http://www.worthyofpublishing.com/book.asp?book_ID=2847
[Did I mention how much I dislike reading my own stories? It makes me see all of my mistakes! I haven't edited any of the early chapters since I was 13. In fact, I don't think I've edited at all. On the plus side, I took a Mary-Sue test and my character isn't like me. Apparently she has "potential". I still want the character to have another fault (not clumsiness, which in a *certain series does not detract from the character's beauty. It's not really a flaw, just something that makes her not perfect. These days it's cool to be a klutz.
Excerpts:
**(Ch 1)Just watching the blood ooze out of my body gave me some comfort, some security. It was a sign that I was still alive....
I had been sitting innocently on my bed listening to my iPod, trying to drown out the sounds of my dad's yelling. Though he never laid a hand on me or my thirteen year old brother Jacob, his furious verbal lashings stung far worse than any physical beating.
This time he was accusing Jacob of taking fifty dollars out of his wallet. I had no doubt in my mind that my dad had probably been drunk and spent the money on more drinks, but I kept my mouth shut. I felt bad for Jacob. My dad was harder on him than me. He had higher expectations for his only son. But I didn't want to go out and defend Jake, in case my dad's wrath would turn on me.
My mom hadn't left her bed all day. She is often confined to her room because of her health complications. A huge factor seems to be the mental barriers she can't overcome. It's almost like she doesn't want to be well. She doesn't want to witness Jake being torn about by my father's accusatory tone, or me the sullen lifeless teenager who just occupies mass in the world.
At one time, I almost told someone about my family. But who would I tell? No one would believe me. I was just the angry emotional child, and my dad was a respected member of the community.
I was trapped; balancing on a tightrope and unable to see the outcome.
I needed a way to relieve that tension, a way to relieve the stress bottled up inside.
I needed a way out.
"Violet," my mom had said several years ago, back when life was less complicated. "If you are ever struggling, you know you can come to me for help. She had said this to me after I failed my math test in 7th grade, and had tried to hide it.
But knowing where my mom was right now, lying helplessly in her bed, the tiny color TV blaring another episode of Jeopardy!, I knew she couldn't help me. She couldn't even help herself.
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**spoiler* haha :) (This is from Ch 8)
"Mom-" I said, shaking my head when I saw her. She lay unconscious on the cold tile floor, the only sign of life the irregular rise and fall of her chest. I grasped her pale limp hand in my own. There was a faint pulse.
"Why? We need you. You -you can't just check out! Our lives aren't any easier than yours. But at least Jake and I try. Don't give up and just abandon us!" My voice rose a couple of decibels.
What had been a nearly full bottle of prescription pills was now empty in the trash by the toilet. This had happened twice before. The first time she'd overdosed, the issue had been waved away as depression, and my mom was put on more meds. The second time, she was sent to a drug addiction treatment center for four months, until money ran out.
"Um, Violet?" Jake interrupted my rant.
"Yeah?" I looked up at my little brother, trying to repress my emotions.
"The ambulance is here," he replied, leaning against the door frame for support.
I could hear the siren's wails through the thin walls of our manufactured house.**
------
***(contined) I swallowed, a big lump forming in my throat.
I tried to clear it, feeling my eyes well up.
Tears threatened to spill over, my vision blurred.
I didn't care who saw me cry anymore
I was angry, broken.
I was angry at my mother for doing this to herself
I was angry at my father for driving her to this.
Disgusted at my dad for drinking, for his abuse
The salty tears finally fell, rolling down my face.
I quickly wiped them away, creating black mascara smudges under my eyes
"Don't. Cry. Please." Jacob begged.
I turned to my brother, and forced myself to appear apathetic. It didn't make any sense how much I loved my mother. Every time she did this to herself, it hurt me. I wanted to be cold and uncaring, but I couldn't. Jacob had rarely ever see me cry, but I loved him more than anything. There were times when I wished I could do something more to help him. But I was weak and cowardly. I only pretended to be strong during these times --I eventually always succumbed to pressure.
"I forgot to grab a coat before we left," Jacob randomly mentioned as we got out of the ambulance, finally at the hospital. The air was frigid outside, the wind blowing the empty branches of the surrounding trees.
I al
Answer by Karl Poemerson
I am sorry, I vomited in my mouth a little
Paragraphs to short, no description, and what the hell is up with that first line. I am so confused!
Answer by sugar_coated_deception
Ignore that other person. Good literature isn't determined by size.
Hun, I read the whole thing. You got a great tone goin' on there! You have good imagery as well! As for your character, you've pulled off something most people struggle to do. You've made an apathetic character seem realistic. Most people go overboard, but I'd say you balanced yours just right. It's pretty sad-- the world we live in today. This kind of thing is normal for many people now.
May I try to take a guess at your theme?
I'd say it's holding on without hope, but there's probably others hidden among the text. You know what one of my English finals questions was? It asked what good literature have. Naturally, I picked the letter that said many themes. I'd say you're pretty good. Keep on writing, and let's see how far you'll go.
Orignal From: What do you think of this story?
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