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Moving Muses ... or 'the atrocious behaviour displayed by my muses when I moved house' (Storytelling in Verse WS)

Introduction

I've four - yes four - muses. They argue and fight,
each with the other, re what I should write.

And sometimes I'm certain these guys are the ones
declined by the more gifted literary guns.

They all worked together - at least for a while -
until I changed address, and then - you may smile

but, muses, like cats, can become quite deranged.
I found out, the hard way, they don't much like change.

And, as you shall see if you give me your time,
especially prone - those who constantly rhyme.

~

Chapter 1
in which Louise, my rhyming muse, arrives at my new house.

I think I feel a poem coming on.
I think I see a muse there at my door,
I changed address this week, I'd thought they'd gone.
I'd worried that I'd see them nevermore.

But there she is - the rhyming one.
The others should, then, be here soon -
the tacky one (I hope she's late)
who talks of death and fear and fate,
and Esmeralda, perfect dear,
who's always close but never near,
for oft her words I can't quite hear ....

So there she is, mischievous Louise,
who remembers our family stories,
and hangs around me most every day,
rhyming, singing, getting in the way....

She came into my life one day,
all dressed in green, the muse to play.
She said 'twas due to some promotion
but, since she's come, she's caused commotion
- the others, they don't like to rhyme,
and indeed, so says Louise,
don't want to even have a good time...

You know, now I come to think of it,
my main fear at the moment is,
Louise has, from the others, hid
the path that leads to my new digs.

~

Chapter 2
in which Louise surprises me (and herself) with a classic form.

Dammit you know they have not yet arrived.
It's only Louise and myself here, I stress.
The self-centered muse won't advise the old triad
to where I have moved and my current address.

It's only Louise and myself here, I stress.
My other dear muses don't know where I am;
to where I have moved and my current address.
And just one has found me, the rhyme-happy fan.

My other dear muses don't know where I am,
and all through the day I conceive nought but rhyme,
for just one has found me, the rhyme-happy fan,
and she's being spoilt, gets her way all the time.

And all through the day I conceive nought but rhyme.
There's no other here now to counter her style.
And she's being spoilt, gets her way all the time,
I give her an inch, she takes a damn mile.

There's no other here now to counter her style.
It's driving me crazy, I can't last much longer.
I give her an inch, she takes a damn mile.
(Of my darling Lou, I'm growing less fonder.)

It's driving me crazy, I can't last much longer.
But as I'm about near to just do her in
(Of my darling Lou, I'm growing less fonder)
a pattern that's forming attracts my attention.

But as I'm about near to just do her in
I take a look back at what we've been writing.
A pattern that's forming attracts my attention.
With darling Louise, I am no longer fighting.

I take a look back at what we've been writing
- 'tho needing to check it with muses who know -
with darling Louise I am no longer fighting.
I think we are writing a Pantoum. No?

'Tho needing to check it with muses who know -
but sadly, the others don't know where I'm living -
I think we are writing a Pantoum. No?
Louise, she knows zilch re the literary thing,

and sadly, the others don't know where I'm living.
And, as for this rhyme, will it cease any time?
Louise, she knows zilch re the literary thing,
she just wants to go on with rhyme, rhyme on rhyme.

And, as for this rhyme, will it cease any time?
The self-centered muse won't advise the old triad.
She just wants to go on with rhyme, rhyme on rhyme.
Dammit you know they have not yet arrived.

~

Chapter 3
in which I plead with Louise.

Louise it has to stop right now.
This constant thinking in rhyme is how
I'm going to end up going insane.
It has simply become inane.
It's not always that good you know,
even if it frequently comes in a flow.
It's often quite silly and not even glib,
using dumb rhymes like hid and did,
love and dove, chair and stair.
I'm close to pulling out my hair.

And as for that previous pantoum you so claim
I checked it out on the internet
and say you should hang your head in shame
for the form calls for, I regret
iambic damn pentameter.

All well enough to sit and gloat.
Go get the others or I might slit your throat
(and that is something I'd rather avoid,
I hear the blood of a muse is devoid
of a single mortality gene,
and never, never wipes clean).

Please, please go get them, tell them where I live,
or I might follow this impulse to jump off a cliff...
(see, we're now not even rhyming properly.
It's getting loose and rather awful and sloppy).
Please let the triad re-set the poetic trend
and you, for a little while, be my invisible friend.

~

Chapter4
in which the girls arrive.

Around the corner, finally, toddles Esmeralda dear.
And goodness me (and dammit) the tacky one is here.
It seems again I will now ponder
reasons for love, life, and wonder
about all the things of this world where we're living,
in this school of hard lessons in taking and giving.

We await the arrival of Joe to complete
my triad of muses (he writes stuff so sweet).
I think, being male, he'll be a bit late -
to ask for direction, that gender just hates.
Besides, he's no doubt working on a new play.
That he, in addition, could find his own way,
is mayhap too much that a body should ask,
for also, being male, he can't multitask.

I hope these girls don't wake the neighbours.
They're making a terrible racket.
I've opened a bottle of sparkly wine,
with celebratory habit.
'Cos I'm more than happy they are here at last,
to protect me from the chattering
of rhythm Louise plays in my head,
with her constant rhyming nattering.

~

Chapter 5
in which tensions grow.

'We need a word,' calls Louise,
'to rhyme with 'reason', and I hear
Esmeralda, under her breath,
mutter something that's not quite clear,
which is probably for the best.

The tacky one is gazing wistfully
out through the window at the sky,
and I know she for once sees only
a blank dank canvas there up high,
with no associated calligraphy.

Writer's block's causing agitation
between the three girls and me,
which, by the way, rhymes loosely with reason
but I'm not about to tell Louise.
It'd serve only to cause more tension,

because Esmeralda and the tacky one
(who I should start calling by her name, which is Eve)
so hate, to the point of loathing,
anything they conceive
has too much rhythm or simple rhyming.

'We could use 'season,' natters Louise,
'if you want to, again, describe the weather.'
Eve raises her emerald eyes,
looks meaning at Esmeralda,
who just shakes her head and sighs.

If Joe doesn't find his way here soon,
to counter-balance the apprehension,
Louise will not have any cause
to look for a word that rhymes with reason.
It'll all be all over apart from applause.

(I speak re Louise's extinction
- there's another loose rhyme for her).
Discord is turning to doubt and dissension
and the resulting rancour
is going to author an altercation

that will have nothing to do with poetry,
and nought to do with acumen.
Esmeralda and Eve are like to murder Louise,
and I might just as likely let them.
Joe, come home please.

~

Chapter 6
in which there is a fight (just warning).

I told you. Yes I knew it!
A fight started yesterday.
Louise refuses to co-operate;
wants just her and me to play.

You should've seen the little witch,
trying to make the others rhyme,
while I was celebrating the re-union
imbibing my bottle of wine.

I thought that they would work it out -
the girls were all now here.
Poetry would flow again;
soon all words would be clear.

But in a shameful display of jealousy,
while swearing at the tacky one,
Louise went and crossed the line
and tried to bite Esmeralda's tongue.

And now Esmeralda dear
refuses to leave her room,
so if I require her inspiration
I have to go and face the gloom.

For it is dank and old and has rot in the ceiling
(she used to help with the scenes for Dickens)
her furniture's ancient and dusty and creaks,
and it's cold in there - I have to wear mittens.

The tacky one just stares out the window
and I know her mind is vacant and clear.
For she told me after the fracas point blank:
"I'm gunna do nuthin' 'til Joe gets 'ere."

And I still have to follow the tatters in timing
of Louise's ever-becoming-more-loose silly rhyming.

~

Chapter 7
in which Louise runs away (yay)

Louise has gone. She left in a huff,
but I think she'll be back - she took none of her stuff.
I only found out through her selfie and tweet:
'I'm pounding the track in my high-heeled-shod feet.'

So why do I keep writing in rhyme?
I asked Eve - she said it's a crime
but she thinks I've been brainwashed.

Esmeralda and Eve boycotted their work
while Louise, they said, was being a jerk.
I did not once mention a word such as 'leave',
I simply requested a well-earned reprieve.

With Louise not here, there should be no rhyme.
So why am I thinking it all of the time?
Esmeralda dear says that I'm sloshed.

Esmeralda dear won't come out to play.
She says in her own room she's determined she'll stay.
She says, she believes I've imbibed too much wine
and, for stupid Louise, I continue to pine.
(Her words, not mine).

It's really not true... but I'm writing in rhyme,
not having touched a drop of the vine,
and my confidence is squashed.

I cannot but help be a tad bit perturbed.
I'm beginning to feel like a bit of a nerd.
Unable to keep the girls working happily,
all that I pen has suffered poetically.

Still no free form, I continue with rhyme,
and at this rate I never will shine,
Everything written in the bin to be tossed.

I don't know where Joe is - he's still not arrived.
If he had been here he would've contrived
(and no doubt succeeded) to calm all things down,
and have gently teased a smile from each frown.

But here I am still writing in rhyme,
and for Joe to turn up and things to be fine,
needs to happen soon, or all will be lost.

~

Chapter 8
in which I tell you about Joe

Let me tell you about my Joe -
you think I've made him up, I know,
because up to now he's been a 'no show'
in this, my 'musey' tale of woe.

But really, there is a 'Joe',
and when he's here my writing flows;
my mood is always mellow.
He's such a gentle fellow.

He's very good-looking, with a rosy glow
(a side effect of a love for Cinzano).
He smokes cigars - prefers amaretto
and wears a cravat tied in a bow.

Elegant he is, down to his marrow,
words and ideas from him simply grow.
If he'd only been here to mediate, I know
Louise would never have needed to go.

The three girls just love him so.
His words and ideas, they faithfully follow.
He never has to cajole or bellow
to keep them on the straight and narrow.

To re-join us he has been so slow.
With him away my mood is low.
My writing has become so hollow.
Maybe he'll be here tomorrow.

(Eve helped me write this ... I told you she was tacky.)

~

Chapter 8
in which Joe arrives home - with a surprise

He turned up on my doorstep late last night.
Hooray, he's here, he's here - my muse, my Joe.
'Twas after dark - he gave me such a fright
because he had that twit Louise in tow.

He said he'd found her barefoot, spending time
with derelict old drunks down in the park,
and helping them to write a dirty rhyme
on benches and the trees of paperbark.

He had a problem dragging her away.
She said she'd wait there for a 'nice young farmer',
who'd promised faithful earlier that day,
he'd bring to her a bag of marijuana.

Annoyed, he was, with Esmeralda, Eve,
but nowhere near as peeved he was with me.
We fail to understand why he'd believe
that we're to blame for her stupidity.

So now I'm in a web of deepest slime.
The favourite of my four attendant muses,
declares I must continue on with rhyme
'til my perceived discretion he excuses.

It's true, my world is falling all apart.
I beg you Joe, have mercy, have a heart!

~

Chapter 9
in which I try to write with Esmeralda

I sit in Esmeralda's crib,
hiding from Joe and Louise.
It's dank and dusty, as I told you before,
and it's really a rather tight squeeze,

for her furniture looms and fills every inch
of the dark Elizabethan-style room.
She refuses to open the heavy red drapes
and it's hard to write in the gloom.

Over the tip of her pince-nez glasses,
she's sullenly staring, glaring at me.
Her silver-grey hair's tightly tied in a bun.
Her hands firmly clasped on her knee.

Her dress is all buttoned right up to the neck.
All prissy and prim, with her lips pursed up tight,
she sits ramrod straight in her old wingbat chair.
She's held that expression ever since the big fight.

Her feet at an angle of ten to two,
she refuses to budge an inch from her space,
e'en when I begged her (once down on my knees).
She wants me to put Louise in her place,

(and if I read the signs correctly from Esmeralda dear,
that place for Louise, is a place that is far away from here).

She stares at her dresser, at a picture of Dickens.
She's mournfully dreaming of long-long-gone times.
She never had this trouble with him.
She says he never wrote rhymes.

I sigh and stir and, although I grieve,
I think I'll go, try write something with Eve.

~

Chapter 10
in which I tell you a bit about Eve

I've told you a bit about Joe and Esmeralda,
and a whole lot more about Louise.
I find I now have to write about Eve.
I haven't yet, and she's not very pleased.

To tell the truth, there's nought better to do.
Besides, it seems Eve's now my only real mate.
Esmeralda sulks in her bedroom,
and Louise and Joe are out on a date!

(Please don't ask me to explain that one.
I don't understand it at all.
I think they both are conspiring
to initiate my personal downfall).

But I'm straying from the subject at hand
- writing about young Eve...
She has the loveliest emerald-green eyes
and the smoothest of skins, you would never believe

that her diet consists of chocolate and coke,
and she never seems to sleep,
which is probably why her mind and prose,
from subject to subject, will leap.

With a temperament to match her long,
red, red, curly hair,
Eve writes fair free form, but for her rhymes
I really don't much care.

She can be very belligerent
(please don't tell her I told you this).
Being oft times jealous of the other three,
she turns into a real little miss

that can match Louise's stubbornness
and gets on Esmeralda's nerves,
at which stage Joe gives us a 'talking to'
that none of us really deserves.

It is usually her fault that loopy Louise
is often reduced to tears,
for she sometimes puts on the airs and graces
and turns her nose up at Louise's ideas.

Oh dear! I didn't mean to describe her so badly
and her character to deride.
My pen got carried away with itself.
Now, even from Eve I will have to hide.

~

Chapter 11
in which I get a bit cross

I've seen nothing of either Joe or Louise
since breakfast yesterday.
Eve read my poem about her being sassy
before I could store it away,

and she's now not even speaking,
busy downing tonic and gin.
Esmeralda dear has locked herself in
that room of hers, so dank and dim.

The weather is still all stormy
(and I'm not talking about outside).
My poetic abilities have all but died
and I have to re-group what's left of my pride.

Esmeralda is putting on airs.
Eve is just plain tacky.
Louise, well she's completely wacky
and Joe's treating me like a lackey.

I have to tell you, enough is enough.
Because of them I'm near-insane.
My muses' antics have 'done in' my brain
and I can no longer take the strain.

Leave Esmeralda her Charles-bloody-Dickens,
Louise can chant her facetious rhymes;
Eve help Joe scribe the Philosophy of Time,
I won't be around to whine.

I'm busily packing to move house once more.
Remove myself from all the disdain.
They can look for me, but it will be in vain.
This time I'll make sure they don't find me again.

~

Chapter 12
in which I receive great news

I was about to call the removalist people
and pay, I might add, in advance,
when Joe and Louise came home with Great News.
Louise is going to France.

Well it seems they were conspiring -
loopy Louise and Joe -
but not against me, thanks be.
(He is very smart you know).

I told you my Joe was clever.
He's convinced our rhyming Louise
to spend time as an exchange student
in a place called Les Angeles.

I saw at the corner of my eye our Eve,
putting up both thumbs.
And, although she still didn't show her face,
I smelt the soft scent of biscuit crumbs,

and the clicking sound of an closing door.
Then the distinct patter of a spritely jig
on creaky boards, I'm sure I heard
coming from Esmeralda's crib.

I wonder about my Joe now though...
He's put ideas in Louise's head.
He told her, with a knowledge of French,
in the eyes of our Eve she would stand in good stead.

And then he used dear Esmeralda
to perform the coupe-d'etat on the muse -
said she'd respect rhymes with a little French polish,
from someone who knew about fashion and shoes.

He swears with a smile he said nothing about me
to encourage her to want to travel,
but the other day she looked my way
with an expression I just can't unravel.

I refuse to think about when she returns,
perhaps even worse, with airs in her rhyme.
For now, Louise can go bother the Frogs
and I'll leave that future snob-problem for Time.

Meanwhile I practice my school-girl French,
while we anxiously await to face
the exchange student from Paris,
who's coming to take Lou's place.

We don't yet know if it's going to be
a fille or a garcon,
but it doesn't much matter either way,
as long as it's not a rhyming one.

~

Chapter 13
in which I meet my new muse ( noting the chapter number might give you a clue how that went )

Our new long-term house guest, Suzette,
speaks not a word of Anglais - -
our visiting exchange cadet-student muse
will only speak en francais.

From the first it has been a failure.
I thought I would - j'essayerais -
would try to welcome her in French.
I requested her 'enter' in my best en francai.

Unpractised, my Down Under accent
resonated my s'il vous plait
to something that sounded like 'silver plate.'
I simply can't talk en francais.

Suzette put her hands across her mouth
and rolled her pretty yeux bleus.
If she had only been laughing with me
I wouldn't have so much se soucier,

but the little miss was scoffing, mocking
(as I conjectured from those bold, brassy yeux).
This French exchange cadet-student muse
acting too big for her petites chaussures.

She brushed past me muttering something
about entre and s'il vout plait
then a string of words incomprehensible to me
before a final grumbled entrer veuillez.

But as I look at what I've been writing,
her little maniere desagreables
melts in my mind into insignificant nothing.
I have discovered a probleme incroyable

Suzette la muse de France's poems
sound suspiciously to my ear
to have, to Louise's natters and rhymes,
a cadence et une rythmique familier

~

Chapter 14
in which I finally stop rhyming (mostly anyway)

It's been a long story
I know
but so felt the need
to warn
It's dire
to try to move those who inspire.

But

I'm wearing rose-tint-glasses
on my nose again.
Joe has all things
tucked and sorted
under his wings.

Esmeralda's wrapped around
Suzette's foreign finger,
as well as tacky Eve.
(You have to see it to believe).

They're all crashing
at Eve's flash condominium,
learning francais.
I haven't heard from them for days.

Louise video-calls me
on Skype every night.
I just mute her.
What she doesn't know won't hurt.

Joe stirs the cherry in his long-stemmed Cinzano,
promises me
tonight we write some poetry.
.

Review Request (Intensity): 
I want the raw truth, feel free to knock me on my back
Editing stage: 

Comments

you are amazing!

I giggled, and laughed, unto guffaws.

with skill and wit,
depictions enthralled.
start to end, I loved it all.

and you continue to amaze ( I'm not typically such a fawnster...I just think you are really good at this stuff)

Al

that you read it all
I am even more thrilled to hear you enjoyed it
thank you Al

Tell me, did you read it in one sitting, or did you have to take a rest from it?
love judy
xxx

'Each for the joy of the working, and each, in his separate star,
shall draw the Thing as he sees It, for the God of Things as They are.'
(Rudyard Kipling)

author comment

read it straight through...why put it down when enjoying it so much...(and there were other things I could have been doing!)

you done good ,

Al

I just wanted you to know I've started to read this one. I thought you said your muses have left? Or was that someone else? Just asking! ;)

❤❤❤❤❤❤

Poetry is when an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found words
........Robert Frost☺

Please follow me on Instagram
https://instagram.com/poetry.jo?igshid=YmMyMTA2M2Y=

Thank you

Lol .... yes my muses have definitely abandoned me
this is an old write I dragged up and edited to put on the WS for crit

Love judy
xxx

'Each for the joy of the working, and each, in his separate star,
shall draw the Thing as he sees It, for the God of Things as They are.'
(Rudyard Kipling)

author comment

Brilliant, this must have taken ages to write. It's so funny - especially chapter 12 / 13 Louise goes to France in exchange for Suzette who can't speak English. haha

Louise can go bother the Frogs
and I'll leave that future snob-problem for Time. Hahaha

Loved it!

Love Mand xxxx

It actually fell out of me in a very short time - one or two a night....
lol, a while ago now, when I actually did move address and lost my inspiration ...
This was the result of it coming back.

Those muses didn't come with me when I changed address again.... I haven't seen them for a couple of years now.... I seem to be muse-less at the moment....

The write was brought to my mind when I was joking with Jane that I think she has my muses ... I just tidied it up a bit, and put it on the WS in the hope that it might get some crits there (because of the length)

I'm totally over the moon that both you and Al have read it through...
and even happier to know you enjoyed it

Love judy
xxx

'Each for the joy of the working, and each, in his separate star,
shall draw the Thing as he sees It, for the God of Things as They are.'
(Rudyard Kipling)

author comment

Even more amazing - given the short time it took to write! :)

Judy,
I'll admit I couldn't read it through in one go, as I already had a severe headache before I began. With only one short break I came back and finished it feeling fairly refreshed by the end. Only once in the past I wrote something of this kind of length but it got lost in a house move of all things. Now I only remember one or two verses. C'est la vie. I very much enjoyed this with many an inward chuckle. By the way, your introduction is very good stand alone poem in it's own right.

Keith Logan
the happy chappy
https://www.neopoet.com/community-guidelines

Louise gave me a headache too.... I don't blame you for not reading it all at once
so glad you enjoyed it enough to finish the lot
had a laugh when you said you felt refreshed at the end - anything to do with my getting rid of Louise?

Love judy
xxx

'Each for the joy of the working, and each, in his separate star,
shall draw the Thing as he sees It, for the God of Things as They are.'
(Rudyard Kipling)

author comment

What an epic, I loved it. The trials and tribulations of muses.
I read it in one sitting, much to the intense irritation of my OH, who wants me to go and photograph some old truck to put on eBay. I shut my ears to him and carried on in fact, like a good book, it was hard to put down.
I must ask, did I see a flash of resemblance between your muse Joe and the amazing literary genius on here, Joe?
So enjoyed this, clever girl,you :-) -:) -:)
Jxxx

------------
Remember we are a workshop site.
Don't forget to offer critique on poems you read.

So glad to hear that you liked this, and read in one sitting....
lol - no, I wasn't thinking that Joe here is anything like my muse Joe.... Joe here is a much better poet....
love judy
xxx

'Each for the joy of the working, and each, in his separate star,
shall draw the Thing as he sees It, for the God of Things as They are.'
(Rudyard Kipling)

author comment

On the subject of these pesky creatures, I think I only have one, being new to all this and she's not playing pretty at the moment. Totally uninspired she was by lofty mountains and wondering clouds, refused to even pen two lines. At the moment, she is plaguing me by offering tit bits and then snatching them away. I think I will ignore her and see if I can find another. If nothing else, it will show her she's not irreplaceable........ :-) Jx

------------
Remember we are a workshop site.
Don't forget to offer critique on poems you read.

Don't let her get the better of you
just write down those little scaps and store them up - they'll eventually add up to something...
and as for her ignoring 'lofty mountains and wandering clouds'.... perhaps shes not a nature sprite...
lol - you really need my Louise for that....

Love judy

'Each for the joy of the working, and each, in his separate star,
shall draw the Thing as he sees It, for the God of Things as They are.'
(Rudyard Kipling)

author comment

I came upon this just before leaving for work. So I'll have to go over the whole thing tonight but it starts very well..

Hope you enjoy it, if you have the time
love judy
xxx

'Each for the joy of the working, and each, in his separate star,
shall draw the Thing as he sees It, for the God of Things as They are.'
(Rudyard Kipling)

author comment

in jammers and my old man sweater
zipped to the top
sprawled out
a christmas mug full of coffee with
grounds like mil chips on the lumber
ponds
Bunni singing to her eighties nineties
hard music with much crafted voices
puppy napping...(shes five)
no deer to bark at in the yard

laundry spins

ten cigarettes left in a foil and paper
wrapped packet

I Mr Esker in a calm mood today
read this through in an entire
sitting! enjoying the journey of
the poet and her muses
revelling in the real human
touches...(the classic muses
were besot with flaws despite
their greatness and kindness
to give madness and inspiration)

writing dirty ditties in the park
oh how the muses can be
like people full of suprises
and quirks and their favors!

and the replacements!!
stubborness sloth shyness
boldness and beaudelaire

I loved this!

having lived with true
characters in rambling
homes and small
campers....trailers
and tiny houses
I relate greatly

brings me back too
my earlier years
and the modern
replacement muses
I have....Loved the
use of France and
the descripts of
refreshment and
cigars....flavors
the casual element
most usual to write
converse interject
or be subject too

ha ha

a great poem Judyanne!

thank U!

I am thrilled that you read this through and enjoyed it...
I'm actually surprised that people have, as most can't be bothered with long poems
I'm absolutely chuffed
love judy
xxx

'Each for the joy of the working, and each, in his separate star,
shall draw the Thing as he sees It, for the God of Things as They are.'
(Rudyard Kipling)

author comment

on how well the poem is written. If it draws you in then it becomes easier to continue then abandon reading. This has classic wit running through it, only a Philistine could abandon it unfinished.

Keith Logan
the happy chappy
https://www.neopoet.com/community-guidelines

It was quite short and a good exposition, but I missed much. It may be my computer. I will read it again. Do not fear length. This is storytelling and length is part of it. Much should be told. I know you can write more.
How do I add what is new while keeping the old in revision? I am as innocent as Free in that respect.
Oops, found it. In I go with a double gainer.
Now this is what I hoped for.

W. H. Snow

A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds. Percy Bysshe Shelley

Learn how, teach others.
The NeoPoet Mentor Program
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Love the length. Not enough climax though. Good resolution. God what I would give to "finish' a tale.
Mine just go on with character study.

W. H. Snow

A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds. Percy Bysshe Shelley

Learn how, teach others.
The NeoPoet Mentor Program
http://www.neopoet.com/mentor/about

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