Become a Fan
By Laura Via
Monday, January 12, 2004
Not sure what to title this one ...
And it seemed much longer on paper, but that is prolly due to my large bubbly handwriting
It is a wingless thing, but not flightless. For it soars within the mind, deep in the psyche there. Dark is its coat. However feathers nor fur keep it warm, only hate and anger. It nestles like a cozy bed bug, all snug until its tendrils root deep and are penetrating.
But, its pleasure isn't sweet like sex, this is something far more sinister than just fleshy pleasures and intense climaxes.
It entwines in and with, digging deep there in the mind. A seedling of sorts that lives on the electrical bursts of synapses. Redirection that causes the meltdown of functionality. That glassy eyed stare with such haphazard thoughts breaking down behind the retinas.
The thought of tasting flesh, ripping harsling from crushed bone. Pulling sinew and stretching into new forms. This wingless thing creates such dark flights of carnivorous fancies in anguish.
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|Reviewed by Dan Summerfield
"That Wingless Thing" would be an intriguing title. May I suggest, though, that what you have written is not a story but a poem. It has the imagery and rythmns of poetry, and could be easily adapted. The first paragraph might read like this:
It is a wingless thing,
But not flightless.
For it soars within the mind,
Deep in the psyche there.
Dark is its coat,
However feathers nor fur
Keep it warm,
Only hate and anger.
It nestles like a
Cozy bed bug,
All snug until its tendrils
root deep and are penetrating.
I think I would change that last line to read "Penetrate and root deep."
Adapt this and put it in the Poetry section and you may get some surprisingly terrific reviews.
|Reviewed by Eric May
Your tangible description of the lusts of the flesh(centering on violence in the piece) was a delight to read.