Okay, so this piece is kind of yucky for several different reasons.
Right now, it looks like you're going through the metaphor stage-- that is, if it ain't a metaphor, it's out. Unfortunately, this means that you have a bunch of different metaphors that really don't connect to each other. At all. Your overall theme has to do with celestial movements, but you switch so randomly that it seems more like a detached, disjointed dream than anything else. And mind you, I love dreams and everything, but the detached feel of this dream is killing this piece. There is nothing for the reader to identify with, no humanity, nothing, so it falls flat. It sounds pretty, if you don't think about the word choice (more on that later) but the piece doesn't matter. It really doesn't.
And the word choice! I know what you're thinking--some people use a high vocabulary and I am one of those people. Fine. But that doesn't mean that you can be completely nonsensical. And unfortunately, for the most part your words are just cotton balls. Though they are different, yes, and varied too, they are not strong or suitable.
For one, your adjectives suck. To see how badly the adjectives were hampering the piece, I took them all out. Here are the results:
Around and around they danced, faces hidden inside the masks that clung to their features like ivy. He peered at her mask through the slits that allowed him the faintest of vision; why, he did not know, but clearly her eyes were staring back at him. The rest of her face was concealed behind that exterior, made up of paper and peacock feathers arranged in designs.
The music increased; the footsteps echoed as the hundred dancers swirled together, leaves traveling – sailing! – across the wind to find their mother oak. He could not take his eyes off her form, her body that moved in sync with the melody that grew louder as if tuning itself to his heartbeat. She spun in front of him and yet eternities away; the chasm that was the tile separating the two, covered with stars, and mocked the boy for his hesitancy.
He could stand it no longer; he tore off his mask, felt the light of the chandelier drowning him in kisses, so unpleasant that it reminded him of her once more, unbearable to his skin. There was only the pounding of the boy’s ribs cascading their melody of flesh as he flung himself forward, seeing her for the first time like heaven itself. Ignoring the other masqueraders, who pushed past him in their movements across that starry floor, he found himself swept forward to where she was now standing. The dancer reached and flung off her mask, his heart now pulsating to its highest extent.
Before he could see any of the angel that he knew must lay beyond, her face was blanketed by the light of the chandelier above them both. Light pounded through his eyes, reducing his vision to brightness. Screaming, he stumbled forward, grasping at the air. It was too late. The girl, who had waited until the end of time, disappeared, along with those around her into the chandelier above that looked down upon the masquerade ball. One by one, the dancers glanced at the ceiling, barren of anything but white, and vanished, only the clicking sounds of their footsteps remaining behind for not more than seconds to remind the world of their passing.
Tears straining his eyes, the boy looked up and cursed the flames arranged in their circles that were suspended from the ceiling by a chain. The fire crackled, cursing back at him for his folly. He shut his eyes and his heart, the memories of the girl diminishing until they were naught but dreams. Realization corroding within him, he sank to the floor of the universe, sobs escaping his throat, cries of what wasn’t and what could not be.
The music increased in its volume again across the hall, the patron of the ball that never had occurred.
It's better. Now you don't have horrible descriptions of the "indistinguishable ceiling" or the wonderful action "heart now pulsating arduously." You just have the bare bones of it. Unfortunately, it sounds wrong. Why? Because now the navel-gazing of this piece is even more apparent. The narrator goes on and on about his pale skin and her dainty form without giving us a better picture of what is actually happening in a physical and emotional sense. Without the adjectives, this becomes a shallow work about fleeting beauty and the idiocies of teenagers in their eternal and yet mortal drama.
And we need to know what is happening in the physical and emotional sense. Right now, you're describing to us the room and the girl. (And did I mention that the "angel" part was kind of cliched? Because it is.) And the dance. You used tons of adjectives and abstract and nonspecific language to talk about the dance (more on that later). You don't really tell us about the people involved or the girl. The only person that the reader even gets to know is the hero, and even then, we never get to know him, really. He's just... there. And he's kind of lame. So give us a better picture! The whole thing is lame right now.
And... nonspecific and inappropriate language only goes so far. You can use it in a small dose to create a reaction, but when the whole piece reeks of nonspecific and inappropriate language, your poetic license should be revoked. When I see things like, "realization corroding in him," this prompts a gag reflex, simply because you're using inappropriate language. It might be a metaphor, but using chemistry as a metaphor makes your piece looks ridiculous.
Finally, metaphors are best used in small quantities to really have an impact. And figurative language should be like spices. A dash is fine, but if I put too much paprika on your eggs, you're going to choke. As a writer, you have to figure out what is important enough to emphasize with a metaphor and what should merely be a nice detail. And never, ever sacrifice conflict for language. Ever. In poetry and in fiction, conflict should be the biggest thing. And, if you find yourself covering up the plot for pretty language, it's time to start over again.
As always, if you have any questions, I'm a PM away! Hope this helps.
, or maybe it's the sheer speed that I was competing myself with! It's a great idea- is it a dream? Daydream? Is the girl based on a girl he knows in real life? Is this a dramatic dream -or vision- of what had happened to him? A bad break up? Unrequited love?
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