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Feb 18, 2020 8:01 AM
Yvette plays Doki Doki Literature Club
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Yuri reads the poem slowly.

"Exceptional," she says softly.

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"Thank you," he says, smiling a little. "I thought I got a bit heavy handed in the middle, there, but no one said I had to be a good poet."

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"Is this your first time writing poetry?"

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"That obvious?" He smiles a little wider. "Yep!"

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"I'm sorry! I didn't mean..."

Yuri looks away. 

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"Don't be. You didn't, it's all right. I just try to be self aware. If I can't accept my mistakes, how can I improve?"

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She relaxes. 

"I think being open to criticism is one of the most important traits a poet can have."

She gains confidence as she starts talking about the poetry, some of her shyness falling away.

"Your poem really is exceptional for a first time poet, but there are a few features that give it away. It seems like you're not quite comfortable with your own style yet, which leads to slightly clumsy description in a few places. There's a forced feeling in a few of the lines, which is something that really only goes away with practice. It also seems like you didn't pay much attention to the meter. It can be a tricky thing to master, but you do want to at least make sure your poem flows smoothly."

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He nods agreeably. "Yeah. I didn't want to overthink it and make it not sound like me, you know? Next time I'll try to make the meter less of a mess. And maybe edit. At, uh. At all."

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She nods.

"It is very easy, especially if you don't have much confidence in your writing, to go too far in the opposite direction. I'm sometimes guilty of that myself."

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"It's a balancing act!" he agrees. "Like most things in life."

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Yuri glances at her own poem, neatly printed inside a spiral-bound notebook, and then at him.

 

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"May I?" he asks, politely.

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"Of course."

She slides her poem over.


Ghost under the light

The tendrils of my hair illuminate beneath the amber glow.
Bathing.
It must be this one.
The last remaining streetlight to have withstood the test of time.
the last yet to be replaced by the sickening blue-green of the future.
I bathe. Calm; breathing air of the present but living in the past.
The light flickers.
I flicker back.
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"Aw," he says, smiling at the poem. "You and Natsuki both wrote poems that make me—thoughtfully melancholy. Touched, I guess. I like your poem, it's very nostalgic and thoughtful, and I like your word choices. They're very deliberate."

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"Natsuki did?"

She looks surprised. 

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"Yeah. Her style is really different from yours, but there's a lot of care hidden in the simple-looking words. I think there was a lot of work put in to make it hit hard at the end."

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"I never noticed. I- I suppose I can try to read her poem more carefully next time."

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He beams at her brilliantly.

"My favorite part of this is seeing everyone's different styles! It's fun, I like it."

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"I look forward to seeing what your style will become Noel."

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"Thanks! Me too."

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The game offers another choice, even though there is only one option left.

Who should I show my poem to next:

Monika

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Yvette giggles, reflexively saves even though this isn't really a choice (hey, she might want to replay conversations!), and picks the one choice she has available to her.

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"Hi," says Noel, sliding into the desk across from Monika.

Is that a faint trace of smugness? That looks like a faint trace of smugness. He does not actually prop his feet up on any nearby desks, but he does casually lounge a little in the one he's in. Smugly.

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"Hi Noel. I hope you're having a good time so far. You seem to really be getting along with everyone."

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"Yeah, I like it here!" he says, sincerely. "I hope I don't make too many waves. I just hope everyone can get along."

The smugness: it does not dissipate. If he's playing innocent, he's not doing it very well.

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