A scribble

When he sticks his tongue out to the frosty air, he can taste the icy tingle of the snowflake clufts. Ahead of him lie the orange lights of the lampposts, casting their way on the white road and sidewalk in the night, and these orange stars falling, falling,

glittering.

Beneath his summer shoes he crunches the soft snow, each step he hears like a putt putt muffled fart. The lonely sounds. On occasion the wind whooos the tips of his ears, and it would feel colder for a bit.

He buries his hands in his coat pockets, sheltering them lest they be naked in Winter's public. Sometimes he would wiggle them, or cup them on his lips and blow moist breath for warmth.

Becoming tired, he leans against a lamppost and gazes ahead at the black abyss beyond the street. He wonders what she is feeling, back there, at that lively house he left. Will she remember his face? Or if not, would his kindness offer her a hint of the same blush he feels now?

A hand wrapped around his heart.

Then he grins, to himself, to nobody else in sight, and he continues back to his empty home.

(Inspired by this song.)

edited 28th May '11 9:23:47 PM by QQQQQ

When he sticks his tongue out to the frosty air, he can taste the icy tingle of the snowflake clufts . Ahead of him lie *

the orange lights of the lampposts, casting their light on the white road and sidewalk [], and these orange stars falling, falling, [] glittering.

Beneath his [] shoes [] the soft snow crunches, each step [] like a putt putt muffled fart *

. The lonely sounds. On occasion the wind whooos the tips of his ears, and it feels *

^{'would' is past tense.}

colder for a bit.

He buries his hands in his coat pockets, sheltering them lest they be naked in Winter's public. Sometimes he [] wiggles them, or cups them on his lips to blow moist breath for warmth.

Becoming tired *

, he leans against a lamppost and gazes into the black abyss beyond the street. He wonders what she is feeling, back there, in that lively house []. Will she remember his face? Or if not, will his kindness offer her a hint of the same blush he feels now?

A hand wraps *

around his heart.

Then he grins, to himself, to nobody else in sight, and he continues back to his empty home. *

edited 28th May '11 9:30:44 PM by annebeeche

Banned entirely for telling FE that he was being rude and not contributing to the discussion. I shall watch down from the goon heavens.

Thank you for your alternate interpretation. Even as I appreciate your grammar and wording critique, I would prefer to keep the idiosyncrasies. It feels a more personal touch.

edited 28th May '11 9:33:25 PM by QQQQQ

Wait, what? I workshopped it for you, I didn't make an alternate interpretation.

I added a little more after your post.

To be honest, I really dislike when people play the "it's part of my style" card. Learning artists do it all the time when they don't want to listen to critique, though that may or may not be your intent. Watching out for and improving awkward wording and correcting whenever you mix up your tenses won't lessen your personal touch, I can assure you of that.

edited 28th May '11 9:42:41 PM by annebeeche

Banned entirely for telling FE that he was being rude and not contributing to the discussion. I shall watch down from the goon heavens.

I feel well-aware of proper grammar, as often used in traditional narrative. Nevertheless I choose to retain the scribble's 'flaws'. I read through your revisions, and I feel you have distorted this moment. This is not me saying I reject your intention to correct. This is me saying the obsidian butterfly finds a last song in the deep blue forest.

I must wonder, where is the fun when you are unable to read another troper's work with appreciation, without that overwhelming itch to correct?

edited 28th May '11 10:11:49 PM by QQQQQ

The Mime holds a shame close to his chest. It weighs him down at times, as if an impenetrable yet clear wall separates him from the world around, and the sights of them who could enjoy themselves freely spites him. Tortures him. He sings anyway.

In the bustling street he stands and poses for those who come, for their amusement. For the kids, he tiptoes and scratches and hisses, like a cat. The seniors he dances a jig which fills them with a youthful nostalgia.

The adults though, they grimace coldly, and he cannot bring forth his lively energy. There is a flaw about him, he thinks, which only they can see. He does not know if he should hate himself for it. Eventually the children will grow up and notice it, and the innocent old will perish. He sings anyway.

One day, there is someone who walks limpedly, whose face lies expressionless and drab like a hard stone. The Mime comes to him and smiles - turn that frown upside down, if you will.

(I will finish this later.)

Question: What do you mean by 'limpedly'? Do you mean he had a limp, or is that a typo for 'limpidly'?

Be not afraid...

Answer: Like feebly. Think it's an archaic synonym for it.

edited 13th Jun '11 4:21:44 PM by QQQQQ

Considering that you're posting on a forum where people often come specifically for feedback, it seems a bit silly to get all up in arms over the fact that someone gave you some. If you don't want any criticism, you ought to either make that clearer in your initial post or respond a little more politely to people who think that you do.

Yeah, I think... because you didn't state in the OP your reason for posting the snippet, people jump to the conclusion that it's the same reason most people post stuff here: feedback.

Also, hah... beginning my questions with "Question" is a verbal tic of mine that I hadn't realised I carried over into text ^^'

Be not afraid...

I know. I much prefer it if you can appreciate something, especially the equivalent of a doodle in the notebook - rather than jumping your gun with critic mode before you understand it.

Affirmations and positive feedback (how you felt reading it) seem discouraged nowadays, I feel. It seems it stems from the belief we are not "coddlers", that we should take pride in the ability to be critical and find fault in people and things.. but then, wherein lies the original art? neglected in your self-indulgent scathing?

If you say you want to help me make it better in this regard, then you cheat yourself - quick gleaning at the answers rather than doing some working. Better to say A hand wrapped around his heart is a tense error, than a stark mental image which haunts this boy's thoughts? To say that break between 'falling' and 'glittering' is a typo, than a nod to emphasis? You cut too much off the hair from your lack of consideration. And you show an insensitivity to my purpose, to evoke the feelings in imagination.

I do remember your typical rebuttal, which is to claim my ego has swollen to the point preventing me from learning from your flawed critique. My eyes and ears are open, I try. (I do not claim perfection whatsoever.) And the tone of such a critique strikes me as someone who responds to what she expects to find, rather than to what she actually perceives the scribble to be. Maybe you should deposit your conditioned critic outside*

and try reading again, as a reader.

This time, listening, and truly exercising yourself as an advancing critic.

@Loni Jay: I know a lot of people who like to start off with "Question: What What What?" It can be amusing at times, the scientific tic.

Me: "Question: I have a question."
Prof.: "And I.. have an answer!"

edited 15th Jun '11 10:40:12 PM by QQQQQ

I'm not the person who posted the original critique. I'm just a random passer-by who thought that it was not really nice to give a response along the lines of "I think it's sad that you can't just appreciate things without picking them apart" to someone who was trying to help you and couldn't reasonably have known that her kind of help was not what you wanted.

I'm not here to have an argument about the validity of the "it's just my style" defense or of annebeeche's critique or anything like that. All I said was that if you didn't want criticism you should have made that clear from the outset.

I see what you mean, making my purposes more clear this is to be read. I might suppose if I wished for a critique, I would post this piece in the critique club thread. It is a spur-of-the-moment thing, which I decide to share. And a misaimed critique like that doesn't help me a bit.

Hmm, I might say I wanted your thoughts on this piece, but I think it may be redundant to say so.