Young Writers Society

I suppose it would be the cliché thing to say that she smiled like the sun. That she lit up every room she walked into, and that her eyes shone like the stars. To say that roses paled in comparison of her lips, and that the barest blush of a sunset perfectly tinted her cheeks. To praise her hair and eyes, saying they were like deep pools, and luxurious sheets of rich chocolate. Relate her skin to ivory, and her disposition to that of a fragile flower. To lavish praise on her like young men of my standing are expected to do on a proper young lady.
But Rose was not a proper young lady, and if I were to tell the truth, I would say she was not beautiful, and she smiled like the stars.
It was a small, quiet smile. Never bright or overpowering, or worthy of any relation to the sun. It was not stunning, but lovely. Lovely, and distant. And if her smile was the stars, then she was the sky, for you had to watch her for quite a while to see her smile. It also made sense that she was the sky, for she was so small in enclosed spaces. She would almost be lost among the buildings and cobblestones of the city, but if you took her to the rooftops or out into the country, and she was just so big.
Of course, that eliminates the use of stars as a metaphor for her eyes, but her eyes aren’t quite stars. They don’t sparkle, and they likely never will. No, her eyes are the embers of a fire just before dawn. They have burned down to their last spark, but are still warm and comforting, and likely to blaze up if given fuel and stirred. That doesn’t mean she was fiery, though. No, she was far from fiery. She was calm and unchanging. The sky, that only is affected by other things and never creates them. She could be clouded over with sadness, or crackling with anger, or clear and serene, but never fiery.
On the note of her eyes, they were far from the ideal rich chocolate that one would expect. Her eyes and hair were nut-brown, and her hair had the misfortune of frizzing just before rain. It was often pulled over her shoulder in a messy braid or ponytail, and more often than not fell into her eyes, which were always slightly squinted from reading too much. Her hair didn’t shimmer, and it certainly wasn’t sleek, but when she sat near the fire it captured little rivulets of gold to wink back at you.
Speaking of fires and the colors that come with them, the “faint sunset” that would be in her cheeks if I were speaking like a proper gentleman flattering a young lady did not exist. Her skin, far from being pure ivory, was a bit too pale, and her limbs were a bit too skinny from spending the day inside more often than out. Her cheeks turned blotchy in the cold, and her blushes always spread from her nose outward, given the appearance that she had been drinking if someone embarrassed her.
Her nose was too long, and her forehead was broad, and she never wore flattering clothes. Her lips were thin, and a bit pale. They were nowhere near the rich rose-red of the flattery of a proper gentleman. She was not beautiful, but she smiled like the stars. The embers in her eyes warmed the nights we spent reading stories in Olen’s study, and my heart knew just how big she could be. Her odd mind made me laugh, and her tangled hair almost helped to uncomplicated things. She was intelligent, and creative, and completely honest in everything she did. She was far from beautiful, but I was falling fast in love with her.

HI!

I hope this doesn't sounds flippant or anything but, I really like this and I entirely know why.

It's so simple, it comes across almost as a journal entry that was never written. You know, when you think things all poetically in your head and mean to write it down later, for posterity or whatever, and you never do.
I really enjoyed the progression from the cliches to the other more unique metaphors. And what metaphors, they were clever and fitting. At the end I wanted to know even more about rose, ( and since I've completely forgotten what catagory I found this under- I hope there is more coming )
Really great job.

I enjoy where this is going. I hope to read more of this story, but I do have a few comments. You use pronouns a little too much. Try to add Rose's name a little more. Only a little though! It will make the writing a little more engaging. Other than that, it's a great piece. I hope to read more of it soon.

I suppose it would be the cliché thing to say that she smiled like the sun. That she lit up every room she walked into, and that her eyes shone like the stars. To say that roses paled in comparison of to her lips, and that the barest blush of a sunset perfectly tinted her cheeks. To praise her hair and eyes, saying they were like deep pools, and luxurious sheets of rich chocolate. Relate her skin to ivory, and her disposition to that of a fragile flower. To lavish praise I would try a different word here on her like young men of my standing are expected to do on (to?) a proper young lady.

But Rose was not a proper young lady, and if I were to tell the truth, I would say she was not beautiful, and she smiled like the stars.

It was a small, quiet smile. Never bright, (no comma) or overpowering, or worthy of any relation to the sun. It was not stunning, but lovely. Lovely, and distant. And if her smile was were the stars, then she was the sky, for you had to watch her for quite a while to see her smile. I like this comparison It also made sense that she was the sky, for she was so small in enclosed spaces. She would almost be lost among the buildings and cobblestones of the city, but if you took her to the rooftops or out into the country, and she was just so big. Aha, this seems incredibly odd to me, and it just doesn't seem to be working. The previous comparison between her and the sky was lovely, this one is not.

Of course, that eliminates the use of stars as a metaphor for her eyes, but her eyes aren’t quite stars anyways. They don’t sparkle, and they likely never will. No, her eyes are the embers of a fire just before dawn. They have burned down to their last spark, but are still warm and comforting, and likely to blaze up if given fuel and stirred. That doesn’t mean she was fiery, though. No, she was far from fiery. She was calm and unchanging You say she's unchanging, but you contradict yourself in the next sentence. The sky. She could be clouded over with sadness, or crackling with anger, or clear and serene, but never fiery.

On the note of her eyes, they were far from the ideal rich chocolate that one would expect. Her eyes and hair were nut-brown, and her hair had the misfortune of frizzing I'm imagining frizzy hair, but I feel like this wasn't what you were going for just before rain. It was often pulled over her shoulder in a messy braid or ponytail, and more often than not, fell into her eyes, which were always slightly squinted from reading too much. Her hair didn’t shimmer, and it certainly wasn’t sleek, but when she sat near the fire it captured little rivulets of gold to wink back at you.

Speaking of fires and the colors that come with them, the “faint sunset” that would be in her cheeks, if I were speaking like a proper gentleman, did not exist. You lost me a little here. Is he saying that he lied before? If so, what was the point of that? Her skin, far from being pure ivory, was a bit too pale, and her limbs were a bit too skinny from spending the day inside more often than out. Her cheeks turned blotchy in the cold, and her blushes always spread from her nose outward, given the appearance that she had been drinking if someone embarrassed her. I like that he's not only describing her positives, but her negatives too. It makes me more realistic.

Her nose was too long, and her forehead was broad, and she never wore flattering clothes. Her lips were thin, and a bit pale. They were nowhere near the rich rose-red of the flattery of a proper gentleman. She was not beautiful, but she smiled like the stars. The embers in her eyes warmed the nights we spent reading stories in Olen’s study, and my heart knew just how big she could be. She was not beautiful, but her odd mind made me laugh, and her tangled hair almost helped to uncomplicated things. She was not beautiful, but she was intelligent, and creative, and completely honest in everything she did. She was far from beautiful, but I was falling fat in love with her. You repeat over and over again how beautiful she isn't. It gets old fast. Maybe phrase it differently, or don't repeat it so often, because the readers get it the first time.

Overall, this is alright. I find that you contradict yourself many times (I didn't point them all out), which takes away from this. It was nice that she had flaws. When I began reading this, I thought it was going to be incredibly sappy and boring, but you proved me wrong. I'm assuming that this is going somewhere, and wherever that may be, I wish you luck!

I don't think there's much I can say that hasn't already been mentioned by someone else. It is a good story, but still has a few spelling and grammatical errors in it. You should pick them up easy enough though. What really got me about this was how you said she was perfect, that she was the love of your life, then went on to admit that actually she wasn't that good looking, but it didn't matter and that she was still an amazing person. It's a very interesting story, and I do like it, but the errors detract from it and reduced how how much I actually enjoyed it.
So if you take the advice of everyone above me, and iron out the wrinkles, it will be a very good piece. Keep it up!