The Winds

[slipee]

This started out originally as a poetic alliteration, where the first paragraph is something I wrote some time ago.

A few days ago I developed it into a short story, and I think I am finally done with it now.

It was fun, and I hope you enjoy reading it.


Wilting willows watched while we wandered, wondering why we'd waste away with worry. Waving with westerly winds they whistle, willing a waltz into our weary wayward walk. The wealth of well-being washes the weight of our wants away, whispering warmly while wrapping us with weightlessness where we may finally unwind. We were never without our wisest wishes...

Wistfully we wait without the woes of a working day, wishing to never wander the winding way back to wherever it was we once were.
"Want not wealth but wisdom, else wither away with all else which wears the weight of worry in a world rich with wonder," warns the whispers of a wiry and weathered wood pile, axe-rendered and waiting for the wild, war-hungry wrath of a wretched white winter.

Whimpers well up within ourselves and with our worries they worsen, wielding our wants like weapons forged to vanquish the very will which drives us. We wait, we walk, and we widen the windows of our minds while washing away the ways of old. Where there are wants there are warnings; smouldering cinders where the devil once tread winding wickedly with zigs and zags, bewildering the weak-willed and the aimless. Unwatchful wanderers find themselves wrapped up in their wants once more, wriggling like worms back to their worlds of woe and war-torn hardship. Of waste the world grows weary, as do we.

War-cries of the wild winds begin to roar their wailing threats, but nothing is revealed in us.
"We have nothing worthy of the wind", we warn. Still it weaves around us wildly and relentlessly. Whipping around like a whirlwind it twists and turns until it finds our worthlessness. It wrings it out of us and then wails off to the west, whistling through the waving willows without a word. Wealth is wisdom we remind ourselves. We want to remember... and then we begin to worry that we might forget.

This place, I feel, couldn't sustain a conundrum. Something crucial collapses; the very foundation, and only now I realise how fragile and teetering it must have been all along. I am at fault. I am a monster.
We knew we couldn't walk forever and we wished for other ways, but we were worn and overwhelmed in a world which blurred and warped and in the end would wash away within itself anyway. Our weekend is whittling away, and like the wilted, waving willows it will...

"Why waste away with worry?", the final reminder echoes across the void into conscious thought, but we're absorbed and distracted, watching walls and windows emerge and materialise into bedroom familiarity. We always try to stay but we can never find a way. It's here we want to waste away.
A wild whirring welcomes us, but wicked is the wind this time which wrenches us awake. Its witty whining whisking us away against our wills, and writing our wrangled whimpering back into the working class world where we belong.

SGG

[Buh4Bee]

Although the writing experience may have been fun, reading this is not. It is the equivalent to reading something with very poor grammar. The device of alliteration is way over-done. There are some enjoyable segments, but as a whole it doesn't lend for an enjoyable or smooth read.

[slipee]

That is a fair enough call I guess, and I'm sorry you found it so conflicting. When I write something I just like to to push a rule like it's a game, which in this case I guess it was more of a constraint than a poetic device. There was no idea I wanted to express here, just something with a little more depth and ambiguity than Peter Piper's pickled peppers, or Sandy's Ice-cream Sandwiches.

But, it is what it is, just a bit of fun, and I do agree that it is annoying and clunky for the most part. I am by no means an experienced writer.

I'll be more considerate in posting here in the future as not to undermine the quality image across the forum. Actual up and coming authors might be using it as a legitimate platform for their work which is something I hadn't actually considered.

-_-

[Calidore]

I'll be more considerate in posting here in the future as not to undermine the quality image across the forum. Actual up and coming authors might be using it as a legitimate platform for their work which is something I hadn't actually considered.

-_-

I don't see where Buh4Bee said or implied that the work shouldn't have been posted in the first place. I agree with her about the alliteration overkill making it painful to read, but your only criteria for posting should be that you feel like posting a work for feedback. There certainly isn't a "quality image" here that I'm aware of.

[AuntShecky]

I'll be more considerate in posting here in the future as not to undermine the quality image across the forum. Actual up and coming authors might be using it as a legitimate platform for their work which is something I hadn't actually considered.

-_-

The LitNet rules state that when a member posts an original work, it's with the understanding that he or she might gather comments from the rest of us LitNutters. The criticism may consist of praise or downright fault-finding, but usually a mixture of both. In most cases, the LitNutter's reply will offer suggestions how to fix the errors and revise the work, perhaps even solid writing advice in general. A figurative pat on the back or a slap on the face (or a gentle elbow jab)--that's the chance you have to take. There is no law that requires you to accept or reject any of this criticism, but most of us post here in order to improve
our work.

Optimally, this is a kindly, civil, and pleasant kind of process in which ("Kumbayah") we all can help each other reciprocally. Keep in mind, that the proverbial shoe can fit both feet-- you have the right to comment on our work as well. As a matter of fact, I'd recommend it if you really expect responses.

Welcome to the LitNet.

Auntie

PS--You have the dubious honor of receiving my *4000th* post on the LitNet. And to think it only took me six-and-a-half years!

[Buh4Bee]

I thought your theme had to do with The Wind in the Willows, which is about friendship. I took this as a kind of off-beat confession as to a failed friendship. Kind of a personal piece with a bit of ambiguity or mystery. I again was just commenting on the feel of the read, like a mouth full of wocks.

[slipee]

No no, I came to the conclusion myself that expectations might be a bit higher here than for just pass-time word play. I just mean that I will be more considerate as to make sure anything I post in here will be more streamlined and less... trivial based.

I am happy for the criticism, hence I agree with the faults of the passage, and did gain something from the feedback. I just decided that next time I'll make sure it's something more complimenting of learned literature. I only write a small passage every few months for fun, while I think others are really putting in the effort to progress and maybe make a career out of writing. That is all

[It's definitely one for the mind, not for the mouth!]

[Delta40]

Perhaps you should have told your audience not to take your work seriously then. With that in mind, lol on wery wunny way with words. Why? Who wan way?

[slipee]

If you guys think this was ridiculous, check out the (constrained) Alliterative Alphabet Challenge we had a while ago! http://www.online-literature.com/for...abet-Challenge

We made it through the alphabet twice! I know it's not proper use of alliteration (read the rules of the game), but then you might understand the reflective mind behind this haphazard word-mangle!

[Buh4Bee]

Quite honestly, I don't think any one really cares.

[glennr25]

This started out originally as a poetic alliteration, where the first paragraph is something I wrote some time ago.

A few days ago I developed it into a short story, and I think I am finally done with it now.

It was fun, and I hope you enjoy reading it.




Wilting willows watched while we wandered, wondering why we'd waste away with worry. Waving with westerly winds they whistle, willing a waltz into our weary wayward walk. The wealth of well-being washes the weight of our wants away, whispering warmly while wrapping us with weightlessness where we may finally unwind. We were never without our wisest wishes...

Wistfully we wait without the woes of a working day, wishing to never wander the winding way back to wherever it was we once were.
"Want not wealth but wisdom, else wither away with all else which wears the weight of worry in a world rich with wonder," warns the whispers of a wiry and weathered wood pile, axe-rendered and waiting for the wild, war-hungry wrath of a wretched white winter.

Whimpers well up within ourselves and with our worries they worsen, wielding our wants like weapons forged to vanquish the very will which drives us. We wait, we walk, and we widen the windows of our minds while washing away the ways of old. Where there are wants there are warnings; smouldering cinders where the devil once tread winding wickedly with zigs and zags, bewildering the weak-willed and the aimless. Unwatchful wanderers find themselves wrapped up in their wants once more, wriggling like worms back to their worlds of woe and war-torn hardship. Of waste the world grows weary, as do we.

War-cries of the wild winds begin to roar their wailing threats, but nothing is revealed in us.
"We have nothing worthy of the wind", we warn. Still it weaves around us wildly and relentlessly. Whipping around like a whirlwind it twists and turns until it finds our worthlessness. It wrings it out of us and then wails off to the west, whistling through the waving willows without a word. Wealth is wisdom we remind ourselves. We want to remember... and then we begin to worry that we might forget.

This place, I feel, couldn't sustain a conundrum. Something crucial collapses; the very foundation, and only now I realise how fragile and teetering it must have been all along. I am at fault. I am a monster.
We knew we couldn't walk forever and we wished for other ways, but we were worn and overwhelmed in a world which blurred and warped and in the end would wash away within itself anyway. Our weekend is whittling away, and like the wilted, waving willows it will...

"Why waste away with worry?", the final reminder echoes across the void into conscious thought, but we're absorbed and distracted, watching walls and windows emerge and materialise into bedroom familiarity. We always try to stay but we can never find a way. It's here we want to waste away.
A wild whirring welcomes us, but wicked is the wind this time which wrenches us awake. Its witty whining whisking us away against our wills, and writing our wrangled whimpering back into the working class world where we belong.

SGG

It's an interesting experiment, if anything else. I would venture to say that, while not a story per say, it could be turned into such with a little tinkering here and there.