Young Writers Society

zAx

Sometimes in the thick, foggy November nights I like to think, listening to the patter of the clouds' tears hitting the pavement and the grass. I walk alone in the hazy streets; my tears scream my pain, the pain no one knows. Every night these streets whisper the truth. Was I ever good enough?

I get lost in these hellish thoughts of mine, and as I arrive at a brightly lit cafe, I take a seat outside. Images flash in my mind; the crash from two years ago seem as if it is playing out in front of me. The collison blew up both cars, leaving only one survivor.

That unlucky survivor was me, Alice Thompson.

Before my eyes, red fire explodes outwards, sending flames to seductively lick my face. I feel the heat, the same harsh heat I felt that night.

I feel the windows bust behind me, and I turn my head slightly to gather the full scene. Everything seems to freeze, the only motion is the singular, lonesome tear that escaped my own eye's grasp. I can't help but wonder if I was even good enough to live. Why did this happen to me?

I stroke one of my many scars, this one being on my wrist. The fire scorched my family; They say it was a miracle that I wasn't too ashes molded into a bloody figure of a human.

Whenever I came to in the bed of an ambulance, the first thing I saw was him. Those eyes of his held so much, and, for a second, I didn't want to leave his invisible embrace. But I needed to, I had to. I swiftly got up and ran wobbily to my mother's side of the car. When I got there, there was no door. It was somewhere lost on the road.

I look in at my mother and freeze, standing in silence. I consume the sights of my father and older brother, Eric. He was just seventeen, two years than I was at the time. After what seems like an eternity of staring at their newly charcoled skin, I scream. All my lost faith, my pain, my lonliness; they voice their presence. An hour had passed and I had gone from having the world to having nothing at all.

Would I ever be good enough to see the light of life again?

Someone rushed over to me with a blanket and hugged me tightly, concious of my scrapes and bruises. I sobbed into the shoulder of the tall stranger. The person picked me up and carried me to the outside of a brightly lit cafe. We rest against the building and I look up to unmask the stranger with my eyes.

I slowly scan up his face, starting at his chin. My eyes slid to his soft seashell red lips, then backed up the slope of his nose, and saw his unhuman honey eyes. His lashes surrounded the eyeball in a translucent shield each time he blinked, hinting at the color of his iris.

Hey Ali! Rose here!

This is an amazing piece. It's got a rawness about it that I like. Some parts of it are brilliant, like the imagery you used and the style of your writing; the one part I don't like is the structure.

Good structure is incredibly important in all writing, but especially in novels. When a reader will have to stick with your writing for quite a while, it needs to be organized correctly. Think about it. If you went into a library, picked up a book, and opened it only to find pages and pages of uninterrupted words without paragraphs or line breaks, you would probably put it right back onto the shelf, unless you're a far braver reader than I am. Therefore, I'm going to show you how to restructure this in the way that I feel is best.

Sometimes, in the thick, foggy November nights, I like to think, listening to the patter of the clouds' tears hitting the pavement and the grass. I walk alone in the hazy streets; my tears scream my pain, the pain no one knows.

Every night, these streets whisper the truth. Was I ever good enough? I get lost in these hellish thoughts of mine, and as I arrive at a brightly lit cafe, I take a seat outside.

Images flash in my mind. The crash from three years ago seem as if it is playing out in front of me; it blew up both cars, leaving only one survivor. That unlucky survivor was me, Alice Thompson.

Do you see how each part of this stands out? Don't be afraid to break down your writing into paragraphs. In fact, in the first chapter of your book, it's very acceptable to use small paragraphs. That way, the reader gets a chance to taste your writing without feeling intimidated by having to dive headfirst into large paragraphs. I use a few key rules when breaking down my writing.

Make sure that the opening sentence and paragraph is very clean.

Keep the opening paragraph short and to the point.

Make sure that points needing to be emphasized are organized in clear, concise sentences that will accentuate their importance.

Ask yourself if the way you're breaking down your writing makes sense.

These are my most basic mental rules. I've created a mental checklist out of them, and I like to run over them in my mind to make sure that what I'm writing is organized to my satisfaction. If you apply what I've told you to the rest of this piece, I promise you that it will be much more polished and easier to read. It's already incredible; it just needs a bit of attention to make it more than that.

Great work! Always keep writing!

-Rose

Hi!

This was written quite well. And, looks like you took what creativity said and modified, so kudos on that!
I liked the raw emotions and the fact that you used present tense made it all the more a better read.

clouds' tears

Just say rain. The metaphorical crying doesn't help add to the dimensions of your story. Avoid cliched metaphors especially when it doesn't add to your story.

Before my eyes, red fire explodes outwards, sending flames to seductively lick my face. I feel the heat, the same harsh heat I felt that night.

I'm... not quite sure of this. The last sentence is brilliant, but the first could do with some reworking.

One thing you can work on is the last bit about the guy. I think you're focusing on physical appearance too much. Her reaction should be based more on her emotions. Because when you've been in a traumatic situation you'll associate emotions with the features rather then being very physical. So, work around that.

Cheers!
~L

Sorry for taking so long, it slipped my mind!

The opening paragraph was very symbolic and metaphorical. This is good in small doses, but remember that the reader has to decipher the meaning every time, which can get a little annoying.

Whenever I came to in the bed of an

Do you mean 'when?' Whenever implies multiple times, which is not the case.

lonliness;

*loneliness.
And charcoaled (earlier in the paragraph) is not a word, by the way.

After what seems like an eternity of staring at their newly charbroiled skin, I scream. All my lost faith, my pain, my lonliness; they voice their presence.

Other than the typo, and the non-word, I LOVED this bit here. Very poetic, which is good in small doses.

An hour had passed and I had gone from having the world to having nothing at all.

This line, however, is a bit of a cliche. Maybe try finding another way to express the emotion? By definition (of the word cliche) this phrase has lost it's effect.

Thanks for the request!

-Starry