Young Writers Society

You scream, but no one can hear you. You speak, but the world cannot comprehend your forgotten tongue. The people bear no ears for your words, no mouths to offer understanding, no hearts to sympathize with the ache of your own. In this familiar town, you now wander as a stranger. Your importance non-existent. Identity omitted from the minds of its inhabitants.

You are the hollow man whose soul was carved and gutted by Father Time. Move on, he whispers, move on. But you cannot. For your chest was stripped of a heart, and that heart forever remains chained to this city, this world.

This memory.

Prisoner to what was once your happiness, you do not wear the shackles. The shackles of the past wear you. Wear you down. Wear you out.

Both your body and mind are tired of this game. Drenched in the stinging saltwater of your tears, they cry to you, shedding tears of their own. They beg for you to let go, let go…

Let go.

Your grip loosens. The statue breathes. But your chest is empty. Your heart, wherever it lies, shrieks. And the shriek is omnipresent. It does not waver like the dying lights in your eyes.

Gnarled and exhausted as your hands may be, you drop to your knees and mold the empty air with your fingers. Helpless, and desperate not to be.

The map, you call out, Give me the map!

Like your identity in this world, the map does not exist. Press your fingers against the cobbled floors and you will find no path to relive this distant reverie. You will find the frost that blankets the ground to be icy and cruel as reality.

Stifle your sobs and hold back the tears that threaten to fall like rain along the rugged contours of your face. Instead, drift as a cloud where the air of the city is thickest. Give it one last look and capture the best of the moment.

Before you say goodbye.

You get but one photograph, Father Time tells you. Choose wisely.

Will you let this memory remain a cheerful one? Or will you transform it into something bitter? You dig a hand into your jacket pocket and discover a small metal object.

Didn’t you know you had the key all along?

Immediately, you unlock yourself, the click of the gears unwinding your frown. You toss the shackles behind you, wipe your antique tears on your sleeve, and dart for the meadow.

Descending, the light is descending. And the stream travels to the great beyond, its surface mirroring the inverse sea of blue. The air is thick here, but not thick enough to block the melody of her hum. Both rich and sweet, her voice is a treat that never expires.

I really enjoy your writing style. I think you would be able to write good works of literary realism.

Hi there! :] Tis WD! Great to see you posting again! I'm excited that I stumbled across this! I haven't read your work in a long time.

There is some beautiful language going on here; you have a way at constructing the words that is simply elegant at parts. It has a nice rhythm to it, and a lot of the metaphorical language has a wonderful way to hitting home despite its somewhat abstract qualities. As the title suggests, you do capture nostalgia in this piece. The abstract approach is lovely and working pretty well right now.

My biggest suggestion in this piece, however, is driving the abstract home even more. Right now it is working pretty well, but I think it can work better. It still feels distant, despite some of the sensations associated with it. I don't think the reader needs to know who Father Time is or for the text to come right out of its metaphorical world and explain itself. I don't think that's the point of this piece. However, it is possible to make the metaphorical intensely personal and, especially as you are using second person, I think this could help the piece a lot. Rather than focusing so much on what is seen by the 'you' recipient of the piece, it might help to focus on what is felt. Sensations, visceral reactions. What are the physical manifestations of nostalgia? What gritty realities accompany this metaphorical depiction of nostalgia?

The amount of metaphorical language you want to use depends on your vision for this piece, but I would suggest giving the 'you' recipient more attention. Readers will relate more easily to a developed character, whether the character is referred to as 'you' or something else.

All in all, a lovely job! :] Thanks for the read! Keep writing and feel free to PM me if you have any questions!

I love this. I've never actually read something that was written in the second-person form before this, and it's really unique and interesting. I like how you described the passage to the afterlife, as well as the way that you personified time by making it a character. Your writing style is original, instead of the way a lot of people tend to copy the styles of other authors. I didn't really see much wrong with it, although you should probably run through the grammar one more time anyway, just to be sure. Keep up the good work.

Thanks for the reviews everyone! Waiting for a couple more responses before I head back to the desk for some editing.