Crit Claw

Welcome to our Crit Claw Section...an area where brave writers dare to offer up some of their work for the slicing and dicing verbal assaults of our own dear Holmes. Where words are taken and scrutinized under the mono-ocular gaze of our rather bizarre and mentally obtuse and oft times challenged helper.....read and learn. Two stories appear here:

Adonis and the Witches by Tala Bar

Charcoal Tip by Mr. Curtis Lee

Stories appearing here appear exactly as they are sent to us....no editing is done. Comments are at the end of the selection- which are the opinions of our staff only and in no way reflect on the talent of the writer. It is, however, our belief that many of us can learn more from example than just being told what may or may not be desirable in submissions.

ADONIS AND THE WITCHES

Tala Bar

Ofara the Witch was walking down the street, reflecting on the old ways of mythological expressions. ‘From known stories,’ she pondered, ‘one might conclude that the male essence is hero and victim, while the female essence is sustaining life. Is that a fair way of encapsulation such thought? Let’s take, for instance, a black cat – A black cat? Where has that come from?’ She stopped abruptly, both her walking and her thinking, staring at such animal that was sitting right in front of her, looking straight at her. “Well, well, well,” she muttered to herself, bowing before it, “Your highness, lead the way!”

Ofara, a modern type of witch, had no familiar, having a wider look at her métier and its meaning. But she did revere some of the old female deities, as expressing her own approach to life. The Egyptian goddess Bast was one of them, and she had no doubt that this black cat that had blocked her way was her emissary, who had come to lead her somewhere she had not intended to go.

As soon as Ofara had uttered the words, the cat stood up and turned to go, the Witch following it closely. Ofara did not worry about people staring at a woman following a cat in a busy urban street. Her customary black garments made her almost invisible; in addition, she had wrapped herself, and any companion on the way, with a mental invisibility cloak.

Thus they walked along one street and then turned into another; they entered a narrow passageway and came out into an alley, which led to another one. Their surroundings had become less clean and bright, the buildings on both sides looked old and decrepit; here, people wore old clothes and walked by in a furtive way, some even threatening. At last, having passed a number of alleys that seemed to lead nowhere, they emerged on to an empty lot.

Among buildings that rose on all sides, what must have once been a garden was laid to waste. Withered flowering plants grew side by side with wild weeds; shrubs leaves were yellowing and trees had shed their over-ripe fruit to the hard ground. It could have been, and perhaps once was, a charming place; and even now, in its neglected form, it had a certain enchanting atmosphere.

The cat, without hesitating, reached a corner under one of the yellowing shrubs and stopped there, turned its head and miaowed at the Witch. Ofara came up to look, and was greatly surprised at what she saw. She looked back at the cat, but it had gone, having served its purpose. She went back to her finding.

It was very large bundle, no less than the size of a person. It was covered from head to toe with tatters, old and worn out clothes that could never be worn in their present shape.

With some hesitation she stretched her arm and touched what she supposed must have been the head of the person. There was no reaction, so she grasped an edge of cloth and pulled it off. It broke in her hand, and she did her best to clear that patch from what seemed to be a face.

But what a face! ‘This must be the way Adonis looked when Aphrodite fell in love with him,’ the thought immediately came to the Witch’s mind. It was the face of a very young man, even a boy on the brink of manhood, not more than sixteen or seventeen. His eyes were closed but their lashes were long and curly, as was the dark brown hair on his head. His sun-tanned cheeks had a rosy hue, his nose was slightly hooked, and his lips full and sensuous. Driven by a strong emotion, Ofara touched a cheek. The eyelashes fluttered like butterfly wings, then the lids rose and she saw the dark, shiny eyes staring at her in wonder.

“Where am I?” he asked, in a soft, tremulous voice, and she thought, ‘Of course!’

“Do you know where you should have been?” she asked.

“On top of the bonfire...” and she thought, ‘Of course,’ again.

“Well,” she said, “you’re not there any more. But let’s take a look at the rest of you, and see if you’re able to come with me.” Half expecting what to see, she pulled his cover back enough to realize that he was completely naked.

“Are you all right?” she asked. “Are you able to stand?”

“I don’t see why not – I don’t think I’ve been harmed in any way. Yet.” He struggled through the rest of the cover and was rising up, when she removed her jacket and wrapped it around his middle.

“I don’t think it would be a good idea to walk through the town’s streets in this way,” she explained, dryly. “Besides, it’s probably too cold for you, wherever you’re coming from.”

“Arcadia,” he said casually, holding the wrap around his waist. He was a very fine figure of a young man in full bloom, a head and a half taller than the short Ofara.

“Really! And what do they call you in Arcadia?”

“I’ve been called Adonis, although it’s not the name I was born with. You can call me Aden, anyway. Where are we going?”

“To my place, until I find out what I can do with you.”

She again activated the protection around them, and hurriedly led the way back to her flat.

***

It was a good thing that Ofara the Witch was schooled in surprises and any kind of strange and miraculous events, and was able to take them in with enough patience before she could unravel them. She waited with the obvious questions – who really was this young Adonis, how did he get to the empty lot in a modern city from the ancient country of Arcadia, and mainly, why? – Until he’d had a shower and put on some man’s clothes she had had in her closet. Now, while he was in the process of tucking in a good meal, she felt she could start with what might be an ordeal for him.

“Well, let’s start from the beginning. Who are you, then?”

“Well,” he put his fork down for a minute, “I’m the son of the Temple Witch in Arcadia.”

“Ah!” said Ofara, then asked, “Is she the one in charge of the ritual that put on top of the bonfire?”

“Not at all!” the young man protested. “That’s the function of the High Priestess. The Witch is the spirit behind the rituals, the representative of the Goddess.”

“Do you know the name of that goddess?” asked the Witch with interest.

“Not really,” he answered, then paid a few more moments’ attention to his food. Then, when the plate in front of him was clean, he sipped from the glass of juice that was given him (Ofara thought he was probably too young for beer), then added, “I’ve never actually heard her called by name, only by her appellation – The Huntress.”

“Ah!” the Witch uttered again, understanding now the connection to her own position. That must have been Diana, to whom the cat was sacred and who had had the longest affiliation in the world with witches. “So, we must assume that it was the Temple Witch, your own mother, who had told the High Priestess to put you on the bonfire, mustn’t we?” Ofara said rather sharply, examining her guest’s face closely.

“I suppose you’re right,” Aden agreed, reluctantly, “but I’m sure she did not like it. Otherwise, why did she send me away?”

“Yes.” The woman pondered a bit on some questions she did not feel she could ask this boy. To divert her ideas, she asked, “Had she given birth to you at the Temple?”

“Well, of course,” he answered, “there’s no other place I could have been born. I grew up at the Temple, among the children of the priestesses.”

“Did they then call you Adonis, for the god?”

“Well, that was just a nickname – you can see for yourself, can’t you?“ He paused, lifting his head and pushing his chest forward for her to examine.

She smiled at his effort. “Indeed, I can. And when you grew up, I suppose, you just started to act as the resident Adonis...”

His rosy cheeks blushed deeper, as if glowing in his memories. “I suppose it was natural,” he replied, readily. “The girls had always noticed me, and as soon as I came out of childhood, they came up to me directly. It was all fun and games, but for the last few months it was the High Priestess who had taken me over to herself...” His face darkened now, and he put down his glass, leaning back in his chair.

“Has she been preparing you for your last task, then?” Ofara was full of compassion now, for the short, beautiful life that had materialized on her doorstep, so to speak.

“Of course,” he said softly, his voice getting husky with a contracted throat. “She explained it all to me, how she wanted me to achieve the highest function of Adonis... I had to be completely dedicated to the Goddess, to go through the fire...”

“And your mother?”

“I know mother was in two minds. She could not avoid seeing Adonis in me, and the God’s destiny is plain to all. But in the end, she showed her love for me, Aden, her own son, so she sent me away...”

“Yes, she sent you to me, and I can’t say I thank her for that... Because I really don’t know what am I going to do with a young Adonis in this day and age – the prospect is not altogether favorable...” Ofara pondered, while Aden rose and stood by the window, looking out to the street. ‘This must be a very different sight from the one he has been used to in Arcadia,’ the Witch thought with half awareness.

“Before anything else,” she said at last, “I should call up the shop and get you some decent clothes to wear; then, I’ll get in touch with one or the other of my friends, to help me decide what to do with you.”

“I can’t tell you all on the phone, Marka. Please, if you come you’ll see and learn for yourself, but tell me now that you’re coming, otherwise I’ll find someone else to help me.”

Three days had gone since Aden had come into Ofara’s life, and she was getting desperate at the thought of what to do with him. She had long passed the inclination to entertain such a young person, whose life had been snatched from him who had been used to regard the world as his playground.

She thought Marka could be just the person to take the boy out and show him the sights of the town. At nineteen, being both older than Aden and much closer to his age than Ofara, Marka was a student at the local college, and at the same time Ofara’s pupil in witchcraft. Unlike Ofara, who had always preferred working on her own, the girl belonged to a coven and was much more interested than the Witch in matters of rituals. There was much more promise in that companionship than in the one between Ofara and Aden.

Aden was frankly impressed with her appearance when she arrived at the flat the next morning. Marka was a tall blond, with a well-carved face and strong body – a Nordic looks which was very different from the Mediterranean type he was used to. He rose and bowed, as if seeing in her the figure of a goddess, while she held out her hand as Ofara introduced them, then sent a questioning look at the Witch.

“Aden will tell you all about himself,” the Witch told her, sending them with relief on their way.

***

Evening had come when Marka called up to say she was taking Aden to a night club to show him real good time; she had been impressed with his endless energy and wide interest, and thought it would do him no special harm. Ofara then prepared to spend that time in reflections, as she had been wont to do for many years before the boy had joined her life. He had showed only passing interest in the shows on television, which Ofara had put on for his benefit, not using it much herself; but he was more used to active entertainment and was unable to sit down for a long time.

Now, left to herself at last, the Witch had arranged herself comfortably in her chair, contemplating the problem of a country boy from a bygone period, and how he could find a place for himself in modern city life. Ofara closed her eyes and concentrated, trying to go in her mind to the place Aden had come from. After a while, she was able to see the wide, green spaces dotted with flowers and some shrubs and trees scattered around, and a bunch of small houses spread over the top of a low hill. There was the temple – one building sprawl in a wide valley, and next to it a large, unlit bonfire. Around it, at some distance, people were standing as if in expectation, their dress scant and fluttering in the light breeze. Apart from the rest of the people was group of women covered in red garments from head to toe – ‘priestesses’, Ofara thought. She held her breath, waiting to see what will happen.

A woman in dark clothes – not much different from Ofara’s own – was coming out of the Temple, stopping to talk to the one that seemed the head of the priestesses, who was dressed all in white. They were pointing to the bonfire – its top was vacant...

A sharp ring of the doorbell raised the Witch from her vision. Looking at the clock when she rose from her chair, she saw the hour was past eleven – fairly late for her, but still early to return from a night club. As she opened the door, Marka was standing there, supporting a drooping Aden with the help of an unknown young man. He helped Marka put the boy on the couch, then said, “I’ll go now,” turned and left.

“What happened?” the Witch asked sharply, looking at the young man on the couch. He seemed to be burning with an internal fire.

“He must have taken that pill I told him not to,” Marka said apologetically, wiping sweat from her brow. “I’m sorry – in the end, it was rather difficult to manage him because he was getting so wild with excitement.”

In silence, Ofara went to the kitchen, soaked a piece of cloth, came back to put it on the boy’s forehead. Thinking of the Witch, his mother, her heart shrunk with pain.

“Don’t you think we should call a doctor?” Marka asked, “or take him to the hospital.”

“I think it’s probably too late by now. What’s that?”

The young man was murmuring some words, and she bent over him to catch them better.

“Home, Mother, home...”

“I think that’s what we should do – send him back home to his mother.”

“So that she can burn him?” Marka was incensed.

“Between dying here of fever or on the bonfire among his people, I think the latter is better.”

“And how are you going to do that?”

“That’s not a problem,” the Witch replied quietly, closing her eyes. As she concentrated, the vision of Arcadia appeared again in her mind. This time she got directly into the mind of the Witch, who had proclaimed her son’s Death. Both minds merged, exchanging information, then it happened. Ofara heard a cry, suddenly Aden’s body appearing on top of the bonfire. But as the priestess was raising her hand holding the knife, she was back in her room; she had no wish to witness the performance of sacrifice.

“He’s gone!” Marka cried when Ofara opened her eyes.

“Adonis is fulfilling his destiny,” the Witch answered, “he could not escape it, and neither could his mother.”

Tala tells us:

I am a writer and artist and I live in Israel. I studied Hebrew and English languages and literature and I hold a Master of Philosophy degree in literature from London University. My main interest is mythology, but I also write fantasy and science fiction stories, novellas and books, many of which have been published in print and on the Net, both in Hebrew and English. A list of my published works in English can be found in the following address: http://cid-27cbdd735d2a1560.spaces.live.com/blog/cns!27CBDD735D2A1560!149.entry

My art works can be viewed at: http://www.flickr.com/photos/75553948@N00/ and http://www.flickr.com/photos/54169985@N00/

And now....the crit....

First off, let me say that we have published several stories by Ms. Bar- and we have enjoyed many of her submissions a great deal. Since English is not her first language (as with quite a few of our authors) we are always impressed and amazed with the excellent and skillful ability in which these writers are able to express themselves. (Sadly, many who speak only English do not possess the abilities that many writers around the globe seem to excel in)

With this said, let me begin my Crit

The first paragraph reads a bit awkward for me...

Ms. Bar has written other stories that feature this character, Ofara the Witch. Those who have visited us in the past may have some recollections of the character....we find her entertaining and amusing....but I digress. This particular beginning is on e in which we would have used italics to indicate that Ofara was thinking, and we would have changed a few words to make the flow smoother...and most likely would have done this in two paragraphs, due to the variation in subject matter.

Deep in reflection about old mythological expressions from familiar stories from her youth, Ofara the Witch walked along the street. She pondered that one might conclude that the male essence reflected both hero and victim, while the female might be the very essence of life- which to her was a fair encapsulation of thought.

Let's take for example, a black cat. A black cat? Where did that come from? Stopping abruptly, she stared at the animal that was right in front of her, looking back at her. "Well, well, well," she muttered to herself before bowing before the cat, "Your highness, lead the way!"

Why make this two paragraphs? It could be done in just one, as Ms. Bar has done- and most likely both are correct We feel that while one might be fine- that with two separate ideas being here, as well as thought processes and speech, mixed with everything else, that two paragraphs would be better. that way the reader now knows that something new is being added- in this instance the story begins with her inner reflections of her love for mythology and turns to black cats- a completely different venue from the first.

The second paragraph (that Ms. Bar wrote) is wonderful for readers not familiar with Ms. Bar's character of Ofara- and gives a brief and clear explanation of who she is, and her characters essence (borrowed your word- hey, it's a good word!) It also shows the reader that this is a story that most likely will combine fantasy (witches and magic) with mythology (the mention of Egyptian gods or goddesses) and the reader knows immediately if they wish to continue. Those who enjoy this type of genre will settle in for an enjoyable read...those who prefer other types of stories will either miss a chance to be entertained, or will be glad that they picked some sci-fi instead. So kudos to Ms. Bar for cluing readers in early on in regards to the type of story that they are in for....

Your first few paragraphs should do exactly that...let the reader know who they are dealing with (main character) and offer some indication of what type of story they are about to immerge their minds into.....the connoisseur with take a chance and sip slowly in order to enjoy the bouquet to the fullest.............but we all enjoy different things- that's why even wine comes in more than one flavor.

Ms. Bar wrote:

Her customary black garments made her almost invisible; in addition, she had wrapped herself, and any companion on the way, with a mental invisibility cloak.

Personally, I feel that this is a rather redundant statement...and a waste of magic. If your clothes make you practically invisible- why bother with an invisibility cloak? Besides, no one would think it odd that this was going on......just being nit picky- but it's something that we all should look out for. Don't do it often or you will begin to bore your readers.....

When the destination is described- the withered garden, the writer then goes on to describe the area. For me, again this is redundant. I believe most people know what withered means- and we have all seen gardens that were not tended to properly, so it's (IMO) best just to describe how Ofara felt when she saw this place, instead of describing it again......

When Ofara finds the bundle in the alley- where the cat had led her, she describes it in a way the I found a bit confusing...at first I was thinking she had found a baby (the term bundle was what led to my confusion)- then she began to describe the youth- again in what I felt were terms that might have been just a bit too repetitive. seemed to be some mixing of speech and thought between characters as well at times- which could have been due to the way the story was transcribed to our site- and those are things we try to fix when we edit....but my point is that in describing the young man, she likened him to Adonis in her mind- and then he said the very same thing. For me, that should have triggered a different response from Ofara. She should have been surprised that he called himself the very name that she was thinking. Personally, I don't think she meant to do that- I think she was just telling us (the reader) that this beautiful young man reminded her of the mythological character- but it wasn't exactly clear to me at this point.

Once Ofara brought the young man back to her home, the dialogue did not feel realistic- and I suppose it may be a cultural thing giving wine to someone so young along with a meal- but many things just didn't seem like they would 'mesh' with what was going on. this young man- who now does liken himself unto Adonis and is aware of the character, doesn't seem surprised by what is going on- since I got the impression that he came from a completely different time and place- our culture should have been surprising- if not completely overwhelming to him- yet we saw none of this. He just accepted Ofara and her food without any qualms- and I found this just a tad bit unrealistic.. Even the food should have a bit strange- and he should have reacted to things that were unfamiliar to him...I was a bit disappointed that Ms. Bar did not take advantage of these cultural and time differences in which to build both the character of the witch and the young man.

Again- when Ofara contacted her young friend Marka, who took the boy to a nightclub to party- I wondered what was the point to that....and why someone from such a different era would not act or feel out of place in a modern world- even if it was filled with witches and witchcraft (to which he was accustomed) The whole scene seemed totally out of context- and while I understand that she did this so that the young man could become ill (thereby giving Ofara a reason to send him back to his time to fulfill his destiny)- it still didn't make a lot of sense to me.

When at the end Ofara sent the young man back to where he belonged- to let him die there- I felt let down with the story. My whole thought process was basically-'what was the point of this?'

In our opinion (having read many other works by Ms. Bar) I am somewhat disappointed by this story. Whereas I like the character she has created in Ofara ( a modern witch) I do not like the story this time, and I really can;t offer any valuable insight as to what might make it better.

Perhaps if in the very beginning there was something that initially gave reference to Adonis, or even something else from the time that the young man came from, and Ofara had been told that she would have to make a choice in life that she would regret- then I could see something that might tie the beginning to the end. Just having her thinking about mythology did not do this for me- because I expect this sort of thing from someone as gifted (and connected to mythology) as Ms. Bar is. When I say this, what I mean is that perhaps Ofara could have seen Marka on the street (in the beginning of the story- thereby not feeling like she was tossed into the mix only at the end of the story) and that Marka either went into a trance- or discovered something odd that would indicate something unusual was about to happen- then the black cat could come along and lead Ofara to discover the young man....

Again- less time should be spent on describing her trip through the alleyways and the dismal garden, and more time developing the character of the Adonis lad, and a more realistic dialogue and learning curve to allow him to feel more comfortable e in a more modern setting, before his becoming ill and Ofara returning him to his ultimate destiny......

This would be a good time for those of you who read the story to write something either in the guestbook- or send a note to us and we will pass it on to the author....do you agree or disagree with our critique?

CHARCOAL TIP

by Mr. Curtis Lee

Oom-Guh was sad because the fire had left of her stick. With it smoldering and useless again, she threw the stick against the boulder she was standing by. When she did so, Oom-Guh noticed something happen. Something remarkable. Although, she wasn't sure what that something was, she was positive she noticed something happen. Curious, Oom-Guh decided to pick the stick up, again. Unfortunately, she had grabbed the wrong end and burnt her palm. She cried out in pain and kicked the boulder with her big, flat foot; then, she really started to cry.

While nursing her sore toe, Oom-Guh felt a stinging in the palm of her hand. also. She stopped fussing with her toe and examined her palm. She found a puffy black mark in the center of it. Oom-Guh dared to touch the puffy black mark, and cringed in pain when she did. The pain reminded her of the stick. Upon neckless shoulders, Oom-Guh pivoted her small, square head to check behind her, to see if the stick had run away. Nope. The stick still lay there, where she last saw it land, after it bounced off the boulder. Ooom-Guh looked down at the puffy black mark in the palm of her hand. When she did, something sparked in her brain. She spun around on her butt and looked at the wall. Then she looked back at the half-burned stick laying on the ground. She scratched her head in question.

Using her long, hairy arms, Oom-Guh heaved herself up onto her short hairy legs. She sneered at the stick, as it lay there, helplessly. But curiosity got the best of her. And with her head lulled to the side, like a curious puppy, Oom-Guh hunch-hopped a step closer to the stick. She stopped in front of it, looked at it, then quickly looked up, and peered all around her. Her pug nose twitching, an she snorted. Oom-Guh looked down at the stick again. She hunch hopped around it a few times, then stopped after the third pass. She stooped over the stick for a moment, studying it intently. She stood erect, looked at the boulder, and studied it intently. Her palm stung. So Oom-Guh looked at it. . . . Studied it intently. Then, licked it. She had a though.

Oom-Guh’s attention returned to her burnt stick lying on the ground. She did another round of hunch-hops about the stick; and a few head scratches later, She gathered up her courage to pick it up one more time. She hesitated a moment before grabbing at it, weary it might burn her again.

Finally, she reached for the side that wasn’t burnt. With a large hairy hand, she grabbed the stick off the ground, quickly, before it had a chance of running away. Oom-Guh waggled it around in front of her, away from her face, to rid the stick of the bad spirit that had burnt her hand the first time. When she felt it was safe, Oom-Guh dared to examine the burnt end of the stick. She sniffed at it, her pug nose wrinkling from the bitter smell. Then, she smacked the wall with the stick, to make sure the bad spirit was gone for good. Pleased to have tamed the it, Oom-Guh waved the burnt stick in the air like an amateur magician, whilst hunch-hopping around a tree, proudly proclaiming: "Ook! Ook! Ook!"

Stopping by the boulder, she grunted through her pug nose, and smacked the boulder with the stick again. A light sparkled in her beady eyes. Her lowbrow bent upward, and her lips parted in a menacing grin, making her looking more like a mad gorilla than a distant relative of humanity. Finally, Oom-Guh howled with primitive excitement, then continued to smack the boulder with the burnt end of the stick.

She had to stop for a moment to catch her breath. When she did, her chest was heaving, and her heart was pounding from all the creative excitement she was feeling. Suddenly, Oom-Guh remembered the remarkable something she seen earlier. She studied the stick, the wall, and her hand, again, to make sure she knew exactly what she was doing. And with a concentrated effort, Oom-Guh put the burnt point of the stick against the boulder, and slowly drew it downward. A jagged black line slowly appeared as she did so. Curiosity and excitement overwhelmed Oom-Guh to the point that she wouldn't stop chibbering to herself!

She continued to scribble and scribble and scribble. And by the time she had scribbled a quarter of the boulder black, her friends, Uhng and Maak-Maak, hunch-hopped over to see what she was doing. They were intrigued by what she was chibbering, banging, and howling so excitedly about.

"Du?" asked Maak-Maak, scratching his head and pointing to the boulder.

"Oom-guh, du?" asked Uhng, playing with an ear.

Oom-Guh spun around at the sound of their voices. "Uhng, Maak-Maak, Oom-Guh du! Oom-Guh du!" she replied, black soot smeared all over her face and hands. "Oom-Guh du, koo-cool ack-ack, paddy-wak, no jac, jak," proclaimed Oom-Guh, indicating herself, the burnt stick, and the boulder, partially colored black .

"Goo-aaaaaaah," replied Uhng and Maak-Maak, in unison, taken aback by the creative display, as something sparked in their eyes.

"Grrrr-do-oh, oh, oo-la la! Cr-r-ruk, crrr-rec, rec-odd. Rec-odd, Uhng, Mak-Maak? Uh-huh, uh-huh? Nuh-uh, nuh-uh?" questioned Oom-Guh, gesturing to the blackened boulder with her long, hairy arms.

"Jer-da fair-oh?" asked Maak-Maak, looking confused.

"Da casa, dur-r-r-d meeky, ie -click-, -click-," informed Uhng, looking enlightened.

Oom-Guh smiled bright, baring tooth and fang. Ugh and Mak-Mak chibbered in delite when Oom-Guh handed her burnt, charcoal tipped stick over to them. A wildfire of creativity blazed between the three friends as they whittled the stick down to splinters and dust as they continued to scribble the rest of the boulder black that day.

I am a bit ambivalent about this story....perhaps due to the fact that we sadly receive many tales like this one- stories about primitive man (or beings) that discover something either new or foreign to them and react much like this character Oom-Guh. Here at Golden Visions we like folks to think outside the box- to take something old and see it for the first time- in a new light.

This story did not do that....Along with an apparent addiction to incomplete sentence structure, Mr. Curtis Lee also really likes his commas. We too love that silly little squiggle, but we try to make sure that when we proofread that we eliminate the excess markings that tend to come all to naturally to many of us. A comma should indicate a pause in the sentence- and too many pauses, are distracting, to say the least. Have I made my point?

This story is also an attempt at humor...and at times it is successful (okay, almost successful, I did smile once). Most of the time it was not. In the beginning it was slightly amusing to think of this caveman like creature reacting this way when her firestick no longer burned...but surely by now she would have known that the stick would remain hot and by burning herself and then kicking the boulder she reacted in a perfectly natural way....we have all done these things. But then the story spent a great deal of time on this very subject...her reaction to the reaction...etc. I got a little bored.

Our main character had long hairy arms and short hairy legs (pre-shaving days for women...so I assume her armpits were also hairy) And she had a pug nose, which we were told numerous times....and she studied the stick intently....she studied the boulder intently...apparently she was quite intent. Such repetitiveness is also boring to a reader. They are quite intent when they tell us these things....and the word intently wasn't the only rather repetitive thing in this story....which also leads us to say that you don't have to say the characters name numerous times in a sentence, or paragraph. For the first 2/3 of the story, she was the only character- so it was a bit redundant to keep saying her name over and over again.

When she first discovered that she could mark on the boulder with the charred end of the stick I was hoping that either something unique or different was going to come along....or hunch -hop along (what is hunch-hopping btw? I watch Dancing with The Stars and So You Think You Can Dance and I haven't seen any hunch-hopping yet) But that too was used a great deal to describe the manner in which this character moved. It was a bit distracting- again.

All the names of the characters felt like primitive grunting (which explains the hunch-hopping) and the dialogue was --well--silly. "Oom-Guh du?" "Kool?" "Gooo-aaaahh" I got flashbacks of watching Bill and Ted's Most Excellent Adventures...I could see Keanu Reeves hunch-hopping while waving a stick.....yelling "Kool Oom-Guh! Dur-r-r-dy Meeky, ie-click,-click,"

This is an example of what not to send us. It's not sci-fi. It's not fantasy. It's nor horror (but it is bordering on horrible) It was an attempt at a bit or humor in a story- which we have to admit we love here- we do tend to lean a bit too much towards the rather campy side of things- but then again, we are throwbacks to an old era where campy is Kool and off the wall is entertaining....but most magazines don't really want this type of story. It's hard to do well. We know, since we also write way too much (often bad) comical tales of fiction. (It's easier to judge something that you find you tend to do yourself- and yes- it sometimes causes us grief to come to that self-realization.)

We are grateful that Mr. Lee allowed us to use his story online. Whether he wrote it to see if we would lie and tell him how wonderful it was, or if he was testing us to see how far we might go to prove a point- we are still grateful. He has shown a lot of new writers what to avoid- and why, and we thank him intently.

I am wondering why Mr. Lee would send out such a story.....because even a beginner would know that this was really not something that would go over well to most editors (especially if he had been writing for any length of time...and I wonder if someone out there was pulling our hairy legs?)

Along with the lack of real plot...the overuse of commas, the repetitive wording- there were misspelled words to boot. Let me get my little charred stick out and write a note to myself on my boulder- I mean take some notes for later.......This story is an example of why proofreading is essential...it will give the writer a chance to go back and fix the little nit-picky things that drive editors crazy. Avoid using the same word, phrase, or sentence to tell a reader something. After you write your story, let it sit awhile (a few days, weeks, or even a month) then go back and read it again. Is this really what you intended when you first wrote it? Fix the little things that you find, then let someone else (who you trust to be honest) read it and tell you what they thought. Or join a critique group! It's important that we all learn from each other!

I hope that I don't have nightmares about hairy women trying to stab me with firesticks....

Holmes