Exercise 12

     She stood a moment, admiring the ebony handle, adorned with twists and carved roses.  Taking a deep breath, she gave the door a few hard raps.  A few moments later, a little girl in a white dress answered the door.  She look, wide-eyed at the beautiful mess in front of her.  The girl standing outside the door looked wild, her expensive garments torn, somewhat wet, and twigs in her long, dark, flowing hair.  Still shocked at the sight in front of her, the little girl in the white dress remained silent, gaping.  Then the beautiful creature outside spoke.  “Can I see Henry, please?” the girl asked anxiously, looking over the little girl into the house.  “Wha..what’s your name,” asked the little girl, who was still shocked.  Most people who came to the house were terrified, but this girl showed an eagerness to be inside of it.  “Oh, I’m Anna. Sorry, I forgot my manners. I’m looking for Henry. I have something quite important to tell him.”  The little girl nodded, motioning for Anna to come inside.  Once she stepped in the house, the door banged suddenly behind her.  But Anna did not jump or appear squeamish, even as she looked around the dark foyer.  Candles glowed on the wall, giving the room an eerie feel.  The house was not especially dirty, but felt damp and smelled of must.  

Critique 12

Christmas Sonnet

The Christmas berries hang, a gentle case

of forgotten holiday memories 

that sway about amidst the frosty fog.

The smell of cinnamon baking rises, 

towers above the wilted Christmas tree

complete with faded ornaments swaying,

decoration for its browning branches

covered in last minute silver glitter. 

Cars arrive, escaping bitter chills despite,

Sleepless nights in crowded houses musty

with a hint of an old woman’s perfume; 

husbands hide in rooms smelling of tainted

cigar, and children run until they fall 

asleep waiting for the first drop of snow.  

Exercise 11

Part of a story 

The sound of faraway rain and muffled thunder rang in her ears.  The sharp gusts of wind cut through her black fleece jacket, causing a chill to enter her bones.  She silently looked behind her.  No one was there.  Sighing, she began to walk towards the opening to the forrest behind the house.  She ignored the incoming rain drops that dripped into her eyes, creating a blurred vision of the upcoming pathway.  She began to run.  Pushing branches out of the way, avoiding tree roots, she ran, despite the burning sensation growing in her legs.  It had been dark before; now the air turned black.  She could see it in the distance and it strengthened her drive to reach it before the height of the storm.  The building, notorious for its macabre demeanor, finally stood before her.  Tears threatened to join with the raindrops as she discovered she was near.  Giving her legs a final push, she sprinted up the hill, using the winding path to reach the door.  

Critique: ghazal

A ghazal of the meadow 

I want each blade of grass to sway with the passing sun. 

And the breeze to relive its movement again.  

I want the river behind the oak tree to be mine,

and the tree with the copper leaves only in the fall. 

If I lived where sun glitters in between branches,

a blue-feathered bird would hum my name. 

I want the crumbling wooden cabin to fall,

so I can rescue it, paint it white and yellow.

I can see the meadow’s future through a scope,

it browns and it yellows, but will remain the same. 

I run through the lengthy grasses, they itch against my legs.

And I am smiling too wide, a crazy person perhaps mad. 

But I won’t stop running until I hear your footsteps,

following behind me, trying to catch up. 

Don’t abandon a girl running free in the wild

or she might find a reason to never stop, never lie