Hey, Fye. Thanks for the crit. Where do you get the energy and time for so much feedback? You are spot on as usual, with one exception: They sell slices of watermelon, not whole melons. I now see that the ending is a dud. More work needed. Cheers.

Rules? What Rules?

It was a Thursday evening in March. I was driving west across the Courtney Campbell Causeway and the sun had just dipped into the Gulf of Mexico. Sweat was in my eyes and I wanted to get back to my hotel, down a Bud and change. That's when I got the call.

"Ted, it's Gail. Where are you just now?" Oh dear, my editor. Gail had been a seasoned reporter in her day, with a Pulitzer nose and no sense of humour. A real stickler for responsible journalism. Hah!

"Nearly back at the Marriott. Why?" Straight away I thought something was up. That cold beer was calling me. How I wanted the first gulp, numbing my throat and stinging my sinuses. I wiped my lips with the back of my hand and thought of just hanging up. Not worth the aggro.

"Are you serious about this Clearwater thing? Your copy reads well, but you've taken a ... let's call it a controversial angle. Are your sources reliable."

"Can I call you back in twenty? I'm parched and drenched with sweat."

"No. We go to print in half an hour and I'm not running something that'll invite a lawsuit unless I know it's legit."

I pulled into the car park and left the engine running. The aircon was fighting a losing battle but better than standing out there. Even through the window I could hear the cacophony; bugs waiting in ambush. I called her back.

"Yes, all off-the-record, two from local council members, three from the Chamber of Commerce and a doozy from the mayor's office in Tampa. That's about as good as it gets."

"Did you ask who might speak up, Ted."

"Of course I did. It was a list of the usual suspects. That's why no one would give their name."

"I don't know, Ted. I always like to have someone who doesn't mind the heat, you know, standing out front of the camera."

Heat was right, though that's not what she meant. Two days of these stifling temperatures and I'm almost on my knees. And who wants to be on the record backing the Playboy brigade?

"Good luck with that, Gail."

"We've got a substantial readership that might agree with the Council. You're making it a political issue, not a moral one. City Hall Wages War on the Free Market."

"I think attractive girls selling watermelon by the roadside is a worthy cause, even if their bikinis are smaller than my face mask."

"Think that might be personal bias, Ted? I'm not sure it's a story for the business pages."

"Are you kidding. All those red-blooded commercial lechers and that picture I sent. She's almost naked and look at those watermelons she's holding."

"Alright Ted. Your head if it backfires."

That beer was so good. Oh! And my story went viral as protesters took to the streets. My readership went crazy and Gail let me take a more liberal stance. I still recall that sunset.

[WC:499]

Hey, TenspeedGV. Thanks for the opportunity to read this bittersweet piece. The ending makes this work.

The plot, in my mind, works better for kids than adults. I was yanked out the story when I read the word "man".

At first I thought they were in boat, then found it hard to reconcile with " they staked out this floor as theirs a month ago." On that point, this is intrusive exposition and can be weaved into the storyline much earlier. If you establish Who, When and Where at the beginning, the reader finds it easier to understand,

"end" should be capitalised as the name of event causing their misery, otherwise "end of what."

If you are implying Thomas's death, that may be overdoing it, for the simple reason that the plot is about getting Thomas's intentions wrong, not retribution. Cheers.

Hey, Ryter99. Thanks for the opportunity to read and comment. A whimsical story of flight to freedom and togetherness. From the moment Ollie left the room I was pulling for them.

Critiquewise, this piece is peperred with expression that I found distracting. Some examples:

>... resided a residence ... versus stood a residence
>
>... sat at the edge ... could be on the edge
>
>... on his uncle's lap before his passing ... not possible after passing so redundant
>
>... no pursuers on their tail ... pursuers can only be on their tail

The plot lacks tension and the escape seems too easy. Perhaps Mrs. Kensington could be momentarily disturbed. Cliche, I know. There needs to be an obstacle of some sort and the gate is too late in the story.

Ollie apprears to be the MC. You can constrast his trepidation against his sister's by closing the psychic distance and speaking his mind at each move.

A plot turn might explain why the gate was not in their plans. Perhaps they intended anothe route but are discovered and must take the car as a last ditch option.

I still liked the story a lot and found it easy to put these issues aside and ride with the characters. Cheers.

Thanks for reading and commenting, London-Roma-1980. I am an equine ignoramous and had to ask lots of questions of the memsahib. You're right about sleeping. It'is apparently rare. I struggled with the barn doors thing. They need to be locked open outwards to prevent the barn exploding in the low pressure wind. Explaining ruined the pace so I left it. Barns are not my thing either.

I appreciate you taking the time to delve. I believe feedback is the path to improvement. You are not obliged to return the favour, though. I treat giving feedback with the same attitude as receiving it. Cheers.

Hey London-Roma-1980. Nice piece. I found it immersive. What would make it better? I'm not sure I have the skill say, so let's call it perfect. I particularly like the way you portray this 'caught between worlds' character. Cheers.

Hey, Xacktar. Delightful piece, A pleasure to read. Very good pacing and great characterisation make this simple plot work.

There are some word choices like "door ... door" hardly worth mentioning. I did have trouble identifying who was speaking and the personal pronoun can be confusing when the characters are the same gender. However, the piece is so well written it seems churlish to point these out. Cheers.

Hey Katpoker666. Succinct and lyrical. You paint a picture of loss without ever saying the words.

To nitpick for a moment, "my duvet" might work. The following sounds episodic even though the MC might think this way:

>Lacing on my running shoes, I bolt outside into the chill November air. I race down the cobbled streets.

To reduce the depence on "I":

>I lace my running shoes then bolt down cobbled streets in chill November air.

The chill November air can only be outside.

You've written a deceptively deep piece. It is a joy to read. Cheers.

Storm clouds are gathering over mountains that normally shield our village from the setting sun. People scurry to shelter our sheep, pigs and cows. Chickens take to their roost knowing what will come. Elders prepare the town hall and villagers bring their bedding, for this will last the night.

We have less than an hour and for me, that passes quickly. The wind is up and I can just hear friends calling my name, but I can't stop. I have to stable the horses and our prize stallion has other ideas. I'm out of breath, barely able to dodge flashing hooves as I open the barn. He's a beauty, probably worth more than me, so I take care that Horace isn't injured. At last, his bucking subsides and he follows me into his stall. None too soon, for the wind smells damp. Locking the barn doors open is hard and I pray this wooden relic holds.

Fifty yards of swirling dust stand between me and safety. Should I try? A bucket flies past four feet above the ground and branches shoot through the air on their way to the next county. The door is shaking violently in my hands and I can barely hold from being sucked out into the growing maelstrom.

Horace whinneys as if to beckon. Once I haul my body back inside I'm able to pull myself hand over hand, then climb up and over to fall into Horace's stall. He's on his side so I snuggle in behind him, stroking his neck to keep him calm. He softly nickers and we face Armageddon together.

The next onslaught is hail, battering the wall and roof. It sounds like gunfire. Holding Horace calms me. Been through a few of these I have, and this is one of the worst. There'll be some rebuilding for sure and this is not the end.

Now comes the final act; a deluge of rain, pelting the roof and timbers as the storm vents the largest part of its fury. Water flows into the barn, through and then out the other doorway. The stalls are raised and we get none of this brown and stinking water, though we're drenched from rain coming through spaces in the wall. And so the night goes on.

It's amazing to me how the crow of a cock can be music to a young man's ears. Though I've slept, I'm exhausted and hang on to Horace as he rolls then extends his legs till he's standing. I can hear calls from the hall and yell at the top of my voice "I'm in the barn with Horace." Cheers fill the air, and they tell me they're all safe. It'll be a day before the knee-deep water subsides. Perhaps my friend will let me ride out of here.

[WC: 469]

Hey, Tomorrow_Is_Today1. Thanks for the opportunity to read your work and comment.

I have the impression that this piece has been taken from a longer one and condensed. Maybe not. Anyway, I don't get the point of your story. Why does your MC see colours up here and why not before? What is the mechanism at play where she (presumably) feels like a giant and what is the implication of that? From whence the compunction to go home? Is this a bitter-sweet discovery she will come to regret? The story has great potential and I would love to see if you can do more with it.

Be careful of redundancy. The sun faded as the day went on, is saying the same thing. It can be summed up as at the end of the day. The word though at the start of this sentence implies a coming contradiction that is not there, so is not needed.

Cheers.

Hey, Carrieka23. Thanks for the opportunity to read your work and comment.

Tomorrow_Is_Today1 has already pointed out things like tense consistency and characterisation. My main feedback is about point of view (PoV). You are using first person past tense narration. I think first person present tense or third person past tense would be better. The latter is easier. Also, the plot structure is predictable and lacks a compelling driver for your MC's change of heart.

Argument - flight - consoling - [what touches MC's soul?] - climb down - denouement

Have all the memories come to MC because he sees in his friend's desire for dinner with his own family, something that is missing for your MC himself. A story like this can really tug on the heartstrings and leave the reader weeping. It would be great to see you work on this story and find out what you do with it. Cheers.

Hey, Astro. Your penchant for present tense is admirable. Might I suggest some ways to improve this particular piece. To my mind, it lacks flow and sensation. I get the impression that you are standing back from the scene and describing individual observations, rather than using the here-and-now capability of present tense to convey Ackley's PoV.

I have amended your first two paragraphs to show what I mean. I'm not suggesting you make these changes in particular, but that you engage the reader in the plight of your character.

​

>The door squeaks open and Ackley, hunching in the corner of this stone cellar, looks up. He is cold and hungry. As usual, an unseen figure slides a plate along the floor, out of reach. He catches the jibes of villagers for a second as they tease the guard, then the door slams shut.
>
>With stick in hand he shuffles till his chains are taught, slumps to the floor then uses his prop to tease the plate closer. Ackley takes a ravenous bite from the piece of stale bread in his hand. It's not moldy this time.

Cheers.

Thanks katpoker66 for reading and commenting. You are right about the style. I try to write these pieces in a single pass with a single edit review. I had trouble getting sufficiently close to MC's mind to make this work the way I'd like. There's always next week.

Learning this craft is not easy. There is a great deal of technique that is not obvious. A great place to learn is: https://emmadarwin.typepad.com/thisitchofwriting/

Good luck with your future stories.

Hey, Astro. I think you've nailed this one. Loved it to bits. A three-sixty-degree view of the aftermath of an event we haven't seen yet can infer. Cheers.

Hey, Dbootloot. An interesting reflection in which the MC draws on memories of his father and compares his own role as a parent, done by way of an address to his departed Dad. The brief mention of a son then a shift to a daughter was a bit jarring. The use of personal pronouns instead of names for the offspring suggests a distance that I think you did not intend. Some repetition (e,g, 'of course').

The tone is quite touching and brings out the inner feelings of your MC. I enjoyed reading your piece. Cheers.

Hey ur-socks-sir. I think your story was doing just fine till you started preaching. I did a quick check and think if your replaced paragraphs 10 to 13 with what happened in your MC's life in between, this piece would be much less disjointed. Make it clear from the start that MC is addressing his daughter. Another thing your story would benefit from is some showing, instead of so much telling. Lastly, there are many places where your can save on the word count - be concise where ever you can. Cheers.

Remains of the Day

Mortality, or our sense of it, rarely comes to mind when we're young. My eyes were first opened when I was nine. A schoolfriend was hit by a car. It's different when it's close, for then the heart pumps and the head swims. That was so long ago, yet I remember hearing the news, then thinking for the first time that life is an allotment of time and its quantum a mystery.

I'm sitting on my couch staring at the aquarium. Is my perspective that different from theirs? I have no more ability to see the future than these fish, just more awareness that there is one, limited though it is. I often reflect on the past, mainly because it's the only passage of time I have experience of. What is to come amounts to a wishlist, what has been merely tickmarks with thousands of footnotes for events I never planned. Some of those accompany deep regrets.

When time is short I think we become jealous of how we spend it. My list is filled with things I never got around to doing and now can't - building a boat, seeing Machu Pichu, taking a trip to space. For the few I can, I waste the remains of the day trying to choose among them the one that will be most fitting. Perhaps I will paint. The longing has been there since I was a lad. The appeal is strong for the same reason I ignored it for so long; it lacks excitement. A sedentary pastime suits my aging mood. Besides, unlike life, I can paint over my mistakes.

[WC: 271]