Content: drugs

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This is a novel about a detective's busy work day. I hope it's entertaining. I'm looking for any comments or ideas that might enhance the piece. Any thoughts about awkward sentences, grammatical errors, jumpy tenses and/or general impressions are welcome. Thanks for your help.

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This is back story about Josie Garrett in the novel, Broken. I'm sorry if it doesn't make sense or feel complete as a short story. It's meant to shed light on Josie Garrett, a detective-tuned social worker who works in a prison/hospital setting for inmates with psychiatric disorders. For those who have read Broken, where do you think it would best be added (if at all!) In the beginning when Josie is first introduced? later, when she and Grace become friends? or after the kidnapping when Josie comes to Grace's door after having been away for a week?

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Joey finds his house ranksacked and his mother dead. With help of neighbors and friends he learns who the perpetrator is and then takes action. The story could actually be used as the first portion of a novel I wrote. This is my first post and as a newbie I want the reviewer to be critical, brutal. Let me know whats good and whats not. I'll be able to use your input to help my novel too. Thanks, Wes Ellington

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A young girl is reunited with her older brother, three years after he mysteriously disappeared.

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Thank you all for the helpful tips. I have updated this poem as suggestions are made. Sometimes a poem needs to be written over and over. I am not afraid to turn a poem upside down and start from the top. Just like Hollywood. I am working on this poem as part of a collection I am writing, PRIVATE LETTERS. Note: I have opened twelve of my brother's prison letters. I have not been able to read the remaining letters.

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The plight of an addict. All comments welcome.

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This is a short piece of prose that I wrote for a Creative Writing unit a few years ago. It's been a hit thus far so I thought I'd post it on here and see what sort of feedback I receive. It was an observation assignment in which we had to choose a particular type of person from a list, go out and observe one of these people in the real world and then record our observations. I chose 'observe a drug addict' because it was particularly close to home for me at the time.

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This poem could be about a number of stars (of whom I was a fan,) but was inspired by Amy Winehouse's recent death. Though she wasn't a favorite of mine, I'll dedicate this to her. All comments appreciated.

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Set thirty years in the future, this is not really science fiction. It is about commerce and greed within sport. Joshua Jackson Tyler (JJ) pays the ultimate price for profit and pride. Please note I wrote this in UK English. I see one word is causing confusion: Courgette, which I believe is also known as a Zucchini. I guess I'll have to find a more internationally suitable vegetable!

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Nestled in the Vermont countryside, the Duncan family is lulled by the comforts of rural anonymity. Jillian Duncan, a widowed mom, is doing her best to raise her teenage sons. Unfortunately, her life drastically changes when her dog comes to their door and drops a finger on the doormat. The finger belongs to a neighbor, assumed a runaway months ago, when the girl disappeared during a blizzard. Before Jillian contacts police she uncovers a makeshift hangout in her basement dubbed by local teenagers as The Cheech Room. It smells of candles and puberty but reeks of a deadly secret that can't be kept. Jillian must decide whether reporting the girl's body, months after the case was closed, will destroy the only people she truly loves. Challenged by how far she'd go to protect her sons, Jillian attempts to put to rest a troubling secret from their distant past, while staying one step ahead of a detective bent on proving her boys involvement in the girl's disappearance. Swiftly, characters' layers peel away like onion skin and only in the end is the stinging core of truth revealed. Will it be too late to prevent another tragedy? Any constructive feedback would be greatly appreciated. Thanks in advance for your support.

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I've lived with all these people except one and I'm not sure I haven't lived with him as well. Time will tell.

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A boxer makes his comeback to the ring. A man makes his comeback to his life. This is going to be a novel (that or a novella, I haven't decided quite yet) based on the poem I've written of the same name. Let me know what you think, as far as general comments as well as the specific aspects of it (use of flashback, language, etc.).

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A boxer makes his comeback to the ring. A man makes his comeback to his life. EDIT 2/1: As noted, this is probably the final edit of this. I'm actually thinking of making this into a novella or even a novel, and I'm curious as to what you all think. I made some changes, made the voice a little more consistent (I think) and I added in a few different phrases that may be more metaphorical, and I'm curious if they work. Also, I changed the ending a bit, and I'm also interested in seeing if that works too. So yeah, any more feedback is great.

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Any and all feedback is appreciate. I'm not a poet, but I am trying to explore other genres in order to improve my writing generally. This is part of an exercise I am putting myself through where I write as the words come to me and give them life on paper without judgments or edits.

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This is the first draft of The Erstwhile Hearts Guild Chapter 3. This story is coming to me sort of haphazardly,(hence no Chapter 2 yet) but I take it with me everywhere. Any feedback is helpful. Thank you in advance

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This is a story about the relationship between tragedy and necessity, and the changes we make to keep breathing.

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Here's one of my fond memories of something my daughter said in public when she was six. I intended it to be first a person memoir but after reading Mickey's review of Dale's story, I thought I'd write it as a story. The conversation between my daughter and me is verbatim. Little devil! Grrr!

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Chris began to question the wisdom of this trip. The familiar crunching sound of tires on the gravel driveway gave away her surprise arrival. She had planned to arrive undetected, take a look around at her former life, and if necessary, leave undetected. As she pulled up to the once-white, house with the slanted front porch and broken screen door, she was at once joyfully nostalgic and severely repulsed. Before Chris could turn off the engine and step out onto the gravel and oil driveway, Ma was already waving from the window in the big bedroom upstairs. Chris shook her head when she notice Ma wearing the same faded red, pansy-printed house dress she was wearing exactly one year before on Easter Sunday and likely every other Sunday for the last thirty years or more. The hem of this dress must have been re-sewn by Ma’s plump hands a hundred times or more and the buttons were a mere rumor, replaced by multi-colored diaper pins. Even without seeing it now, Chris could describe each frayed piece of the fabric, not only because she seen it in her mind whenever she pictured Ma, but because she’d spent so much time as a child, hiding from the world on underneath it. They met inside the house, at the bottom of the stairs and greeted one another the way they always had. No “I love you,� or “good to see you.� No touching moment and definitely no embracing, just right to the business at hand – avoidance. “Lawd chile, I ain’t know who dat was pullin’ in my driveway all fast.� Ma said, barely stopping at the foot of the staircase. “Uhn, uhn, uhn. What you doin’ wit’ ya hair now?� “All that money, - cant you pay somebody to do something with that hair?� Chris sighed. “It’s called the natural look Ma, and I did pay somebody to do this.� Uhn, we’ll you done thrown dat money away. Look like a natural mess to me. I’ put a pressin comb on it fo’ ya fo’ free.� Ma laughed. “Lawd have mercy, now I got to go upstairs an’ put some clean sheets on dat bed. Go on out back and say somethin’ to Dad.� Chris walked through the old house, through the dog’s room on the back porch and out into the back yard where Dad sat atop his ancient, red, riding mower, mowing and drinking what was almost surely corn liquor, wrapped in a brown paper bag. “Hey there, Lil Bit, what you doin’ here? Dad slurred. “You done drove all the way from New York City to help me cut all this grass.� All morning, Chris sat in the kitchen with Ma snapping peas, peeling potatoes and soaking greens. “You listen here girl, now I ain’t gonna have none of that mess you pull last year at my Easter table, you hear me?� Ma warned. “What’s past is past.� “Now, ya Mama an’ them comin.’� “Again, Ma, she is not my Mama� Chris said. “Well, she carried ya ‘round in her fo’ nine mont’s di’nt she?� Ma exclaimed. Chris started, “Ma, but she never did nothing for me….� At this, Chris was immediately shocked by her improper language, and how easily it came back to her. “She my daughter, and yo’ mama, an’ this is my house and I say she’ comin’ here to have Easter dinner wit’ us, now you just keep ya mouth shut if ya aint got nothing nice to say, hear.� ‘Ma, if she brings him again, I can’t sit at the table and act like everything is ok.� Chris explained. Ma fidgeted. “Don’t you say it.� Suddenly, Chris felt possessed. “What, Ma, that he raped me and my Mama was too high to do anything?� Ma looked around for something to hold on to and settled on a bag of flour on the. Ma said, “Don’t ya talk with dat nasty mouth in my house girl, now, I jus’ ain’t gon’ have it.� Brushing flour off her dress, Ma quietly demanded, “Now make yourself useful and go set the table.�

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I'm trusting you people with my darkest secret. I'd like to dedicate this to my boyfriend, who makes me laugh and is an endless supply of material for me.

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