Something I wrote

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I tend to write little drabbles, and here is one. You can just enjoy it or critique it, I don't mind at all whatever you do.

- - -

Some things stay quick in the memory. They stay strong, and bright, like the first time you drove after getting your license, or the concrete flying upwards towards your face when you fall from your bicycle the first time. That memory, quick as a flash but slowed down by adrenaline and fear, comes racing back upon recall. You don't have to struggle much to remember just how much it hurt as your skin was scraped raw by the pavement. Other memories are elusive. They hide in between the pillars of your mind, turning dials and knobs that shouldn't be touched, giggling at your frustration as you struggle frantically to find them. Then there are the memories that you never knew existed at all.

The warm sunlight on my face in the mornings when I would stand on the front porch of my father's run down suburban house. The breeze barely brushing through the trees near the river, gently blowing my hair against my cheek. The warm rain that fell on the day of my brother's wedding, causing everyone to run for cover under the big white canopy. The smell of the room in the house where my mother lived out her last days, after her body had been vacated and everything from the floors to the ceiling had been scrubbed till the paint began to peel free.

These are all my memories. I have a album in my head, with glossy sheets of paper in which small snapshots reside. The colours of these photos fade, bleached by the sun, but without them there is still shadows. The outline of a table. The curved line of my younger sister's lip. This is at times enough, but there are times when those lines are indistinguishable. When the snapshot is so damaged that it's just a blurry, grey shape. A grey shape that means the exact same thing as it did when it was bright and in brilliant colour.

I am standing on the bank of the river. It's just a small inlet that leads out to the beach, but it is much more calm than the stretch of sand where my sister Xavia spends her afternoons. I scuff my shoes in the dirt, feeling the soft chips of wood and silt under my feet give a little as I shift my weight. The sun filters down through the trees, making tiny shapes on my pale arms, my bare legs. It's not so warm here, in the little copse, but I'm not about to move just because it's a little bit cooler. There's nobody here. That's enough.

I need to be content with my contentment.

A small flock of tiny brown birds flutter through the trees, twittering, breaking the relative silence that I'd been basking myself in. I freeze, standing perfectly still, as not to frighten them away. I watch them as they flutter from branch to branch, picking at bugs and other things that were still left from last autumn. Their wings were tipped with a off shade of white, making them clearly visible among the fir trees. Two birds sit on one thin branch, the only ones standing still amongst the entire flock. One sticks it's beak beneath it's wing, picking at unruly feathers.

I seem to be a lot less active and a lot more observant, these days. I've found myself standing still - more often than not without a clue of what I was doing before - just listening, just watching the world move around me. Contemplating it. When you've laid in the same bed as death, close enough to feel how cold and dark it is, close enough to smell it's breath on your face... well, you really start to treasure every moment. You try to stretch it out, hoping that you'll never have to renew (or give up) your second lease on life.

Standing in the small group of leafy trees, attempting to find a empty and carefully observant state of mind, I am trying to get rid of what I like to call the 'dark cloud'. I awoke this morning with the covers kicked all off my bed, and the glass of water that I usually keep on the bedside table knocked over on the floor. My cheeks were wet with tears that had been cooled by the breeze through the window I didn't remember opening. I could not remember what I had dreamed about.

It might have been typical morning, for I never knew what I truly dreamed about, distressing or not. It might have been a typical day, if it wasn't the anniversary of the accident that took my mother away from me and sent my life spiralling out of control.

I have to get rid of the dark rain cloud sitting over my head, today. If I don't somehow manage to exorcise the elusive memories from bubbling up through the cracks in my mind, then this unusually sunny day in March is going to start to look like a blizzard in mid October. I'll get lost and the beach will start to look like a different place, in a different time.

The harbour glistened blue green beyond the trees, adding another layer of fractured light to the scene around me. Sooke was a thousand miles away from that place I'd been before. I'd been skeptical, when I had gotten off the plane with a single bag of carry on items - all that was left of my belongings - to find my father waiting for me at the terminal. But in the end, I knew that the move had been worth it. Vancouver Island was as close as I could get to completely leaving the shattered remains of my old life. Everything down to the steps you take on your way to the bathroom in the morning was completely different. But in the end, no matter what you do, how far you run, you always have to live in your own head. No matter how relaxed my life had become, at times, I still struggled.

I can't say my life was a complete dream. That would be a lie. But at the same time, I can't say that I've been living in hell for the twenty one years that I've been alive, either. In that short time, I've learned that life is never black and white... merely varying shades of grey.

The snap of a fallen branch and the sound of footsteps tears me out of my trance. Before I have a chance to turn around, I am nearly run over by a large - and heavy - german shepherd, his curled tail hitting me repeatedly in the thigh.

"Pedro."

I touch his head. The fur on his ears and muzzle is smooth, and warm. I bury my face in the mane of his neck and breathe in. I've always loved the smell of a dog that's been in the sun. It's a very wild, primal smell... but it's comforting.

Xavia comes stomping through the trees behind him in her ponytail and faded cut-off blue jeans. She's holding her sneakers and socks in her right hand, and I wince just imagining what the wood chips and fir needles must feel like on the bottoms of her feet.

My sister - the youngest of three siblings - could have been my twin, although she's more than five years younger than I am. Pale, freckled skin, with a dark, rust coloured tumbleweed of hair and large hazel eyes. A heart shaped face, and a soft but average body. She looks like I did at her age. But she acts in completely opposite ways, does things that I never would and still won't.

"Out daydreaming again, Alazne?" She asks me.

Her voice is hard, reproachful even. Xavia always speaks to me like a mother would to a misbehaving child. Or at least she has since I have returned.

"I was watching some birds." I tell her. "They're gone now."

"Huh."

Reaching down, I pluck a small stick from the ground. Pedro, already anticipating the throw, rushes off into the trees. Letting out a laugh, I throw it in the other direction, watching him struggle to turn on a dime at full speed, his nails digging up loose dirt and spitting it out behind him as the big dog stretches out into a run. The stick falls into the stream and begins to float down towards the beach, but Pedro catches it before it reaches the end of the copse and splashes back, tongue sticking out of the side of his mouth.

"Good boy." I whisper to him, patting his head.

My father brought Pedro home for the first time when I was twelve. He's getting pretty old now, his hindquarters dipping low and his stomach a bit sensitive, but he still loves to run and fetch. I'm glad that my father had decided to keep him when they moved.

"Dad wants you home by five, remember?"

I look at Xavia, who is standing with her arms folded across her barely budding chest. I think I can detect a sneer underneath her carefully blank expression. It's like she's mocking me, with something that I must have obviously forgotten.

"By five," I said. "alright."

A long silence.

"You've forgotten, haven't you?" Xavia suddenly blurts out. "Again! On this day even."

"What have I forgotten?" I shoot back. "Speak in ways I can understand."

"It's not my fault you can't understand plain english!"

"It's not my fault that you feel the need to berate someone for reasons unknown."

"Mom's remembrance party!" Xavia almost shouts. "You've forgotten."

"I didn't forget. I was just thinking of something else."

Standing up, I run my hands through my hair so that my painstakingly straightened bangs stick up on one side. I still regret that day I took up the scissors. My younger sister's face is varying shades of red, and it's then that I can see her true face. The face that misses mom. The face that detests still being a teenager. The face that hates my guts for falling apart when she needed me most. I cannot bear to see it, so I brush past her and start up the path.

"You're always thinking of something else!" Xavia shouts after me, her voice shrill. "You're not even real anymore! You're just a walking cardboard cut out!"

Sad, yet poignant. Oh well, I can't judge fully. You sort of ramble on about how memories latch on to this character's mind so she's hopelessly bereft, but it's not too much, although some of the more critical minds might say "Okay, we get it, you're depressed." Things like this aren't suited for everyone, but then again, that's the beauty of it. You'll need more than one opinion though. While we're at it, I might as well help you create the "write little drabbles" bandwagon, although I can't think of anything to write at the moment, so here's an excerpt of an old story I wrote when I was twelve:

Introduction

I near fell off the bed when my sorry excuse of an alarm starting buzzing at five thirty in the frickin’ morning. It’s not an alarm clock really, just my phone that has an alarm clock on it. It’s loud as hell. It used to be some really annoying chime sound, but I was able to get my brother to download some music and now I wake up to T.N.T. by A.C.D.C. That song makes me think of two things: Iron Man 2 and Joe Daniels.

Joe Daniels was a boy that went to my former school. He was a rock music enthusiast. He liked Led Zeppelin and A.C.D.C. and that kind of thing. He was my desk partner throughout the sixth grade. At first, I didn’t really want to sit next to a boy that spent his lunch time playing basketball with a bunch of younger kids, because that meant I would smell sweat for the rest of the day. It turned out to be okay, because we worked well together on schoolwork and I started to appreciate his chatter with the other boys that sat nearby me, particularly on how he loved rock music. One thing that I also admired was his shocked face whenever I wrote a lot.

I graduated the school in sixth grade six months ago. Our graduation was crappy and childish. I mean singing, really? Don’t get me wrong; there were some parts that weren’t so bad. Joe Daniels got to play guitar as we sang Guns and Roses’ Sweet Child Of Mine, but with our lyrics rather than the original.

I now go to some small private middle school that’s a forty-five minute drive away. I don’t mind the long drive. The only bad thing is I live far from my friends. The teachers are like any others; some are really cool and the others are a waste of time. In one class, the teacher had a system: if you do something good, you get a stamp. One day, she brought in a whole bunch of stuff that we bid on with our stamps. I made a bid on the Iron Man 2 poster for fifteen stamps. My guy friend, Nathan, won the other Iron Man 2 poster.

I turn off the alarm, admiring my Iron Man 2 poster from my bed. Most girls like Taylor Lautner and that kind of teenage crap, but I’m not like that. I keep staring at it, since I’m up. On the sides of the poster are Gyneth Paltrow and Scarlett Johansson. Personally, I prefer Scarlett Johansson. The character she plays kicks ass.

We have a field trip today. I don’t have to get up for another half an hour, so I sleep in, imagining what it would be like. We would probably be driving in students’ parents’ cars and I likely be stuck with only one of my friends and a bunch of other twelve and thirteen year old girls who I have nothing in common with.

That was actually how it turned out. I was stuck with my friend Rosalily, who has much more in common with the other preteen/teenage girls than I did. She watches The Vampire Diaries, Pretty Little Liars and Twilight while I prefer Iron Man and reruns of Heroes. She doesn’t cuss a lot like I do. She gets real good grades and stuff (not like I don’t, but she’s twice as good). I like her and all, but sometimes her perfection irritates the hell out of me.

I sit next to her in the car ride and the woman driving us offers us fruit, particularly apples, which I decline. I hate fruit. Why couldn’t there be a good chocolate bar or tough beef jerky or something?

Rosalily and I sit quietly, not saying much to each other, while the other girls talk annoyingly about how Taylor Lautner has an eight-pack (is there really such thing?). I stare at the streetlights. The girl sitting in the front seat turns on the radio. Hey, Soul Sister plays. I hate that song, but I hum it anyway.

The streetlight we are approaching is turning red, but our car is zooming anyway. Obviously, the woman driving our car is trying to beat the light. Big mistake.

I stare at the window, focusing at the car looming. Not really looming, but coming at the speed of light. It all happens in moments. The car crashes into ours and before I could take another breath, everything went black.

I don't know if I'm up to a detailed crit of this, but it was powerful and haunting. Even though my standards tend to be high (I've learned to self edit myself, and even when reading published books, I can usually pick out areas that could use improvement), anything I said would be a list of minor points, anyway. This is good, and powerful. I suppose you could polish it a bit, you can nearly always polish anything you write, but this is impressive as it stands.

Specifically, you have quite a skill with description, observation, getting the reader into the viewpoint character's head - and if your writing isn't informed by some personal tragedy in your own past, I have no idea how you got inside the head of someone haunted so well. Sorry to get so personal, but I lost my best friend when we were in high school; I heard his car hit a tree just down the street, although I didn't know it was Michael until the next day. And for reasons too long to get into here, that haunted me for years. Even now that I've more or less come to terms with it, a story like yours can still shake me up. I know haunted, and you've depicted it amazingly well. That said, I don't think this story will work nearly as well for anyone who hasn't been haunted by the past themselves. That isn't a failing of your story; no story works for those who simply don't have the experience to understand it.

Writing is my life, it is how I define my existence. I don't give praise like this lightly. I will try to encourage anyone who seems to have talent and skill, rather than crush them with a list of everything they still need to work on - but I don't usually point this out, for obvious reasons. Depending on what you try to write, you probably do have a lot left to work on - we all do - but you've got more than enough going for you as a writer to buoy you up through it all. Most stuff posted on the internet is low grade ore at best; there are only a handful of people I've run across who don't need to put in years of work before they can write anything really worth reading - but you're an exception to that rule.

What I'm trying to say is, you're good enough at this, I hope you keep at it. No matter how boneheaded publishers and agents turn out to be (although there is a lot of pure garbage in any slush pile, there is still enough worth taking a look at that more good stuff gets rejected than gets accepted). Because you're good enough that it would be a loss to readers if you ever stopped writing. The more you write, the better you get. With where you're starting from now, I can't wait to see how good you are by the time you manage to get into print. (Unless you already are, which doesn't seem at all unlikely, now that I bring it up...)

Thank you so much! I read over your praise more than once, it just touched me to the core. And if you want to know, part of this is rooted in my own experience, but most of it is fiction. Here is more, after the line break at the end of my first post.

- - -

Not even real anymore. Just a cardboard cut out.

As much as I hate to believe anything that my sister says in her fits of anger, that blow cut a little deep. Pedro at my side, I make my way up the steeply graded path to the road. Cars are parked bumper to bumper to either side of the road, and there are several groups of people situated along the path that runs alongside it.

Most of the people are typical suburban type. The girls wear low cut jeans, with their hipbones sticking out. The boys beside them have their boxers showing. I edge between them, keeping one hand on Pedro's head. Not for comfort, but for security. Dogs always seem to know their way home, even when their owners keep forgetting. The aging dog comes up to my hip, so it's easy to rely on him to lead the way.

Pedro Martinez. That was what my father named him when he brought him home the first day. I was sitting on the couch when he came through the door, nose buried in a book. I wore glasses then, and I remember pushing them up on my nose as my father - big, gruff, with a thick curly beard - came through the door leading a german shepherd on a leash. This is one of those clear memories. It's one of the few that are left to remind me what I was like before my little trip to hell.

The television was tuned into a baseball game. It was a channel from across the border. The Red Sox were playing. My brother Danel played the sport as a child, and continued to watch it as a adult. He'd gone upstairs during the commercial break, as his girlfriend - soon to be fiance - had called, and he hadn't returned. I wasn't even watching the TV. It was only background noise in my head, which was currently occupied by Sara Douglass' Battleaxe. The faded, battered paperback flopped in my hand as I lowered it.

"Who's dog is that?" I asked.

"Ours."

I had stared at him blankly for a moment before realizing what he meant.

"Oh."

"He's young, but I'm sure he'll guard you kids well. He just has that guard dog look to him."

The dog pulled at the leash, stretching his thick neck to sniff my ankle, and I reached down to tentatively touch the top of his head. I'd never had much exposure to animals, and I didn't know how to react. Pedro had licked my hand, and I remember how the wet feeling had made me pull my hand away and wipe it on my jeans. Back then, there had been no grey around his muzzle, just gorgeous shades of brown and black. His face was smooth, almost pretty with dark eyes that looked almost red in the light streaming through the window.

"Does he have a name?"

My mother was standing in the doorway of the kitchen, dishcloth and plate in hand. She wiped it in a clockwise motion, drying the glazed ceramic to a nice shine. Her pale blond hair - the hair my brother inherited - was done up in a hair clip, with curled tendrils hanging around her delicate face. Her voice was like honey. Pleasant, but not too deep. Not deep like mine, where my words seem to grate like sandpaper across concrete.

"You have given the poor thing a name, haven't you, Harvey?" She said.

Pedro came to greet her, curled tail wagging, and she bent down, scratching behind his pointed ears, rubbing his curved back.

"Not yet." My father said. "I was hoping that Alazne would name him."

Everyone looked to me. Instinctively, my shoulders began to pull up towards my ears, a nervous reaction when all of the attention of a small crowd was upon me. I had never been a very confident person. My friends had gone out for debate class in the last year of school, and I had taken band instead, simply because I was simply incapable of stating a point with many eyes pointed my way.

"Why?" I asked. "Why would you think I could come up with a name?"

"Well, you are the creative one." My father said. His hand brushed my hair. "The artist of the family."

I shook my head. I didn't like it when people called me a artist. I merely played the violin, and even then, I was only barely decent. My drawings were nothing more than doodles at the time, and I couldn't keep up a narrative if my life depended on it.

"Let Danel name him. Or Xavia. I can't think of anything."

Both parents glanced upstairs, towards where the bedrooms were. Both Danel and Xavia's bedroom doors were closed. From the quiet, it was easy to assume that Danel was still on the phone and Xavia might have fallen asleep, which she tended to do after supper.

Dad turned his attention to the television, which was now showing the end of the game. Two men in suits were sitting behind a counter, paper in hand, discussing the game. One of them was wearing a wacky tie that looked like something out of a 'Where's Waldo' book.

"His hard work and dedication has paid off." One man said. "He really is the crown jewel of the team, Rob."

The man named Rob nodded, blond shock of hair bobbing with his head. He rustled his small stack of paper.

"Pedro Martinez is the eighth player to have a three hundred strike out season," Rob said. "along with Nolan Ryan, Randy Johnson-"

"Pedro!"

Both my mother and mine's heads snapped to my father, who was grinning from ear to ear. It made him look like a little kid who had just been praised for a drawing done in crayon. He looked down at the dog near his feet, who was staring at him, mouth open, wagging his tail with a attentive expression on his face.

"Pedro Martinez. Do you like that, boy?"

I knew then that dogs responded more to the tone of your voice than what you were actually saying. But the way Pedro reacted - by jumping and putting his paw on my dad's arm - made it seem like he actually wanted the name. Everyone laughed, and we chatted amongst ourselves, dad patting Pedro's back over and over as the sun slipped over the horizon.

It was so easy to laugh then. That time seemed like a completely different life... so far away that it could hardly be seen. A single tree on the horizon, half hidden by distance and the glare of the sun. Or the darkness of a cloudy night, which even the stars and moon could not light.

Pedro was from my old life. But dad was right. He made it through it all. He still protected me, even though I was no longer a girl. But there were things the dog could not protect me from, one of them being myself.

tl;dr

How do you learn to write like this? I usually write pretty well (so I've been told), but my work simply doesn't compare. Errr! Tips?

For the most part, it's practice. But I read a lot of Stephen King (he's a REAL writer, check him out) and read a lot of books on writing. You do write well, you have real potential just from what I read. You should write and share something recent, I can't bring myself to critique something you wrote two years ago (it'll be drastically different). Take care.

Here's a little part from something I started (it probably won't make sense because it's the beginning):


This morning I woke up dead. How I figured that out upon my waking moment, I have no idea. I’m not sure how one infers that they died upon waking up in a different room with bunks filled with people like a concentration camp, all bruised and smelly. People don’t fall asleep in one place and wake up somewhere else unless they were taken from the couch to the bed, kidnapped, or they were drunk people falling asleep in what they thought was their own bed but wake up to a strange environment and a painful hangover. What happened to me didn’t seem to fit any of the above descriptions.

I looked around, trying to remember what had happened before I came here. I was on a field trip to a museum yesterday, or at least it seems like yesterday. The grade was split up into separate cars, three to five in each. I was with my close friend, Rosalie, and a couple of other girls I generally didn’t get along with. I stared outside for most of the car ride, that I remember well. I struggled to recall the absolute last moment. A red car, I think it was red, came speeding towards us. I don’t remember the impact of the car or the pain I must have felt. I tried to shift my body so I could lie on my stomach, but I could only turn to my right 90 degrees. To my astonishment, I saw Rosalie sleeping beside me.

“Rosalie,” I whispered, “Rosalie!”

She woke up, bruised and disoriented. She looked around, stunned the way I was and whispered my name “Sloane”. I sensed we were dead, yet we didn’t feel anything, not yet anyway. We were too confused. I tried to wiggle, but I barely could. Eventually, I was able to move forward slightly and get my arms out from my sides. I pushed myself out of the bunk, leaving myself to plummet some five floors before finding myself submerged in some strange, thick substance.

As I sunk deeper, I found the image of compact, over-cramped bunks becoming murkier and disappearing and started detecting light coming from behind me. Strangely enough, I suddenly saw myself surrounded by numerous kids my age in white, matching the blinding walls and ceiling. Wait a minute, ceiling? I looked up and saw the ceiling ripple like water, smoothening out over time.

Someone grabbed my arm and led me to a desk. I didn’t get a good look at the person’s face nor did I need to. Rosalie’s voice penetrated through the noise, albeit it seeming like only a whisper. Nevertheless, I was able to tell she was shouting.

“Rosalie!” I shouted back, searching for her.

Suddenly, the girl shoved me into a chair and left me to a black haired boy with a clipboard. That girl seemed hostile. I had no idea where I was, yet for some reason, I experienced déjà vu. The boy seemed a bit more convivial, which was a welcoming sight in an unfamiliar place for anyone. He smiled at me and stuck out his hand, a gesture I was long accustomed to, but now it felt foreign.

“Hey, I’m Anson Jaron. Well, that’s my current name. Ya see, newbie, we get new names upon coming here. How about we start with getting you a name?”

I tried to act in a seemingly enthusiastic manner and listened intently to what he said, “Take a slip.”

“What slip? Where?” I thought before a small box appeared on the desk in front of me. I took a slip, careful not to take more than one, and opened it. It had said the letter “G”.

“Let me guess,” Anson Jaron said, “It says ‘G’. Now pick another one.”

I repeated my previous steps, only the new slip said “A”.

“Okay, ‘G’ and ‘A’, let’s see what we got,” he continued, as if he read my mind, “All right, Gabrielle and Gabriella’s taken. Some of them have double vowels, I doubt you want a name like ‘Gemma’.”

It was like he knew me: my distinct tastes and characteristics. I thought about the type of name I would prefer: unisex names that weren’t leaning too far on the feminine side of the spectrum and nothing too ridiculous.

“Gabby?” he continued, “No, you’ll feel infantilized. How ‘bout we go with Gail?”

I didn’t mind the name. It wasn’t very feminine nor was it ridiculous. I would miss being called “Sloane”, but I felt I could adjust to this name. I wasn’t really feeling any sort of loss for not being at home. Alternatively, I felt strangely comfortable in this new place, as if this was home and my place in my previous world was simply a night at a motel on the way to my initial destination.

“You look strangely comfy, here, don’t ya?” Anson Jaron asked.

“Yeah, how’d you know?”

“It’s just that newbies tend to feel uneasy here, uncooperative in some cases. Heck, one time I dealt with a boy a little older than you and lemme tell you, he burst out crying and trying to find a door until he figured he should try to penetrate the ceiling like the way he came,” he told me, smiling at the memory, “I never seen such a case. Usually they don’t figure out what exactly is wrong so they’re only a little nervous or the realization of what the wrong thing is came too soon and too strong that they’re feeling like they’re stabbed at the heart.”

I paused to try and figure out what he meant by the wrong thing and assumed it was the realization that you’re dead. I didn’t feel unnerved by the realization that came upon my waking moment. I was rather blithe at the current time, although the reason was beyond my comprehension. I felt more at ease here than I did at any moment of my mortal life.

“By the wrong thing, do you mean the realization that we’re dead?” I asked him.

“How did you figure it out?” he asked curiously before pushing aside his questions in order to fulfill whatever duty occupied his time, “Anyway, I have to assign you a house. That’s how you get your last name.”

I pondered his question. How did I know I was dead? I saw him tap the desk’s surface and a list appeared, as if on a screen. I didn’t bother reading it and focused my attention on Anson Jaron’s every little movement. While I waited, my focus strayed to other parts of this blindingly white room. I tried to find Rosalie among the crowd. As I saw a face of a girl my age turn cold at the sight of me, Anson Jaron’s voice stole my attention.

“Gail, you are now in the Ford house. Take this slip; it has your new name and your house location. There, you will be changed and prepared for this world. Good luck, Gail.”

I smiled, leaving my chair to head for who-knows-where. I looked around for an optimal place to go, Anson Jaron called me.

“Gail,” he repeated when he saw I didn’t respond immediately, “Go look for Evelyn Ford, she’ll help you.” He paused and then asked, “Hey. What’s your real name?”

I was surprised by this question and quickly replied, “Sloane, Sloane Jackson!”

He smiled as I left. I spun several times, scanning for someone named Evelyn Ford. I realized the stupidity of my action quickly, for I didn’t know what Evelyn Ford looked like. I started calling out her name and found Rosalie among the crowd. I followed after her, calling her name.

“Rosalie!” I called, “Rosalie!”

She turned around, still in the tattered clothes we both wore, bearing a frown. Rosalie’s bruises were healing rapidly. She rushed towards me and I had the feeling she was about to cry. She didn’t, though, but I could tell she was close to doing just that.

“Sloane?” she asked desperately, “Where are we?”

Although I would prefer to be straightforward, I wasn’t sure she could handle the truth, so I said, “I dunno, you tell me.”

She huddled towards me and I was more than enthusiastic to comfort her. We stuck close to each other when she looked at my slip and stared at me.

“Sloane?” she asked, “Where are you staying? Is Gail Ford your new name?”

“Yes. Our last name indicates where we’re staying. Didn’t they tell you?”

“Who?”

I questioned whether or not she had been led to a desk and assigned a name and location. I couldn’t shake this feeling of familiarity, that I knew this place. She kept turning her head around, occasionally back at me, and was trying to make more sense of our situation. She likely didn’t have the same feeling as I did, that sense of safety. I assumed all she felt was nervousness and fear of the unknown.

“Weren’t you given a name?” I asked.

“Yeah, Vara Trinnean. The girl at the desk just said, ‘Hey here’s your new name, take this slip and find someone who knows what to do with you’! She didn’t explain much to me.”

I remembered the duty of finding Evelyn Ford and started calling her name. I hope she’s here. I kept shouting as if I were an iPod on constant replay and the owner made it that way to short out the battery. Rosalie wondered what I was doing, but I didn’t bother answering her questions. My goal right now was to find Evelyn Ford and figure out what to do next.

“Hello,” I heard from behind me, “I’m Evelyn Ford, I heard my name coming from this way.”

I turned around, caught by surprise at her sudden arrival. Evelyn turned out to be my age with black, long hair. She seemed quite jovial at the arrival of someone new. I wondered what to say to her, although it seemed obvious that I should say that my new name is Gail, I now belong to the Ford house and Anson Jaron told me to find her. For some reason beyond me, it hadn’t occurred to me that I should respond this way. This reminded me of the time when I saw two boys I graduated elementary school with and instead of saying the casual formality of saying “Hey, how you’ve been”, I stood there awkwardly, not knowing what to do. The same counterproductive nervousness I had felt consumed me.

“Are you a newbie?” Evelyn Ford asked me, “Newbies tend to have trouble in their first moments here.”

“Uhh, I’m Sloane, uhh, I mean Gail. Gail Ford,” I stammered, “This is Ro- I mean Vara Trinnie-something, I think it’s Trinnean.”

“Oh, well, Gail, Vara, why don’t you just follow me and I’ll find someone to help Vara Trinnean,” she continued and walked in what seemed like no particular path, Rosalie and I following her blindly, “Actually, I know someone from the Trinnean house. He should be here, we have the same shift.”

I didn’t bother trying to comprehend anything she said after, but I have a feeling she talked about how Newbies are unnerved by this new situation (Rosalie was living proof of that) and how well I seemed to be taking it. Rosalie’s eyes scanned the room nervously, as if her mind were in a constant frenzy. I tried to imagine her state of panic and confusion, to no avail. I had been strangely calm since I had been here. I knew I shouldn’t be in such a serene state of mind, but I didn’t care.

Evelyn Ford kept looking for a boy named Aster Trinnean. I didn’t bother keep track of time nor did I care about time anymore. As far as time went, a second could be a minute, a day could be an hour and there was no differentiating a week from a year or a decade from a millennium. At some point, Evelyn Ford found Aster Trinnean and left Rosalie, I mean Vara Trinnean, for him to guide through this new place. I heard Evelyn Ford say something about goodbyes and whatnot, but my mind kept switching from the endless, dark, cramped room above the ceiling to Anson Jaron to how saying the name Vara was ill-suited for a girl like Rosalie was the understatement of the century.

“We’re leaving now,” Evelyn Ford said, finally catching my poorly focused attention.
Before I had the chance to ask how we would escape this structure, Evelyn Ford took my hand and we penetrated the walls. She had gone first, expecting me to follow her example. I did, fully submerging myself through the blinding white walls that felt like I was permeating through condensed milk. I found I couldn’t breathe, but I was quickly reminded that I didn’t need to. Escaping that thick-liquid wall felt like taking off a wetsuit to be exposed to the chilly air surrounding a beach. I oriented myself and found Evelyn Ford, who still held my hand and had a cheery, hopeful face.

“You know, Gail Ford, I’ve never seen a Newbie take this so calmly. I’m not sure if the realization has come to you yet, but you do know you’re dead.”

“Oh yeah,” I replied nonchalantly as I followed her through this unexplored expanse, “I realized it when I first woke up here. I don’t know why, but I just knew.”

She smiled, seemingly hopeful of my future here. She and I looked at what lay ahead of us. Something seemed off about this landscape. The sky was that baby shade of blue, the grass always a dark, familiar green, and the buildings varying from the size of a small house to the towering height that seemed to touch the sky, just like the cities in her earthly life. I looked at the sky that mimicked my own and noticed there was no sun, no celestial eye to blind me. I took comfort in what most “Newbies” found unsettling. I smiled rather than shed tears. I felt like one journey ended and I now have the gift of looking back on it, to reflect on its worth.

“What are you thinking about, Gail Ford?” Evelyn Ford asked as she led me to the tall buildings just ahead of the grass that began to change its color.

“Nothing,” I replied, not really wanting to deeply explain my sense of serenity, “It’s just I’m trying to figure out why I’m happy to be here.”

“Oh, well, then we can skip one of the procedures of the assimilation process and quickly introduce you to the Ford house!” Evelyn Ford said with an unnatural fervor.

I let her guide me, as if I were on a leash. I had no intention of asking where I was going. I looked at other people, some of them who seemed like Newbies, and examined their behavior. Quite a few among the crowd cried but acquiesced to what they were instructed, some questioned their guiders, and one male Newbie my age outright protested against his guider, screaming that he had wanted to be alive again, no one had the right to take that away, and to damn them all for inflicting this upon him. I felt sorry for the boy and tried to empathize with the unnamed stranger, but I failed, not able to feel his extreme loss of his own life and the separation from everyone he knew and the life he was familiar and so deeply intertwined with.

I had lost track of time, so I had no idea when Evelyn Ford led me into the Ford building. All I remember was passing by countless people, all more content than I was, buildings without doors, and scattered Newbies wanting to cling to a sense of security.

Evelyn Ford said, “Gail, we’re here. Penetrate the wall like we did before,” summoning my attention. I obeyed her and stepped through the wall, feeling the same sensation of being released on the other side. Both times, I had felt rejuvenated. Evelyn Ford appeared after I stood in the same place, waiting for her.

I found myself surrounded by countless kids my age, all staring at me with wonder, excitement and nervousness. None of them bore any signs of injury the way some Newbies did and all seemed welcoming. I returned their smiles and greetings. A girl approached me, wearing a beige coat and white dress, unlike the tattered white clothes I wore. She combed her blonde hair back and stuck out her hand.

“What’s your name?” she asked with a voice so sweet and innocent, it was chilling.

“Slo-, uhh, Gail Ford,” I replied, shaking her hand while hiding my repulsion at the formality.

“I’m Hanna Ford,” she replied, “I forgot my real name years back. I forgot what most of my life consisted of. It doesn’t matter though.”

Now I had a slight sense of the loss other Newbies felt. I doubted they knew they were going to forget their lives, but they wanted a part of it to remain with them. The realization that I didn’t want to forget my life entirely destroyed the sense of security and serenity I once held upon entering the place. Why would I want to forget my parents, my brother, my friends, and all of what I learned in my life? I felt a strong urge to be alone and shut myself off from everyone, but I needed to conceal my worry.

“How about showing me around?” I asked nonchalantly.






I started this story from inspiration from a strange dream I had once, the book Elsewhere by Gabrielle something, the book Everlost by Neil Shusterman, and some dystopian themes. This is only the beginning.

Here's some critique I cooked up for you. I have to say it's very good! Most of my little corrections have to do with spelling and description. Don't get discouraged, and remember that this is just my opinion. As another writer, you may have a different style of writing, and you do not have to change everything I point out. There is no one "right" way to do everything, especially in writing!

This is a pretty good start. A little abrupt, but that may just be your writing style. As this is the first chapter, right now you gotta worry about placing the setting, the time. Right here, description is everything. What does the room look like? The reader needs to know where they are. "I woke up in a hospital bed..." might be a little better than starting out with "I am dead". The character figures this out anyways, so you might want to leave it out of that first paragraph (or when she meets Jaron) to tell us this, as to have a bit of mystery coming in. You gotta loop the reader in before they find out the character has died already.



Depending on the effect you are going for, you may want to keep the memory of the car for later, as something to discover. As if she remembers going to the museum, being with girls she didn't like, and little more. This, again, is up to you.



Here, we already know that everyone in the room is in bad shape. It might have been better just to leave it at disoriented. Stunned is the same as disoriented, so there is no need to put the same point forward twice in such a small space. What happened here? Most times, floors are hard. You have left out some description as to how she winded up plummeting through the floor. Try something like "the floor seemed to be like jelly, and as I tipped over the bed I fell through it".



Just "cramped" is okay. Where are the bunks? Are they above her? Instead of smoothening, use "smoothing".



Where did they come from? "Seemed" would be better here.



You just used the word shouting twice in a short time. I might use "I cried back", or started a new line and used "I searched for her".



You never explained who that 'someone' was. "Hostile" is almost unneeded, you could say "they shoved me roughly into a chair, the action almost hostile". Deja vu from what? Maybe briefly mentioning the instance she felt like this would be good.



Why would she do this? Does she not want to be rude? This should be mentioned. Remember, she is in a strange place she's never seen before. There has to be a reason for her cooperation and calm demeanor.



How did it appear? Did it fade in? Did she blink and suddenly see it there?



Gabriella "is" taken.



This is not a word. Maybe "you'll feel like a infant", or "you'll feel infantile".



You don't need the quotations here.



This sentence is a little awkward sounding, you may want to rethink it.



Who is she? What is Gail's reaction?



Missing some description here. This can confuse the reader. Describe her surroundings... is it a endless space, with a endless crowd milling around a single desk?



This seems awkward and almost unneeded.



But she's Vara now, isn't she?



Why not?



This is also awkward. Maybe remove some words.


If you have other stuff you want me to look at, feel free to PM it to me. I can give you some pointers.

I have to say, I like your honest criticism, no matter how harsh (or not) it may seem to others.

I chose the abrupt beginning to catch the reader's attention.

Infantilize is a word : definition: treat (someone) as a child or in a way that denies their maturity in age or experience.

Sloane refers to Rosalie as Rosalie even with the name change because she's the only thing familiar to her and in her eyes, she's Rosalie, not Vara. As for the girl with the cold face, she appears later in the story, maybe as an antagonist (I haven't decided yet). Also, I don't like having too much description in the beginning (I used to do that) because eventually the reader will get bored. Sometimes I like having the reader have a little creative input so everyone can enjoy a story and let their mind manipulate it a little. Oh well, we have different ways of writing and I like your input, very straightforward.