u/princess3026

Hi. I’m looking for some feedback on this specific passage, particularly on the dialogue, which is not my strongest suit. I would also like to have an external reader look at it and tell me what their perception is and what they think I’m trying to convey. I’m trying to imply a couple things but I don’t want them to be too obvious, and I’d like to know what readers would infer from this passage. General feedback is always welcomed as well. Thanks!

Here’s the passage:

The Old House 

A cricket is a medium-sized, cylinder-shaped leaping insect with thread-like antennae, six legs built for jumping and a distinctive chirping sound. My dad used to say that it is more scared of me than I should be of it. I don’t know if I can agree with that anymore.

My childhood house gave onto far-stretching fields with untamed hedges and large stone pine trees I used to climb. Inside, our home was rustic but quite spacious: it had two bedrooms, one for me and the other one where my parents used to sleep; a kitchen with terracotta tile floors; a moodier, vintage studio; and a large living room illuminated by stained-glass windows.

I remember spending all day nestled in dirt and leaves, looking for worms and insects of all sorts. I was quite cruel to them, too: I would tie their tiny legs to wood sticks with grass blades and use them to scare friends off when playing.

Our cat, Missy, was a slim, black and white European shorthair that mom jokingly used to call ugly because of her sprinkled white spots. She said it made her look like a cow. I always thought they were part of her charm. Her collar had a small bell attached to it. I remember that light tinkle sound so well that sometimes I still hear it in moments of silence. I was really fond of that cat. 

Today I can’t hear Missy’s bell in that house anymore. But I still find the house as it was when I visit it. Dad greets me with a crumpled bag of chips. 

‘’They’re tomato flavored. I know you love those.’’

He hands me the bag and I start fidgeting.

‘’Thank you. How’s your garden coming along?”

“Not too well. I still have to start working on it for the spring. But I have been pretty busy with all the house maintenance.”

I peek through the stained windows. On the other side, right next to the rusty storage shed that seems to have been left untouched for a while, a frost-nipped patch of grass is moving along with the wind. It looks barren.

I frown and turn back to dad.

“I see… Anything new? Have you heard from mom?’’

“She is being grumpy as usual. She won’t respond to my calls. I think she’s doing fine though.” He says with a smile. I wonder if mom has kept in touch like she used to years ago. 

The last brown strands of dad’s hair are fading to grey. 
‘’Are you still working on fixing your car?’’ 

‘’She is a little rusty, but she still is running well. I haven’t used it much lately…’’
 He looks happy that I’ve asked him about it.

‘’Want to take a walk by the beach then?’’ I ask.

‘’Sure. We haven’t done that in ages.’’

The shore is only a ten-minute drive from dad’s, but it feels way longer. All I hear is the rattling sound of the old engine pounding in my ears. My hand rests outside of the window casually while I enjoy the sight of green and blue under the fading light of the day. Dad drives in silence, but there is always a light in his eyes that makes me feel at peace. 

A couple minutes fly by and we are already walking on sand. Other than us there are some elderly couples and a few people walking their dogs. 

“I came here the other day and it wasn’t this dirty.” dad says as he crinkles his nose. 

I laugh. 

“Must be me then. I always find it like this.” I say.

“Could be. Maybe it’s your punishment for not keeping in touch.” There’s some teasing in his tone, but also a pinch of bitterness.

“I know dad, you’re right. I have been so busy lately…” I answer in a low voice.

I hope to sound convincing, but I know that my dad is hardly fooled.  

“If you say so. I wonder if you didn’t have the time to call your mother either.”

I just stay quiet for a while. The sun is peeking at us through the sea line. 

“Anyway, tell me a little bit about what you have been up to. Are you still living in a pigsty?”

“No. I have gotten more organized over the years.” I respond, irritated. 

“I sure hope so. Haven’t you just moved to that new place in midtown?”

“That was three years ago”.

“Oh…are you sure? I thought…my bad. When did you visit me last?”

“A few months ago.”

My feet bump into a rock and it feels sharp and painful. Dad doesn’t say anything for a while. His head is slightly bent downwards, his face creased with thought. There is something about his expression that looks different than the last time I saw him, but I’m not sure what it is. And then a moment later it’s gone and he is talking again.

“I know you’ve had a heavy workload lately, but I want to make sure you are okay. Is there something else bothering you?”

I know my dad is uncomfortable because he never asks these kinds of questions. And that catches me off guard.

“No, no. I’m fine. I’m mainly working. Why are you asking?” 

‘’Are you getting along with colleagues at school?”

“They’re okay. I’m friends with a couple of them. We chat during coffee breaks.” 
I’m lying: I don’t really care about any of them. Everyone seems so boring. 

“That’s good to hear. I don’t like how crammed New York is. Too many weirdos roaming the streets. But I’m glad it’s working out for you.”

“I know. I mean I’ve gotten used to it. It’s not my favorite either. But I have my program there, and where else would I go?”

“You know you can always come back here. We can find you a spot at the local market.” he says as he winks at me. I chuckle.

“I wish.” I answer jokingly. “Could be like one of those silly Christmas movies.”

“I always said you’d be a great actress.”

The light is almost gone now.

Hi! I would really appreciate it if you could give me some writing feedback. I’ve been writing for a while but I’m still a beginner. I know I tend to write long sentences and overwrite a little. Probably because my first language tends to have a longer sentence structure and also because I’m writing a first draft so I still have to go back to it and edit it a lot. The genre is introspective literary fiction. I mostly need an external pov because it’s hard to have a fair perception of my own writing. I don’t want to sound like I’m trying too hard 😭 I know it’s normal at the beginning though. Also, would you consider this purple prose? Thanks!

Text: The Fool

 The carpet my eyes are resting on is colorful and blooming with shapes. Stripes and angles clash through the redness of the fabric, crawling to the center like a handful of spiders as my eyes follow along with ease. I keep my gaze fixed on the small triangles hovering above the center: they look like birds for a moment and I blur my eyes…the haziness of it makes me feel at peace and it takes a raspy voice calling my name to bring me back to the present.  

‘’Are you ready, miss?’’

The woman in front of me wears a bored, apathetic expression. She has a long hooked nose with a dark mole crowning the arched curve of it, and her lips are shriveled into a thin straight line that reminds me of the withered plants I keep in my room. A trail of smoke is wisping out of her right hand, while her left hand is gently laying a blue velvet pouch on the table standing between us. I can tell she is growing irritated by my absentmindedness.

I dart my eyes back to the floor and nod in response.

I blink and shuffling cards are flashing in front of me. Yellow, orange, blue and the riffling sound of paper blend together and before I know it three cards slide out. I have never quite cared about these things, not that I have thought about them enough to understand why. I just never had the inkling of doing it. But today, as I was walking, something about the whimsical appearance of that building caught my eye. I felt compelled to stop in my tracks and before I knew it deep blue curtains with embroidered moon decorations were luring me in. 

The first card makes the woman scrunch her nose. I can see a blindfolded figure with tall, sharp-looking swords biting deep into the bare earth and a small stream trickling through the ground. Ropes latch onto the woman like snakes, and all around it gloom and grey envelop its world. The Roman numerals glare back at me from the top center of the card: VIII. I find myself unable to keep looking at this scene. I have never seen it before, but I feel no need to want to learn much about it. And so, I hover east through the grey and the dull and settle on the unpolished castle fading in the distance of the card. There is something about the coarseness of it that eases my nerves , so much so that I am counting the windows and lines I see by the time the reader draws the second card.

This one has the bright, yellow tones of a radiant sun and a glowering circle firm and bold towering over it. Below stands a youthful, pointy featured man with fiery colored robes and his chin raised towards the sky. Around him, mountains soar high and flowers spread and animals sprint and colors burst under the sight of a never ending sun. Energy wants to flare through but before it does two words are stifling it. The Fool. I see. 

The third card stares back at me and does not look happy about it. On a throne sits a stern woman with pale gowns draping down like water. Her hands clench firmly around a tome and two high pillars ground her to earth. I want to dislike her at first, but she reminds me of mom. And so when I look at her I see grains of coffee strewn on the kitchen counter, freshly watered plants peeking through stained windows, blue and white mingling with paint. I can’t dislike this card but I want it to stop glaring at me. She never does. 

My hands trail down the smooth surface of the table, grazing the fabric of the cloth shielding the cards from the coldness of the wood. I can feel the raspy voice screeching in my ears again, but I shrink it into a distant corner, so far that all I hear is muffled echoes somewhere in the room. I have become quite good at this in the past couple of years. Before my eyes paper is moving again and the smell of smoke no longer reaches my nostrils. 

Hi! I would really appreciate it if you could give me some writing feedback. I’ve been writing for a while but I’m still a beginner. I know I tend to write long sentences and overwrite a little. Probably because my first language tends to have a longer sentence structure and also because I’m writing a first draft so I still have to go back to it and edit it a lot. The genre is introspective literary fiction. I mostly need an external pov because it’s hard to have a fair perception of my own writing. I don’t want to sound like I’m trying too hard 😭 I know it’s normal at the beginning though. Thanks!

Text: The Fool

 The carpet my eyes are resting on is colorful and blooming with shapes. Stripes and angles clash through the redness of the fabric, crawling to the center like a handful of spiders as my eyes follow along with ease. I keep my gaze fixed on the small triangles hovering above the center: they look like birds for a moment and I blur my eyes…the haziness of it makes me feel at peace and it takes a raspy voice calling my name to bring me back to the present.  

‘’Are you ready, miss?’’

The woman in front of me wears a bored, apathetic expression. She has a long hooked nose with a dark mole crowning the arched curve of it, and her lips are shriveled into a thin straight line that reminds me of the withered plants I keep in my room. A trail of smoke is wisping out of her right hand, while her left hand is gently laying a blue velvet pouch on the table standing between us. I can tell she is growing irritated by my absentmindedness.

I dart my eyes back to the floor and nod in response.

I blink and shuffling cards are flashing in front of me. Yellow, orange, blue and the riffling sound of paper blend together and before I know it three cards slide out. I have never quite cared about these things, not that I have thought about them enough to understand why. I just never had the inkling of doing it. But today, as I was walking, something about the whimsical appearance of that building caught my eye. I felt compelled to stop in my tracks and before I knew it deep blue curtains with embroidered moon decorations were luring me in. 

The first card makes the woman scrunch her nose. I can see a blindfolded figure with tall, sharp-looking swords biting deep into the bare earth and a small stream trickling through the ground. Ropes latch onto the woman like snakes, and all around it gloom and grey envelop its world. The Roman numerals glare back at me from the top center of the card: VIII. I find myself unable to keep looking at this scene. I have never seen it before, but I feel no need to want to learn much about it. And so, I hover east through the grey and the dull and settle on the unpolished castle fading in the distance of the card. There is something about the coarseness of it that eases my nerves , so much so that I am counting the windows and lines I see by the time the reader draws the second card.

This one has the bright, yellow tones of a radiant sun and a glowering circle firm and bold towering over it. Below stands a youthful, pointy featured man with fiery colored robes and his chin raised towards the sky. Around him, mountains soar high and flowers spread and animals sprint and colors burst under the sight of a never ending sun. Energy wants to flare through but before it does two words are stifling it. The Fool. I see. 

The third card stares back at me and does not look happy about it. On a throne sits a stern woman with pale gowns draping down like water. Her hands clench firmly around a tome and two high pillars ground her to earth. I want to dislike her at first, but she reminds me of mom. And so when I look at her I see grains of coffee strewn on the kitchen counter, freshly watered plants peeking through stained windows, blue and white mingling with paint. I can’t dislike this card but I want it to stop glaring at me. She never does. 

My hands trail down the smooth surface of the table, grazing the fabric of the cloth shielding the cards from the coldness of the wood. I can feel the raspy voice screeching in my ears again, but I shrink it into a distant corner, so far that all I hear is muffled echoes somewhere in the room. I have become quite good at this in the past couple of years. Before my eyes paper is moving again and the smell of smoke no longer reaches my nostrils.