Stella Thomas
The angels have the phone box...
Master of the Forum
Gender: 
Age: 15
Joined: 29 Dec 2007
Posts: 1251
Reviews: 205
Country: Ankh-Mopork
736 Points
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 Posted: Wed Jul 16, 2008 6:05 pm Post subject: |
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All my comments are inside, darling. I used purple, not red. Some of them are pretty useless, but I hope the others gave you a hand 
-Stella.
OH FLIP!
It won't allow .rtf, and because of conflicting computers that's the only format I could get it into! Damn, damn, damn. I've got it all done, I really do. Does anybody here know what I can do?
*headdesk*
I'm so sorry! Agh... I really do have a good critique in there...
Okay... I know you don't want us to do this, but I'm just going to put the whole thing, plus my comments, in a quote box. I'll try and put all my comments in bold. Touch wood this will work...
| Quote: |
Hey Jared!
I know that Nate said to put all our corrections in red... but to be honest red gives me a headache, so I hope you don't mind that they're in purple instead . Okay, this is probably going to take a while. I haven't changed the format, just the font to make it easier for me to read... hope that doesn't bother you.
So you'll get this crit eventually! I won't do grammar, like you asked, but I will give style a thorough thrashing, if I can!
For now,
Stella.
Night Terrors
BigBadBear
If you want to live, never let your eyes wander past the margins of these pages. Focus on these words. Your sanity and your life depend on it. You need to realize that nothing is going to be the same again. Nothing. Face the fact that you’ve never seen them; that you’ve never taken a moment to see the horrors of the darkness.
You’ve never had the night terrors. And you've got me hooked.
Nothing
will
be
the
same.
If you want to live, keep reading. I will. (sorry, I'll stop making silly comments now. I will.)
1
As a child, you were afraid of the dark. You curled up in your blankets, your pulse rushing. You felt the white Interesting and unusual colour to use for fear. fear rush through your cold skin. You knew it was in your closet. Under your bed. Behind closed doors. You knew it was watching you, waiting for you to fall asleep.
So you don’t. Staring, horrified and with wide eyes, you never fall asleep.
The night terrors can’t get you if you’re awake. You know that.
Night terrors are real.
Keep reading.
You grew up. Fears vanished as if they had never existed. Your mind matures, throwing away childish horrors.
You get married. Buy a house.
And the fears start all over again.
“Daddy, there’s a monster under my bed,” your daughter exclaims, taking a firm hold of your hand. You notice her skin is cold, and her face is pale.
“It’s nothing. Here, let me show you.” You lift her up into your arms and carry her to her room. You switch on the lights. Her closet door is open, so you shut it.
Putting your daughter down, you kneel to the ground and look under her bed. It’s too dark to see anything. You look up and the first thing you notice is that her closet door is open again.
“Why’d you open the closet door?” you ask your daughter, pointing. Her eyes are wide and innocent.
“The monster did it, Daddy. Didn’t you see him?”
You sigh and stand up. “There’s no monster under your bed. Now go to sleep.”
“Of course he’s not under my bed! He just went into my closet! Daddy, can you tell him to go away?” she exclaims, eyeing the closet.
It is dark in there.
You run your fingers through your daughter’s thin, brown hair, and she latches to your leg.
“Tell him to go away. He says that he’s going to eat me if I go to sleep,” she whimpers.
“He does, does he? Well, the next time he says that, I want you to tell him, ‘Whatever you say!’ and go back to bed. Okay, sweetie?” you tell her. She sucks her thumb.
“But he doesn’t listen to me.”
You sigh. “Then ignore him. Okay?”
“Daddy, can you please just look in the closet?”
You look over into the room. The darkness, you know, is what’s frightening her. You decide to turn on the light in the closet. Standing up, you walk to the room.
Just before you flick the switch, your daughter screams. You turn around.
“He just went back under my bed!”
You sigh again.
“Listen, honey, would it be better if I left the lights on?” You flick the closet light on, revealing a small room full of princess gowns and shoes.
You look into your daughter’s eyes: They are still wide with terror.
“Can I sleep with you?” You shake your head at her question.
“No. The bed’s barely big enough for Mom and I. Now get to sleep. Want me to tuck you in?” you ask, placing your hands on her shoulders. You direct her to bed. She clambers in and slips between the sheets, and you tuck the blankets under her frail body.
“Daddy?”
“Hmm?”
“I love you.”
“I love you too,” you whisper gently.Can I tell you a story about my childhood? Of course I can. I used to have a recurring dream every single night (involving friendly trolls getting killed by a flood) and when I woke up I used to just go and sleep in Mum and Dad's room. Our bed wasn't very big either, so Dad would sleep in my room instead. So at the moment I'm kind of "Oo-er"ing over the "I love you," thing, because he seems selfish to me, just from personal experience. She smiles and looks at the closet.
“The monster went back into the closet,” she says, and points. You look back and are stunned.
The door is shut and the light has been turned off.
“Did you…” You turn back to face your daughter. “Did you close the door?” She shakes her head innocently.
“I told you. The monster went back into the closet.” Your daughter pulls the blankets up to her chin and squeezes You don't... squeeze blankets. Well, you do, but they aren't squeezable as such. You more kind of... clutch onto them for dear life. them. “Can you make him go away?”
You are speechless. It hadn’t even been a minute ago that you had brought your daughter to bed. You might want to try rephrasing that, it sounds awkward. You had left the closet door open, with the light switch on.
Standing up, your eyes never leave the closet door. It’s painted white, just like the rest of your daughter’s room. Her entire room?!?! Sorry, but there's no border of flowers, the walls aren't pale pink? In my mind, my daughter's room is looking bare. There are the faint traces of crayon where she had colored on the door.
From the bed to the door seemed seemed? Seems, surely? Sorry, is that grammar? Sorry! like a mile, when it was only a few steps away. Your outstretched hands brush the cold knob. You pull away.
You can feel your daughter’s stare on the back of your neck. Everything pauses as you grip the freezing knob.
You turn it.
It’s locked.
“Did you lock it?” You are amazed that you could find words. You look back to your daughter who is shaking her head.
“Then who’s in here?”
“Daddy, I already told you.”
“Told me what?”
“The monster! The monster went from under my bed to the closet!”
“Listen, honey: There’s no such thing as monsters. Now tell me who locked this door!” Your tone is rising. You are clenching a fist.
“The monster locked it! I saw him!”
You see no further use yelling. Breathing deeply, you walk to her bedside. Her brown eyes glare at you.
“Who is this monster, then? Is it your brother?” Your son is supposed to be asleep. He has a fever.
“No! I don’t know who the monster is. All he keeps Either "All he says" or "He keeps saying", not a weird combination of both. saying is that he’s going to eat me when I go to sleep,” your daughter whines. “And then I told you to tell him to go away, but he keeps hiding from you! And now he’s—” That last bit is awkward. "I told you to tell him to go away, but you won't because you can't see him, he keeps hiding from you!" Something like that, peut-etre?
Her eyes stare at the closet door. Her eyes acting of their own accord? Nah. She's just staring.
“He’s gone.”
You are speechless again as you turn around to discover that the closet door is open.
The light is on. Thank the mercies for long summer evenings, it's only twilight at the moment, if it was dark I'd be curled up trembling!
Your MC, at the moment, seems to be... alright. I don't believe in monsters anymore, and my daughter shouldn't either, but I'm naturally scared at what's happening. I love her, but I won't switch rooms with her (!). I don't know, I'll say more when I read on, but right now, it IS dark outside, so toodle-oo, see you in the morning (AFTER I've been to the dentist, scary stuff that is too!)
-Stella x
2
Well, it's afternoon now and I spent an unscary morning running errands so here we go!
Nightmares are described as a terrifying dream in which a dreamer experiences helplessness, extreme fright and sorrow. Psychological terrors are the most common ways that nightmares occur. Claustrophobia and other such mental states are usually the main focus of nightmares. Children frequently have these ‘night terrors’ while still in their younger childhood. Perspiration, shivering and violent jolting are usually caused by them. Had a lot of them.
Nightmares are sometimes results of wild imaginings. Children often let their imagination roam free at night, making every shadow into a monster, ghost, or other frightening figure. It is not uncommon for the imagination to make anything out of everything.
-Alexandra Bennington
You wake up with your daughter breathing on your face. Her arms and tightly wound around your arm. Your wife is out of bed—probably making the morning coffee.
Your daughter is beautiful. Five years old, thin brown hair and puppy dog eyes. They are shut behind frail eyelids. Her skin is like her mother’s: tan and smooth. Her body is entangled with the sheets. The bedspread covers her small legs. That last sentence is just a bit odd.
She had been born premature. Weighing at roughly 1 1/2lbs, she was put on a ventilator for the first three weeks of her life. And even then she had been beautiful. Her small body was like a jail cell, imprisoning her soul.
She had not been expected to live longer than a month. This is certainly interesting, and it's good background, I'm just wondering if it's necessary or not.
“Lynn?” You say as you enter the kitchen. Your pajamas are loose and you pull them back up to your waist.
Lynn stands in the corner of the kitchen, by the toaster. She is sipping a mug of steaming coffee, reading the newspaper. She looks exactly like Joan. Her beautiful tan skin and brown hair, straight and thin. Her batting eyelashes and her chocolate eyes always melts your heart.
“Hey, Tim,” You know, I was thinking, wouldn't it be more... engaging if you didn't give him a name? As the whole thing is written in second person, it would make it easier for the reader to put themselves in the hero's shoes. On the other hand, the name makes him a real person. Oh I don't know. Perhaps I should go with my first instinct and say get rid of it, but it's up to you, ultimately. she says, and resumes reading the newspaper. With her index finger, What other finger do you generally point with. Or is it a very prominent sort of "Come to me" point? I think you could just say "She points." she points to the counter, where there is an extra mug. You graciously pick it up and put your arm around her. She looks at you and smiles. You kiss her and then look at the newspaper.
“Anything new?” You take a sip of coffee.
“Nope.”
“Has anyone called about the house?”
“Not yet.”
“Our real estate agent sucks,” you whisper, and Lynn laughs. She squeezes you and leans her head on your shoulder.
“It takes time. We’re in no rush. The new house hasn’t even started construction.”
You nod and walk away, swiping a stool from under the counter. Squatting in it, you remember the night before.
“I need to go to Home Depot and get a new door for Joan’s room. It was acting up last night,” you say, sipping more coffee. It is hot and scalds your tongue.
“What?”
“Last night, Joan came and told me that her door kept opening and shutting. I went in there and it opened fine, but before I knew it, it locked itself. I got it open with the key, but I think we need a new door. I don’t want Troy to get trapped in there.”
Troy is your deaf son. He is four years old, and currently sick with the fever. His hearing condition has left him permanently deaf. What started out as a minor hearing infection when he was younger turned out to be something unchangeable. Gosh, my children's lives are tragic.
“How could a door lock itself?” Lynn asks. Her eyes are focused on you.
“I don’t know.” You shrug. “I’m going to Home Depot, though, later today. I might take Troy with me. He loves that store. Is his fever almost gone?”
“Yeah. I checked on him this morning. He’s doing a lot better. I’m going shopping for the Fourth of July. What on earth do you buy for the Fourth of July? Really? Do people do that? (that's not really a question you need to answer, I thought I'd just tell you what I thought). If you’re taking Troy, then I’ll take Joan.” You nod and finish the last of your coffee. You stand up and put the empty mug in the sink, kissing Lynn on the way to the shower.
Troy gazes silently out of your truck’s window as you speed towards Home Depot. You watch him out of the corner of your eye.
He looks like a miniature you, just like Joan is to Lynn. He has dark brown hair and olive green eyes the size of acorns. The child has a curious expression on his face. It lit lights, sorry, tense consistency is dangerously close to grammar. up as soon as you pull into the Home Depot parking lot.
Troy smiles and coughs out a laugh, pointing excitedly to the building. He recognizes the bright orange letters. You grin and nod.
Parking the truck, you also take a piece of paper with door measurements. Troy jumps out of the vehicle and races towards you with wide arms. You pick him up and put him on your shoulders.
He feels invincible. How do we know that? It's a lovely thought and a beautiful image, but how do we know it? We're not him.
Troy laughs and smiles all throughout the building, pointing at various tools. You mouth the name of the tool and create signs with your hand. He doesn’t quite grasp sign language yet, but you do it anyway.
Troy follows you into Joan’s bedroom. You have just come home from the store. There is a new door in the back of your truck. Troy decides he will help you. He is carrying three screwdrivers.
“Put them in the toolbox,” you say, and point to the set on the ground. His eyes follow your finger, and he nods.
You look at the closet door. It’s locked again. Taking the key out of your pocket, you unlock it and open the door.
Troy screams a blood-curdling scream. Fear flushes through your body as you whip around.
“What?” you yell, your eyes frantically looking at your son. Troy points to something on his arm. You can’t make it out. It’s a small hole, almost like a sting. Troy, then, points to the ground, where you see a dead bee.
You groan and pick him up. He is screaming in your ear as you rush him to the bathroom. You set him on the counter, wiping away tissues and toothpaste as you search the drawers, looking for tweezers. Mercy, but that frightened the daylights out of me... Also, you should never use tweezers on bee stings. Gosh, Jared, don't you know that? *rolls eyes*
He screams and you wince. There was something about his scream that frightened you. Perhaps it was that you have never heard a deaf child scream before Troy. He is normally a very quiet kid.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry! Just hold on!” You dig furiously through the drawers, throwing items at the walls as you find them. You see a glint of light, and instantly you know you’ve found them.
“Right here. Okay, hold out your arm.” You know he can’t hear you, but you speak anyway. Troy is holding out his arm, tears stinging down his cheeks. The bee sting is small—just nicked him.
“Troy. Troy. Troy, look at me,” you say and his eyes travel to your lips. “It’s not going to hurt. I promise.” His wavering eyes don’t trust you.
“One,” you whisper, and dig the tweezers through his skin.
“Two!” you yell and yank the stinger out of Troy’s arm. He screams again, shielding his wound with his body.
* * *
The new door is installed, and you stand back to make sure that the hinges aren’t crooked and the door is standing straight. You can hear Troy softly playing in his room, across from Joan’s. softly? Quietly? You don't play softly...
The door looks great. You test it out and make sure that it doesn’t lock on its own. It doesn’t. Smiling, you place the screwdrivers and screws back in your toolbox. Before you leave the room, something catches your eye.
There is a black book on Joan’s small vanity. The desk is littered with playthings. Plastic food, hairbrushes, Barbies. The only object that stuck out is the black notebook. You walk over to the vanity and open it up. It looks beaten and well used.
On the first page, you notice your daughter’s handwriting. It is difficult to read because she is so young, but you can make out her name. It is colored in pink crayon. You flip the page over and see Joan’s doodles and scribbles. It is messy and disorganized. You are about to close it, when you flip open to a last page. I'm frightened again.
When you see it, you freeze. Horrified and shocked. You question yourself if your daughter really drew this. It would’ve taken her hours.
You shut the book, but still remain where you are standing. The picture she had drawn disgusted you. You do not know how a five year old could have drawn such a horrifying image.
There is a loud crash coming from Troy’s room, and you jump. It takes you a moment to realize what happened, and then you make a mad dash for his room.
“Troy!” you shout as you shove his door open. Your son is on the carpet, crying. You sigh and pick him up.
“What happened?” He motions over to the bed and leans back on your shoulder, sniffling.
“Did you fall off?” Troy reads your lips and shakes his head. He points back to the bed. You set him on it, but he squirms and tries to get back into your arms. He is shaking, violently.
“What’s wrong? What happened?” you question. Troy doesn’t answer. “What happened?”
The picture that Joan had drawn keeps flashing into your mind. You don’t know why. Maybe it was the fact that it wasn’t just her that she had drawn. The picture had included Troy also. But that wasn’t the reason that the picture had horrified you.
Both Joan and Troy were being hung. Their necks were almost severed. Ew, ew, ew... Your daughter had detailed the blood dripping from the nooses around their necks. Both of their eyes are crossed out, signifying death, like in cartoons. The nooses were attached to the gallows.
Blood had leaked to the ground, and it had pooled up.
Off to the side of the gallows was a figure. It had been hard to determine who or what it was. Joan had colored it black. It was draped in a robe of some sort. The only other color was the red eyes. Terrified now.
You know you need to find out why Troy is crying, but your mind is only focused on the drawing. Your innocent daughter wouldn’t draw something as grotesque as that. You needed to have a word with her.
Troy is pointing to his bed, again. No, wait. As your eyes follow his finger, you realize that he’s not pointing at his bed. He’s pointing under it.
You remember Joan telling you there was a monster under her bed last night. When you had been tucking her in, it had apparently switched from her bed, to the closet, and back. Right before you had left, it had run out of the room.
Figuring it was just your daughter’s imagination, you never gave it a second thought.
Underneath Troy’s bed is dark, even though the lights are on. Your son is still pointing to into the eerie darkness, still violently shaking. Even more scared. Woops, disappeared for half an hour to eat dinner, the atmosphere is totally lost.
Wild imaginings begin to haunt you. Everything is so crystal clear, it is like déjà vu. While staring into the darkness, your mind is plummeting into the abyss of the unknown. Transfixed, your nightmares begin.
And they won’t ever stop once they start.
Gosh, but that frightened me. I reckon you should give up the novels and concentrate on writing horror movie scripts, I would certainly go to see them -and I don't like horrors!
Okay, I will admit, the plot is feeling a bit sort of clichéed at this point. His children are bringing back the horrors of his past, that sort of thing. Also, I do think that having a premature baby who's still frail and a deaf son is slightly OTT. Just slightly. But I am enjoying it. Onto Ch.3...
3
You are crouching on the carpeted stairs, listening. You don’t want to listen. You don’t want this to happen. It shouldn’t be happening. It hasn’t happened. It isn’t going to happen.
It’s happening.
“Lynn?” you ask, holding out your hand. She laughs and slides out on the ice with you. She clumsily falls. You laugh and Lynn picks herself up. When she finally reaches you, she grasps your hand and shivers.
“It’s so cold!” she says, and you face her. Her beautiful hair is slickly pulled back, Actually, personally I would go for her looking a bit flyaway, straggled, unperfect, you know? and her breath is frozen in the air. It is only you and she at the ice rink. It is a golden moment. You had to pay extra for the hour alone with her. You can feel the bulge of the small box in your jacket.
“Lynn?” you ask again. Her small eyes look at you endearingly. Her plump lips are pressed together.
“Yeah?” she breathes. Everything is frozen. Not even a snowflake would break the silence. ...Snowflakes don't make noise anyway, do they? Or do you mean that you can almost hear them falling it's so quiet. No... I don't know. It's a pretty phrase but it doesn't make much sense.
Before you can ask the question, you hear a gunshot. Unexpected. It comes at such a surprise that your legs shake. In result, both you and Lynn fall to the ice.
“I’m going to kill you. I’m going to kill you.”
Dad had told you not to listen to him, so you try to tune out his voice. It is coming from the closet, but you know that he can perch himself on the ceiling and crawl above your bed. He has nasty claws and teeth as sharp as needles. You know it can tear your skin apart.
But you also know his weakness. He cannot kill you if you are awake.
“I’m going to kill you. I’m going to kill you. Just go to sleep, my friend. It won’t take long. It will hurt. It’s going to burn.”
“No!” you stammer. “You’re not real!” Turning your head into your pillow, you can hear him slowly opening the closet. You can feel his long, yellow nails scraping against the door.
“I’m going to kill you. It’ll only take a moment, but boy, it’s going to hurt. It’s going to kill.” I sort of prefer the idea of a nameless, bodiless fear. Also, how can he have both claws and nails?
“I hate the way that you treat me, I hate the way that you go out and buy beer and get drunk when I need you to take care of the kids! I hate the way that you… that you…” Mom cannot even finish her sentence. She is bright red in the face and glaring at Dad. She has a suitcase on the table, and clothes litter the area.
Dad pounds his fists on the counter and yells at her. “Well, you know what? I’m sick of you! I’m so tired of your cock-and-bull stories about how I’m the bad parent here! I’m so,” –Dad swears here, a word that you dare not repeat- “sick of the way that I’m always blamed! You’re the parent that doesn’t give a crap about how we raise our children!”
“Me?” Mom gasps, putting her hand to her chest. You can see her red eyes and the tears glistening down her cheeks. “Me? I’ve done nothing!”
“Exactly!” Dad roars, swiping away Mom’s suitcase from the table. He walks over to her, but she runs across the kitchen. “You don’t do a thing around here!
“No! No, you stay away from me!” she yells. Her voice is faltering.
“I want you out of the house!” Dad cries and throws some clothes at Mom’s face. She chucks them at the ground.
And then she sees you.
“Lynn!” You cry, and more gunshots are fired into the skating rink. Everything is happening so slowly. You are sliding and slipping on the ice, desperately trying to pull Lynn up. She seems too stupefied to react to anything.
You can hear the bullets echoing off the ice and ricocheting. You are bound to be hit any instant.
Suddenly, Lynn is on her feet. You grab her hand and move your legs—when you discover your skates aren’t working. It’s all a nightmare. Everything was going wrong. Inconsistent. Sorry.
“Hurry!” you roar and pull on Lynn’s figure. More gunshots. More echoing. Lynn isn’t moving.
You pull the blankets over your head. The man’s voice isn’t going away. Even if you ignored him, he would still be there.
Through the thin blankets, you can see he is holding a serrated knife.
The man is small and dark. You can’t see any of his features, but you can smell him. You could recognize that scent anywhere. The stench is overwhelming, and you have to plug your nose to breathe.
“I am going to kill you. Just a few more moments and it’ll all be over.”
Your blood begins pumping. The night terrors aren’t real, and you know that. They are all just your imagination. They are just a simple fear that you cannot get rid of.
The knife is being raised above your body. You watch it out of the corner of your eye. The silver glints and shines in the moonlight.
You hold your breath and close your eyes.
You freeze as Mom’s stare pierces through you. Your mouth is hanging, and your brother is clutching onto your hand, squeezing. There will be nail marks where he has squeezed.
“I’m taking the children,” she mutters. Your dad doesn’t try and stop her. “I’m taking them to my mom’s.”
No one is talking, although you know that both of your parents are screaming.
“Are we getting a divorce?” The cold words snake through your body. Your worst fear suddenly comes to terms. The separation of your parents would be devastating. You try and stop it. Perfect. Every child's real worst fear.
“No!” you cry, as you fling yourself up the rest of the stairs. Dad sees you and holds his breath. You glare at him and your mother.
“No! I won’t let you get a divorce!”
“Tim, this is not your decision! This is between your mother and I!” Dad roars, stomping his foot. “Go to your room!”
“Carl, no! I’m taking them to my mom’s! Tim, Brandon, come on!” She grabs a hold of your wrist, and you struggle to escape. Her fingers are bony and solid. Your younger brother comes racing up the stairs.
“No!” you yell and slap your mother’s hand. She pulls back, and you seize the opportunity. Sinking your teeth into her fingers, she screams.
You don’t even know what happened when you feel the sharp pain in your head. Someone had hit you, and you begin to feel dizzy. You hear shouting and yelling and crying and roaring, and then you collapse in your mother’s arms.
Lynn is dead. She is sprawled on the ice, her eyes closed. There is a bullet hole in the side of her skull. Blood leaks from it and dyes the ice red.
The gunshots cease to fire anymore, leaving you to your misery and your nightmare.
Everything begins to fade out.
You are whimpering. The knife is directly above your head. The man freezes, holding the blade.
It is cold in the room. Your window is open. That, you know, is how the monster entered your room. The revolting smell travels through your nose, and you grimace.
You are still trembling under your blankets. They are thin, so you can see the man standing at your bedside. He is wearing a black robe, draped over his figure. Red eyes emerge from the darkness of the hood.
Should you call for help? Would your parents reach you in time? Would they save you? Would they make the monster go –
The knife suddenly plunges down and cracks through your skull. You can’t even feel the blood as it oozes down your pale face, and drips onto your bed sheets.
The monster exits out of the window, licking the knife clean.
I'm taking a moment to catch my breath. That was stunning, good job. I'm guessing these are all his nightmares. It was difficult to discern the true from the imaginary though. Was that the effect you were going for?
4
I believe in everything until it's disproved. So I believe in fairies, the myths, and dragons. It all exists, even if it's in your mind. Who's to say that dreams and nightmares aren't as real as the here and now?
-John Lennon
You are dead.
No. Not yet. You still have more time.
They can’t get you if you’re not asleep dead. You know that. You’ve known that your entire life.
You are trapped in your own imagination.
get out get out get out
“I’m going to kill you. I’m going to kill you.”
Lynn is dead.
We’re getting a divorce.
Night terrors will kill you.
Open up the d o
o r.
Let us in.
I know you said no formatting issues, but I think "get out get out get out" would be cool as all just one word.
Okay, so your plot so far is very, very gripping, as my useless and annoying comments will have told you. I'm just worried that it might become too cliché, be careful with it.
Your characters... right.
Tim seems well developed in the basics. Your narrative makes it easy to connect with him, but when we take a step back to look at him, I can't find him quite human.
He loves his children, he loves his wife. He's handy. He has a past. He's had nightmares when he's a child. All in all, he's a pretty average guy.
That's just it. Nobody's average.
Look, you don't need to tell us everything, but I sort of felt that you didn't know him inside out. Perhaps you do. I don't know. Does he like raisins? Is he afraid of spiders? All the little everyday things that make us human. That's the problem with horror movies, none of that is dealt with.
Apart from that, it was all good. Are you putting more up? Please do! I'm dying to know what happens!
(By the way, I was in Kilkenny the other day -loooong story, but we went to rent a movie while the parentals were having boring conversation and guess what we rented? Run Fat Boy Run!)
Okay so.
Hope I've been helpful and that reading all my comments hasn't been a complete waste of your time...
Feel free to PM me if you have any questions about anything I said!
-Stella x
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Phew. Sorry, all your formatting will be lost in that, but I read it as it was. |
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