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Printed from https://p15.writing.com/main/profile/reviews/sailor661
Review Requests: OFF
43 Public Reviews Given
44 Total Reviews Given
Review Style
Easy critical and I'll tell you whether I like it or not.
I'm good at...
grammar
Favorite Genres
Thriller, mystery, essay, short story
Least Favorite Genres
romance, supernatural including vampires and zombies
I will not review...
I'll know it when I see it and tell you.
Public Reviews
1
1
Review of The Mending Kiss  
Review by Sailor661
Rated: E | (2.0)
Review of The Mending Kiss

By

Saim

Thank you for asking me to review your work. I recently completed the Dynamic Reviewing course offered by The New Horizon Academy. I'll follow a guideline I developed while attending the course. If, after reading the review, I'll be glad to answer any questions you may have. Please remember, reviews are about the writing, not about the writer. Don't take review comments personally.

Effectiveness of Tone and Mood

The overall mood of your piece reflected a story that moved from joy to sadness to anger and back to joy. The tone of your verbs supported that move. Yet, I think you could have chosen more powerful ones. More about this later when I discuss showing and telling.

Verb Tense and Point of View

The point of view was third person omnipotent, which allowed us to see how one person's actions affected the other. It was written in past tense. The POV and tenses stayed consistent throughout the story.

Plot Development

The plot developed slowly. There was little action in the first two paragraphs that would make me want to read further. The plot and conflict was that Roy was working too hard and ignoring Sarah. The conflict grew until they fought about his ignoring her and taking her for granted. It gave the impression he was married to the job. Yet, my question is, if they had been together for seven years, why didn't she recognize how it would be? The story came to an end when Sarah found a chocolate she loved in Roy's pocket. He buys her a chocolate and everything's okay? And Roy has not agreed to do anything different. There's quite a bit more story that needs to be written here.

Characterization

The most characterization I got was that Roy works a lot. Sarah won't allow anyone to say anything bad about Roy. I didn't get much else.

Imagery / Sensory Description / Dialogue

This is where you can really improve the story. You told the reader how Roy and Sarah felt. We need to be able to see how they feel. Tell us about food aromas, upset stomachs, squinting eyes, etc. How do you know someone is mad at you without them saying, "I'm mad at you?" What do they look like? How do you feel? You need to put that down in words. When Roy jumps up from sleeping on the sofa, let his stomach growl or his head go light because of not eating.

Dialogue is a place where you can show lots of feelings come out. The choice of words and the undertone of a conversation can do wonders for a story. Ernest Hemingway and Elmore Leonard and all great writers use dialogue well.

Technical Suggestions

Simply your sentences. For example, the first one, "When Roy entered the house, he saw that his wife was sitting on the table waiting for him." Try: When Roy came home, his wife, Sarah, was sitting on the table. A drill to improve your overall writing, rewrite the story using different points of view. Try it from Roy's and then from Sarah's. You might find a better way to tell the story doing that.

Personal Impression/Opinion

You have the beginning of a good love story. To me, it read like a draft. You need to clean up wordy sentences and look for passive verbs like "had been." Use active verbs. Spend some time rewriting, which, to me, is harder than the first story but much more fun. I like making something better. I think you will, too. Because of the areas I believe you need to improve, I gave your story two stars.

Keep writing. You'll get better and better. And, by all means, get reviews from others and use what they say to improve your writing. Good luck! *Smile*




*Gold* My review has been submitted for consideration in "Good Deeds Get CASH!.
2
2
Review by Sailor661
Rated: E | (3.5)
Johnny's Little Pistol
By
Yesmrbill

Introduction
Thank you for asking me to review your short story. I agreed to do it because of its narrator, and it was a piece of historical fiction.
My primary genre is prose fiction in the mystery/thriller genres. One of my short stories, The Finder, was selected as the best short story of 2014 at writing.com. My first novel was selected by a publisher and it should be out by March of 2018. There are several aspects of a short story that needs to be reviewed so I'll write a few comments about each.

Tone and Mood

The mood of the story portrays the seriousness of the event to come. You verbs provide the proper tone which enhances the mood. *Smile*

Plot and Conflict
You use a straightforward timeline. The plot moves forward as does time. I would encourage you to review several of the stories about Lincoln's assassination. Lincoln was late coming to the play, you might use that to add some tension and show Booth getting nervous that he won't show. Other than the assassination, the only other conflict is with the guard. Certainly, adding more conflicts would lengthen the story, but I think it would enhance it. *SwordL*

Technical
You write well. I saw no major grammatical errors. The only nit I'll pick is in the second paragraph. You referred to festivities and festival three times. That's redundant. Be more selective with your words and give us some variety. *ConfettiG*

Characterization
Using the derringer to tell the story drew me into it. You did it well. If you told us what happened to the derringer after being used, that would answer a question I have. It could be lying on the floor watching Booth, using the knife he brought, to cut the army officer and then jump to the stage. Of course, that would end the story right there since the gun couldn't see Booth any longer. *Think*

Show! Don't Tell!
Showing tends to bring the reader closer to the story. If Mr. Pistol described sweat on Booth's brow or something to show his anxiety. We had to assume that how Booth was feeling without input from the narrator. *Thought2*

Imagery / Sensory Description
There was little to no imagery or sensory description. I didn't see the decorations, the costumes, the dusty street, etc. There were several opportunities to bring us into the story with the scenery. *Tophat*

Rating explanation: I gave you the 3.5-stars rating because of the opportunity you have to make the story better. Show some scenery, increase the tension, and pull the reader in. *ThumbsUpR*

Conclusion
Johnny's Little Pistol is a grand idea for a historical fiction short story. I enjoyed reading it. I think if you rewrite it to bring the reader in closer, it will be excellent. *BigSmile*



*Gold* My review has been submitted for consideration in "Good Deeds Get CASH!.
3
3
Review of Suffering  
Review by Sailor661
Rated: E | (4.5)
Hello, again, Stormy,

Another poetry review from a novelist. Good luck in your future writing. I hope there will be a ton more.

Sailor



Tone & Mood
Both the tone and mood are depressing. Your character cannot understand or won't accept others empathy. Sad. You put that across well.

Rhyme, Form, and Flow
You have a straight-forward rhyme scheme which makes it more enjoyable for me. I'm old school when it comes to rhythmic poetry. That's my favorite. It flowed well. As for form, I copied it to Word to work on it, and it formed a Christmas Tree. If you intended that, good job.


Emotional Impact

It did evoke sadness and desperation. Good choice of words to do that.

Grammar & Punctuation
I had no problem with either.

Personal Impression
A short, yet substantial piece of work. The only problem I had with it is the second line. It read awkwardly. I guess I should have mentioned it under flow, but if you could smooth this one line, it would be very good. It's my favorite of the three of yours I reviewed today. In the heading, list your poetry as poetry. Other will not drawn in lovers of poetry.

Rating
4.5 Stars


*Gold* My review has been submitted for consideration in "Good Deeds Get CASH!.
4
4
Review of Overcome  
Review by Sailor661
In affiliation with The Screenwriting Group  
Rated: E | (4.0)
Hi Stormy,

Same note as before. Not a poet, don't read much, still willing to give an opinion. I do hope it helps and I hope you keep writing. You've got talent.

Sailor


Tone & Mood
The mood of the poem seemed hopeful and the words enhanced the mood.

Rhyme, Form, and Flow
Once again, free-form is tough for me. The rhyme pattern is no pattern but it works okay. The sentences where you use a rhyme at the end of each in the large stanza works for me. (Starts with Circling the Universe).

Emotional Impact
It soothed me and reminded me of meditation. Is seemed to be a metaphor for the results of meditation where you're calm inside yet the world rages around you.

Grammar & Punctuation
I saw no problem with the punctuation. You used it's twice where its would be appropriate.

Personal Impression
Overcome seemed as if it was guiding me to a calm place. I enjoyed reading it. I can see your talent behind this. I'm glad you've started writing again. Again, in the title, you listed it as prose. Poetry reviewers will look for that label to be correct.

Rating.
Four stars for this one! I'd like to see a more consistent rhyme pattern and the use of it's hurt.


*Gold* My review has been submitted for consideration in "Good Deeds Get CASH!.
5
5
Review of GODDESS TAMAKO  
Review by Sailor661
In affiliation with The Screenwriting Group  
Rated: E | (3.0)
Hi Stormy,

As promised, this is the first review you asked me to do. I want to remind you that I am not a poet nor do I read much poetry. So what you're getting is a review from a novelist. If you have any questions or comments about my review, let me know. We'll talk it out.

Sailor

Tone & Mood
I think you wanted the poem's tone to be amazing and yet confusing. You even used the word amazing. As you know, I'm not a poet nor do I claim to know much about poetry, but here's what I think is missing and this runs into emotional impact, as well. You use words like feel, am standing, and others that are telling verbs. If you showed what made her feel that way, I think there would be more emotional impact.

Rhyme, Form, and Flow
The poem flowed well. I realize this is free-form so the rules are fairly loose, but I couldn't discern a definite rhythm pattern and there was no rhyme scheme. Some verses almost felt like a short story instead of a poem.

Emotional Impact
I didn't get emotionally involved because of what I mentioned above and because of the shifting point of view from first person to second person. I think it would be interesting to keep it in second person throughout. Whatever POV you choose, keeping it the same will help.

Grammar & Punctuation
You have some misspelled words (breath taking, life like, everyday, and ini). The first sentence uses have instead of has.

Personal Impression
Honestly, this is a tough one for me. I'm not a fan a free verse, yet it's a good story that moved me through to the end. If you find some showing verbs to replace the telling sections, it can be a very good poem. In the title, you listed it as a novel. That would confuse prospective readers and other poets may steer clear.


Rating
I gave you three stars because I think you can make it much better. I'll be glad to relook if you choose to edit it.


*Gold* My review has been submitted for consideration in "Good Deeds Get CASH!.
6
6
Review by Sailor661
In affiliation with  
Rated: E | (5.0)
Hi Stormyraven30.

Thank you for asking me to review your poem. You need to know that I'm not a poet nor do I read much poetry. I agreed to review An Angel's Presence because I'm working through The Dynamic Review Course at New Horizons Academy here at writing.com and we just finished poetry review week.

My writing is prose fiction in the mystery/thriller genres. One of my short stories, The Finder, was selected as the best short story of 2014 at writing.com. My first novel has been selected by a publisher and it should be out by March of 2018. There are aspects of poetry that, I think, need to be covered so I'll write a few comments about each.

Personal impression.

I was drawn to the story because of the background you furnished. It accomplishes what you set out to do-help assuage a devastating loss of a daughter of your friend. *Hug1**Frown**Hug2*

Tone and Mood.

The tone and mood of the poem are uplifting and encouraging with a hint of religion. Of course, there are no angels without a religious aspect and you included it well. *Angel*

Rhyme, Form, and Flow.

Normally, when I think of rhyme, I think of the final words of alternate lines rhyming. Your internal rhyme scheme is different and effective. It gives the poem its flow. And its simple form makes it easy to read and enjoy, reading it both silently and out loud. *HeartV*

Emotional Impact.

Yes, it's there. After reading it the first time, I could see tears in the eyes of your friend. It's moving and uplifting but not maudlin.

Grammar and Punctuation.

I know many poets take exception to grammar and punctuation rules. You didn't. Good job. *ThumbsUp*

Rating.

I found no problems with the technical aspects of the poem. Great job. Five Stars!*Star* *Star* *Star* *Star* *Star*
7
7
Review of I Am Food  
Review by Sailor661
In affiliation with  
Rated: ASR | (4.5)
Hi Thankful Sonali-50,

I'm reviewing your poem as part of the Dynamic Reviewing Course through New Horizons Academy here at writing.com. I chose it because it came in second in a Personification contest. I'm not a poet nor do I read much poetry so I thought the subject of food would be something I could relate to. *Peace2*

My writing is prose fiction in the mystery/thriller genres. One of my short stories, The Finder, was selected as the best short story of 2014 at writing.com. My first novel was selected by a publisher and it should be out by March of 2018. There are aspects of poetry that, I think, need to be covered so I'll write a few comments about each.

Personal impression.

It was a cute homage for chocolate cake. I understand where you are coming from because each time I have a choice of cake, it's devil's food with semi-sweet icing. The poem stays on topic and certainly lets me know your depths of desire for the tasty dessert. *CakeP*

Tone and Mood.

The mood of the poem was light-hearted and the tone of the words reinforced the playful repartee. *Delight*

Rhyme, Form, and Flow.

This is the area where I have problems with poems. So many neither rhyme nor maintain a rhythm. I picked out your B-D rhyme scheme, which held the poem together. The rhythm scheme was where I had a problem. I can't say if it was a problem with the poem or a problem with the reviewer. This is my impression. Because lines of the poem had a different number of syllables giving the poem an ever-changing meter, I had trouble with the flow. It flowed much better reading it out loud, but the second verse gave me fits. I couldn't get it to flow well. To me, the last two lines of the verse don't mesh. *Gears*

Emotional Impact.

You demonstrated your love for chocolate cake. I second that emotion. Your writing demonstrated that feeling throughout the poem. *StarStruck*

Grammar and Punctuation.

I know many poets take exception to grammar and punctuation rules. You didn't. Good job. *Hug1*

Rating.

At writing.com we have to provide a rating. I enjoyed your poem. It was well-written and got your point across. I'm going to rate it 4.5 stars because of the issue I have with the rhythm. *Star**Star**Star**Star*+

Good job on the poem. It made me smile. Keep writing them; you did this one well.
8
8
Review of Bob the Cultist  
Review by Sailor661
Rated: 18+ | (4.5)
It was an entertaining story and something I could visualize being on Showtime. My biggest complaint is the rating, this is not for everyone. I suggest rating for over 18 but it should be at least over 13. The story flows well. I know how Bob got to where he was in a cult. His awakening was done well but I would have liked a little more action in the escape scene. It seemed too easy. Plus, Bob was a real jerk leaving the girl making your protagonist unlikeable. That's OK as long as you know it. As for the overall story, it was well-written, Bob's character was well-developed, and the story flowed. Good job and keep writing.
9
9
Review by Sailor661
Rated: 18+ | (3.5)
I'll throw in some notes as I read this and will add more comments here. I'll try to put all of my comments in blue. One note on posting stories: include the word count somewhere in you document. I like to see it at the top of the chapter.


I think you have a story worth telling going here, but I had a hard time being interested in any of the characters. Figure out why I would care about Kyle and get it out there. Also, I suggest rewriting this chapter in third person POV to see if it sounds better. I think you will benefit from being able to enhance the descriptions from the point of view of an uninvolved narrator. Using a first person POV limits your descriptive ability to what the protagonist sees and experiences. I noted in a few places that you need to show instead of to tell and to use active verbs. Passive verbs like saw and felt reduce interest in the story. To grab a reader's interest, a writer should start with action. My starting point would be the beat-down by Josh and fill in the reasons using backstory. I hope I've helped without discouraging you. I believe you can come up with a good story, and trying the different points of view should make it much better. I did not read any of chapter two. Thanks for letting me review your story.

Sailor661

WHAT AM I?




Written by Damen DeMarcus







"That will show them," I hammered the last nail into place. I stared at the door numbly. I knew I should feel more than the cold air, but I didn't. Blood dripped down from my hands. I Too many sentences starting with "I" wiped them on my pants and glanced around. The darkness of the starless night hid the stains of blood. I shuddered. Still in shock that I had survived. I needed to keep running; staying alive depended on it.

I stopped walking, and against my better judgment, crossed the field and entered the woods. The wind was like a girl turning somersaults. The trees like old men just sitting there waiting to die. The rain fell steadily, drenching the plants and trees. The rain felt warm This is telling. Try showing what it felt like., yet I found myself shivering. I turned up my face to watch the individual drops fall to earth, threads of silver gleaming in the sky.

I couldn't help but start thinking about how this life all started, only a few days ago.




Chapter 1

I inhaled the crisp, clean air; it was exhilarating. Bare trees are keep the tenses the same. Inhaled and are clashscattered around the school grounds. Most students hated Monday morning's arrival almost as much as health class.

My old silver car skidded around the corner and into the parking lot. Thanks to the aging tires, my wheels didn't leave a single tell-tale mark. I came to a stop inches from what appeared to be a 1989 Jaguar, then backed up into a parking space across the way. Kicking the car door to get it open, I felt the books dig into my back as I heaved my battered blue bag out with me.

The bright red paint of Josh's jag invited the pointy tip of my car key. I imagined the color disappearing from his square face, and his disproportionately small eyes swelling to the size of quarters , upon finding my initials inscribed above the gas intake. Alternatively, the crime could be kept anonymous, and a jaunty lightning bolt could go in lieu of my initials. But, as they say, no guts, no glory. After ample pondering, I decided to postpone my funeral and head into class.

I pushed through the school doors and went to my first period; health. My teacher sighed when I came in but didn't say anything. As usual. Slipping one headphone into my ear when no one was looking, I turned on my iPhones playlist. Nothing like some good old rock and roll to start your themorning.

"For all of you who weren't here the first ten minutes of class," She who is she? shot me a glance. "We're going to continue learning about the effects that drugs and alcohol can have on our bodies."

She set up the projector while a student dimmed the lights.

"As I'm sure you all know-," she said, clicking a button so that a picture of a few pills and powders appeared on the white board. "Drugs can destroy your lives. They can cause severe damage, and sometimes even death."

Blah, blah, blah.

I doodled a grim reaper on the corner of my notes, scythe raised over the school's principal.


"Now I know you're all young, but a moment of fun isn't worth it."


I didn't raise my eyes to the board. Ms. Anderson was right, but not like I'd let her know it. Case in point: My father. My mom got into drugs and ran off with her drug dealer. Then my dad got depressed. He changed. He resorted to alcohol to drown his sadness, and himself. Now it was all he was. He was nothing without his bottle, and that's where all the money went.

I drew a football surrounded by hellfire. Now I was getting somewhere.


Forty minutes later and the teacher started handing back our last assignments.
I put away my note sheet, which now covered with everything but notes, and picked up the paper.

D!? How the heck could I get a D in health? It was the paragraph part apparently. The bell rang.

"Mr. DeNine, would you please stay for a minute?"

Sighing, I sat back down staring expectantly at Ms. Anderson.

She approached me as the last student left.

"Did you see your final grade, Kyle?" She asked.

"Yeah," I said, nodding. "I don't think I deserve that."

"Really?" She said, raising an eyebrow. "Because if I remember correctly, the assignment was to write a paragraph on the adverse effects of narcotics."

"Didn't I?" I asked, impatient.

"No." She picked up my paper. "You wrote: 'Narcotics are wrong. If you use them, you might die. So don't. Or at least don't get caught."

"That was one, two, three, four sentences" I looked her dead in the eye, "I believe that's a paragraph."

She sighed. "I'm going to have to give you detention."

"What?!" I jumped up from my seat. "You can't give me detention for a bad grade."

"No," She said, clearing up the desk beside me. "but I can give you detention for repeated tardiness."

"Come on," I said, following her. "Do you have it out for me or something?"

"I don't have it 'out for you' Kyle." She sighed. "I have it in for you if that's even an expression. I think you're not taking school seriously. So-" She said, turning on me. "You're going to help out the school drama club for the next week, at least."

"The drama club? Seriously? That's beyond lame." I exasperated.

"Well, it's that or sitting in detention hall every afternoon for two weeks." She smiled. "Your choice."


I was leaning against the walls behind the stage while the "actors" practiced their production of some Shakespeare play. I banged the back of my head against the wall repeatedly. If I hit it hard enough, could I get a concussion?

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed one of the actors wearing a black trench coat staring me down.

A girl with blond wavy hair approached me. I looked her over.

"Hi. You're Kyle right?" She was surprisingly cute, with casual but unique clothes. I stood there for a moment taking in the feeling she gave me in the pit of my stomach. She was in my English class, but I could never dream of her talking to me... She knew my name. She was dating the varsity swim captain, Josh Walker. The same "Josh Walker," that had terrorized me all throughout middle school. But I had to admit; I understood why she liked him, and not me; I mean he was an athlete, attractive, and very well liked. And I was, well I wasn't precisely a model, I mean I had dark brown shaggy hair and matching eyes. I wore boring round glasses that resemble Harry Potter's and, thanks to puberty, had pimples scattered across my face. I always walked with my head down and my back hunched over trying to hide my looks. My dad always told me to stand up straight.

"Kyle, girls, like it when guys walk straight; it shows them you're confident." He repeatedly said to me.

I didn't listen; I knew once a girl took one look at my pimple covered face they would be disgusted. Sometimes I considered wearing a paper bag over my head, thinking I would have better luck.

I could see that Jennifer was still standing there waiting for a response and looking at me with an 'are you okay?' look.


I sighed. "Hey."


"Ms. Anderson said you'd be helping us out, so follow me." She smiled.
I tailed her to the other side of the stage.


"Every once in a while, we need to change things on the set." She explained, rather animatedly.

"So you can help out Michel with that." She pointed to a nerdy looking kid who waved at me. "It'll be dark during the actual play, but we'll practice in the light, so you guys know where to go."


"Not like I'm going to be here for that long or anything."


"... Right."


One of the actors motioned for her. "Hey, Jennifer, we're doing scene two, come on!"

She managed to pull out another smile. "Well, it was fun meeting you."


I moved the sets and pulled ropes for nearly an hour. The stage hands had to put them in place and take them down on cue, making sure the floating ones were secure so they wouldn't fall over at an inopportune moment. We wouldn't want to squish the little Shakespearians, now would we?

I found myself casting glances at Jennifer once in a while. The way she'd spoken earlier, I thought she was one of the directors or something, but she was one of the lead parts. Not bad either.

Suddenly I had the feeling that someone was watching me again. I looked around, expecting to see that creepy man in black, but it wasn't him, it was Josh leaning against the wall by the back door. He was just looking at me with a flat look on his face. I stared back. After about three seconds of eye contact, he turned and walked out of the building.

Eventually, most everyone was gone, but I had to stay and help put stuff away. Stupid, conniving teacher. I'd underestimated her for the last time that was for sure.

Suddenly Jennifer was beside me, a bunch of scripts in her hand. "You did well." She smiled approvingly. "What'd you think of the play?"

"Eh." I shrugged.

She laughed and punched me on the shoulder. "We're excellent, just to let you know. We won last year's contest."

"What, the weirdest dialogue contest? Or was that yesteryears?" I teased

Her face fell, and she turned away. But she stopped halfway across the stage and turned back to face me, her eyes on fire.

"What do you know anyway? I bet you couldn't tell a comedy from a tragedy."

"Uh, this is a tragedy," I said amused.

She made an angry noise. "You're just jealous because you can't participate in any of our plays. You obviously have no imagination."

No imagination? Hah! In fact, I could imagine the moon piece that was hanging above her falling on her right now. Wait, that wasn't my imagination.

In the split second that it took for the rope to come undone and the full moon to fall to the ground with a crash I'd jumped forward and pushed her out of the way, sending us both to the floor.

"Ouch." I murmured, holding my wrist.

"You okay?" I asked her

She pushed a piece of hair out of her face and looked at me; her mouth stuck open. "You... saved me."

"Ha, okay don't get carried away. You wouldn't have died or anything it's made out of drywall. It probably wouldn't have fallen if I hadn't been tying the knots. You can let Ms. Anderson know I'm a safety hazard." I tried to push myself to my knees but let out a cry when I put pressure on my right hand.

"Are you okay?" She asked, worriedly.

"Yeah," I said, standing. "Think I just sprained my wrist."

"I should take you to the doctor's." She said.

"It's fine. I can go there myself." I said, brushing myself off with my good hand.

"Oh yeah?" She asked, grabbing my wrist.

"Ow! What's your deal?"

"How are you supposed to drive there if you can't move your wrist?" She raised an eyebrow.

"Uh, with one hand," I said, annoyed.

"Please just let me drive you to the Doctors." She said, pleadingly. "I can take you back here after so you can get your car."

"Ugh, fine." I rolled my eyes.

"Good." She flashed a smile at me. "This way."

I followed with my head down, feeling both irritated and delighted to spend more time with her. As we walked out the door, I noticed the man in the long black coat standing still in the back shadow of the stage curtains.

"I am not getting in that," I said, eyeing her car.

We were standing before a Prius that had been painted pink with black racing stripes on the hood; complete with a fluffy white interior.

"What?" She asked, getting into the driver's seat and patting the passenger's seat. "It's starting to rain."

And so it had.

I sighed and slipped in. This would end me, it really would.

We drove in silence for a few minutes, while I sank out of sight every time we passed someone on the street.

"So, uh, thanks again." She said.

"No problem," I replied, looking out at the glum weather.

"Really, though. And," She bit her lip for a moment. "Sorry about yelling at you, that wasn't very nice."

"It's all good," I said casually. "And I'm sorry too, but you guys do sound funny." I laughed.
She smiled a little too. "Mm, maybe. But only to the untrained ear."

"Oh, sorry." I winked at her.

Eventually, we reached the office, waited a little while, and finally got in to see a doctor. He told me about what we'd expected, except that we had to pay for his 'oh-so-knowledgeable' thoughts.



It was a sprain, andI'd have to wear one of those velcro casts for a week or so. Awesome.

Jennifer drove me back to the school and stopped by my car, virtually the only one left in the parking lot.

"Well, I'll see you tomorrow." She said.

"Yeah, can't wait," I said sarcasticallyIf the correct verbs are used, adverbs aren't necessary. The fewer adverbs, the better..

I watched her drive off. Maybe pushing her out of the way of that moon wasn't such a bad idea after all.

I got into the car and coaxed the engine to start.

By the time I reached home, it was nearly ten o'clock. But of course, Dad didn't care. He was usually at work all night and day anyway.

He was sitting on the couch, nearly in a stupor. Half a dozen empty beer cans surrounded him, and the smudges on his face indicated he'd been crying.

"Hey." I sighed as I pulled my backpack off and put it by the door.

I gathered up the cans and went to the kitchen to throw them away. I opened a pizza box but found that it was empty so I threw it away. Wasn't much food in the fridge, mostly condiments, so I had a couple Cheese-It's and pickles for dinner, making a mental note to buy groceries tomorrow.

I grabbed a large mixing bowl, two Tylenol, and a bottle of water and went back to dad.

"Drink this," I motioned for him to take the water. "And these," I put the pills and bowl on the coffee table. "are for when you wake up with a headache and feel the need to throw up."

"Thanks, NancyWho is Nancy? Doesn't help the story using a different name.." The man slurred his words, and his head fell to his chest.

I sighed again, then used the remote to turn off the TV.

"Night," I whispered to myself.




Ignoring my alarm on the chilly September morning was easy. The dream I wanted to remain in was far more persuasive than the squawking on the bedside table. After the sixth snooze button option, I decided I could still be on time for class if I skipped my shower and breakfast. That plan went up in smoke when I dashed into the yard in time to remember my father was using my car.

I hadn't dressed appropriately for the weather. I was reluctant to walk to school, to say the least. I arrived hooded and shivering, in time for second period English. Jennifer came in soon after, joined at the elbow with her boyfriend, Josh. She made a big spectacle of giving his letter jacket back to him and kissing him before sitting down. I wondered if the show was for real...

Ms. Mitchell started the lesson. It was hard to pay attention with Jennifer just sitting there scribbling in a notebook. I leaned over a bit pretending to stretch to see what she was writing; at the top, it said the date followed by a sketch. It was a man shadowed in black

At the end of class, Ms. Mitchell then called for attention, and the class went silent.

"You guys need to pair up, you and your partners will have to write a short story about 5 to 6spell out numbers pages long; it will be due in two days." Ms. Mitchell announced.

At once it got loud and everyone was calling out to each other in hope to get a friend as a partner, I was sitting there with my head down while everyone was yelling and running around. I knew that Jennifer would have everyone begging to be her partner and I heard her name called several times.

Then Ms. Mitchell snapped "Quiet! Obviously, you guys are too immature to pick your partners, so I'm going to choose for you. "

Everybody groaned. Ms. Mitchell began calling out the pairs.

"John and Becca, Peter and Jake, Mathew and Amanda, Jennifer and ....Kyle"

I looked up at once astonished, Jennifer and I looked at each other, and I expected her to look disgusted but she wasn't, I couldn't see any disappointment on her face, she just said, "Guess we're partners."

I couldn't speak. I saw Jennifer was waiting for an answer.

"Ya-yeah," I responded stuttering.

"We should meet up after school in the library," she said with a smile on her beautiful face.

"Yeah umm sure that's fine," I responded taking deep breaths.

"Okay see you there," she said and smiled.

Why was I so shy around her? I couldn't help but get a feeling in the pit of my stomach. Almost like something was moving in my belly, and I felt a tingling all over. Thinking about it, I concluded it was butterflies. Not that I would know what it felt like, I've never even had a girlfriend before, and here I am a high school.... Pathetic.

Just then the bell rang, thus snapping me out of my thoughts and making me realize I've been just staring at Jennifer, zoned out for probably a few minutes now.

I continued throughout the day feeling elated show Kyle elated not tell me that he is as I went to my other classes. All I could think about was Jennifer and me, alone together after school. Suddenly I wished I didn't wear dirty clothes, I wished I would have tried to look good today, but it was too late to think about that now. I was in my last period counting down the seconds for the bell to ring,

"One..two..three........four hundred and fifty-six..."

I kept counting till it finally rang and gave me a burst of excitement. I jumped out of my seat and walked as fast as I could to the library, cutting through the field to make better time. When I made it to the library, Jennifer wasn't there yet. I got my books out and got ready.

I waited for a minute or two and then heard two people arguing, they were getting louder and louder, and I listened to the librarian shushing them and telling them to please take it outside. I finally realized who it was arguing, as Josh and Jennifer came in view.

"It's over! I'm sick of finding out about you hurting people! Now just leave me alone!" Jennifer shouted.

Josh looked like he was going to break down, but then he made eye contact with me, the sad look on his face turned to rage.

"Who's this!" Josh barked as he pointed to me.

"My study partner!" She told him defensively rolling her eyes.

"Righ-hh tt, Spell it correctly. The reader will get it." Josh said sarcastically.

"Listen punk!" He said with a threatening look. "Stay the hell away from her you greasy haired freak! She's my girl, and if I freaking see you with her I'm going to rip your head off!"

Jennifer rolled her eyes "I'm not your girl anymore, and he's just a study partner, so get out of my face! You don't own me, Josh!" Jennifer was angry now. Josh turned and left, and there was an awkward silence between us now.

Jennifer broke the silence "Sorry about that." She blurted out.

"Don't be, it's fine," I replied.

"Okay, well let's get a move on this project!" she said enthusiastically.

I nodded in agreement. For the next hour or two, we were bouncing ideas off each other. We kept writing and erasing as we kept changing our minds for the story and coming up with something better. Finally, we finished the first half of our report. It was looking like an A+ paper, we both knew that. We gathered our books up and walked out the library.

"Thanks for helping me. There was no way the paper would be this good if I had to do it on my own." She chirped.

"Yeah me too" I chuckled.

"Well, I'll see you tomorrow, Kyle." She walked away waving goodbye.

"See ya," I said quietly.

I flipped my hood up and begun to walk home. I lived about 2 and a half miles away from school. I hated walking. It took forever. I wished my dad hadn't needed to take my car today, but he was in the army and had to leave at 4 in the morning and usually didn't get back till late at night, or not at all. It was only my dad and Ime, so I was always alone at home.

I kept walking taking a different route in an attempt to make a shortcut. Narrow, back alleys between old warehouses, all had crumbling red brick and smashed windows. It was dark, about 6:30 judging by how the sun was completely out of sight, except for the small line of light coming from the horizon that was quickly fading.

I was looking up, watching the moon slowly make its way up the darkening sky. I knew I had a little more than half a mile to go. I tried not to think about it. I saw four figures ahead. Getting closer; I saw it was four guys tossing a football around, their laughter made its way to my ears.

I didn't look up as I made my way past them not thinking much of it. The laughter of the boys stopped and silence filled the air. As I looked back to inquire, all I saw was a spiraling football growing in size as it closed in on my face. Instinctually my body attempted to move to the right, out of the way of the incoming object. It nailed me on the left side of my face knocking me back to the gravel road. I laid there for a second feeling dazed. I knew that was no accident.

I looked up to see Josh Walker standing above me with his three friends behind him. The stuff from my bag scattered on the road. Then one of Josh's friends, Cory, picked up my binder and stared at it with his mouth hung open.

"Umm Josh you might want to take a look at this," Cory said still staring at the binder.

"What?" Josh asked as he walked over to see.

I had a terrific sketch I made of Jennifer on the inside of my binder.

Josh's reaction was immediate. His normal, pale complexion burst with color as redness filled his face. Veins stood out on his forehead, and his fists begun shaking. Even his nose started to twitched Wrong Tensewith fury.

"I'll Kkill Yyou." He said in a cold voice.

Everyone knew Josh had a bad history of violence, and I was terrified; I jumped up and ran as fast as I could. I turned right on the first street hoping to find an adult or people or anything. They wouldn't attack me if people were around. I kept running too scared to look back.

I came to a dead end, looking back and forth for somewhere to run or hide, but it was too late; I could hear their footsteps getting closer and needed to lean against a red brick wall for support thinking I would pass out if I didn't.

Josh, Cory, Mike, and Seth surrounded me. Josh and Cory were on my left side now, with Mike and Seth on my right.

Josh shoved me against the wall and held my throat with his right hand.

"I'll kill you" he repeated softly in my ear with the same cold voice.

Holding my throat, he pulled my head a couple of inches away from the wall, then still with my throat in his hand banged my head back against the brick wall with so much force my vision temporarily went black. The feeling of wetness slowly streaming down the back of my neck was all I could think of as real fear gripped me.

I needed help. I prayed to God for a miracle. As the darkness cleared my vision, I saw a man in a long black coat standing under a tree just watching in the dark. I began to shout,

"Help! Help me please!"

The man didn't move.

Josh let go of my neck and looked back at the tree to see who I was calling to, then looked back at me after reassuring himself that no one else was around and came back with a hard right hook that threw me to the ground.

"Please help me!" I shouted again when I the man reappear from behind the tree, but still the man didn't move, just watched.

I was on the ground and could feel blood spilling from my mouth. I tried to stand up, but then feltdescribe it! a shark kick to my stomach.

The kicking didn't stop. I could hear ribs crack and feel bones shatter.

I stretched out my hand towards the place I had seen the man. As I did, a foot stomped down hard on my sprained wrist with a crunch. I realized that I might die here. I was face down. My body felt numb. I could faintly tell I was still being pummeled in the head by the way my skull kept jerking to one to one side repeatedly.

"That's enough!" A boy's shout, muffled.

"Yeah, I think he's had enough" I heard Seth agree. I could hear them trying to pull Josh back. It took both of them to peel Josh away from the violence he was reveling in.

Finally, Josh gave in. "You are right; we better get out of here before cops come. I'm sure someone heard him whining like a girl" Josh laughed I could hear him turn and walk back down the road, dragging his feet in the grass in an attempt to rid his shoes of blood; the others followed and did the same.

"Help, heellpp, help" I kept muttering quietly to myself. I could feel my consciousness going.

I heard footsteps walking toward me and the cracking of gravel. I opened one eye and could faintly see the man in the black coat hovering over me.

"Help me," I said gasping for air.

My throat felt This is passive. Use active verbs.like it was collapsing and I could tell I was drowning in blood, my mouth was full of it and every time I spit it out it just filled up again.

At this moment I was filled with hatred, not for Josh, but for myself, because I am skinny and weak and useless. I could feel my mind let go. I was lying in the grass. My entire body reverberated with pain. I could feel my legs folded under myself unnaturally. With every breath, I seemed to get colder. Suddenly my body shuddered. Ice in my bones. Dimly I knew I was in serious trouble. If I didn't get help soon, I would die.

Every breath got a little harder. My shivering was filled with pauses now, and the breaks were getting longer. Above, over hanging branches formed a canopy. I could feel my body shutting itself down. Slowing breath and heart rate. My muscles were becoming rigid. At least I no longer felt cold. There was a vast sense of relief for not having to move. I was getting so tired. My body had begun the process of dying.

I'm in trouble.

"Somebody, somebody, please. Dad?"

My last thought was, it's just like going to sleep. Then all at once, there was no rigidity, no discomfort. I felt light, and calm, and free. I was floating up near the canopy. I felt warm. It felt so good to be warm again. It seemed as though my body filled with the light of the sun.

I laughed in pleasure. "But where am I?" Didn't something just happen? Something wrong? On the ground below me was a huddled figure. A small boy covered in blood. The boy's face was delicate, lovely bone structure, but the skin was a terrible flat white, dead looking, the eyes shut, eyelids crusted in blood, underneath I somehow knew the eyes were a golden brown.

"I get it, I remember, that's me."

The realization didn't bother me; I didn't feel any connection to the huddled thing on the ground. I didn't belong to it anymore. With a mental shrug, I turned away, and I was in a tunnel. An enormous dark place with the feeling of being vastly complicated somehow. As if space was folded or twisted. I was rushing through it. Flying. Points of light were whizzing by.

"Oh my gosh" I gasped

"This is the tunnel. This is happening! Now! To me. I'm really dead."

I felt a strange sense of unreality. The edges of myself were blurred as if somehow, I was a part of the tunnel, lights, and motion. I didn't have a body anymore.

"Could this all be happening in my head?" With that question, for the first time, I felt frightened. I had no control where I was going, and the tunnel had changed. There was a bright light up ahead.A bright light in a tunnel is a cliche for death. Avoid cliches at all costs. It was golden and brilliant. I expected to feel warmth and love from it, but all I could feel was pure awe. It was so big, so powerful, and so, just plain bright. It was like looking at the sun, and I was rushing towards it so fast, it was filling my vision.

I was in it. The light engulfed me. Surrounded me, seemed to shine through me. I was flying upwards through radiance like a swimmer surfacing. Then the feeling of motion faded, the light was getting less bright. Or maybe my eyes were adapting to it. Shapes solidified around me. I was in a meadow. The grass was fantastic. Not just green but a glowing ultra green, as if lit up from inside. The sky was the same kind of impossible blue. I was wearing a thin white robe that billowed around me. The bright colors made it seem like a dream.

"So this is what happens when you die." I looked around expecting to see someone to greet me. I was hoping it might be my older sister, who died at 19 years of age, by a drunk driver. I would love to see her again. But no one came. The landscape was beautiful, peaceful, unearthly, and completely deserted. I felt anxiety twisting again inside me.

"What if this place wasn't, the good place?"

I started pacing worriedly use adverbs sparingly, thinking about how I was never raised in a church and thus had never been baptized...

After all, I hadn't been particularly good in my life. What if this was actually hell? To be alone in a deserted meadow for eternity, would be hell. What if I was left here alone forever?

"Oh God, let me think of good thoughts, please."

A few feet away from me, above the grass was a sort of mist of light. It hadn't been there a moment ago. But now it seemed to get brighter as I watched, and to stretch from very far away. And there was a shape in it. Coming towards me.

At first, it looked like a speck, then like an insect in a light bulb, then like a kite. I watched, too frightened to run until it got close enough for me to realize what it was. It was a person. The figure seemed to shine as if made of the same light as the mists. It was tall and had the shape of a perfectly formed human. It was walking but somehow rushing toward me at the same time.

"An angel?" I wondered awed.

And then the mist cleared and the shining faded, the figure was standing on the grass in front of me. I blinked, not an angel. A man in a black coat. He looked to be about 30. He was tall, but that's not what I noticed. I couldn't look away from his eyes. They were black. Not just the iris, but the entirety of the eyes were engulfed in darkness.

The darkness of his eyes seemed to go on and on, the depths were endless. He had a face like a classic Greek sculpture. His hair was long for a man, but slicked back smoothly. He had on a black v-neck under his long black coat and jeans that looked oddly normal. He was well built without being over muscled. His expression uplifted. The smile mixed with those black eyes made me shudder.

After about a minute of silence, he took a deep breath in and spoke.

"It's been awhile since I've been this close."

"This close?" I asked rigidly.

"To heaven. This isn't heaven here of course. This is just limbo, but still, it's closer than I've been in a while. Usually, I don't need to go this far to get someone, but you faded fast."

I looked at him, not knowing what to think. "Why are you here?"

"I've come to help you" He smiled with what would have been a warm smile if it wasn't for those eyes.

"Help me?"

"You're supposed to move on from the world you know." That was when I began to notice the door. It was right behind the guy approximately where the mist had been. It was a door, but it wasn't. It was like the luminous outline of a door drawn faintly on thin air.

Fear crept back into my mind. Somehow I knew the door was important and that the door meant I would leave my father alone and never get to see what I could have made out of my life. What job I would have, a wife, kids. That door meant the end of everything and I wanted to run as far as I could away from it.

Whatever was behind that door was a different place. A world that I didn't know. Whatever was behind that door, had different laws, different rules of reality. It was so compelling and different that is was terrifying. The world behind that door was scary, life was scary too, but at least it was the world I could understand and fathom.

I thought, "I go through that door, and I don't come back." I was so frightened; I felt dizzy and sick.

"The thing is, it wasn't actually your time." The man with black eyes said quietly.

"But here you are. A mistake, but one we have to deal with."

"Can't you just send me back?!" I blurted out, stumbling back a few steps.

The corners of the man's lips went up slightly "I'm sorry, but your soul is already sealed to go through those doors. It's on the list." He materialized a clipboard out of thin air and tapped about half way down the page with his pen.

"You're right here." He turned the clipboard over, and I could see my name written in a slot in what looked like my hand writing. My eyes bulged with fear when I looked back up at the door and the loss it represented.

"Isn't there anything I can do?! Please, I can't leave. I'm only 17! I've never even kissed a girl, and I know I'll never get a chance in heaven!"

The man looked as though he was considering. I gazed at him, looking hopeful and waited.

"As I've said, your soul is on the list."

I looked down in defeat, thinking of my dad and what it will do to him when he finds out I'm gone. I was all he had ever since mom left us.

"However, just because your soul must go through the door, doesn't mean you have to."

I looked up instantly. "What are you talking about?" I asked hesitantly, not quite understanding.

"I'm not supposed to, but I could trick the system a bit. I could take a your soul, and you could go back."This is a good turn in the plot.

I looked up at the man with the black eyes full of curiosity and hope.

"However, I couldn't just take it right away, that could damage the precious soul. I'll have to take it gradually, over time. I would just take one-sixth of your soul for now; it's a small piece. I can send that through the door and take the other five pieces one by one later." He stared down at me reassuringly.

The man held his index finger against his chin. "Although, you'll need something in your soul's place to adapt you to the eventual total absence of having one."

"What can go in place of a soul?" I mumbled softly.

"A lilitu'sWhat is this? soul would protect you and make necessary adjustments to your body. I have one, but they are exceedingly rare, for me to give it to you, we'll have to make a deal."

"What sort of deal? I don't have anything."

He smiled "Dear boy; I wouldn't take anything from you. You've been through enough as it is. Let's just say; I may call on you for a favor or two sometime in the future.

"That'd be okay. So I can go back home?" I sounded uncertain even to my ears.

He tilted his head slightly "You might want to think your life over at this point."

I blinked, took a few steps away from him and stared across the supernaturally green grass. I tried to think about my life. If I had been asked this morning if I wanted to stay alive, it would have been no question, but now it felt a little scary either way. I couldn't tell if, seeing how I've come this far if I really wanted to go back. I had my father and hopes of the future, but is that enough to go back for? It's not as if I was anybody special there. Not athletic like Josh, or smart like my sister was, not brave, not talented.

Well, what else is there? What would I be going back to experience? My dad was drinking every day. So, he was asleep by the time I got home. I knew I would be facing loneliness because it was constant. I would continue to experience the longing for things I could never have. One of these was Jennifer, with her quizzical smile. Others were popularity, and love, and acceptance. I really wished I could have people think I was interesting and mature."

"Come on; there's got to be something good back there, right?" I thought to myself.

"Pizza, Raman noodles?" The man nudged.

I turned toward him. "Huh?"

"You like those. Especially on a cold day when you come inside. Dogs, roller blading, cinnamon toast with lots of butter, like your mom used to make when she was around and still got up in the morning. Evil monster movies."

I choked. I had never told anyone about most of those things.

"How did you know all that?"

He smiled. "We see a lot."

Then he sobered. "And don't you want to see more? Of life I mean. Isn't there anything left for you to do?"

Everything was left for me to do. I had never accomplished anything worth anything.

"But I didn't have much time." A small wispy voice inside me protested.

"I had time. I just wasted it." I said to myself again.

"Then don't you think you should go back and try again? The man stated in a gentle prodding voice.

"See if you can do a better job."

"Yes." All at once my body was filled with a burning, warm feeling. I felt revelation and purpose. I could do this. I could change completely. Turn my life in a whole new direction. Besides, there was my dad to consider. No matter how bad things have been, I couldn't abandon him as my mom did. He would get so much worse if his son suddenly died. He would blame himself. I suddenly had the feeling the man in black was listening to my thoughts. I tried to quell the feeling. I did have a new perspective on life. I knew now that the worst thing you could do was waste it.

I looked at the man. "I want to go back."

He nodded and gave that unnerving smile again. "I thought you would."

His voice was so smooth now like butter, there was a quality in it like, infinite understanding, like he was talking to one of his own children.

He held out the clipboard with the pen resting on it.

"This is for our arrangement. Your soul, for a Lilitu one and your services upon my request. You can just go ahead and sign at the bottom."



I took the clipboard. The writing on it wasn't English, but as I looked at it more closely, it appeared to be Latin. My hand shook as I signed my name in dark red ink on the line.









***********************************************************Possible start of chapter two.




I had several odd impressions all at once.

The first was of being. unfixed. Detached from my surroundings. A falling feeling.

The second was of something coming at me.

It was coming very fast from some direction I couldn't point. A place that wasn't defined by up or down or left or right. And it felt massive and winged, the way a hawk's shadow must feel to a mouse.

I had a wild impulse to duck.

But it wasn't necessary. I was moving, falling away. Rushing backward through the tunnel, leaving the meadow-and whatever was coming at me-behind. The huge thing had only registered for an instant on my senses, and now, whizzing back through the darkness, I forgot about it.

Later, I would realize what a mistake this had been.

For now, time seemed compressed. I was alone in the tunnel, being pulled down like water down a drain. I tried to look at my feet to see where I was going and saw something like a deep well beneath me.

At the bottom of the well was a circle of light, like the view backward through a telescope. And in the circle, very tiny, was a boy's body lying on the grass.

"My body," I thought and then before I had time to feel any emotion, the bottom of the well was rushing up toward me. The tiny body was bigger and bigger. I felt a tugging pressure. I was being sucked into it-too fast.

Way too fast. I had no control. I fit perfectly in the body, like a hand slipping into a mitten, but with a jolt, my vision went black.

Oooh. Something hurts.

I opened my eyes-or tried to. It was as hard as doing a pull-up. On the second or third attempt, I managed to get them open a crack. Whiteness scattered about. Dazzling. Blinding. Where . . . ? Is it snow? What am I doing lying down in the snow? Images came to me. Josh. The back of my head. Being beaten. Being so cold . . .

After that. I couldn't remember. But now I knew what hurt. Everything. I can't move.

My muscles were clenched tight as steel. But I knew I couldn't stay here. If I did, I'd.

Memory burst through me. I died already.

Strangely, the realization gave me strength. I actually managed to sit up. As I did, I heard a cracking sound. My clothes were glazed with solid ice.

Somehow I got to my feet. I shouldn't have been able to do it. My body had been beaten and broken.

But I was standing. I could even shuffle a step forward.

Only to realize I had no idea which way to go.

I didn't know what road this was.

Worse, it was dark. I could barely see my tracks.

"So, you're my new master huh? You seem kinda weak for an demon."

The voice was behind my left ear. I turned that way as sharply as my rigid muscles would allow, even though I knew I wouldn't see anything.

I didn't recognize the young girl's voice.

"Hello?" My voice seemed unfamiliar. Smooth, like honey. With an unmistakable fear and confusion to it.

"Is someone there?" I waited unmoving. My ears not expecting a response. But then it came. Not in my ears, but in my head.

"How'd you get my soul anyway? It's not something the boss just hands out to anyone. He usually likes to keep me close."

At the sound of the young girl's voice inside my head, I jumped and made it about four running steps before face planting in the snow; banging my head on a branch on my way down.

"Woah now, relax! And please watch your step, that hurt. Now that I was forced share my soul with you, we're also sharing this feeble body and the stupid pain. I'll have to make some improvements..."

I laid there, face in the snow, unmoving. The echoing of the girl's voice in my head was too much. I felt lost for words and couldn't speak.

"A girl is talking in my head," I repeated in my mind panicking.

"Obviously," she scoffed.

The voice ringing again in my mind again made me jump up, ignoring my painful bodies refusals.

"Please stop talking," I said out loud to the voice.

Cold, scared, and in pain, I peered around hoping to spot something familiar. I recognized nothing. It seemed to be getting even colder, and my body racked with shivers.



I felt dizzy and fatigued. I contemplated laying back down in the soft snow.

"You see that light post shining from behind that tree? Walk to it."

Her voice was commanding and serious.

Not caring anymore about the weirdness of the voice, I obeyed numbly.

After that came a long time of stumbling and staggering, over branches, around trees, on and on. It seemed to last forever, but always there was the voice in my head guiding me, encouraging me. It kept me moving when I thought I couldn't possibly go another step.

And then, at last, the voice said, "Just up this hill and you'll find the main road."

In a dreamlike state, I climbed the hill.

And there it was. The road. By the light of the lamp post, I could see it meandering down a hill.

But it was still almost a mile to my house, and I couldn't go any further.

"You don't have to," the voice said gently. "Look up the road."

I saw headlights.

"Now just get in the middle of the road and wave."

I stumbled out and waved like a mechanical doll. The headlights were coming, blinding me. Then I realized that they were slowing.

"We did it. You saved me" I gasped, dimly aware that I was speaking out loud. "They're stopping."

"Of course they're stopping. You did a great job. You'll be all right now."

There was no mistaking the note of finality.

The car stopped now. The driver's side door was opening. I could see a dark figure beyond the glare of the headlights. But in that instant what I felt was distress. Distress at being alone in my thoughts.

"Wait, don't leave me. I don't even know who you are-"

"Just call me Ari."

Then the voice was gone, and all I could feel was anguish.

"What are you doing out-Hey, are you okay?" The new voice broke through my emptiness. I had been standing rigidly in the headlights; now I blinked and tried to focus on the figure coming toward me.

"God, of course, you're not okay. Look at you."

It was Stella.

The knowledge surged through me like a shock, and it drove all the strange hallucinations I'd been having out of my mind.

It was Stella, as close as she'd ever been to me.

Dark hair. A slim face that still had traces of a summer tan. Cheekbones to die for and eyes to drown in.

A certain confidence and a half-friendly, half-quizzical smile...

Except that she wasn't smiling now. She looked shocked and worried.

I couldn't get a single word out. I just stared at her.

"What hap-No, never mind. We've got to get you warm and then to a hospital."

At school she was thought of as an independent rebel, only ever talking to her best friend, Conner. But, now, without any hesitation, the girl wrapped her arms around me.

Confusion flashed through Me, then embarrassment-but underneath it all was something much stronger. An odd bedrock sense of safety. Stella was warm and stable, and I knew instinctively that I could trust her. I could stop fighting now and relax.

"Put this on ... watch your head. Here, use this for your face." Stella was somehow getting everything done at once without hurrying. Capable and kind. I found myself inside the car, wrapped in a too small jacket, with an old towel around my shoulders. Heat blasted from the vents as Stella gunned the engine.

It was wonderful to be able to rest without being afraid it would kill me. Bliss not to be surrounded by cold, even if the hot air didn't seem to warm me. The worn beige interior of the Civic looked like paradise.

I was beginning to feel very fuzzy.

"I thought I'd fight a bear," I said, between chattering teeth. I was shivering again.

"What?"

"You asked what happened. I was bored, so I fought a bear."

She laughed out loud. "Huh. You're brave." Then she glanced at me sideways with keen eyes and added,

"What actually happened?"

She thinks I'm brave! A glow better than the heated air enveloped me.

"Josh Walker and his goons." This time there was a lot less humor in my voice.

"Wow. I've heard he had a history of violence, but this is insane. You should go to the police after I take you to the hospital."

"No hospital! Just take me home please."

She looked at me conflicted, "are you sure? You're covered in blood and frozen half to death."

"I'm sure. I just want to go to bed."

Speaking hesitantly she said, "if you're sure... Where do you live? I guess you're new to town?"

I stared at her confused and surprised. Sure we've never spoken, but we've shared classes since middle school.

"Just make a left down this street please."

"You look like you almost died" She looked back at the road, turning the car onto my street. "That happened to me once. When I was little, I had to have this operation."

She broke off as the Civic skidded on some ice. In a moment she was in control again and turning into my driveway.

Stella parked and was out of the car before I could gather myself to speak.

Then she was opening my door, reaching for me.

I peered up at her through a gap in her curtain of hair. Her eyes were green and typically looked, intimidating, but just now, as their gazes met, they changed. They looked startled and wondered. As if she saw something in my eyes that surprised her and struck a chord.

I felt a flutter of wonder myself. "I don't think she's intimidating," I thought, as something like a spark seemed to flash between us. She's not so different from me; Both she and I were wracked by a sudden bout of shivers.

Stella blinked and shook her head. "We've got to get you inside," she muttered.

And then, still shivering, she helped me up and walked me to the door.

"Here's my number. If you need anything, even a ride to school, text me."

"Thanks," I said numbly still holding the small receipt with her number written on it in my hand.

"I'll see you around," She said backing up with a half quizzical smile on her face.

"Ye-yeah, thanks again."

I hurried into my bedroom before my dad, who was drinking a beer on the couch, could ask any questions.

I fell on my bed and gathered an armful of the pillow. It was soft and friendly and filled my arm. I curled myself around it and bit down on plush.

And now, at last, I could cry. All the hurts of my mind and body merged, and I sobbed out loud, wet cheek on the pillow case.

I wished I'd never come back. I wanted the bright meadow with the impossibly green grass, even if it had been a dream. I wanted everyone to be sorry because I was dead.

All my realizations about life being important

were nonsense. Life was a giant hoax. I couldn't change myself and live in an entirely new direction. There was no new start. No hope.

"And I don't care," I thought. "I just want to die. Why did I get made if it was just for this?" There's got to be someplace I belong, something I'm meant to do that's different. Because I don't fit in this world, in this life. And if there isn't something more, I'd rather be dead. I want to dream something else.

I cried until I was numb and exhausted.

"Goodnight." A voice like sweet honey said in my head.

"Ari?" I thought back and fell into a deadly still sleep without knowing it.
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Review by Sailor661
Rated: 13+ | (3.5)
Same procedure, all my comments in color.

MANHATTAN

Steven Overholt



Chapter 3: Amerika

Sergey had-change tenses to not use this tense, it's passive never before felt this claustrophobic. He thought about If you are in close POV, you don't need this phrase. Begin the sentence with action. The reader will know.the time when, at the age of 15, he had tunneled out of St. Petersburg's Kresty Prison. He'd been cast into that hellhole as a "rabid young revolutionary" by Tsar Nicolas and had liberated himself using guile, ingenuity, and makeshift digging tools. While in prison he had been under the tutelage of fellow prisoner Leon Trotsky, whom Stalin had ordered murdered in 1940 as Trotsky was living in Mexico. It was that brutal event that first opened Sergey's eyes to Stalin's true nature. The sequence of events is out of order. He needs to be thrown in before he can tunnel out. Tell us what he did to demonstrate guile and ingenuity, not just that he used it.

There was also the time when, on a mission, Sergey had hidden in a locker for two days. But with a shudder he recalled the closest he had ever come to feeling this confined: That was when he'd been grabbed from his apartment in the middle of the night by the NKVD secret police. Bound tightly, then heaved through the air by a couple of thugs into the trunk of a sleek black sedan. That had last had I'm noting.occurred before the war and right after Russia had signed a non-aggression pact with Germany. After being crammed inside the trunk for 18 hours--the last six roasting like a goose under the August sun--he had been tossed into a dank, dark cell for over two years. Then Hitler attacked Russia and America became, instead of an enemy, an ally of convenience. Suddenly Sergey's knowledge of American culture had become useful, though it remained always a serious liability on his life.

No, Sergey thought, there's nothing that compares to the stinking confined spaces of a Soviet submarine; walkways lined with latrine buckets waiting to be dumped; crew that hasn't bathed since who-knows-when, and me POV switch with my fear of drowning.

Since he had transferred two days ago from a destroyer to a sub uninspiringly named L-3, Sergey had spent most of his time languishing in his quarters. In the stifling confines he could not avoid the wildly swinging wrecking-ball of losing Anna. His destruction was complete and it was real: a tornado that vacuumed up all the sorrow he could find and then hurled it out again, splattering blackness across the walls around him, stabbed by shards of his splintered soul. The whole mess got sucked in again and again, in an endless empty cycle of grief. You're mixing metaphors. Stick with building destruction or weather, not both. He sat for hours and steeped in it until it felt good to feel bad, just as he also steeped in the stench of the body sweat and body fluids of 52 angry young men. (Submariners aren't angry, we're solemn. LOL)

Abruptly he stood, then sat down, banging his elbows to his knees, squashing You changed verb forms in the middle of a sentencehis face against his hands. Stubble prickled his palms like Anna chafed his soul. New emotions punched through. Resentment. Anger. How can she be so disloyal? I POVwould have never turned her out. After an eternity of churning in another maelstrom, he stood, straightened his uniform, and spoke: "You're dead to me. I'll send money for the children, but you're dead to me now."

Outside his quarters, there was foul tension among the crewmembers, fresh off their sinking of the German refugee transport Goya in the Baltic Sea. That incident killed perhaps 7,000 civilians--women and children drowned screaming for life and flailing in the icy waters. Captain Konovalov and most of the crew felt that the Germans had it coming, but some of the junior officers and men considered it mass murder. Between bouts of his own depression, Sergey decided not to think about it. He had orders to carry out, as well as a most unpleasant fate to avoid if at all possible. I POVneed to focus on my own troubles right now, not the past problems of strangers--and of the enemy, no less--even if civilians. My head would explode if I POVdid that, there's been so much suffering in this world.

After three days spent mostly below the waves, surfacing only long enough to recharge its batteries every 24 hours, and just before the moonless midnight of June 10, 1945, the L-3 surfaced in service of Sergey's mission 300 meters off the coast of Nova Scotia, its shoreline bluffs barely visible in the dim starlight. After prowling (spotting? You don't say if they saw them.) south watching for a signal--three fires evenly spaced and decreasing in size from north to south--the sub came to a halt at the pre-arranged location. Sergey gripped his duffle bag on the deck of the L-3 and awaited the rowboat that was to take him ashore. He welcomed the fresh air, though frosty, as it blustered in from the iceberg-strewn North Atlantic. Captain Konovalov, scanning the whitecaps through his binoculars, first reported the approaching craft at about 100 meters out as it zeroed in on the flashlight beacon shone by one of three crewman atop the L-3.

As the rowboat pulled alongside, Sergey was unable to get a good look at the rower's face, since the man was facing the back of the boat. Something doesn't look right, Sergey thought. I don't remember Igor being that big, even with a heavy coat. The man just didn't seem to be his friend Igor Gouzenko. Sergey began walking along the deck to get a better look. A bright light flashed from a bluff about half-kilometer north along the shore, and a silvery shaft of light pierced the blackness and began sweeping the waves. Captain Konovalov stood transfixed for several seconds, then roared urgent orders while the three sailors scrambled for the turret. Sergey, bending to take a closer look under the rower's wide-brimmed hat, recoiled. That's not Igor! Just as the flight reflex began to flicker in his mind, Sergey felt the hard shove of a boot on his backside, tumbling headfirst into the rowboat. The sub pulled away full-speed-ahead and began to dive as the sweeping searchlight closed in.

Knocked nearly senseless, Sergey lay for most of the journey to shore at the bottom of the boat, eyes rolling. Groggily, he finally sat up rubbing his forehead. Barely able to see his captor in the darkness and through blurred vision, Sergey composed himself a bit and inquired: "Where is Igor," making his best attempt at nonchalance.
(What happened to the spotlight? Did the rowboat outrun it? It just disappeared. how did they get away?)
"He was late leaving the embassy. Important business," the man huffed between long, hard strains against the oars. "He sent me to pick you up. Huuuuh. He should be here shortly. Huuuuh. Maybe even up there on shore already. Huuuuh. I'm Maxim."

"Maxim who? Sergey prodded.

"I cannot say. Huuuuh. You should know that," came the curt reply.

Sergey, however, knew what awaited him on shore, and it was definitely not Igor. He formed a plan: I'll wait until we're nearly to shore, then throw him overboard and drown him. I can't use my pistol; not with that searchlight up there. Unable to swim, Sergey waited until he was sure the water was shallow enough to stand in. But he also had to be far enough from shore so that any rescuer would have a hard time reaching Maxim before he expired under the waves.

Staring at the man's back rocking rhythmically with each stroke, Sergey waited until Maxim leaned fully back, then pounced like a tiger across the boat, catching him completely unaware as he grabbed him around the neck and twisted back, attempting to flip him over the gunwale. Maxim, though, held tight to the oars, and instead of flying overboard, landed backwards atop Sergey. Struggling on his back under Maxim's great bulk, Sergey reached around the man's head to gouge his eyes. Without forward motion, the craft quickly washed sideways to the breakers and rolled violently, throwing them both into the icy water just as Sergey's probing fingers hit home.

As Sergey plunged in, he jolted stiff in the frigid water, but then oriented himself upright and thrust his feet down to stand up. Oh God, where's the bottom!? He barely had time to panic before feeling a great hand on top of his head, pushing down with shocking force. Just after he went under, his feet touched the rocky bottom. Thinking quickly Not necessary, he let himself be sunk without resistance until he was fully crouched, then shoved off as hard as he could, guessing at the location of Maxim's jaw and aiming his head for that point, connecting with a loud CRACK, opening a wide gash as a sharp pain ripped across his skull.(Who has the gash? How would Sergey know? What type of pain ripped across his skull?)

Gasping for the surface, Sergey sputtered as his head emerged, gulping a huge helping of bloody seawater. Again without footing, he was quickly taken under once more, this time grabbed by the front of his coat. He lashed punches into Maxim's stomach and groin, who was unable to defend himself while using his other hand to tread water. Just as Sergey's world began to spin out of control, his mind fighting desperately against the burst of his lungs aching for breath, Sergey felt the iron grip release. This time he instinctively pulled several strokes upward and toward shore before being caught and thrust under again like an untended bobber. But this time, no matter how hard he twisted, grabbed, and punched, he could not break free. The spinning and lung-bursting came much more quickly than before. Sergey's panic raged far wilder. This is it. Anna, I love you. Alexei, you are still here with me. He sent his last thoughts out through the ethers to his beloved life partner and deceased son.

Just as he wasAs he blacking out, but not before he had filled his lungs with frigid seawater (the seawater should come before blacking out - cause and effect, not effect and cause), Sergey felt a tight grip on the back of his collar and a mighty heave up to the surface. Angry shouts rose above the crashing waves and he soon felt sand and gravel grinding under his backside. He was hauled a few meters onshore and swiftly flipped on his stomach, facing downhill toward the sea. Powerful hands pushed up along his back. Snorting and choking, Sergey hacked up acrid seawater, forming a rivulet that slowly sank into the sand, leaving behind a glistening outline of mucous foam.

Igor Gouzenko, bent over Sergey after having arrived late at the rendezvous site and rescuing this one friend from the death-grip of another, realized with a start that the foam should not be glistening on this moonless night. He stared up to a point of light projecting its silvery beam from a headland about a half-kilometer north. "Help me get him up," he urged, panicky, as Maxim stood to the side, two hands pressed firmly against each side of his jaw. With a snap and a muffled scream he shoved it back into place.

Igor watched dumbfounded as the searchlight swept back out to sea as quickly as it had swept in. If I was that searchlight operator, I would have pulled the light away too, so I didn't alert my prey, Igor considered.

Maxim stepped closer, and as Igor rolled Sergey on his side, kicked Sergey squarely in the stomach. Sergey sprayed a retch of vomit and seawater across Maxim's boots. "There; I helped him get rid of some more water," Maxim taunted through gritted teeth.

I guess he had that coming, Igor admitted. "Come on. We have to assume we've been spotted," he advised in a low voice.

"Igor, is that you!?" Sergey choked.

"Of course it's me, you idiot. I told you I'd be here. You nearly got yourself killed. Maxim, how many men have you snuffed with your bare hands?"

"One too few!" he offered, busting loose an impish laugh, tugging Sergey up by the arms and then heaving him across his back. Sergey's torso swung limply upside-down as Maxim carefully picked his way up the rocky bluff, sometimes in a three-point crawl, while Sergey dribbled saltwater from his mouth and clothes and blood from his split-open head.

<><><><> Split the scenes using one # centered.

By the time Maxim arrived at the top of the bluff, Sergey had recovered enough to insist: "Put me down." Maxim obliged, and Sergey, taking a couple of woozy stumbles after being flipped right-side-up, followed Igor to his car. Waiting there, to his great surprise and even greater dismay, was the woman he had hoped to avoid on this trip: Julia, who was both Igor's wife and Sergey's former flame.

"Ohhh, look at your head," she exclaimed, stepping forward from her lean against the front fender, Igor's flashlight illuminating her jade-green eyes.

"I believe you know my ex-wife," Igor said, staring at his foot kicking the ground and fully expecting Sergey's stunned reaction.

"Ex-wife?"

"Yes, my darling; it's a long story and sometime we'll talk about it. But right now I've got to look at that nasty cut, we've got to stop the bleeding. Igor, can't you find a handkerchief or something?" As Igor turned away, Julia cupped her hands around Sergey's face, stood on her tiptoes, and bent his head down to inspect the gash in his scalp. She gave him a quick kiss on the forehead, dropped back to her heels, and stared straight into his eyes. Hands still caressing his face, she twice slowly nodded, eyes welling. (More tension, good.)

He couldn't kiss her now; if he started, he could never stop. (Used this same line in Chapter two.) Yet, it was a relief when Igor turned back their direction.

As Sergey lay in the back of Igor's car a few minutes later, he felt awkward having his head on Julia's lap while she applied pressure to stop the bleeding, even if she and Igor were now divorced. Maybe it's because they're divorced; he wasn't really sure. His eyes, however, followed the gentle sway of her bosom. It (What jostled?) jostled her long black hair as the car bumped along a gravel road at the beginning of a long drive to Ottawa. Her dye job, he knew, could never hide a personality that vied with her naturally flaming-red locks. As he lay, lost in his memories, he couldn't help but reach up and touch the distant past--running its silky softness through his fingers and drifting off to sleep.

<><><><>

In Ottawa the next evening, Sergey, Julia and Igor sat after dinner at a Formica-topped table with chromed steel legs, crowding the kitchen of the Gouzenko's modest home. Sergey looked approvingly at the remains of the best meal he had had in years: roast goose with mashed potatoes, a very fine red wine from California, of all places, and even a homemade cherry pie with ice cream for dessert. While the Soviets had been on near-starvation rations, he realized, the Canadians had only had to cut back a bit. Hiding a twinge of envy for his friend and his fortunate posting, he thanked his hosts profusely, speaking over the big-band reverberations of Glenn Miller's Chattanooga Choo-Choo chugging in from the living room.

Julia looked at her watch. "Oh my, it's nearly 9:00, I've got to go meet my contact. Don't wait up; I'll be late. Sergey, please, please won't you wake me before you leave? I couldn't bear it if I didn't get to say goodbye."

"I couldn't bear it either." Sergey shifted in his seat to watch as she grabbed a satchel off the cluttered counter and skittered across the kitchen, making choo-choo motions with her arms and hips. She drew open the door and threw her head back at the start of the word "Chattanooga." Glancing over her shoulder with a bright smile, she bent a leg at the knee, skirt draping over her calf, and posed for a moment like the happy housewives she had seen in magazine ads, then wafted out the door, pulling it shut with a bang.

A quick shriek jolted Sergey and Igor from their chairs. The door re-opened a crack; the hem of Julia's black skirt flitted out the gap, and a giggle sifted in.

Igor turned toward the living room with a frown. "I can't stand this song anymore, I've heard it so many times," he scowled as he hurried to turn off the phonograph.

"Well I love it. I've never heard it before. Play it again!"

Back came a gruff: "I can't hear myself think with that playing. We've got some serious thinking to do."

The instant Igor was re-seated, Sergey leaned across the table. "Isn't it hard living in the same house after you're divorced, even with separate bedrooms?" He (Who?) looked around nervously, got up and walked quietly to the door, then quickly opened it. As he peered out, he jerked his head back a bit, then cast a furtive glance over his shoulder toward Igor, who was bending to pick up his napkin. Sergey hesitated, then slowly closed the door; but he did not close his mouth, as his jaw hung slack (why?).

"I wouldn't put it past her," Igor nodded toward the door as he straightened back up while Sergey took his seat. "Well, yes, it's awkward, but we're so busy that we're hardly ever here at the same time. We've got to keep up appearances or they'll send her back to Russia. I'm tempted, but she is a help sometimes. Despite all her shortcomings, at least there's that." A dark frown furled his broad face. "I hate her so much, sometimes I'd like to..."

"We need to talk about my mission," Sergey abruptly changed the subject.

"Yes, about that." Igor quickly replied. Then, after a heavy sigh, a long pause, and a deep breath: "Well, I'm afraid I've got some bad news for you about that."

"Bad news?" Sergey drilled an anxious stare.

"Well, yes." Igor began to wrap his napkin tightly around his hand, squeezing his fingers until the tips bulged red, and looked out into the living room. "You see, today the ambassador came to my office. He never does that. He never comes to my office." He looked back to Sergey and began unwrapping the napkin. "That's unheard of. We always get summoned to his office. I knew something must be up. It was just before I came home. I didn't know how to tell you..."

"How to tell me what?"

"Well, it's very strange." Igor pushed his plate away from in front of him, laid the napkin out on the table and began smoothing it with firm strokes.

"Would you leave that alone!" Sergey reached across the table and snatched away the white distraction.

Igor smoothed his hair back on both sides of his balding head. "I'm not going with you. I can't go with you, I mean. I mean, I could go with you, but I've been ordered to report to Vancouver, British Columbia. It's on the Pacific Coast. Now that the war will be with Japan, Russia needs more agents out there. It won't be lax like it is here, Sergey; here where they let me set my own schedule and leave on vague 'missions' for weeks at a time. My assignment with you has been cancelled, and the station chief in Vancouver is a real drill sergeant. If I go AWOL for a few weeks from there it will cast suspicion on all those I work with, every one of them. You know how the system works, Sergey: collective punishment. You should know that better than anyone."

Igor paused, bowed his head, and made the sign of the cross upon his forehead and heaving chest. "God rest his soul, Sergey. God rest his beautiful soul."

Sergey stared numbly into space while he handed the napkin back to his friend, unable to hurt any more than he already did. "Alexei is an angel now. Alexei the angel." He stood abruptly and walked to the sink, staring down its drain hole.

"It's not your fault, Igor. Alexei and I both knew what he was getting into." Sergey turned, kicked his chair, and sat with head down and hands clasped above, elbows on the table, right leg bobbing underneath it like a sewing machine. He let loose four hard breaths in rapid succession, cheeks puffed and face reddening. He looked up and turned white as the realization hit him: Stalin must be on to me.

Just then the door popped open and in walked Julia. She closed it quickly and stood leaning back against it, hands behind her, staring off to the side at nothing, speaking as if speaking to no one. "It's very strange. My contact wasn't there to meet me."

"Maybe she had an emergency," Sergey offered.

Julia snapped her head to address him. "She's always exactly on time. I couldn't wait around too long because it seemed like I was being watched. I just had a funny feeling about it."

"You weren't followed back here, were you? Oh my God! If they find out we're not living in the apartment..."

"Igor! What do you think I am, an idiot? Of course I know what would happen. Stop treating me like some dumb broad. You always do that; that's your problem. And do I need to remind you, Mr. Spymaster, about the time that you..."

"Okay, Okay, why don't you two just stop it! That's not helping anything here."

Igor got up from the table and Julia flinched, stepping behind Sergey, grabbing his shoulders.

Igor glared at her, gritting: "I ought to," tilting his head and shaking it slightly.

"Ought to what?" Sergey challenged.

Igor shifted focus: "I ought to go down to the embassy and check through some files."
He looked at Sergey, then turned and strode toward the door, tossing his head toward Julia, who had moved around the table from him as he did. "I think she's looney, but I have an idea about what may have caused my sudden reassignment. He grabbed his car keys. "Now you two don't do anything naughty while I'm away."

As the door slammed, Julia took two quick steps and bent over Sergey from the side, arms around his neck, head just under his chin, sobbing: "You see? You see why I couldn't take him any longer?" Igor (I thought he left) closed his eyes slowly and inhaled deeply of his favorite perfume.

Sergey scooted back from the table and she turned to sit on his lap, arms embracing tighter around his neck, forehead now on his shoulder, tears wetting his shirt. He sat with both hands white-knuckle gripping the rear chair legs; resisting; resisting. She lifted her head, turned more toward him, and pressed her chest against his. "Julia... Anna!"

She pushed away, pressing her hands against his shoulders and staring straight into his eyes with such a look of shock that it took him by surprise. "What?" he asked.

"Igor didn't tell you!? Oh, I didn't think he would." She wiped both cheeks and composed herself, taking a heavy breath and letting it out long while she turned her head toward the window.

Twisting it back suddenly to face him, she deftly employed her training on how to avoid the telltale signs of lying: "Sergey, I have some bad news for you." She threw her arms around him again and drew herself close. "I can comfort you." Just a bit, Sergey relaxed his grip on the chair legs.

"Sergey, Anna is no longer with us. While you were at sea, she was killed by an unexploded bomb. We got the news two days ago. Igor doesn't want you to know because of your mission. He thinks it will distract you, but I know you're stronger than that. You carry on despite anything. You've always been so strong-willed. So obedient to authority, no matter how rotten the authority."

Sergey's hands went limp, hanging like dead weights at his sides. In his mind, he had already lost Anna--already grieved and cried and gotten over it on his own. But now he needed comfort; he was not nearly as strong as Julia had just made him out to be.

After having wrung out the very last acrid drop of sorrow he had in him, he had also already imagined a new life without Anna--A new life just like this, he realized, though now absent the guilt of coveting a friend's wife. As his hands were halfway through their tentative, halting rise, Julia pushed back once more on Sergey's shoulders. He once more gripped the chair, but this time only lightly. She got up and motioned to the living room. "Come, let's put on some music," she beckoned. "You'll really love Glenn Miller's In the Mood, it will take your mind off of things."

Sergey looked around nervously, got up, and walked quietly to the door, and then quickly opened it a crack. As he peered out, he jerked his head back, then was shoved against a cabinet behind him as the door was blasted open from the other side and a black-haired man rushed in from the darkness. (Use shorter sentences to signify action.) Sergey bounced off the cabinet and slipped to the floor, putting both feet up as the man lunged (to where?). Julia screamed like a banshee. Clearly startled, the man turned around to slam the door. Sergey jumped to his feet. He and Julia rushed the man just as he again looked their way. Julia got there first, and the man dodged a carving knife she swung at his neck, giving Sergey an opening to knee him in the groin. As he doubled over, Julia brought the knife down hard in the middle of his back.

Sergey, seeing Julia's knife buried through the man's coat nearly to the handle, grabbed her arm, opened the door, and pulled her through as he looked back and forth trying to decide where to run. "Over there," Julia huffed as she pointed to the house across the street.

"That was Fyodor!" Sergey exclaimed.

"Who?"

"Fyodor. Fyodor Gouzenko."

"I think it broke."

"Broke?" What broke?" Sergey huffed as they sprinted up the driveway across the street.

"The knife. I think it broke. I don't think I killed him."

Sergey threw a glance over his shoulder, seeing nobody behind them.

Julia pulled him along as he slowed down. "Quick. Around back. It's my friends' house. They're in Florida. The key's under the mat."

After letting herself and Sergey in through the back door, Julia ran to the front window and peeked through a crack between the curtains. "He's coming out," she said as Fyodor stumbled out the door on the right side of her red-brick bungalow and onto the driveway alongside it. He looked around, then ran down the street several houses to her right and banged on the driver-side window of a long black car parked along the curb. Fyodor made agitated gestures to roll down the window, pointed toward Julia's house, threw his hands up in the air, then punched through the window before running around and getting inside. The car slowly pulled away from the curb, and Julia ducked as Fyodor and his accomplice came past, their heads turning this way and that.

"He's very good and quite dangerous. He'll find us if we stay here." Sergey assured her, thinking of the puddle they stepped in just before they ran up the dry driveway.

"Why is there a car in the driveway if your friends aren't here?" Sergey wondered.

"It's Martha's dad's. He's too old to drive and they just keep it here. We could take it." Julia swept her hair out of her face with one hand and pointed to the side of the back door with the other. "The keys are hanging right there. She wouldn't mind, not if she knew why I had to take it."

Sergey hustled toward the door. "Let's get out of here. You drive. I better hide in the back. He didn't get a good look at you, but if we pass them and I'm driving, we're done for."

Julia twisted her hair up into a bun, then put the key in the ignition and turned it, only to be met with a sickly: "wuhr, wuhr, wuhr, wuhr." Sergey stuck his head up, but ducked again as he saw in the rearview mirror a set of headlights pass the house and turn into the driveway behind them. Julia glanced from the ignition to the rearview mirror. "I see it, just stay there," she said as she pulled off her glasses and opened the door, walking back to the car with a firm gait.

She strolled up toward the passenger's side, feigning delight as she approached, and leaned in as Fyodor rolled down the window. "Don't I know you?" she asked.

"No," Fyodor quipped.

"Yes, yes. The Soviet Embassy! I work at the bank across the street. You hailed a cab. I don't think you saw me. I was trying to get that cab."

"No, surely not me," he stuttered in his best Canadian accent as he rolled up the window and motioned to the driver. As the car backed out, Julia threw her hands up as if wondering what was going on. With a startle she noticed her and Sergey's wet footsteps still imprinted up the middle of the driveway. A couple of quick steps to the right and she was standing over them vigorously waving goodbye, beaming a big smile and bobbing up and down on her tiptoes.

Fyodor averted his gaze.

"Well, he's not that good," Julia exclaimed as she slid behind the wheel, turning the key and pumping the gas pedal with the same result as before.

"It's probably flooded now," Sergey explained as he poked his head up and shot a glance out the back window.

"You think I don't know that?" came her retort.

Feisty. That's what attracts me, he thought as he opened the door and hurried around front to open the hood. After a few nervous minutes he called: "Try it now," to a welcome, "vroom, vroom, vrooooom." As he was climbing into the car, Julia shifted into reverse, backed out of the driveway, and accelerated down the street.

After a few minutes, Sergey sat up in the back seat, catching Julia's gaze in the rearview mirror. "Well, I guess it's you and me," the two declared in unison. As they erupted in laughter, he climbed into the front.


Like with chapter two, you have a good story going here. Spend some time polishing your sentences and getting rid of words that aren't necessary to telling the story. Also, watch the tense and POV. Stay with on POV each chapter and stay with past tense except in dialogue. The tension builds well and you leave each chapter with several places to take it. You do well with dialogue. If you have any questions about my comments, please let me know. Sailor661
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I'll make comments in the text in color and might add overall comments at the end.

MANHATTAN

Steven Overholt

Chapter 2: Goodbye to Anna

"No, not Gouzenko! That can mean only one thing." Anna Mirov sank onto a kitchen chair. She pressed her fingertips against her lips and shook her head, a look of terror welling up with her tears. Good opening sentence. Now I'm intrigued.

Sergey could trust Anna, his partner of 21 years, with the most top-secret information, even though they had never participated in the bourgeoisie institution of marriage, and even though they could get the firing squad.Try to not repeat the same phrase "even though" so close together. But there were so many ways to die an untimely death in the Soviet Union. A few of them flitted through his mind in a parade of doom: the hangman's noose; a stab in the back; blown to bits; cholera; starvation. It's pointless trying to avoid it. It would even be better that way, if not for the children. "He said Gouzenko, but he didn't say which Gouzenko." Sergey pointed out with a strained smile. "Igor..."

"Yes... Igor Gouzenko!" Anna jumped up and raised both hands toward the ceiling, cutting him off as if desperately waiting to hear him say the name.

"Shhhh. You'll wake the babies," Sergey gently chastised as he heard a couple of them babble in the dining room.

Since there was no door between the kitchen and dining room, the Mirovs kept the youngest of their group in the dining room. It was their only way to have private conversations. The older ones slept behind closed doors and filled the rest of the Mirov's humble abode. Cliche.

"How many do we have now?" Sergey wondered aloud.

"Just the babies, or all of them?" Anna replied.

"All of them, I guess, though I'm almost afraid to ask."

"Well, there's the six infants, plus four more under ten years old, and four between ten and sixteen."

"I don't know how you do it, even with the older ones helping," Sergey sympathized, shaking his head as he opened one cupboard, then the others, searching The reader can see he's searching.. "Isn't the food situation getting any better? Even a bit?" He closed the last door having counted only three loaves of black bread, one kilo of dried beans, and two cabbages. "You'd better be eating, Anna. You'll be no use to the children starved to death, now will you?" he reasoned. He knew, though, the futility of appealing to her self-preservation, or even of appealing to his need for her preservation, when compared to the needs of the kids.

For the past several years, the Mirovs had judged the number of children that they were able to keep by the starkness of the kids' ribs and the degree to which their bellies distended. Anna reasoned that as long as they were kept alive, they would get to eat after the war was over, as it had now been for a few weeks. If she ever noticed that her charges were gaining much weight, she would bring in another mouth to share the "bounty" provided by her husband's meager and erratic Red Army salary.

During four nightmarish years of writhing in a slaughterhouse, Russia had lost over 20 million dead. Countless children had been orphaned, and food had been more a dream than a reality. But the Mirovs had not figured on the shortages lasting this long after Germany's defeat, though it now seemed so obvious. It was also clear that months or even years would pass before things returned to normal, if there ever was such a thing as normal in long-suffering Russia.

But at least we've turned the corner, Sergey considered. His often-battered optimism rose up and caught him by surprise. Germany was destroyed and the Americans had so badly degraded the Japanese forces that Japan posed no real threat to the Motherland. For a long time, everything had seemed so hopeless as the Nazis had raged across the Soviet Union. Especially grim was October 1941, when Anna had toiled with hundreds of thousands of other women and children, desperately heaping up dirt and building fortifications. Their hands, unprotected and bloodied, were quite literally worked to the bone. Thinking about those times, Sergey stared in a daze, his eyes fixed on Anna's face. It was tender as the day he met her, but as gaunt as he'd ever seen. His mind blurred away the present, instead harvesting the feasts and famines of 21 years. Back when she filled out that slender dress, she was a glory, a goddess, and a temptress bursting those seams.

"You said Igor Gouzenko's still with our embassy in Canada," Anna offered, bringing Sergey back to the business at hand. "He could get you into the U.S. But what about Fyodor Gouzenko? Won't Stalin find out he's not with you?"

"I've got that taken care of." Sergey assured her, allaying her concern and nearly assuaging his own as well. He turned and quickly opened the door to the living room, poking his head in to see if the younger teenagers were asleep. He closed it without a peep from the well-oiled hinges.

"I will need an assistant in America, though." His eyebrows raised and his head tilted just a bit. "Do you know that the Americans have put their Japanese citizens in concentration camps? Well, they have. Some of those camps are near Los Alamos, where the atom bomb is being built. There's even one in Santa Fe, only 40 kilometers away from there. And can you believe this?" His excitement skittered off his tongue: "That camp holds Japanese that have renounced their U.S. citizenship and are considered loyal to the Emperor. I'm sure I can recruit someone from there to help, once they learn what is going on right under their noses. Those Americans amaze me. So smart but so stupid! We have spies in the U.S. Department of Justice that runs the camps. I'll be getting some names and dossiers tomorrow before I leave."

Sergey again opened and closed the living room door. "Igor's here in Moscow. He's returning to Canada tomorrow, but he said security is too tight over there and he can't get me on a flight. Well, I can get on a flight, it's getting off that would be the problem," Sergey joked to a flat response from Anna--a reminder that now was not the time for levity. He straightened up and continued: "I've made arrangements to put ashore from one of our submarines that patrols the North Atlantic. Igor will be waiting for me at an arranged location. It may be a bit risky, but..."

Sergey stopped speaking without closing his mouth, his attention grabbed by a vase of flowers he had picked while striding up the walk to surprise Anna at the front door earlier that day. He half-leaned, half-fell back against the counter beside the sink. Turning around slowly, his gaze was drawn down the sink's drain hole. That's my future, he recognized with a sigh. Good metaphor. The support of his arms against the counter hunched his shoulders, while his head hung so low that Anna could no longer see it from behind.

"What?" Anna asked in a low, serious tone. It's better to describe her facial expressions than how she said something. Show instead of tell.

Sergey spun around, then leaned back again, his hands resting behind him on the lip of the sink. He gently pushed off as he pulled his gaze up from the floor and straight into her sapphire allure, taking two stumbling steps to reach her and catching her just as she began turning away. Anna had never before seen such an ominous look in Sergey's eyes; and never, in fact, in anyone's eyes. You shifted from Sergey's POV in last paragraph to Anna's in this paragraph. Some would call it head-hopping.

"What?" Anna pulled back hard as Sergey's arms swept around her chest. "No!"

"Anna, listen to me now: You must have a bag always packed and be ready to leave on a moment's notice. Go to my brother Vasily's dacha on the Black Sea. He will take care of you. Make sure you have someone to watch the children until they can be put into an orphanage."

"What? Why?" Anna blustered, burying her face against him and pounding her palms against his shoulders, tearing at the shoulder-boards of his green uniform.

"Anna, my greatest danger in the U.S. will not be the Americans, but Stalin's agents. Our dear 'Papa Joe' is planning to have me eliminated. My trip is just a ruse to divert the Americans from the actual team." He placed his hands on both sides of her head and began to turn it up and toward him, urging against her straining neck muscles. Then, with a sharp twist that surprised him, she met his gaze like a deer in the headlights.

He couldn't kiss her now; if he started, he could never stop. And so he just continued--no secrets; that was their agreement. "Soviet agents will either expose me to the Americans as a spy or kill me and make a show of how they prevented a 'rogue' Soviet from disrupting the atomic bomb project. Anna, settle down. Anna, the children! Yes, it's a crazy idea. The Americans will never fall for it, but by then it will be too late for me."

As Sergey poured out the grim news, Anna became increasingly distraught and agitated, until he had to spin her around and clench her rail-thin form--draped in that loose tattered dress--tightly from behind. He scuffled against her thrashing, pinning her arms with his left arm, and cupping his right hand over her mouth to keep her from waking the children. As she calmed down, Sergey relaxed his grip. A few seconds later, she went limp and crumpled toward the floor. With a startled grunt, Sergey threw his left arm around her back, scooped his right forearm under her knees, and lifted, turning her upper body toward him. Anna's head rolled against his shoulder. Her eyes stared up at him, streaming.

Gently touching his lips to her reddened forehead, tasting the salt of his own tears, he fell back with her, slumping against a cabinet. A pointed knob raked up his back as he slid down. He pressed back hard against it after he banged against the floor. "Anna... Anna... This may be the last I'll ever see you. I don't want to remember you crying. Be strong. Strong my little lily... stronger than me."

Her sobs softened and melted into the rhythmic breaths of slumber. He shifted off of the cabinet knob and sat back with her head on his lap. He stared across the kitchen to the window, up at the clock, and down at Anna. Then it was back to the clock. I really need to get some sleep before I leave at 4:00 AM. This sentence jumped to first person present tense.He shut his eyes for a few minutes, opened them, stared at the clock, rolled his head side-to-side. Each time he closed his eyes, they sprang wide again ten minutes later.

As he watched the clock pass 3:30, though, Anna's voice startled him: "Don't go."

Sergey sat silently for a moment, then slapped his hands to his head and contorted his face as if wood slivers were being shoved under his fingernails. She would see this, not him. You've jumped to her POV. Tell how he feels, not how he looks.Staring up at the ceiling and then scrunching his eyes, he said the awful words: "I have to go."

"Don't come back."

It was no surprise. He recalled the many times this issue had been discussed, argued, and fought over--sometimes physically. Anna seemed to lose her sanity every time he came home and then had to leave. It doesn't didn't matter to her that I'm a colonel in the military and took an oath of obedience. She had even suggested that they run off somewhere together. It's crazy, he thought. Sshe's so giving to the children, but so possessive of me.

Anna's voice rose: "Stalin's trying to have you killed, for God's sake! Yet still you do anything he tells you. I can't take this anymore."

At 4:00 AM Sergey slowly closed the door behind himself, leaning back against it for a moment. This time she really means meant it, he knew. The stress is just too much. I can't keep doing this to her. Present tense, first person. He would never be back, he realized. Arriving at his car, he took a long last look at his home as a pale orange glow silhouetted it from the east.

You've provided an intriguing story with good tension between Sergey and Anna and tension that he thinks he's to be killed. The biggest problem I see are your changes in POV and changes in tense. Tell the story from either Sergey's or Anna's POV and keep everything except dialogue in past tense. I didn't mark them, but try to replace every verb that has an adverb with a stronger verb and no adverb. Also, eliminating forms of "to be" and "to have" make the sentence stronger. They're too passive. Remember, just my opinions. Hope they help.
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Review by Sailor661
Rated: 13+ | (3.5)
The Lieutenant Wore Stripes

Extract from Daily Journal entry of Staff Sergeant Gene Huff, November 22, 1968

Today, well at least the last twenty-four hours, can best be described as the worse day in my short life thus far. It began when Colonel Hunt called me into the headquarters tent well before dawn. This was an unexpected call as my platoon was on stand-down and scheduled to have the day off - our first full day of rest in thirteen days.

Colonel Hunt informed me that an urgent and very important mission had developed over-night (sp no hyphen) and, as leader of the Reconnaissance Platoon, I was the one best qualified to undertake the mission. Despite my pleading looks and frazzled appearance, he was in no mood to offer pity and consolation.

The mission would be carried out regardless of the fact that (wordy, try even though)my platoon was tired, and resembled a rag-tag bunch of military rejects. The Colonel was well aware that we had fought in four major battles and undertook three long range (sp) reconnaissance missions over the past two weeks, and we had yet to receive replacements in men, materials and weapons.

The mission, he explained, was sent down from above, from Division Headquarters. The Division Commander had been informed by G-2, the Intelligence guys, (We call them oxy morons) that a division size force (confusing phrase, division alone should work well of the enemy, Regulars not Viet Cong, was allegedly hiding out in the Hobo Jungles and waiting for supplies, reinforcements, and ammunition to catch up to them before staging a major attack on our Base Camp at Cu Chi.

I was further informed that all LRRP (Long Range Reconnaissance Patrol) teams from Base Camp were deployed on other urgent operations and unavailable for this vital mission. “Carry-out this mission and I will see to it that your platoon gets a full three-day stand-down in Base Camp when it’s over,” the Colonel grinned.
The truth be known, I had no choice in the matter. What’s that old cliché, “Ours is not the reason why!” Yep, that sums it up nicely. This section, both paragraphs, might be improved with dialogue between the Sgt and Col. I know you can imagine how it would go.

We had less than an hour to saddle-up, as the old cavalry expression goes. Meaning that I had to issue the five paragraph field order explaining the situation, mission, equipment, command and signal, logistics and transportation, attachments and detachments, and the execution thereof, and, my Platoon Sergeant and I had to bust our humps to get the men ready.

The greatest thing about my platoon is(changed to present tense) that we don’t have to adhere to the strict regulations that the ordinary line rats or ground pounders must maintain. We wear tiger stripe fatigues, shave only so often, and do not bathe on a regular basis. In reality, we want to smell more like the enemy than our friendly counterparts. It makes a very big difference out in the boonies. After shave, Camay Soap, beef jerky, and beer farts will let the enemy know who you are and where you’re from very quickly. (would things about his platoon, that he knows, be in a journal?)

My platoon of forty-three consists of the greatest guys you’d ever want to know. How ironic that at the age of twenty-two, I am called the “Old Man.” I know it’s an endearing military term for “The Leader,” but there are only two others in the platoon older than me and not by much. Practically everyone is eighteen or nineteen.

I noted 43 (spell numbers) in my platoon; I lost six men over the past 8 days, 2 KIA and 4 WIA so I’m down to 37. Bummer! Good men, good friends, brave soldiers. At least two of the WIA’s will rejoin the platoon in a few weeks, their wounds were not that serious, the other two – they’ll be on the freedom bird heading home soon. Some call it, Million Dollar Wounds, but missing limbs and legs are worth more than a million dollars, if you ask me.

Normally a Lieutenant would be in charge of my platoon, however, qualified lieutenants are in short supply and those few available have pulled strings to stay in Base Camp. Base Camp warriors, we call them. This is my third tour of duty in the bush, and I already have enough experience to qualify as a Company Commander. Sergeants are not officers, unfortunately. Our rank system is based on the old European system, wealth, not the Roman Centurion system, ability.

We flew out on an Eagle Flight at six this morning, my 185th flight if I have counted them correctly. Eagle Flight is what we called a string of UH1h Helicopters (Slicks or Hueys) that act as our cavalry mounts and carry us into the battle, or a close proximity thereof (sounds like a lawyer term). We receive (be specific, I've received eight air medals.)an Air Medal for so many flights; I think I have a bucket full of them.

I selected eleven of my men for this mission, primarily those who appeared more rested than the others; therefore we barely needed two of the adorable choppers. Within two hours we were rappelling down long bumpy ropes into thick jungle canopy. The nearest clearing was 12 clicks (kilometers) away and that would be our extraction point after we completed our reconnaissance.

I strictly adhere to the Army Ranger Code and Ranger way of doing things. After designating our extraction point, our movement to contact was a classic example of maneuver, establish rally points, maneuver some more, establish another rally point, and so on. We established rally points after each mile in the jungle because it is so dense. The reason for them is, if we are ambushed, the patrol will scatter and each man knows to gather at the last rally point and if that is not possible go to the one before that, and so forth.

After several hours in the jungle (,) we located our first group of the enemy. A battalion size force was camped on the west side of a steep jungle ridge using a meandering stream to refill their canteens and to eat their fishy smelling rice. These guys never use purification tablets yet they seldom get a case of diarrhea, which runs rampant with us if we drink unpurified water. I guess their systems are adapted to the bugs.

After a few more hours (,) we located and identified at least three separate brigade size units, the proof that Headquarters needed to verify previous intelligence reports. These were all North Vietnamese Regulars and most had brand new equipment and uniforms indicating they were fresh replacements from the north; mean, lean, full of fighting spirit and ready to eat some GI’s for dinner.

I ordered my Platoon Sergeant, we call him The Jolly Green Giant, to make a run to the North with his four men and meet me at the extraction point afterwards to share his intel with me. I decided to move the other five men and myself to the West to check out that direction. I don’t often split a patrol, however, there was far too much territory to cover before our designated extraction time at twenty-hundred hours and we needed to find and identify the veteran units these new recruits were scheduled to join up with.

Around fifteen-thirty hours we finally found the missing veteran brigades, unfortunately, while trying to extract from the area, we were spotted by one of their forward scouting patrols. The guy must have been hanging up in a tree with a spotting scope or one of my guys let out a GI fart.

All hell broke loose. They sent two or three company size units into the bush to flush us out. After yelling, “Last rally point!” we took off like a bat out of hell or, as if old Beelzebub himself was chasing us, which, in fact, he was. There was no need for stealth, since Charlie knew we were there, speed was our only hope.
When I finally hit the last rally point, one man, Bongo Belly, was unaccounted for. He was a fast runner (,) but he had a tendency to get lost on occasion. Going by the rules, I ordered the patrol to head for the next rally point. We tried to stay together at first, but when Charley started to out-flank us, we had to take to our heels again.

By the time I hit the next rally point, I was the only one to show up. I thought perhaps my men had lost their way, but then I remembered they were Rangers, they never get lost. I silently prayed that the enemy didn’t catch them. Charlie can do some awful things to a person’s body before they beg to die.

I waited for over ten minutes with no one filtering into the area. With all the running and yelling and shooting and tracer rounds coming our way, I finally realized it was getting dark.(You realized it was getting dark because of all the yelling and shooting and tracers? It just doesn't follow. And drop realize. Say something like the air was filled with yelling, shooting, and running. Tracers appeared brighter as the sun retreated.) I was just about to head for the next rally point when a tree next to me exploded. One second it was there, the next it was trying to beat me to death. Obviously, an RPG (Rocket Propelled Grenade) meant for me had hit the tree and the resulting fragments were like wooden shrapnel.

I fell down a slight embankment into a muddy stream, with the bells of Saint Mary’s going off in my head. I don’t know how long I lay there, but, when I came to it was dark and I was almost submerged in the stream. There were lights all around me and I could hear enemy soldiers running and splashing in the immediate the area.

At least I could hear, thank goodness. I could also feel and knew for a fact that I had splinters in my scalp, a pain in my shoulder, and creepy-crawlies covering my body just about everywhere. Just as I squirmed into a sitting position, one of the enemy soldiers screamed and ran in my direction. His flashlight zeroed in on me, and he suddenly appeared with a wide grin and shining eyes, jabbering wildly as if he had won a night with Miss America.

To say the least, he had just ruined my day. I could tell he was a green recruit by the way he held his AK and by the fear in his eyes. He made a lunge at me with his bayonette, but I managed to turn my head enough so that it only pierced my cheek and knocked a few side teeth loose. He was preparing for another lunge when suddenly, he fell backwards in a spray of blood, his eyes wide open is surprise.

Glancing behind me, I saw the Jolly Green Giant standing there with a goofy grin on his face, backed up by a full company of GI’s. Love those ground pounders!
It took a while to bandage me up and get the splinters out of my shoulder and scalp, and all the leaches from the private parts of my body, plus I will be wearing a good size scar on my cheek the rest of my life, but, I’m all present and accounted for.

The entire patrol made it back safely, even Bongo-Belly, and Brigade sent in two battalions to push Charlie into a kill zone where the good old United States Air Force creamed both enemy divisions with a B-52 strike with hundreds of thousand-pound bombs.

My ETS (End of Term of Service) is coming up soon, but I think I will re-enlist. After all, someone has to teach these youngsters and lead them into combat, with all the officers back in Base Camp tied up with, “important things!” (no quotes needed.)

Note: Since this is an old journal entry, I wrote out the Army Acronyms so the non military reader could identify what they meant.

COMMENTS: I've put notes in blue in the body of your story. It gave me a sense of danger in the mission. However, you showed very little emotion. What there was was getting assigned the mission. You showed no fear when being chased or injured and in the water. How does fear look in the enemy's eyes? Describe it. What does it feel like to almost drown or be killed? Show us. Okay, you have a basis for a good story, it needs some polishing and if you think about each sentence and what you want the reader to get out of it, you'll do well. This is a journal, so a conversational writing tone would be best. Thank you for asking me to review your writing and thank you for your service. Have a safe and Happy Independence Day. Sailor661.
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Review of My Wife  
Review by Sailor661
Rated: E | (3.0)
It was a bright sunny day, wind was tickling my face and I was on a walk through an alley. (This first sentence is all telling, try showing the bright sunny day by the warmth, squinting eyes, etc)There were an array of deciduous trees and the sound of their leaves rattling in the wind made to think of the heated conversation that I had with my wife few hours ago at the house.See comment below I do love my wife, and I need to save her, I need to find out what is really going on with her, how she thinks and what really bothers her, because of my pure love to her, I am willing to sacrifice my own life to help her deal with her issues. The moment I proposed to her I realized that its (it's) not going to be about me anymore, it's going to be about her and most importantly about our children. And even if I come home tired after work and I would want to relax on the sofa and watch some pointless TV shows, I will always think back to the moment I proposed to her, deprived her of her independence, ruined her beautiful body for our handsome son, so now when I am on my sofa watching TV and I don't feel like helping her, well that is just wrong of me. I should help her with trash, do dishes, and present a romantic atmosphere around the house for her, because it's not about me anymore. But through heated argument like the one that we just had, I somehow forgot that it's all about her and I called her a bitch and stormed out of the house thinking that I was right. It was wrong of me, I realize that now when I rethink my thought process back to my rule #1: It's not about me anymore. Or perhaps there is some deeper meaning that I am missing; my gut feeling tells me that I have to dig a little further.

So I turned around and went back to the house. As I approached the house, I see crazed fat man running out of the house with blood on his arms, legs and head. I try stopping him, but he keeps on running and screaming: "get out of here." But my wife is in the house; I thought to myself; I need to rescue her. So without hesitation, I run towards the door, open it, and I see a swarm of bees flying around what appears to be my wife. With bees biting my skin to bare bone I preceded towards the chair, no matter what I will get the chair I told myself. In pain and fatigue, I get to the chair only to find out that it was I me sitting in that chair. Without love, I would have never reached the chair.


The story has a lot of possibilities. Some of the details to me don't follow, like how would a wind that only tickles your face make enough noise through the trees to remind you of an argument. That would need a tornado or hurricane, I would think. Something more on the line of horns blowing or road rage might be more appropriate. You also use a lot of "tell" words like feel, think. Take a look at "Rivet Your Readers With Deep Point of View" by Jill Elizabeth Nelson. The book is not very long but chocked full of good writing advice. Also, most "so" and "that" words can be removed along with many of the "I"s. Give it a good rewrite, put more of the story on paper, and repost. Good luck.
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Review of White Khmer Junky  
Review by Sailor661
Rated: 18+ | (4.0)
This piece gives a frenetic, insane look at the insanity of excessive drug use. Some sections were a little disjointed for my taste, but overall the story flowed well and followed its theme. I've made some notes in the text below. Remember, the comments are just my opinion. Hope they help. One requirement you missed, add word count somewhere in your document.
# # #



The wheels spin as the bed’s pushed down the corridor. Quite an insignifcant (SP) surrounding really. Just a boring hallway with bright lights and the unobtrusive smell of a dead man’s breath. Mum’s holding my right hand. Dad’s holding my left. They’re both looking at me, shedding a tear or two. I’m calm, I don’t understand what they would be so upset about; me, myself and I are going on an adventure. The wheels stop, and we all say goodbye, a hug and kiss from each parent. “I’ll see you on the other side…” - nice little quip there. A casual, non-committal farewell should do it. This is quite exciting, not many people get to do this you know. How lucky I am. A lady in white drives the canula into my hand. The bastards had sent their warmest smile with her. I mused, “the coward does it with a kiss, the brave man with a sword…” I take the injection gladly and a gentle grin seeps from where the drug enters, flowing warmly up my veins, and finally spreading itself across my face.

***

Take addiction to both drugs and bulimia coupled with lapses in sanity and you have one very underweight, corrupt and depressed shadow of a young man. A shadow who’s (whose) eyes feature second to the black circles beneath them. A shadow enveloping the former identity because it has been devoured by the self-loathing that creeps over the brain like sticky tar, that self-loathing that is only intimate with addicts. Hello, my name is Michael.

My psychiatrist, who thought I was travelling for business rather than seeking to resolve my lust for Dr. Feelgood, had given me a prescription of twenty-five Temazepam (A description of these might be helpful) pills for this over-night flight to Phnom Penh via Kuala Lumpur. I was familiar with the drug as I had taken it previously, but this was the first time that I had attained it legally. I knew I was going to get off to sleep and I knew that the other passengers probably wouldn’t; because there’s that baby in row thirty six, and the chairs are too hard, and those arm rests aren’t quite in a comfortable position and the blanket is slightly too short and even though it’s a climate controlled cabin, its (sp) climate is controlled to be fucking freezing.

Prior to departure in from Sydney I bombed five of those little orange Temazepam pills. I figured five in one go was ideal after previous experiences. I must have passed out as soon as I found my seat because halfway through the flight I woke up - so I took another three tablets. That was eight Temazepam in six hours. I could almost guarantee that would send a less seasoned user into a coma – or kill a small child.

Getting off the plane in Phnom Penh it was hot (This sentence is awkward). My travel clothes were suffocating and passing through security, customs, and immigration was a process I would have taken at a sprint if not for the several Khmer officers bearing AK-47’s – these bastards were not shy of the trigger. It was like the Wild-West out here in the Kingdom of Wonder. Cowboys and corruption. Fast and loose. Most had nothing or less - a small number had everything or more. And for a population still reeling from one of the worst genocide attempts in history, it was no biggie for them to shake death’s hand. After I’d paid the $25US for my tourist visa and collected my small, black Delsi suitcase from the only carousel in the tiny arrival terminal, I walked outside.

“Where you go?”
“How much you pay?”
“$14 okay, okay for you sir?”
Each of these Tuk-Tuk drivers had his own noise. Without Temazepam I would have been far from laughing at the clamor and their disregard for personal space. It was a standard that a Tuk-Tuk ride cost $7US or 28,000R from the airport to anywhere in the city, so I bypassed all ‘rip-offs’ and found myself a driver in the car park, laid across the back seat of his Tuk-Tuk – sleeping. I kicked his legs.

“Kraok laeng…” (spaciing) though my pronunciation was off, he understood my telling him to wake up and rushed to heave my bag onto the carriage’s wooden floor. My driver took his red helmet and sat it precariously atop his head, unstrapped – helmets were not for safety; they were for avoiding ‘penalties’ from the police.

“Where you go, sir?”

“The River Palace Hotel” I replied while fiddling through my hand luggage looking for the hotel booking receipt, “Street 256.”

“Okay, I know, I know. Very nice hotel, sir. How long you stay? You need driver?” Temazepam and I smiled and ignored the cheeky bastard trying to squeeze me for as much as he could. Poverty had a way of making people not want to be in poverty.

He had kick started the piece of shit Honda engine, pulled out of the airport car-park and with the stench of cheap petrol fumes and chaotic Phnom Penh traffic swallowing the Tuk-Tuk, I felt (leave out felt and just show how you feel) the nostalgia spread over me like emotional butter. I was back. Back in My Kingdom. Where I was the Lord of Pharmaceuticals, the Emperor of Debauchery and the King of Sin.

On the way to the hotel I made my driver pull over at one of the hundreds of small pharmacies in the city. First things first, it was essential that a bevy of pharmaceuticals be purchased. I needed to get melted. $5 later I re-boarded the tuk tuk (capitalized earlier) with a small plastic bag, the contents of which were a box each of heavy French Pain Killers; white rectangular tablets with rounded corners, oxycodone; white circle tablets with a line across them, morphine sulfate; clear capsules with blue powder inside, diazepam; smaller circle tablets, blue with a line across them, alprazolam; tiny pink pills with an ‘x’ on them (hence the branding, Xanax) and tramadol; capsules, half green, half yellow. (the description was a bit much and I wondered why I cared what they looked like.)

My room on the fifth floor of The River Palace Hotel held a King size bed, white sheets, green carpet, tacky gold armchairs, and a painting above the small television; a vulgar cross between Guernica and Starry Night – philistines. I wasn’t too fussed though; I was paying peanuts for the room and its position on the Tonle Sap River was ideal for my purposes. I collapsed on the bed after throwing my bag of drugs on one of the armchairs and shut my eyes, Temazepam still encouraging my brain to explore the universe inside my eyelids.

It was 6PM local time when I’d gone to sleep, but when I woke it was already 10AM the next morning. I’d wasted an entire night sleeping. Fuck you Temazepam. I jumped up from the bed, had a quick shower and got myself dressed. I took twenty of these French painkillers I’d bought and plonked them in a glass of water to put in the fridge, (and put them in th fridge. G) grabbed a can of Laos beer from the mini-bar and, almost on the fly to the elevator, skulled it along with two Oxy’s and one Morphine Sulfate capsule. I brought a strip of five pills each with me so I could float around for the day.

On crossing the threshold between the air-conditioned lobby and the dry heat of November sun outside, I paced to a pharmacy across the street and bought a bottle of French cough syrup. The real shit. Promethazine and Codeine in a berry-esque treacle. I sourced a can of cola from the vendor sitting roadside out the front of the pharmacy and downed half of the can, re-filling it with cough syrup, taking a few swigs of the cocktail. And then pPsychosis ensued.

I looked up. As much cloud cover as I had a clue what the fuck was going on.(I don't get this sentence) Late November meant the dry season, so no rain until some way through next year, but I was feeling little itty-bitty electric drops of water all over…

“Let’s get lucid…” I said it aloud, to myself. And started giggling at the temporary insanity my acute little drug binge had induced. Here we go, rock’n’roll, hoist the main sail, lock and load, this is the Wild-Wild-West… (Seems like too many elipses),

I went to Cambodia and I shot ten men. I saw Pol Pot and I drew my sawed off shotgun and blew that cowardly fuck’s face to the moon. I took a lot of drugs. I was high all the time. All I did was walk around and think and shoot ten men. I bought lots of food. Chocolates, cakes, biscuits, sweets, cereal. I took it all to my hotel room. I sat on the bed and arranged it all around me. I stuffed myself until I couldn’t eat anymore. I lumbered to the bathroom, hunched over, wincing with pain. I got in the shower slowly and commenced shoving a toothbrush down my throat. The bristled end; the blunt end and my fingers didn’t work anymore. It took me a whole hour to get all of it out. My chest hurt, my throat was bleeding, my stomach felt torn, but I was empty. (This paragraph was all telling. Need to show the feelings.)

I went and sat on the bed. I took some pills. I put cough syrup in a coke. I sipped it slow and watched a shit movie. The sun set on Tonle Sap River. I drank more cough syrup. I walked down to the night markets. I looked at some girls. I looked at a lot of things. I couldn’t see. I just looked. I was high. So fucking high. I was as high as a really tall building or a tree or one of those other things that’s really tall. I was as high as a bird is when it flies into a cloud. My god I’m afraid of heights. Standing there, I shit myself looking at the ground. “Holy fuck that’s a long way down.” (Too many "I"s in this paragraph. Rewrite to reduce use of I)

I was swaying. People were walking around me. People were watching me. People were scared. Amused. Worried. Confused. Locals, tourists, backpackers, old people, young people, veterans, squares, circles, triangles, red, blue, green. Fucking aliens. Get out of my Kingdom you villainous fucking rascals!

I met a bloke in the night markets under a noodle tent – a veteran of Vietnam – he’d come back and forth between Melbourne and Cambodge to smuggle Viagra. His name was Charlie. Charlie offered me some Viagra and told me he’d take me to the Pickled Parrot on Street 345 for a ‘ride of a local filly.’ (Doesn't need to be set off with ' ') I was in no state to be vocalizing anything, so I took these blue pills he gave me, stuffed them in my pocket and off we went to the Pickled Parrot on Street 345.

Just before we got there, this veteran, Charlie, told me they were suppository pills - because they were usually for horses. I didn’t ask why being a suppository made them equestrian friendly, but I said no problems because like him, I was a veteran, albeit a veteran of putting pills in my anus. I found a nice spot behind a tree with different coloured paper lanterns hanging from it. I undid my belt and shoved the horse viagra up my arse, sitting it on the ‘shelf’ within. It felt awkward for about four minutes and forty-two seconds. Then it was as though the pill was never there, disappearing into my stream of sticky icky thick drug polluted blood.

In about seven minutes and eighty-four seconds, as I was walking down the street to the Pickled Parrot with my veteran friend, this drug hit me – stiff. It was a triple threat. I was now high, horny and fucking hard.

For the next three hours and four hundred and sixty-seven seconds I was a zombie with a hard-on. Until I realized I was on the moon – ‘I need to get back to my hotel room. This butter is all going to dry up soon and I’ll be left stranded. I’ll be feeling like a toy who’s battery has run out.’ I was lying on this rock hard mattress with my rock hard dick inside this yellow, fanged blob with an eye and an arm missing and a six-inch tongue. I was panicking because I didn’t mean to be fucking this monster and therefore it had to be raping me – in reverse cow-girl. This creature had stabbed my mind's eye, the fucking wretch. I couldn’t find my sawn-off shotgun so I threw the slightly chubby and deformed Khmer girl off me, she screamed with anger that I still needed to pay her. I couldn’t work out what a monster like this would need my money for when it was raping a King inside her castle on the moon. It was now the quadruple threat – hallucinating. (hallucination)

After escaping the castle on the moon, with the giant neon parrot out the front, I paid a blue seahorse $20US to fly me home. The grateful Tuk-Tuk driver took me back to the hotel where I sat in my room, dead still, for an hour or two, staring at my groin. My dick was maintaining the most strenuous erection I had ever experienced – the thing could have cut diamonds it was so hard. I sat in a cold water bath with a bottle of lemonade and cough syrup – observing the tiles in the bathroom change color and pattern with each blink.

I brought out the glass of water with the pills in it that I’d left earlier. This was basic cold water extraction. Twenty pain killers. 200mg Codeine, 100mg Paracetamol per tablet. Too much Paracetamol and your liver is one unhappy motherfucker. So. Put the pills in a glass of water and leave it in the fridge. The Codeine dissolves in the H20, and the Paracetamol does not. The Paracetamol is left at the bottom of the glass – white poisonous powder sitting like soft silky silt.

I sat in the bath, smoked a clove cigarette and sipped some codeine water. After maybe one hour and two seconds I tried to swim some laps of the bath but my boner was completely screwing up my hydrodynamics. So I had a last sip of codeine and went to bed to dream of dead Khmer Rouge and chubby monsters on the moon and fairy floss. Blue and pink and green fairy floss. Vietnam veterans and yellow monster rapists in castles. Khmer Rouge with no heads and no names.

The next morning my dick was still standing at full attention – fucking Charlie and his horse viagra. I quickly got over the embarrassment of a public horse boner and after some entrée of Oxycodone and Morphine I took a quick elevator jaunt up to the hotel’s rooftop restaurant, my pocket packed with tablets and capsules that could make you levitate. I was still fucked up from last night. Still fucked up from entree. I looked at my reflection drooling at me in the brass elevator doors. I laughed. I looked fucking ridiculous. “I’m fucking famished as a fat fucking fat guy – who hasn’t eaten in five hours and forty-five seconds. This is some great elevator music. I’ll ask the ‘help’ (no ' ') what the name of the band is.”

The elevator doors opened. My head’s bowed, arms hanging in front of me, hair looking… - God, who the fuck cares. One minute drooling. Two minutes drooling. Three minutes drooling. The elevator doors began to shut so I lunged forward and was momentarily squashed between them before stumbling gracefully out onto the restaurant floor.

“I DEMAND TO BE FED AT ONCE.” I forgot that it was a buffet breakfast. “YOU WILL FEED ME.”
A tour group of Japanese retirees eating their breakfast turned to look. Seven of them took photos. “Fuck off you ignorant bastards. You transvestite hippy scallywags.”

Another pill from my pocket down the hatch. Not sure what type. They’re not in their boxes anymore. Just floating about in my pocket, disorganizing themselves. Reckless little trollops.

I nose-dived into a chair and demanded a platter of the finest offerings available at the buffet and the waiter did his best to oblige.

“Is this salad organic?” The waiter didn’t have a clue what I was asking him.

“Are you stupid?” The waiter, again, didn’t have a clue what I was asking him.

“I will kill you and eat your family…” the waiter still didn’t have a clue what I was saying, but heard the tone and saw the drooling, blood shot eyed white man imagining this humble waiter’s violent death on the rooftop restaurant floor. Piss ran down his leg. (Good showing)

I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror back in my room and spat blood on the face of the black eyed, shadowy and rusted excuse for a man in the reflection. The excuse would have spat back last night. Several deep breaths.

A few hours later I was sitting in the cool innards of the hotel lobby. Having just returned from shooting 1/20 of a gram of Khmer black tar heroin, Dr. Feelgood, I had become one with the enormous cream sofa next to the reception desk. Insanity had come to pay me another visit, and in that time I’d brushed my teeth with shampoo and packed my bags; including several boxes and bottles of the finest pharmaceuticals this wondrous land had to offer. I’d also disguised in my suitcase an ounce of the Khmer black tar brownstone – it was almost a sure thing that I’d get through Kuala Lumpur customs, they only ever checked carry-on luggage and I’d made certain no trace of Dr. Feelgood was going to be on board with me.

I got to Kuala Lumpur and those shifty Malay customs and security officers pulled me over and asked my name. I told them. They’d grabbed me at an x-ray machine, paused the conveyor belt, and reversed my bag back under the camera. Two of them were looking at the bag quite closely, squinting, trying to make out whatever it was they thought they were seeing. I discovered a couple of minutes later that what they were seeing was a loose hand-full of the blue horse viagra pills which I’d forgotten I took from that wily veteran Charlie. They took my passport. They checked my photo. They put handcuffs on me and lead me off to a room with grey walls and a big mirror. In the room I sat at a steel table on a steel chair. They didn’t understand any explanation I gave for what the Viagra pills were for, but rather considered my hand gestures for an extended erection to be a sign of insult. But I was cool as a motherfucking cucumber on ice, did not break at all - omerta. I was there for hours, so airport staff had extracted my luggage from the plane I was supposed to be boarding as a matter of convenience. To my inconvenience though they were obliged to security check it. My little, black Delsi suitcase with Dr. Feelgood and his associates inside. It took them an hour to unlock the bag and cover the table in front of me with boxes and bottles of the finest pharmaceuticals Cambodia had to offer – and, of course, my comrade, Dr. Feelgood, who was wrapped snug in plastic. I would deny ‘til death.

I don’t know if it was what I’d done to my mind in abuse or the stress of my predicament. But my life became a staccato of sober insanity from that point.
First court case. I lost. I was to be executed.
One month Later. New court case – how was I to be executed?
Lethal injection over firing squad – a win. Thank my lucky stars.
Two months later. New court case – can my parents be with me when I die?
I won and lost. They could come and be with me just prior but I was to be taken into a different room away from them. To die alone with just me and my two friends, who were myself and I. They were my best two friends anyway you cowards. You fucking squares. Me with my two best friends and you’re going to inject drugs that would send me to another world, another universe, another time, another existence, an incomprehendable place full of whatever it is that it’s full of. It’s surely full of what is not here. You’re going to send all three of us? Together. On this trip. To this place. All I can say is thank you and let the show go on.
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Review by Sailor661
Rated: E | (5.0)
Hi Avalyn,

You chose three worthy Beatitudes to discuss, not that all of them aren't worthy. Your discussion was straight forward and the addition of original word translations enhanced the explanations. You presented the analyses without a haughtiness that I've met in other write-ups. You gave a presentation that leaves the room open and encourages discussion. And they were well written. Good job.

Sailor661
16
16
Review by Sailor661
Rated: E | (5.0)
Jeff,

That's very interesting and thanks for your hard work.

Phil
17
17
Review of Joey Versus Santa  
Review by Sailor661
Rated: 13+ | (4.5)
Hi Angus,

I enjoyed your story. It flowed well, changed courses a few times, and had a good surprise ending. The only thing I could suggest is try to get the narrator out and use Joey's POV and Santa's POV in the respective scenes.

I found one grammatical error: "This kid sound like trouble, Santa," Vixen chimed in. "You better be careful." SOUND should be sounds. The remainder, I thought, was well written. Good job.

Best,

Sailor661
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