Essay
Redecorating
Been a few days now and in the midst of redecorating my bedroom and very slowly decluttering. I started rearranging the furniture and trying to figure a different way to put the main furniture. De-cluttering is kind of fun but at the same time it's hard to do and let go of certain items. This started as a chore day that is taking a long time for now, I am waiting for a steam cleaner to finally get my carpet cleaned and it looks like it may be Saturday to get that done. Wish me luck in this endeavor, please.
By Mark Grahamabout a year ago in Critique
Chore Days
Believe it I would have loved to be reading and writing, but chores for the past few weeks were piling up from sweeping the floors and all that jazz. I am also kind of rearranging my bedroom and it's a small room. I have even cleaned my closet and rearranged that. When it cools off outside I plan to go out to my shed "library/den" and reorganize out there, but as I said it has to cool off first at least down into the 70's and low humidity. I am hoping to start writing soon again when work is done.
By Mark Grahamabout a year ago in Critique
The Ultimate Guide to Types of Kitchen Cabinets: Styles, Materials, and Features
Kitchen cabinets are the backbone of any kitchen design, combining functionality with aesthetic appeal. Choosing the right type of kitchen cabinet can transform your space, enhance storage, and elevate your home’s value. With countless styles, materials, and features available, understanding the options is key to creating a kitchen that suits your needs and taste. In this comprehensive guide, we’ll explore the various types of kitchen cabinets, their materials, styles, and features to help you make an informed decision for your next kitchen renovation or build.
By handy maneshonabout a year ago in Critique
Ink That Bleeds
Elias Thorne sat in his small, cluttered attic studio, the harvest moon spilling pale light through the dusty window. On his desk lay his newest treasure a black fountain pen with a gold nib, bought from a shadowy antique shop in Prague. The shopkeeper, an old man with ink-stained fingers, had handed it over with a strange smile. "This pen writes truths," he whispered, "and truths become reality." Elias had laughed it off as a sales trick. But now, staring at the pen, he felt a twinge of excitement. He was a failing novelist, worn down by rejection after rejection. Tonight, he decided, he would start the thriller that would save his career. The pen’s ink flowed like midnight water, smooth and dark. Elias wrote: "The killer claimed his first victim, Mayor Harlan, in a freak accident on Elm Street. A loose manhole cover swallowed him whole during his evening jog." He leaned back, sipping his whiskey. The words felt… alive. The next morning, Elias woke to sirens outside. Turning on the news, he froze. Mayor Harlan had died the exact way he had written fallen into an open manhole on Elm Street. It had to be coincidence. But that night, he wrote again. This time: "Detective Lila Voss dies, poisoned by her own coffee." The pen felt warm in his hand, almost pulsing. Elias could picture her gasping for breath, clutching her throat. By morning, the radio confirmed it. Detective Lila Voss was dead poisoned. Elias’s heart pounded. The pen was no ordinary pen. Somehow, his words were becoming real. At first, he tested it harmlessly. "Old Mrs. Finch passes away peacefully in her sleep." Sure enough, the paper reported her death the next day. Then came the temptation. His literary agent, who’d been ignoring him for months? Dead from a sudden heart attack. A rival author? Struck by lightning. A critic? Killed in a car crash. One by one, the obstacles in Elias’s life disappeared. And each time, the town grew more afraid. People spoke of a shadow killer, a curse. One night, Elias dreamed of the pen’s past. He saw a 19th-century scribe whose writings sparked real wars, toppling kings and destroying lives. In the dream, the scribe tried to destroy the pen, but it survived waiting for another writer. When Elias woke, he vowed to stop. He locked the pen in a drawer. But at night, it called to him. Write me… He tried to write something good. "The killer is caught. Justice is served." But the ink twisted his words into something else: "The writer becomes the final victim." The next morning, news broke. Police had found Elias’s manuscript, which described the murders before they happened. He was the prime suspect. Sirens wailed outside his window. Panicked, Elias snatched the pen. He tried to write an ending that would undo it all: "The pen breaks, the curse is gone." But the pen bled ink like warm blood, staining his hands. Pain shot through his chest. Visions of every victim filled his mind their faces pale, their eyes accusing. Elias collapsed. Pages scattered across the floor. His last sight was of his final line, written in dark, wet ink that looked too much like blood: "And the writer bled out, alone, his story unfinished." The pen rolled under the desk, still gleaming. Far away, in the quiet antique shop in Prague, the old man at the counter smiled faintly. Somewhere, the curse had ended and somewhere else, it was about to begin again.
By Muzamil khanabout a year ago in Critique
The Gift of Insight
The Gift of Insight How Constructive Critique Builds Growth, Confidence, and Mastery Sasha adjusted the light above her easel, squinting at the canvas that had consumed her weekend. The colors felt right. The brushstrokes were bold. Still, something about the composition felt... off. Art school had taught her technique. What it hadn't prepared her for was the silence that followed when she finished a piece. Friends gave her polite praise. Her social media posts gathered likes, but no substance. What Sasha needed wasn’t approval—it was perspective. So when her mentor, Miguel, offered to give her feedback, she hesitated for only a second before accepting. Miguel had a reputation. He wasn’t cruel, but he was honest. Students often joked that a Miguel critique left you thinking harder than an exam. But those same students returned to him again and again, their skills sharper each time. They met in his small studio the following afternoon. Sasha leaned her canvas against a brick wall, trying not to fidget. Miguel looked at the painting for a long moment. Then he smiled. “You’ve got great energy here,” he began. “Your use of contrast draws me in, and that layering in the background—it’s working well.” Sasha exhaled. Praise felt good. But she waited, sensing more was coming. “Now,” he continued, “can I show you something?” She nodded. Miguel picked up a small mirror and held it in front of the painting. “When you look at your piece in reverse like this, do you notice how the left side feels heavier?” Sasha tilted her head. He was right. The composition, once vibrant in her eyes, now seemed lopsided. She had been so close to it, so invested, that she hadn’t seen the imbalance. “That’s one of the hardest things about creating,” Miguel said gently. “We get attached. But critique helps us step outside ourselves. It’s not about tearing down—it’s about seeing clearer.” As they talked through other parts of the piece—color temperature, line direction, emotional tone—Sasha began to scribble notes. Miguel never told her what to fix. He asked questions, offered observations, and left space for her to make her own decisions. By the end of the session, Sasha didn’t feel defeated. She felt empowered. --- The next few weeks, she made a point to invite more critique—from peers, professors, even her younger brother, who, to her surprise, had a sharp eye for visual storytelling. What changed wasn’t just her art—it was her attitude. She began to separate herself from her work. A critique wasn’t a personal attack; it was a generous offering. Each comment, even the ones that stung at first, carried insight. When given respectfully and received openly, critique became a conversation—one that made her better. One afternoon, she watched a fellow student, Cara, struggle through a harsh group review. The feedback, though valid, had been blunt. Cara looked deflated, her voice tight as she defended each choice. Sasha waited until the session ended, then approached her. “I’ve been there,” she said gently. “Want to grab coffee and talk through your piece again? Just you and me?” Cara agreed, and over warm mugs and quiet conversation, Sasha offered the same approach Miguel had used with her—encouragement first, then thoughtful questions, observations, and space to reflect. When they returned to the studio later that week, Cara’s piece had transformed. “You helped me actually hear the critique,” she told Sasha. “I didn’t feel like I had to defend myself. I felt like I could explore.” --- By the end of the semester, Sasha’s work had reached a new level of depth and clarity. She still had doubts—what artist didn’t?—but now she welcomed feedback. She even started a small critique circle, built on trust, kindness, and curiosity. What she had feared—judgment, rejection—had turned out to be the very thing that pushed her forward. Critique, she realized, was not a test of worth. It was a tool for growth. Like pruning a plant, it might seem harsh in the moment, but it made room for stronger, fuller bloom. And in that spirit, every time she picked up a brush, she did so not with fear, but with confidence—knowing that insight, when given with care and received with openness, was one of the greatest gifts any creator could receive.
By Muhammad Saad about a year ago in Critique
The Boy and the Lion
In a small village on the edge of the vast savanna, a boy named Arin had just turned eighteen. In his tribe, this was the age when a boy left behind childhood and stepped into manhood. But tradition demanded more than age — it demanded proof.
By Hammad Aliabout a year ago in Critique
The Mysterious Library
In the heart of a bustling city, there existed a library like no other. Its exterior was unassuming, with worn stone walls and a faded sign that creaked in the wind. But step inside, and you would find yourself in a world beyond your wildest dreams.
By Tariq Pathan about a year ago in Critique
New Avenues
I was looking at the opening page when signing out of Vocal, and that is when I decided to re-read some of the articles on working here on Vocal.com. I went to the old article about enhancing how to earn more here. I was happy just writing, reading, commenting, and even getting a few tips I wanted to find a way to 'enhance' more. So, I read about that we were allowed to suggest future challenges and found in the article where to make those suggestions and name two. I hope they read and accept them. To me: good ideas.
By Mark Grahamabout a year ago in Critique
The Dark Side of Cupid Book Review: a paranormal perspective on human relationships
The Dark Side of Cupid: Love Affairs, the Supernatural and Energy Vampirism, a really original book written by Eve Lorgen, examines the complications of love relationships from an unusual perspective, dealing with topics such as energetic vampirism and the impact of the supernatural on romantic relationships. First released in 2012, this text has aroused the interest of those fascinated by the paranormal and the psychology of relationships.
By Ninfa Galeanoabout a year ago in Critique
On the Shame that Breeds Deviance
Formation You don’t survive shame. You become what it needs you to be. Not in one moment, and not in response to a single harm - but over time, through repetition, silence, and cultural enforcement. Through the slow redirection of instinct into obedience, of autonomy into performance, of natural impulses into strategic ones.
By Sevryn Camoisabout a year ago in Critique
Sunday Funnies
What is or was your favorite Sunday comic(s) to read and enjoy? I have had a few and still have. My all-time favorite is 'The Family Circus' by Bil and Jeff Keene. The family who changes with the times but doesn't seem to grow up, but what memories this one-panel comic brings to mind. My other favorite is 'Hi and Lois' by Mort Walker for it is related to 'Beetle Bailey' for Beetle is Lois's brother or cousin, I believe. I get a kick out reading all these even now on my computer. Memories for me abound from these ones.
By Mark Grahamabout a year ago in Critique
