The Rose

Honey, I think you should put it under Other instead. It sounds like a poetry-prose hybrid.

It's really sweet, though. The only part I disagree with is the last bit. The four words. But, as the infamous saying goes, it's probably just me.

Cheers,
Lily.

You guys are all dissing the way I set it out - which is fair enough, it is very hard to read. But there was certain reasoning for it to be set that way...sort of artwork within writing I suppose.
The piece is very different - a lot of thing don't make sense to people, nor does it flow. But it's meant to be very different and hard to understand - simply because it is so personal. - Perhaps that sort of writing is meant for the writer solely? I should really set it out differently to make it easier to read.

I'm pretty sure people have already touched on this but try to break it up into more than one paragraph. It's very intimidating to the eyes to have just one huge paragraph. I'll try to point out some good places where you could do this

TRASHYtoni wrote:Once upon a moment; the two existed in total harmony. [s]The[/s] love swirled around them like dolphins dancing. Warm days of extravagant enchantment, cool nights of excruciating pleasure. They were all through each other, they filled each other, ran through one another's veins.* They lived off kisses and laughter and sunshine and bliss. The world of pure ecstasy that surrounded them felt eternal.((new paragraph here))

TRASHYtoni wrote: "Marry me." The rose that was them* was large and striking that year. The rich scarlet that they were seemed to make everyone happy. They drank the water they were fed and the sunlight seemed to beam down warmly on them, making them bigger and better and brighter. If ever blue seemed to try and creep its way through, ((through what?)her tears would paint magnificent pictures on his blank canvas that would make him sing and dance until her tears were only that of hilarity and happiness.**((new paragraph here))

TRASHYtoni wrote:The soft green that met their feet was comforting on their souls but not on their minds. ((new paragraph here))

TRASHYtoni wrote:"Our miracle is gone." ((I'm confused...did they lose the baby?))

The kisses stopped and the laughter hadn't been heard for so long it was forgotten. ((new paragraph here))

TRASHYtoni wrote:"You don't paint pictures anymore." He had started making her sick. ((new paragraph here)) She hated the sound of his voice. She hated the thought of him dancing. "I don't want to paint pictures anymore." She scared him. ((new paragraph here)) He tried to revive the grass again and he fed the rose so much water that at times it would almost drown. Sometimes, in secret, he'd gallop alone, just like they used too; but the prickles and thorns just stabbed his feet and made him bleed. His blood was the last scarlet that ever came from them, slowly leaking through the cracks of the tiles of their love. ((new paragraph here)) She lost the will to live that night, the last thorn of the rose and become brittle and weak. She had died inside. He had died and she never cried, but her heart was still beating loudly. Deafening, like a voodoo drum. The doors slammed shut around her and with each slam her head broke a little more. He broke her head and made the rose dead, even though the baby, the baby he died, he died when the first petal wilted away…that poor little miracle.

Good story but it is simply confusing with the horizontal lines...i cannot find the line i am reading...

That was the only thing i think is wrong becasue it is hard to read.

try making it like a poem...that would be great


I like how you made the story happy at the beginning then turn it sorrowful at the end...i do like a good sad ending...

I liked that! I thought the metaphor was very beautiful, it was a very moving story, very sad. The rose was a good image to use as it is wordly associated with love and has the contrast of the the thorns and the beauty. Only a couple of coments:

She lost the will to live that night, the last thorn of the rose and become brittle and weak.

The love didn't swirl anymore; it stabbed like sharks and danger

Ooooh, this is pretty!

I got that the miracle was a baby and the miracle dying was the baby, dead. I'm fairly certain I'm right. But I don't think you really portrayed this well.

Mira!

It was a happy time in which they fed on gummy bears and jelly beans and drank pink lemonade. The grass in which they galloped seemed full and thick that year. The soft green that met their feet was comforting on their souls but not on their minds. <--- There is no transition here! ---> "Our miracle is gone." The soft green started to die, and prickles started to appear.

This makes it really hard to see what's happening, and since this is the turning point, the beginning of conflict, you NEED to stress this! It's important.

For example, a poem that reminded me of this poem was something by Robert Frost called "Home Burial." It reads like this:

Home Burial


He saw her from the bottom of the stairs
Before she saw him.  She was starting down,
Looking back over her shoulder at some fear.
She took a doubtful step and then undid it
To raise herself and look again.  He spoke
Advancing toward her:  "What is it you see
From up there always?—for I want to know."
She turned and sank upon her skirts at that,
And her face changed from terrified to dull.
He said to gain time:  "What is it you see?"
Mounting until she cowered under him.
"I will find out now—you must tell me, dear."
She, in her place, refused him any help,
With the least stiffening of her neck and silence.
She let him look, sure that he wouldn't see,
Blind creature; and awhile he didn't see.
But at last he murmured, "Oh," and again, "Oh."
"What is it—what?" she said.

                                               "Just that I see."

"You don't," she challenged.  "Tell me what it is."
"The wonder is I didn't see at once.
I never noticed it from here before.
I must be wonted to it—that's the reason.
The little graveyard where my people are!
So small the window frames the whole of it.
Not so much larger than a bedroom, is it?
There are three stones of slate and one of marble,
Broad-shouldered little slabs there in the sunlight
On the sidehill.  We haven't to mind those.
But I understand: it is not the stones,
But the child's mound——"

                               "Don't, don't, don't, don't," she cried.

She withdrew, shrinking from beneath his arm
That rested on the banister, and slid downstairs;
And turned on him with such a daunting look,
He said twice over before he knew himself:
"Can't a man speak of his own child he's lost?"

"Not you!—Oh, where's my hat?  Oh, I don't need it!
I must get out of here.  I must get air.—
I don't know rightly whether any man can."

"Amy! Don't go to someone else this time.
Listen to me.  I won't come down the stairs."
He sat and fixed his chin between his fists.
"There's something I should like to ask you, dear."

"You don't know how to ask it."

                                                    "Help me, then."

Her fingers moved the latch for all reply.
"My words are nearly always an offense.
I don't know how to speak of anything
So as to please you.  But I might be taught,
I should suppose.  I can't say I see how.
A man must partly give up being a man
With womenfolk.  We could have some arrangement
By which I'd bind myself to keep hands off
Anything special you're a-mind to name.
Though I don't like such things 'twixt those that love.
Two that don't love can't live together without them.
But two that do can't live together with them."
She moved the latch a little.  "Don't—don't go.
Don't carry it to someone else this time.
Tell me about it if it's something human.
Let me into your grief.  I'm not so much
Unlike other folks as your standing there
Apart would make me out.  Give me my chance.
I do think, though, you overdo it a little.
What was it brought you up to think it the thing
To take your mother-loss of a first child
So inconsolably—in the face of love.
You'd think his memory might be satisfied——"

"There you go sneering now!"

                                                "I'm not, I'm not!"
You make me angry.  I'll come down to you.
God, what a woman!  And it's come to this,
A man can't speak of his own child that's dead."
"You can't because you don't know how to speak.
If you had any feelings, you that dug
With your own hand—how could you?—his little grave;
I saw you from that very window there,
Making the gravel leap and leap in air,
Leap up, like that, like that, and land so lightly
And roll back down the mound beside the hole.
I thought, Who is that man?  I didn't know you.
And I crept down the stairs and up the stairs
To look again, and still your spade kept lifting.
Then you came in.  I heard your rumbling voice
Out in the kitchen, and I don't know why,
But I went near to see with my own eyes.
You could sit there with the stains on your shoes
Of the fresh earth from your own baby's grave
And talk about your everyday concerns.
You had stood the spade up against the wall
Outside there in the entry, for I saw it."

"I shall laugh the worst laugh I ever laughed.
I'm cursed. God, if I don't believe I'm cursed."

"I can repeat the very words you were saying:
‘Three foggy mornings and one rainy day
Will rot the best birch fence a man can build.'
Think of it, talk like that at such a time!
What had how long it takes a birch to rot
To do with what was in the darkened parlor?
You couldn't care!  The nearest friends can go
With anyone to death, comes so far short
They might as well not try to go at all.
No, from the time when one is sick to death,
One is alone, and he dies more alone.
Friends make pretense of following to the grave,
But before one is in it, their minds are turned
And making the best of their way back to life
And living people, and things they understand.
But the world's evil.  I won't have grief so
If I can change it.  Oh, I won't, I won't!"

"There, you have said it all and you feel better.
You won't go now.  You're crying.  Close the door.
The heart's gone out of it: why keep it up?
Amy!  There's someone coming down the road!"

"You—oh, you think the talk is all.  I must go—
Somewhere out of this house.  How can I make you——"

"If—you—do!"  She was opening the door wider.
"Where do you mean to go?  First tell me that.
I'll follow and bring you back by force.  I will!—"

Thanks Mr. Monument - You didn't seem to grasp the idea of the whole 'miracle' ending. That to me says that I didn't do my job as a writer. What's the point in writing something if you have to explain what it means? I guess the rose metaphor is used a lot for love, but I just thought I used it in a original concept....perhaps not!

Was a little strange this poem anyway, it's a little twisted. I'll keep in mind what you said.

- Cheeers

umm next time...don't make it so...horizontal

the writing was great...I love a good love story.

the rose metaphor is beautiful.

I myself often use metaphors in my writing.

a rose however...though a very beautiful depiction of love is also overused...

when I use metaphors I try to be as unique as possible with my comparisons...

you did fairly well with the emotional content taking place between the characters...

very vivid images of their relationship...

love can be describe in a million ways and you chose pretty decent descriptions

the end was... I don't know

for it in the end to become a miracle...

it lacked climactic luster...

but that is just me speaking...

keep on writing

improvement is never unnecassary.