Young Writers Society

‘I once believed that a thousand biographies would be written, with me as their subject. But the biographies in libraries are only written about the good men. The men who rewrite history, who change the world, who make their mark in society- they are the ones who are written about.’ Intelligently written, I love how he is reflecting over his life and past achievements because he believes that he doesn’t have long left to live. Maybe he could comment on what he has achieved in life and how it pales in comparison to what he imagined he might have done at each stage of his life, in his twenties, thirties, and so on.
‘I write it as a warning to all young men’ maybe you could try ‘cautionary tale’ instead of ‘warning’
‘It will, most likely, never be read, but I must write it, as I feel as though it will be the only beneficial thing I have ever done for this world.’ I noticed someone else had commented that this was contradictory, but I disagree. I can understand why he would want to write it even if his words are never heard, partly at least because of the satisfaction for himself that he can achieve this last thing
Language seems pretty advanced for a four year old, I think you should state Ruth’s age earlier on because I assumed from her tone of authority she was older and then got confused about the stubby arms part
For a reader, it’s great that you get to the action and dialogue straight away, and start with a very climatic scene – the protagonist’s brother running away (for good?) You write the dialogue straight out, rather than messing around with ‘she said’ ‘he said’ ‘he proclaimed whilst waving his arms’ and everything else that the reader doesn’t need to hear, if the words in the dialogue are strong enough
‘They were dull and brown, but it seemed as though there was something brighter underneath, something trapped beneath the musk.’ This is fantastic, and makes me instantly think that the mother begrudgingly gave up her youth and freedom (the spark in her eyes) to become a mother ‘trapped’ by her duties
A shame it stopped there. I hope the whole book continues at this pace, the quicker the action travels the better, make sure you can sustain it
It’s clear you are a very talented writing so please keep going! Don’t give up on writing a novel, so many write the first couple of chapters then straight away move on to another. If you’re serious about getting publishing, you have to stick with it, because the results will pay off 

Lena.Wooldridge wrote:This is just the prologue to an idea I have, tell me if it's any good.
Oh, and the title isn't final. At all. I know that it's horrible x) But whatever, any critique is welcome!

Today I lie in my bed, and I cannot breathe. My lungs are decrepit, decaying, collapsing inside my chest. Every breath I take is painful, and after each one, I do not wish to take another. For the last five years, I have wished nothing more,delete this comma except to be dead. Today, I hope, will be my last day. And delete the andI feel it in my bones; they are antsy,delete the comma and add an and anxious. When a condemned man's bones are restless, it denotes a prompt departure of this world. I pray to the Lord that this will be the case.
I once believed that a thousand biographies would be written, delete the commawith me as their subject. But the biographies in libraries are only written about the I don't think you need a the heregood men. The men who rewrite history, who change the world, who make their mark in society- they are the ones who are written about.delete that last part. We already know you are talking about 'the ones who are written about.'
And so I am forced to write my own biography. I write it as a warning to all young men. A caveat, so they do not end up like I, alone in their beds, waiting for death to strike them down; all the while filled with regret, wishing they could take back every moment of their lives and repeat the entire process, this time living every moment like his last.
This is the testament of Walter James Forsythe. It will, most likely, never be read, but I must write it, as I feel as though it will be the only beneficial thing I have ever done for this world.
***

I was born on June 1st, 1921, in Clark Creek, an insignificant town in upstate New York, to Mr. and Mrs. William Forsythe. Preceding me by a single year was my elder brother, Kenneth. A year later, my sister, Ruth, was born.
Our world consisted of our small, two-story farmhouse and the single acre field it was plotted on. Until we entered grammar school, none of us were allowed to wander off. We spent our days romping about the yard. Our mother spent much of her time cleaning and reading, and therefor offered us very limited supervision. Even so, we never left the yard.
Until one day, the summer before Kenneth and I entered grammar school, Kenneth arbitrarily wandered off. Right here, to avoid repetition of 'kenneth,' write: Until one day, the summer before he and I entered grammar school, Kenneth...
Ruth called after him. "Kenny! Kenny, come back! Momma'll give you a beatin'!"
He did not even glance back at us.
"There ain't a use in callin'," I said. "You can't make him come back. He ain't gonna get in any trouble, anyway, Momma's asleep."
"Are you going to follow him?"
"No. I ain't gonna leave. Momma told us not to."
She threw her stubby arms up in the air. "But Kenny left! You have to go get him!"
I shrugged and headed to the other side of the yard, under the shade of the row of poplar trees.
"Walter!" She yelled, running towards me, as fast as her toddler legs could carry her.
"Yeah?"
"I can't even see him no more!"
Indeed, Kenneth had disappeared beyond the horizon.
"You gonna tell Momma?"
I shook my head. "Nah, I ain't gonna get him in no trouble. And she couldn't make him come back, neither."
"Well I am!" She started running towards the house.
"Ruth! No! Stop!"
She was only four, and I was five. Inevitably, I was faster. Within a couple seconds, I overcame her, tackling her to the ground. She started bawling, and almost immediately our mother came running out the the house, the screen door crashing behind her.
"What happened? Who's dead?"
I cast Ruth a cautionary look. She quickly wiped the tears from underneath her eyes, rubbing dirt across her cheeks. "Nothin', Momma, I shouldn't it be 'we' here, too?just tripped while we was playing tag."
"Oh, all right..." Our mother looked at each of us. Her eyes reminded me of our dog. They were dull and brown, but it seemed as though there was something brighter underneath, something trapped beneath the musk. She glanced up at the clouds, a vague expression on her face. "It looks like rain, you'd best get back inside."
She meandered back up the wooden stairs and into the house. We followed her. Before going inside, I turned around and scanned the horizon for Kenneth. He was nowhere to be seen.
Inside, our mother lay down on the sofa. "I just need to rest my eyes. Only for a moment," she said. But, within moments, she was moaning in her sleep.


In order to avoid this getting too long, I'll stop there. Just check over for grammatical errors/if this is stupid and boring and I should quit.


Feel free to post a link of something you'd like me to review.
Thanks again
-Lena

Hi lena. I'm sorry if i was rude earlier and hope i didn't cause any real offence. I think this is a good start. I agree that the sentences are a bit protracted in places, maybe too many commas. I also think that before his age is stated you assume that walter is a bit older than five. There's also a line in the prologue which dosent make sense to me when you say -

"it will, most likely, never be read, but I must write it, as I feel as though it will be the only beneficial thing I have ever done for this world."

This seems to self-contradict. If it will probably never be read how can it be beneficial for anyone other than the character?

Also later the phrase

"offered us very little supervision"

seems a little clinical, like it's coming from a social report rather than a reminiscing son. I don't think you need the word "arbitrarily" a few lines later either. Just a few ideas. Cheers Jak

Hey Here to do a review for you

Every breath I take is painful, and after each one, I do not wish to take another on account of the paralyzing pain.

I have heard that when a man feels a relapse in his sickness and lack of energy, it means he will die soon

The biographies in the libraries are only written about the good men

A caveat, so they do not end up like I, alone in their beds, waiting for death to strike them down; all the while filled with regret, wishing they could take back every moment of their lives, repeat the entire process, this time living every moment like his last.

It will, most likely, never be read, but I must write it, as I feel as though it will be the only beneficial thing I have ever done for this world.

Our mother, the classic distraught housewife, spent much of her time cleaning and reading, and therefor offered us very limited supervision.

Even so, we never left the yard.

Within a couple seconds, I overcame her, tackling her to the ground

She started bawling, and almost immediately our mother came running out the the house, the screen door crashing behind her

"Oh, all right..." Our mother looked at each of us. Her eyes reminded me of our dog. They were dull and brown, but it seemed as though there was something brighter underneath, something trapped beneath the musk. She glanced up at the clouds, a vague expression on her face. "It looks like rain, you'd best get back inside."

She meandered back up the wooden stairs and into the house. We followed her

"I just need to rest my eyes. Just for a moment,"