All right, so my aunt entered us in this contest a while ago, wanting to see how different our responses to the same prompt is. I have 24 hours to write it, so I need critiques FAST. (Though I will still edit after the time's up, so don't worry about taking too long if you really can't. Also, this will probably become a script? XD>)
Go ahead and critique harshly, but I know it stinks. The word limit was SOOOO hard - I read it over and was line 'Oh, wow - that's like, the complete bare bones. O.o'
I ended up with exactly 900, the word limit.
Ash In The Box
"Good morning Uncle Scott," Dianne says as she walks into the store, the bell chiming above her head.
"Oh, hello dear." He leans forward rests his arms on his front desk. "What can I do for you today?"
"Nothing, Uncle Scott. I actually found what I was looking for last week. It's Erin's birthday in a few days, you know."
"I've heard! But why didn't you pick it up last time you were in here?"
"I wanted to check with Amy, just to make sure Erin hadn't outgrown it yet – who knows how long kids want to play with jack-in-the-boxes?"
"Well, let me know if you need anything, dear," he says, turning back to the black-and-white TV behind him.
"Of course."
She turns, heads to the back of the store, and crouches down see the toys.
"Please be there…" she mutters, scanning the rows of jack-in-the-boxes. Her eyes fall on the one she had found earlier. She picks it up, holds it out in front of her, examining it to make sure it's perfect.
She stands and walks back to the counter, trying not to trip and drop her jewel with all the stray toys kids left on the ground.
"You found what you where looking for?" her uncle asks, turning away from his TV.
"Mmm-hmm." She sets the box down on the counter proudly.
She looks up and sees his hand pause over the box. "P-Pink?" he stutters.
"Yeah. Erin's going through that girly-girl phase – she can't seem to own enough pink!"
When he doesn't respond she looks at him closely, her brow furrowed. "I see…" he whispers, his hand still poised over the box.
"You might want to restock; this was your last pink one," she says, her voice hesitant.
"Was it now?" he asks, picking up the box gingerly. Dianne watches him turn it in his frail hands, staring at every single crevice.
"Dianne, I don't think I can sell this to you…"
"Why not?"
He looks up from the box, his wide eyes staring right into hers. "Because it is not for sale!" he says, and Dianne recoils away from him.
"Uncle Scott, what are you-"
He shakes his head, turning away from her, hunching his shoulders like a shield around the box. "I'm sorry dear, you can't buy this… I need to go…"
He turns and walks through the doorway, leaving Dianne standing there alone.
"Uncle Scott!" she yells, hurrying after him and into the dim hallway. It's narrow – claustrophobically narrow – but she ignores that, walks farther down. "Uncle Scott, are you okay?"
Ahead of her, she sees her uncle fumbling with his keys. She walks closer, listening to the jangle of keys and the click of her heels.
He doesn't seem to notice her. Shoving a rusted old key into the lock, he opens the door and walks into the back room.
"Uncle Scott?" she asks uncertainly, inching closer to see where he's gone.
It's huge. The ceiling is at least two stories high and the walls are covered in pink. Her uncle stands in the middle, looking so small, a single florescent light beating down on him.
Dianne glances at him, then walks over to the wall to look at it more closely – it's too dark to see anything. But when she gets there, she realizes that the walls aren't pink – there are shelves full of pink jack-in-the-boxes. Hundreds are lined up perfectly – like soldiers. But they're not like the one she had wanted to buy. On the front, names are written in dripping red that smells like blood. The covers are open, and – she peers inside one – there are ashes inside.
Behind her, she hears a clash, and she jumps. "Uncle Scott?" she asks, turning to see him standing in the same spot, the jack-in-the-box broken at his feet. "What are you doing?" She steps closer to him, her hands out to show that she's not going to hurt him, but he doesn't even acknowledge her. "Uncle Scott, did you mess up with your medications again?"
He whips around to face her. "Get out of here!" he yells. "Get out! It's going to get you! The store's going to kill you!"
She shakes her head, inching closer and closer. "Uncle Scott, I think I'm gonna call the doctor… He'll help you…"
His eyes are wild as they stare into hers, and when she gets close enough to touch him, he smacks her hand away, leaving it burning. "Uncle Scott!" she exclaims, holding her hand to her chest. His eyes are wild and he's muttering to himself, and she doesn't know what else she can do. She turns and runs for the door – hears her uncle running behind her – but she's younger, faster. She slams the door shut, locks it with the key he left in it, and looks through the window above the knob to see her uncle clawing at the door.
"Don't worry, Uncle Scott. I'm just going to call your doctor, and everything will be fine…" she tells him, turns away – unable to watch him like this any longer – and runs down the hall.
When she returns, she doesn't see her uncle in the room, but the door is still locked. The pink jack-in-the-box still lies on the ground, and it's fully restored, with her uncle's name written on the front in dripping red and what looked like ashes inside.
I’ll skip the praises and narrow this critique down to the stuff that you need to change.
