot more sense. However, he never does, so we're left to wondering what the timeline is.

So I… well, I chose the breakers of my heart. The death of the only thing left in me that was really human. I, who did not deserve passion or wit strove for both and returned with naught. I dealt my own death.

You attempt to come full-circule here, but I have not seen enough of how this killed him for me to truly consider this a closing. I can't pick out where the death comes from, even after two or three reads. Therefore, you create a new thread with mentioning death instead of tying off old ones. It's rather unsatisfying.

~

Overall rambles:

I'm not exactly sure where to start with this. You do a decent job of showing each concept of the poem in a character. And since I mention characters, I guess I will start with them.

Your MC is primarily the root of the issues I mentioned: his only sign of vanity is talking about how vain he is, and his only sign of complacency is how he never reaches for anything... only to have him reach for ice. His personality seems to be dictated by the whims of the poem and author, instead of taking the time to make it fit the poem and be logical at the same time.

This character did not keep a solid voice, and the lack of logic for his actions, especially at the end, was a sharp disconnect between the opening narration. There, he gives reasons for him to be complacent. The roots of his personality. But then you start flip-flopping of where his world (the plantation) ended (by him losing it) and I found the character is suddenly not solid anymore. His jumping from thoughts a bit illogically (I've pointed out the locations) does not help matters. There's also no certainty in how he lost his life, which leaves me looking at an unfinished puzzle and reaching for pieces that aren't there because you haven't revealed them.

Which leads me to how this works as an allegory, and finally talking about the women as I keep saying I will. You manage to personify Fire well, but not Ice. She does not have her heart, her motives, revealed as Fire did. There is also no real repercussion from him being involved with either, but there is much less of a repercussion from Ice. Fire sort of has one: going to Ice in the first place and maybe forgetting about the world only to come back to ruins. But it'd be a bit nice if you explored how he was consumed by Fire a bit more: how that changed him and what he should have learned. Has he thought about what would have made her stay?

Ice, though, she needs a repercussion period. You have the reason he goes to her (healing for burns) but not what he lost trying to get her. It weakens the connection to "destruction from ice would suffice" in the poem, and is the end result of me thinking this story would end with a much stronger repercussion he would receive (the way you introduce these two women). I kept thinking the effect would be explained, but you stop at the cause and end with death.

As for how they are actually presented, I'm surprised at the lack of role they played. The whole point of the poem is the world being destroyed by ice or fire— yet you do not mention how these women bring about destruction in his life through being personifications of the elements. I suppose it's a subtle way of showing how selfish he is, the amount he talks about himself, but the point of the story (from what I can see) is how Fire and Ice destroyed his world. We are literally given nothing of that.

In short, I find you are lacking the ending to this story. It's told in a flashback, where the character is probably older and wiser, but that's not clear. It's the cause of my confusion for how/when he lost the plantation, what effect the women had in his life, and how they consumed him.

Basically, you promise something at the start of the story (some sort of emotional destruction) and never explain how that happens. It needs to happen to make this story feel finished.

Snag me if you have any questions or comments.

~Rosey

Hey Walker, here for a review!

H'okay, so this was really nicely written. Your imagery and descriptions are beautiful, and it's always nice to read a story that has proper diction and grammar. You combined the themes of fire and ice really well in a clever manner, and did a good job with the allegory of the women being hot and cold. (*instantly starts humming Katy Perry's song*)

Anyway, the main issue I have with this piece is just the way the narrator sounds, I suppose. Like, he kind of just tells everything and instead of starting the story right off, he talks about different things that are supposed to mirror the decisions he's made and such, and it distracts from what really happened. Then, when he tells us about the two women, he describes them well but it just feels...flat. Everything has happened in the past, and it's difficult to get really engrossed and pulled into the story now because there's not a whole lot to jump into.

The narrator's just laying out his past love life and it's not super engaging or exciting. It's well-written, but as a reader I feel incredibly impassive towards the whole situation. I'm not really rooting for anyone, or feeling sorry for any of them, and in the end I didn't really care what happened to the MC. Basically, it was personalized as much as I'd like to have seen. If we had seen more of a glimpse into who he was and how each relationship was instead of just hearing about it years later and also hearing what his thoughts were about it, then I think it would have made for a much more dramatic, bittersweet ending.

That's really it that I have to critique. Everything else was really well done. ^_^ Keep up the good work! Cheers. =)