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blackbird12 wrote:Once it had been her prized possession, two years ago when her husband had presented it to her, teeth sawing into his lips, hands wringing together like rags.

blackbird12 wrote:fierce, possessive love that stroked her ego.

blackbird12 wrote:The diamonds scattered in the air, displaced fragments of light plummeting to the carpet, lost.

blackbird12 wrote:Eight days. Eight days since the hordes of funeral flowers had sickened the air with a sweet stench, since the shriek of the telephone had become a daily incantation.

blackbird12 wrote:A funeral was tame compared to a death.

Hi there! Pink here, as requested
So I don't have many nitpicks, those have already been picked out so I don't really have much to address.
Now, with that being said, this is a wonderful yet cold story and I think it's really good. Usually, I find myself reading short stories that hardly ever catch my attention but you did a fabulous job, I have a hard time finding good stories like this one.
In the beginning however, there was a bit of confusion as to why she was angry, was it because he shot himself? I find myself asking many questions to why he did it or even be crying for an entire year rather than be frustrated with him but, that is based on character and I'm different than her so I won't really comment much on that.
Plot wise, it was a major twist. I though there was money problems or something but I can't believe he shot himself because of that reason. I almost find a bit unbelievable at a point but we don't know what happened between the two that would make him take such a decision such as suicide so it would have been nice if you explained it more clearly. Even if he was gay, I don't think it was very valid reason to end your life unless something terrible had happened between the two, etc.
Overall, I still liked reading this. your descriptions and wording were just amazing and the flow was crisp and easy to follow. I didn't have much problem with your grammar or the way you constructed your sentences either, everyone has their style of writing. Wow, you already have so many reviews, hopefully I didn't repeat anything that was already mentioned...
Anyways, good job!
*like*

~Shear

Hi there, blackbird! Here as requested.

Grammar:

The diamond necklace was like broken glass in her hands, exuding some harsh innate gleam.

gushed to the beauty of the thing,

She rent the necklace in half and launched it across the room.

She had returned home several hours later to find a bowl of soggy cornflakes stained pink and a ragged red streak on the wall. He had fallen to the linoleum like a pinstriped mannequin, crimson crater hollowing his face.

She had never been a fickle person. Perhaps she no longer was the same person.

exuding some harsh, innate gleam.

Immediately, she had gushed to the beauty of the thing,

She rent the necklace in half and launched it across the room.

crimson crater hollowing his face. [/quote
Didn't he shoot himself through the mouth? If so the exit wound would be in the back of the head.

It had been a closed-casket ceremony.

Hey there blackbird! First of all; I am so, so sorry that this review is so late. I've had a lot on recently and haven't been on much, I'm going to give this my all in the hope that I make up for my extreme lateness. And secondly; thank you very much for being the first person to ask me for a review, woo. Okay, enough of that. On with the show!

Red - Mistakes
Green Corrections
Pink - Suggestions
Purple - Bits I Liked

blackbird12 wrote:The diamond necklace was like broken glass in her hands, exuding some harsh innate gleam. Once it had been her prized possession, two years ago when her husband had presented it to her, teeth sawing into his lips, mouth tortured with anxiety and glee. Immediately she had gushed to the beauty of the thing, had found herself drawn to him like never before in their marriage. Think of me when you wear it, he had said, clamping her face in his hands with the fierce, possessive love that stroked her ego. Think of us.

She rent/bent the necklace in half and launched it across the room. There was a soft ripping sound and then nothing, like the hush of reverential horror when something holy is defaced. The diamonds scattered in the air, displaced fragments of light plummeting to the carpet, lost.

The sudden fury wore her out. She threw herself onto the bed, her nightgown a crumpled pool about her, brazen in the broad daylight. She stared above at the slow revolving slice of the ceiling fan, imagined her throat bared to its blades. Outside a wind chime jangled, a melancholy sound like gently breaking glass. A sprinkler hissed on the lawn next door.

Eight days. Eight days since the hordes of funeral flowers had sickened the air with a sweet stench, since the shriek of the telephone had become a daily incantation. Eight days since her husband had promptly dressed himself for work and then, equally promptly, pulled out his father’s pistol and shot himself through the mouth. She had returned home several hours later to find a bowl of soggy cornflakes stained pink and a ragged red streak on the wall. He had fallen to the linoleum like a pinstriped mannequin, crimson crater hollowing his face.

It had been a closed-casket ceremony. The funeral was tame compared to the death.

The air was thick. It settled in her lungs and numbed her whole form like an anesthetic. If only she could lie here for another moment, motionless as the memory ebbed out of her, leaving her raw and clean--

It did not last. Regret at her impulsive action tugged at her neck, set her teeth on edge. Because of her the necklace was irretrievable, like him. Her fingers twitched to hold it once more, to hold him once more. To be complete again.

Death was unfamiliar to her. She could not understand why her mind wavered so dramatically, why the anger bled into the numbness bled into the sorrow. She had never been a fickle person. Perhaps she no longer was the same person.

Telling herself it was no more than a practical task, she dragged herself from the bed to the bureau and begin rifling through his drawers. Her hands sifted through the folds of his fading linen shirts, the ones that clung to his skin on summer days. He loved wearing those shirts; she hated washing them. Now she wished she could wash them one final time. Pressing his boxers to her nose, she smelled detergent and the musk of dried urine. One corner of a yellowed envelope peeked from beneath his socks; it was stuffed with cash. She noticed a dull glint: a teardrop locket, coarse with rust, that belonged to his mother. As she fingered its crusting metal surface, a smile split her lips. A man’s drawers were his secret place.

Buried beneath all else was a photo, made limp and whitened from constant cherishing. In the photo was a man she had never seen, broad-chested, towheaded, white t-shirt straining against his torso. He seemed caught unawares by the photographer, big teeth jutting out in a blocky grin.

Months ago, on a Sunday morning pale with frost, she had found a hair in their bed, blonde and tightly coiled. She had chosen to ignore it then, but she had never forgotten. No longer could she feign ignorance. Her husband had a lover.

It raised more questions than it answered, but it explained why intercourse with him in the last months had given her little more satisfaction than masturbation. It explained why certain nights he stumbled home with bloodshot eyes and a frenetic grin. She wondered if it also explained his death.

She imagined the two men making love, violent caresses, bodies doused in sweat, intoxicated with beer and the scent of each other. Hands stroking faces, salt scalding their mouths. Groans and sighs the only communication needed. The thought both hungered and aroused her.

It was not a lewd photo, but she knew what it meant. The man depicted was not naked, body contorted in a lascivious pose, eyes lacquered with lust. That would have been easier for her--purely sexual, it would have meant less to him. But no, she could see him fingering the photo, smiling with the sheer luck of it all: a love that fulfills him and a marriage that keeps him safe. Yet even that was not enough for him. A pain shot through her chest, sharp and quick like the release of a bowstring. It was not fair.

Her father’s gruff voice scratched against her ear, blaring even in remembrance. Daddy had always told her to marry the best man, the nicest man. A man who would respect her and treat her right. The doe-eyed little girl had soaked up each word of her father’s platitudes. Somehow she had found that man, at first considering herself lucky. Marriage was not what she expected, but she always believed hers was normal. She was dead-wrong, and so was Daddy. He was no longer infallible.

She wanted to destroy the photo, destroy the betrayal and the humiliation, that even someone of her gender was not good enough for him. It would be easy. It was already so frail that she could tear it in half with barely a tug. So frail, like him. He was the lucky one, to have escaped all this, while she was left to collect the pieces.

The ceiling seemed to bend and swoop above her, as though it were made of rubber. Bile rose in her throat and thin spasms ran through her fingers. She was drunk on revelation, flailing in limbo, slave to some great wild thing. She could almost taste the bitter tang of gunmetal in her own mouth, and she asked herself: whose name was written on the bullet that severed her husband’s spine? Hers, or his lover’s?

The dizziness subsided in a moment. She returned the photo to its original place and closed the drawer; she could think of nothing else to do.

Turning to the window, she watched the lonesome sun dipping beneath the houses, dark outlines stamped against a bleeding sky. The fan blades hummed above her. Nausea swept over her in little waves but the sensation was not new. She prayed that tomorrow would be easier to understand.

Marriage had been suffocatingly simple. Widowhood was painfully complex.

Hey again, I see you've changed things Here to review

blackbird12 wrote:The diamond necklace was like broken glass in her hands, exuding some harsh innate gleam. Once it had been her prized possession, two years ago when her husband had presented it to her, teeth sawing into his lips, mouth tortured with anxiety and glee. Immediately she had gushed to about the beauty of the thing, had found herself drawn to him like never before in their marriage. Think of me when you wear it, he had said, clamping her face in his hands with the fierce, possessive love that stroked her ego. Think of us.

She rent the necklace in half and launched it across the room. There was a soft ripping sound and then nothing, like the hush of reverential horror when something holy is defaced. The diamonds scattered in the air, displaced fragments of light plummeting to the carpet, lost.

The sudden fury wore her out.

He had fallen to the linoleum like a pinstriped mannequin, crimson crater hollowing his face.

It had been a closed-casket ceremony. The funeral was tame compared to the death.

The air was thick. It settled in her lungs and numbed her whole form like an anesthetic. If only she could lie here for another moment, motionless as the memory ebbed out of her, leaving her raw and clean--

It did not last. Regret at her impulsive action tugged at her neck, set her teeth on edge. Because of her, the necklace was irretrievable, like him. Her fingers twitched to hold it once more, to hold him once more. To be complete again.

Telling herself it was no more than a practical task, she dragged herself from the bed to the bureau and begin rifling through his drawers.

Months ago, on a Sunday morning pale with frost, she had found a hair in their bed, blonde and tightly coiled. She had chosen to ignore it then, but she had never forgotten. No longer could she feign ignorance. Her husband had a lover.

It raised more questions than it answered, but it explained why intercourse with him in the last months had given her little more satisfaction than masturbation. It explained why certain nights he stumbled home with bloodshot eyes and a frenetic grin. She wondered if it also explained his death.

The ceiling seemed to bend and swoop above her, as though it were made of rubber. Bile rose in her throat and thin spasms ran through her fingers.

Hi, blackbird! Here as requested.

Interesting story. I really like your writing style! I'm not going to nitpick, since I actually let myself enjoy the story.

Plot: 9/10
The plot was very tense and very gripping. I liked how you progressed the story with the woman's emotions and feelings. Maybe you could have expanded the paragraph about how the woman found out that her husband was cheating.
Characters: 9/10
Very good characterization, especially with the wife. Even with absence of the husband's presence, I could see what he would have been like. I would have suggested to give more description about the husband, but since this is written in the woman's point of view, I'll let it slide.
Syntax, word choice and punctuation: 10/10
I did not have trouble reading this piece at all. I had no problems with the tenses (or maybe that's just because I'm not nitpicking) and your choice of words is impeccable. Very descriptive.
Theme: 10/10
Like one of the reviewers above me had mentioned, a cliched theme of adultery and then suicide, but it was very effective in this story. The way the woman reacted to the entire thing was very interesting although I wondered why she wouldn't have thrown this fit of anger earlier. Maybe she just needed those eight days to process the thoughts. Maybe. That's just a personal thing for me anyway.

Total: 38/40
Average: 9.5/10

This is very interesting. You're a good writer! : )

You're getting closer! Transitions and the like are still irking me a bit, but it's mainly nitpicking time.

The main one is still here:

She lay sprawled across the bed, her nightgown a crumpled pool about her, brazen in the broad daylight. Pretending that everything was all right wore her out.

Well blackbird, I must say that you have produced yet another absolutely magical piece

blackbird12 wrote:The wife clamped the cell phone shut and launched it across the room. It clattered against the wall and made a sick little cry as it died. She lay sprawled across the bed, her nightgown a soiled and crumpled pool about her, brazen in the broad daylight. She stared above at the slow revolving slice of the ceiling fan, imagined her throat bared to its blades, felt the caress of an artificial breeze Another suicidal character but don't get me wrong, it's still an awesome piece. . A vein trembled in her limp wrist. Outside a wind chime jangled, a melancholy sound like gently breaking glass. The sprinklers hissed on the green-plastic lawns of suburbia.

Eight days. Eight days since the hordes of flowers had sickened the air with a sweet stench, since the shriek of the telephone had become a daily chant rather than a daily disturbance. Eight days since her husband had promptly dressed himself for work and then, equally promptly, whipped out his father’s antique pistol and shot himself through the mouth.I love the way you introduce what happened by using the eight days time frame. It also makes this part very powerful as you begin by talking about flowers, and phones and then you tell us what actually happened, gradually. She had returned home in the evening to find a bowl of soggy cornflakes stained pink and a ragged red streak on the wall. He lay stiff and hollow on the linoleum like a pinstriped mannequin.

The air in the bedroom was rich.Why was it rich? What was it rich with? It settled in her lungs and numbed her whole form like an anesthetic. She liked the feel of indifference. She imagined this was how her husband had often felt, melting into his reclining leather chair, falling asleep before his head hit the pillow,hearing the hollow click of the trigger a split-second before his eyes filmed in black.

But the feeling did not last, for she felt compelled to rifle through his drawers. She told herself it was no more than a practical task, but it was personal. Her hands sifted through the folds of his faded linen shirts, the ones that glued to his skin on scalding summer days. He loved wearing those shirts; she hated washing them. Now she wished she could wash them one final time. Pressing his boxers to her nose, she smelled detergent and the faint musk of urine. She found a yellowing envelope stuffed with cash, a rusted teardrop locket that belonged to his mother. A brief smile split her lips. A man’s drawers were his secret place.

Buried beneath all else was a photo, made limp and whitened from constant cherishing. In the photo was a man she had never seen, broad-chested, towheaded, white t-shirt straining against his torso. He seemed caught unawares by the photographer, big teeth jutting out in a blocky grin.

Suddenly she remembered the pale Sunday morning months ago when she had found a foreign hair in their bed, blonde and tightly coiled. She chose to ignore it then. She could not now.

Her husband had a lover. It raised more questions than it answered. But it explained why intercourse with him in the last months had given her little more satisfaction than masturbation. It explained why certain nights he stumbled home with bloodshot eyes and a frenetic grin. She wondered if it also explained his death.

She imagined the two men making love, violent caresses, bodies doused in sweat, intoxicated with beer and the scent of each other. Hands stroking faces, hot salt in their mouths, groans and sighs the only communication needed. The thought made her feel both starved and aroused.

It was not a lewd photo, but she knew what it meant. The man depicted was not naked, body contorted in a lascivious pose, eyes lacquered with lust. She wished it were like that--purely sexual, it would have meant less to her husband. But no, she could see him fingering the photo, smiling with the sheer luck of it all--a love that fulfills him and a marriage that keeps him safe. A pain shot through her chest, swift and searing like the release of a tense bowstring.I noticed this in your previous piece, too. You really know how to use a simile properly. The reader is able to picture the pain that your character feels. It wasn’t fair. Good, in this case mixing short and longer sentences had a great effect. It emphasized her feelings. Especially that last sentence.

She could feel her father’s gruff voice scratching against her ear. Daddy had always told her to marry the best man, the nicest man. A man who would respect her and treat her right. The doe-eyed little girl had soaked up each word of her father’s platitudes. Somehow she had found a man like that, and thus she married him. At first she considered herself lucky. Marriage wasn’t what she expected, but she always believed hers was normal. She was dead-wrong, and so was Daddy. He was no longer infallible.

She wanted to destroy the photo, destroy the betrayal and the humiliation, that even someone of her gender was not good enough for him. She could tear it apart easily. It was already so frail that she could rend it in half with barely a tug. So frail, like him.

Suddenly the ceiling seemed to bend and swoop above her, as though it were made of rubber. Bile rose in her throat and thin spasms ran through her fingers. She rarely drank alcohol but now she felt incredibly inebriated. She was drunk on revelation, flailing in limbo, slave to some great wild thing. She could almost taste the bitter tang of gunmetal in her own mouth, and she asked herself: whose name was written on the bullet that severed her husband’s spine? Hers, or his lover’s? Beautiful.

The dizziness subsided in a moment. She dropped the photo back into its proper place in the drawer and closed it; she could think of nothing else to do. Turning to the window, she stared out at the lonesome sun dipping beneath the houses, dark outlines stamped against a bleeding sky. The ceiling fan hummed above her. She felt sick but the sensation was not new. She prayed that tomorrow would be easier to understand.

Marriage had been suffocatingly simple. Widowhood was painfully complex.I love your last sentence, the message of your story.

Hey BlackBird, dropping by to review. Repetition, if there is any, in green.

blackbird12 wrote:She stared above at the slow revolving slice of the ceiling fan, imagined her throat bared to its blades, felt the caress of an artificial breeze. A vein trembled in her limp wrist. Outside a wind chime jangled, a melancholy sound like gently breaking glass. The sprinklers hissed on the green-plastic lawns of suburbia.

Eight days since her husband had promptly dressed himself for work and then, equally promptly, whipped out his father’s antique pistol and shot himself through the mouth. She had returned home in the evening to find a bowl of soggy cornflakes stained pink and a ragged red streak on the wall. He lay stiff and hollow on the linoleum like a pinstriped mannequin.

The air in the bedroom was rich.

It settled in her lungs and numbed her whole form like an anesthetic anaesthetic. She liked the feel of indifference. She imagined this was how her husband had often felt, melting into his reclining leather chair, falling asleep before his head hit the pillow. Hearing the hollow click of the trigger a split-second before his eyes filmed in black.

Buried beneath all else was a photo, made limp and whitened from constant cherishing. In the photo was a man she had never seen, broad-chested, towheaded, white t-shirt straining against his torso. He seemed caught unawares by the photographer, big teeth jutting out in a blocky grin.

Suddenly the ceiling seemed to bend and swoop above her, as though it were made of rubber. Bile rose in her throat and thin spasms ran through her fingers. She rarely drank alcohol but now she felt incredibly inebriated. She was drunk on revelation, flailing in limbo, slave to some great wild thing. She could almost taste the bitter tang of gunmetal in her own mouth, and she asked herself: whose name was written on the bullet that severed her husband’s spine? Hers, or his lover’s?

I think everything I've got comes down to two main points, at least as of now as I type these letters.

The first is that right now, even after reading this over a few times, I couldn't say exactly what happened really. I don't know why she was chucking the cell phone, or why she was more or less lifeless on the bed, or where the flowers came from--if she checked the drawers first and then, in shock, went to lie down on the bed, or if she called her husband's lover, or what.

Close as I can tell, the problem's in your tenses and transitions.

Like here:

She had returned home in the evening to find a bowl of soggy cornflakes stained pink and a ragged red streak on the wall. He lay stiff and hollow on the linoleum like a pinstriped mannequin.

But the feeling did not last, for she felt compelled to rifle through his drawers.

Hey Blackbird! Here as requested!

This was very good! I really like the emotion in the piece, it's hard to really convey emotion in writing and this was great. I also like how you took the rather familiar and maybe even cliche subject of adultery and suicide and made it a little bit different and fresher.

Anywho, onto my nitpicks.

The wife clamped the cell phone shut and launched it across the room. It clattered against the wall and made a sick little cry as it died.

Suddenly the ceiling seemed to bend and swoop above her, as though it were made of rubber.

Oh, my, Blackbird12, I think this is the best short story I have ever read on YWS. It is so tenderly cold; the descriptions are so brutally lush. Oh, my. I have just two little corrections.

In the first paragraph, you refer to the main character as "the wife." This threw me off a bit, because you used the pronoun "she" the whole time before. I though "the wife" might have been a different person. Either omit "the wife" or find some way to indicate (prior to this reference) that she had been married.

blackbird12 wrote:...as though it would were made of rubber