Through the Woods

[Basia]

As the season drew on, the days began to grow shorter, and the dark cold nights even longer. Small towns see the night more often than the big cities do, that is a known fact. It's night long before sunfall in the small towns. The "sidewalks" turn in at about three, and the streets are empty by four, save for the few passers through.
It was like that in my town. All the action is seen in the east, all the fast times, and the excitement. Nothing ever happens here. And, on the day in question, nothing could be any further from ordinary. The leaves had started to fall from the trees months before, leaving a soft crunching sound on the road as I walked. I gues I could be called the "black sheep" of town. I liked to be out on the streets when no one else was there, I liked being alone.
I lived alone, in a small house on the edge of town. The only way to get remotely near my house was a small winding path through a wooded area about two miles long.
Being alone in the woods near my home never seemed particularly dangerious to me, no one ever came to visit me, and if you wanted to see the path to my house, you would have to look particulary hard. The path was hidden by two rather large bushes. The only mark that there was an inhabitance near by was the mail box out on the main road.
My consentration was set on the sound of the grass benieth my feet as I walked. That was untill I paused to fish out my flash light. That was when I heard the foot falls in the fallen leaves...

 

[Guest]

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

 

[Guest]

There was a life several turns before this one
and it woke to these seasons these same flowers and this rain
these branches and roots of feeling that divide and divide again
reaching into ruins into the treasures
and palaces of ruin and I knew the way then
to a hundred ruins I could walk to in an hour
each with its own country and prospect its own birds
and silence and in every roof part of the sky
that was the day I had come to be standing in
which no one who had been born there had lived to see
whatever they may have watched from those hollow windows
and covered on those stairs that led up at last into trees
clear light went on staring out of the stone basins
recalling clouds and I was in a future no one from there
could have conceived of or believed when they were sure
that they would be there in it just as they were then
and not as strangers too long ago to be anyone

 

[Guest]

As the season drew on, the days began to grow shorter, and the dark cold nights even longer. Small towns see the night more often than the big cities do, that is a known fact. It's night long before sundown in the small towns. The "sidewalks" ??? turn in at about three o'clock, and the streets are empty by four, save for the few passers through.
It was like that in my town. All the action is seen in the East, all the fast times (Do NOT insert a comma here) and the excitement. Nothing ever happens here. And, on the day in question, nothing could be any further from ordinary. The leaves had started to fall from the trees months before, leaving a soft crunching sound on the road as I walked. I guess I could be called the "black sheep" of the town. I liked to be out on the streets when no one else was there, I liked being alone.
I lived alone, in a small house on the edge of town. The only way to get remotely near my house was a small winding path through a wooded area about two miles long.
Being alone in the woods near my home never seemed particularly dangerous to me, no one ever came to visit me, and if you wanted to see the path to my house, you would have to look particulary hard. The path was hidden by two rather large bushes. The only mark that there was an inhabitance near by was the mail box out on the main road.
My concentration was set on the sound of the grass beneath my feet as I walked. That was until I paused to fish out my flash light. That was when I heard the foot falls in the fallen leaves...

Is it really prudent to use the word ever?

 

[LukkyKnight]

rhetorical riposte

Is it really prudent to use the word ever?

Is it really pompous to object to the creative, artistic license of terms such as sunfall?

Stick to spelling, Nazi.

Those seeking editors can find them readily enough in a forum devoted to that pursuit.

 

[Never]

Spelling Nazi, "The "sidewalks" turn in at about three, and the streets are empty by four, save for the few passers through."

She didn't need to put quotation marks around the word 'sidewalks'. I'm not certain why you have three question marks after the word sidewalk though since you didn't ask a question about it.

As for her use of the word 'ever', this appears to be a first person story so it fallows that the character is the narrator. Likewise, it's rare that a person says 'three o'clock' so I believe she's correct in just using the word 'three'.

However, as my post isn't part of a story feel free to correct my grammar, as I would likely appreciate it.

 

[Never]

Re: rhetorical riposte

LukkyKnight:
"Is it really pompous to object to the creative, artistic license of terms such as sunfall?

Stick to spelling, Nazi.

Those seeking editors can find them readily enough in a forum devoted to that pursuit."

Contrawise, I'd say that by posting the story on a public forum she was opening herself up to both praise and criticism. Still, it's poor editing since there were no reasons given for the changes and there were no comments or suggestions on how to improve and develop the work. The Spelling Nazi should have also pointed out strengths in the writer's work as well.

In my Humble Opinion.

 

[Basia]

I've been trolled!

 

[sch00lteacher]

One does not edit a poem. There are no spelling errors in poems.

Poems are part of a person's soul. They are gifts shared with us.

You don't rip them apart to suit your own needs.

One does not edit a poem.









How much would you like to bet that very few people here actually understand what I just 'said'.

 

[LukkyKnight]

teacher,

I agree in principle that you don't rip poems (or prose) apart for your own needs, and I utterly enjoyed the thread starting post in spite of tweaks one might suggest. What I'd say is one shouldn't edit a poem unless and until asked to.

Most verbal art goes through iterations of improvement, hopefully not past the point where it loses the original feel and charm. Basia's tale ranks as a nifty "quick" recapitulation of what she had on her mind.

Never's right, you can't say "no feedback" on a public board, any more than you can control what sort of feedback you get. Many editors would have asked, "Why sunfall not sundown?" and pointed out there were some words such as concentration that a spellchecker would have caught without the smugly superior, condescending tone of the so-called spelling nazi, which is what I found so offensive.

It is that tone which I think emphasizes your point, "You don't rip them apart to suit your own needs." She offered a view of herself via the prose, and although on the internet one is risking an attack with almost any post made, Basia's words didn't warrant the haughty reply even though one cannot stop such from happening.

One assumes the nazi doesn't fully apprehend its own objectives. Perhaps in time the perspective will come. I'll spare you, and it, most of the myriad of metaphors which come to mind since it's not useful to get into a pissing contest even when standing upwind of one's target.

One does not edit a poem. There are no spelling errors in poems.

Poems are part of a person's soul. They are gifts shared with us.

You don't rip them apart to suit your own needs.

One does not edit a poem.









How much would you like to bet that very few people here actually understand what I just 'said'.