She Can't Tell The Difference

About the 1st Person left in there, I only did it quickly before, but now I read through and I think I got it all.

And about the confused part about it, is this any better? I didn't make any drastic changes, but is it better at all? And are there any other parts I should change/remove? I really appreciate you helping me with this because it's hard to look objectively at your own work.

And thanks for responding. There are a lot of people that don't, so I really appreciate it.

Thanks, ultraviolet <3

Hi again!

I do like the change in POV, since it makes the "she won't remember" bit less awkward. However, there are a few 1st person bits left in--such as here:

When, through the plastic house’s window, she sees the sun lower, she checks my watch.

She wipes my tears, no doubt smearing whatever mascara that hasn’t already dripped off, and peers up.


[......]

She sprint for what must be hours, but her body doesn’t tire. Not physically, at least. Emotionally, She's bound.

into my dirt-streaked hands. Her tangled raven locks tumble down, creating an oily barrier around her face.

A ripping sound, like a band-aid being pulled off, but lasting longer, jolts her. She wipes my tears, no

Thanks for the reviews!

canislupis>> You said how it doesn't make sense that she's saying that... I think I'll change this to third person, so that the narrator does have the ability to know this. Also, I kept her situation vague on purpose. I just didn't want to get too much into that. I don't know why, just didn't.

As for the line, "But for the day when my tears become everything once again," I think you're reading it, "But save for the day when my tears become everything once again," which is totally understandable. I'll try and reword it to make it more obvious.

Oh, and while I might be able to liven it up by making Miffle more eye-drawing, or other such things, I don't think I'm going to. I like it how it is, and if I don't win, I don't win. It's one story, a story that I wrote for myself. But thanks for the review, I appreciate it.

Edit: Is that better?

Hi there! I love this--it's very cute, and the writing's stunning. I just got tripped up in one spot:

But what I don’t know is that, once the tears dry and the pain lessens, the house remains just a play house, and Miffle a decoration. I’ll soon forget all about the little gnome. I will never visit again, not on purpose. Maybe I’ll stumble upon it, like I did today, but I’ll never think to seek it out.

I exit the play place that I used to visit every day when I was four, all of ten years ago. The play place that’s true potential only reveals itself under the guise of tears.

When I finally return home, I find my jeans slit and my palm empty. My heart is not mended and my mind is not at ease. I can’t tell the difference.

But for the day when my tears become everything once again, Miffle is there waiting, sitting beside the torn bean bag chair, holding a roll of duct tape, with a silver penny in his pocket. His innocence remains a beacon of hope, even though a beacon unseen.

But I can’t tell the difference.

ultraviolet wrote:

Spoiler

This is for Trident's Three-Pronged Contest. My things to incorporate are a) a lawn gnome, b) duct-taping an article of clothing, and c) a silver penny. Critique as harsh as you want, I can take it.

Tears are everything to me. They cleanse my soul, purify my vision, and are my window of escape. Only when I am drowning in them can I truly see. Love this first sentence, it totally grabs you!

I flee through the woods, the tears curtaining my cheeks before whipping off my chin. I sprint for what must be hours, but my body doesn’t tire. Not physically, at least. Emotionally, I’m bound. Leaves and twigs on the forest floor prick my feet. This is an awkward sentence after the last two.

When I stop, I find myself in a weather-faded plastic house. Inside are nick-nacks and lawn ornaments, randomly strewn about. I plop down onto a torn bean bag chair half the size of my butt this feels off subject and out of style for this story and weep into my dirt-streaked hands. My tangled raven locks tumble down, creating an oily barrier around my face.

A ripping sound, like a band-aid being pulled off, but lasting longer, jolts me. I wipe my tears, no doubt smearing whatever mascara that hasn’t already dripped off, and peer up.

In front of me stands a scruffy lawn gnome come to life, holding a roll of duct tape that’s partially unrolled. Wordlessly, the lawn gnome gently applies the tape to my shredded jeans, patching them. When he’s done, he sets the roll on a short counter and pulls something shiny from his tiny, blue pocket; a silver penny.

“For luck.” He places the penny on my taped knee.

I stare at it, then him, before picking it up and making a fist around it. “Thank you,” I squeak, my voice drowned from the crying.

“Tell Miffle what’s bothering m’lady?” He looks at me with caring eyes.

A small smile pushes its way to my lips. In so few words, I recount my story, the heartbreak the stupid boy caused and how much I wish I were her. With patient ears, Miffle listens until I’ve finished.

He rips a small piece of duct tape from the roll and hands it to me. When I look at him questioningly, he says, “For m’lady’s heart.”

A slight giggle escapes my mouth, prodded on by Miffle’s unearthly innocence. I take the piece of tape and press it over the left side of my chest.

“All better?” Miffle looks at me expectantly.

“All better,” I agree. If only that were true.

Miffle smiles enthusiastically.

After that, we talk for a while, about meaningless, childish things. It brings more pleasure than I’ve felt in a long time.

When, through the plastic house’s window, I see the sun lower, I check my watch.

“I have to go.”

Miffle looks at me with disappointment, but nods. “Come back soon?”

“Of course.” I mean it.

But what I don’t know is that, once the tears dry and the pain lessens, the house remains just a play house, and Miffle a decoration. I’ll soon forget all about the little gnome. I will never visit again, not on purpose. Maybe I’ll stumble upon it, like I did today, but I’ll never think to seek it out.

I exit the play place that I used to visit every day when I was four, all of ten years ago. The play place that’s true potential only reveals itself under the guise of tears.

When I finally return home, I find my jeans slit and my palm empty. My heart is not mended and my mind is not at ease. I can’t tell the difference.

But for the day when my tears become everything once again, Miffle is there waiting, sitting beside the torn bean bag chair, holding a roll of duct tape, with a silver penny in his pocket. His innocence remains a beacon of hope, even though a beacon unseen.

But I can’t tell the difference.