Bubbling, chapter 3

09:37. Ugh. Mom won't be liking me waking up late on the guest's first morning here, but I need time to sleep. I need to sleep, because the next fifty nights I will have a total insomnia because of my horrid second cousin.

I get up and reach the slippers under my bed with my feet. Slowly, I put on the jeans and the tank-top-without-washing-instructions, the same ones I wore the previous day. I brush my hair with a purple hairbrush I once won from a fair.

I spread some red lip balm onto my lips and take a deep breath. I know what to expect: a perfect geek making sweet curtsies and chirping: "Oh Mrs Chevrolet, this kitchen is simply adorable" and "Mrs Chevrolet, this apple pie of yours - it's indescribably delicious!".

I step down the stairs in a way that hopefully is being very smooth and graceful. I'm sure she'll be greatly impressed by me.

Mom's voice echoes from the kitchen.

"What's keeping her, I told her to be here to welcome you!" I can almost hear Mom gritting her teeth.

Then I hear an unfamiliar laughter. "Well, I can wait. At least the surprise won't be ruined too early."

So, it's a surprise our Victoria-Josephine wants?

I push the door wide open and blurt: "What surprise?"

The first thing I notice about her is that she doesn't have denim overalls nor a straw hat. She's wearing a black tee and leggings, and over them a white tank top and a tennis skirt. She looks a little weird. Her expression is rather perplexed and Mom's annoyed.

"Good heavens with you, is that what you call a greeting?"

I don't give her any answer. Instead I'm trying to keep staring the girl while fumbling for toast with my back toward her. I feel irritated. She has the shiniest, the smoothest, the thickest, the longest and the most chocolate brown hair I've ever seen. Oh well. It's not that long. Actually, it's not very special after all.

Her eyes are some vague shade of olive green. Did I mention that I've always disliked the mix of brown hair and green eyes? If you have green eyes, you should have red or blonde hair. That's how it goes. It just looks way better.

"Your eyes are of the same colour as mine", she notices. Well, that took her long enough.

"You have the eyes of great aunt Magdalene", Mom says in a voice that oozes milk and honey.

I don't want to have some old hag's eyes, I just want Miss Candyfloss Head out of here!

When I finally manage to grab the toast, I have to face her, because the toaster is on the other side of the room.

She doesn't say a word, only brushes a chocolate tress of hers behind her ear. I bet she's trying to be attractive like Audrey Hepburn or something.

Her silence really starts to disturb me.

Mom nags: "Aren't you going to consider her at all? Oh, now I have to fly. I'll leave you here to get to know each other. Don't you dare flee anywhere!"

Of course, the last words are meant for me. Who else? Mom puts on some Liz Taylor and snatches her purse. She gives a quick kiss for both the weird girl and me, whispering: "Behave yourself."

She's off. The toast jumps from the machine. Eek. She hands me a knife for butter. I don't take it, but fill my mouth with the dry toast instead.

"I truly understand if you want to protest. I don't know about you, but I'm able to demonstrate even though there was some butter on my bread."

I keep my lips together. She moves on to examine her croissant.

"It's strange, this consistency of the southern breakfast. Leafy, if you know what I mean."

Leafy?

After a moment of thinking I open my mouth and burst out: "Why don't you tell your name?"

I try to survive with as little talking as possible, but I have to know why she behaves like she's here every morning eating leafy southern breakfast.

Her olive eyes twinkle. "So you're interested now? I was thinking that if you don't want to know anything about me, I won't tell anything. I don't find it fun to talk to people who aren't interested at all."

Ah. She's odd.

"My whole name is Cinnamon Ivory Yarrow", she sings. Yeah, right.

"Really funny."

She – Cinnamon, what a name – only raises her eyebrows. Is that even a real name?

I guess it is, because she doesn't exactly seem like a joker. I actually didn't muff a stroke with that Victoria-Josephine. However, I'd rather be even The-violet-that-sways-in-the-wind than Cinnamon.

"Lizzie", I introduce myself with my middle name.

Again, that laughter that doesn't fit in our kitchen. "Well, at least your name's easy to remember... Satin."

She's pronouncing it wrong. "It's Sa-tiiiin. You said it like Sa-tin", I say out loud by mistake.

"I'm sorry, Sa-tiiiin. Why don't you want to be Satin? If your mother hadn't talked about you so much by your real name, I'd be calling you Lizzie now."

I decide not to answer – again. I'm trying to keep up with my quota of rudeness, but there's something mysterious about Cinnamon. Like she was behind a glass wall all the time. She's weird. Besides, I like my name, I just didn't want Cinnamon to think that I'm on her side. Which I'm not.

Cinnamon just keeps eating and doesn't even look like she's wanting to hear my answer. Someone else would've already been demanding, "Why don't you say anything, I hate silence".

"I think it's all nice", she says.

"What?"

"Silence."

Can she read people's mind, too? I wouldn't be surprised.

"Silence is nice, because you can hear your own thoughts better. You can just sit there and listen to yourself, the CD of your own life. You don't believe how different thoughts you can get when you are just being quiet and giving them time."

I guess I'm looking a bit amazed, because Cinnamon goes on: "You don't think that much, do you?"

Actually I do. Right now, I'm thinking that Cinnamon could jump up and run as far away as she can. She's a freak. I'm getting goosebumps because of her. She's probably trying to brainwash and manipulate me in some twisted way. Maybe she's planning to take me to her spaceship!

Well, okay, maybe freak is a little too strong expression. But I've never been surer of one thing, or actually two. The first one is that I'll never let Misty – or anyone else – anywhere near Cinnamon. And the second one is that I've never ever met a more peculiar person than my second cousin.

Oooh great formatting, reads wonderfully now, thankee

Demeter wrote:09:37. Oh. Somethign more than "oh", a mention of her emotions and thoughts, perhaps? Mom won't be liking me waking up late on the guest's first morning here So why didn't she wake her? , but I need time to sleep. I need to sleep, because the next fifty nights will be total insomnia for me "for the next fifty nights I will have insomia". You have insomnia, not there is insomnia because of my horrid second cousin.

I get up and reach the slippers under my bed with my feet. Slowly, I put on the jeans and the tank-top-without-washing-instructions, the same ones I wore the previous day. I brush my hair with a purple hairbrush I once won from a fair. Detials about haribrush redundant

I spread some red lip balm onto my lips and take a deep breath. I know what to expect: a perfect geek who's replace "who's" with a comma making sweet curtsies and chirping: "Oh Mrs Chevrolet, this kitchen is simply adorable" and "Mrs Chevroler, this apple pie of yours - it's indescribably delicious!".

I step down the stairs in a way that hopefully is being very smooth and graceful. I'm sure she'll be greatly impressed by me.

Mom's voice comes from the kitchen.

"What's keeping her, I told her to be here to welcome you!" I can almost hear Mom gritting her teeth.

Then, an unfamiliar laughter. "Well, I can wait. At least the surprise won't be ruined too early."

So, it's a surprise our Victoria-Josephine wants?

I push the door wide open and blurt: "What surprise?"

The first thing I notice about her is that she doesn't have denim overalls nor a straw hat. She's wearing a black tee and leggings, and over them a white tank top and a tennis skirt. She looks like a weirdo. Her expression is rather perplexed and Mom's annoyed.

"Good heavens with you, is that what you call a greeting?" Somethng about mother's tone, voice, expression?

I don't give her any answer. Instead I'm trying to keep from staring at the girl while fumbling for toast with my back toward her. I feel irritated. She has the shiniest, the smoothest, the thickest, the longest and the most chocolate brown hair I've ever seen. Oh well. It's not that long. Actually, it's not very special after all. Contradiction much?

Her eyes are olive green. Did I mention that I've always disliked the mix of brown hair and green eyes? If you have green eyes, you must have red or blonde hair. That's how it goes. Why?

"Your eyes are of the same colour as mine", she notices. Well, that took her long enough.

"You have the eyes of great aunt Magdalene", Mom says in a voice that oozes milk and honey.

I don't want to have some old hag's eyes, I just want Miss Candyfloss Head out of here!

When I finally manage to grab the toast, I have to face her, because the toaster is on the other side of the room.

She doesn't say a word, only brushes a chocolate tress of hers behind her ear. I bet she's trying to be attractive like Audrey Hepburn or something.

I'm disturbed by her silence.

Mom nags: "Aren't you going to consider her at all? Oh, now I have to fly. I'll leave you here to get to know each other. Don't you dare to flee anywhere!"

Of course, the last words are meant for me. Who else? Mom puts on some Liz Taylor and snatches her purse. She gaves a short kiss for the weird girl and for me, too, whispering: "Behave yourself."

She's off. The toast jumps from the machine. Eek. She hands me a knife for butter. I don't take it, but fill my mouth with the dry toast instead.

"I truly understand, if you want to protest. I don't know about you, but I'm able to demonstrate even though I'd buttered my bread." This last sentence makes no sense

No answer from me. She moves on to examine her croissant.

"It's strange, this consistency of the southern breakfast. Leafy, if you know what I mean."

Leafy?

After a moment of thinking I open my mouth and burst out: "Why don't you tell your name?"

I try to survive with as little talking as possible, but I have to know why she behaves like she's here every morning eating leafy southern breakfast.

Her olive eyes twinkle. "So you're interested now? I was thinking that if you don't want to know anything about me, I won't tell anything. I don't find it fun to talk to people who aren't interested at all."

Ah. She's odd.

"My whole name is Cinnamon Ivory Yarrow", she sings. Yeah, right.

"Really funny."

She – Cinnamon, what a name – only raises her eyebrows. Is that even a real name?

I guess it is, because she doesn't exactly seem like a joker. I actually didn't muff a stroke with that Victoria-Josephine. However,, I'd rather be even The-violet-that-sways-in-the-wind than Cinnamon.

"Lizzie", I introduce myself with my middle name.

Again, that laughter that doesn't fit in our kitchen. "Well, at least your name's easy... Satin."

She's pronouncing it wrong. "It's Sa-tiiiin. You said it like Sa-tin", I say out loud by mistake.

"I'm sorry, Sa-tiiiin. Why don't you want to be Satin? If your mother hadn't talked about you so much by your real name, I'd be calling you Lizzie now."

I decide not to answer. I'm trying to keep my quota of rudeness up, but there's something mysterious about Cinnamon. Like she was behind a glass wall all the time. She's weird. Besides, I like my name, I just didn't want Cinnamon to think that I'm on her side. Which I'm not.

Cinnamon just keeps eating and doesn't even look like she's wanting to hear my answer. Someone else would've already been demanding, "Why don't you say anything, I hate silence".

"I think it's all nice", she says.

"What?"

"Silence."

Can she read people's mind, too? I wouldn't be surprised.

"Silence is nice, because you can hear your own thoughts better. You can just sit there and listen to yourself, the CD of your own life. You don't believe how different thoughts you can get when you are just being quiet and giving them time."

I guess I'm looking a bit amazed, because Cinnamon goes on: "You don't think that much, do you?"

Actually I do. I'm thinking right now that Cinnamon could jump up and run as far away as she can. She's a freak. I'm getting goosebumps because of her. She's probably trying to brainwash and manipulate me in some twisted way. Maybe she's planning to take me to her spaceship!

Well, okay, maybe freak is a little too strong expression. But I've never been surer of one thing, or actually two. The first one is that I'll never let Misty – or anyone else – anywhere near Cinnamon. And the second one is that I've never ever met a more peculiar person as Cinnamon No need to constantly repeat "Cinnamon" .

Good, in general. You need more description throughout though, during the conversation.

Also, work on character development. Just because you're writing from one character's POV doesn't mean you totally leave out character development for all the other people in your story.

But anyway, nice

Hey, D! I don't have much time so this will be as good as I can.

Ok, a few things here.

1. Grammer, Punctuation. There's a few mistakes in this piece which need to be amended. Just go through the piece even after you've spell-checked it. But the typos aren't major- just a bit of constructive critcism.

2. Be careful about your Main Character. She, although I love her- is going on a bit. Too much thought. Her opinions just seem a bit 'wordy' for me. I want to like her just as much as I want to like her cousin. Even though you're writing in the first person point of view, you need to 'show' more.

3. The descriptions are confusing at points. I didn't really get the whole thing about the buttering of toast. Try and make the actions of the characters simple so it doesn't take away from the dialogue.

4. The flow. Some of the piece is disjointed and it makes it hard to read. However the pace is picking up so that's a positive.

Despite this, you're sustaining interest D! Just take in board my comments and keep writing!

Hope and Best Wishes,

Eimear xx

Demeter wrote:09:37. Ugh. Mom won't be liking me waking up late on the guest's first morning here, but I need time to sleep. I need to sleep, because the next fifty nights I will have a total insomnia because of my horrid second cousin.

Ugh. Mom won't like me waking up late on the guest's first morning here, but I need more time to sleep. I need to sleep, because over the next fifty night's I'll have total insomnia due to my horrid second cousin.

I basically changed a repetition of because, and made the paragraph less awkward. Nice opening paragraph.

I get up and reach the slippers under my bed with my feet. Slowly, I put on the jeans and the tank-top-without-washing-instructions, the same ones I wore the previous day. I brush my hair with a purple hairbrush I once won from a fair.

I get up and reach with my feet for the slippers under my bed. Slowly, I put on the jeans and the tank top, the same ones I wore the previous day. (The whole without washing instructions was just rambling.) I brush my hair with my purple hairbrush.

I step down the stairs in a way that hopefully is being very smooth and graceful. I'm sure she'll be greatly impressed by me.

I step down the stairs in a way that I hope is smooth and graceful. I'm sure I'm really going to impress her.

Then I hear an unfamiliar laughter.

Then, I hear unfamiliar laughter.

"Your eyes are of the same colour as mine", she notices."You have the eyes of great aunt Magdalene", Mom says in a voice that oozes milk and honey.

I don't want to have some old hag's eyes, I just want Miss Candyfloss Head out of here!

People don't really make comments like that about people's eye colour, do they? Take the paragraph out.


I really like this third installement. The story is really coming along. Just watch the grammar. It would take too long to go through the whole of the story editing every mistake, but I've done the first half.
Sarah

Demeter-
I had the exact same expression as Satin or Lizzie about her cousin's name. Cinnamon? Okay, never really heard that one before.

The thoughts on Lizzie are kind of strange. She sure likes to think to herself a lot. But, it does give the reader on what she thinks of everything and everyone.

I can't think of what else to say about this chapter. This story has me hooked in some way, that I want to keep on reading. Well, I've got to read more...

-Merry

Time for an attack on chapter 3. (And by "attack" I mean critique, of course)

Demeter wrote:09:37. Ugh. Mom won't be liking me waking up late on the guest's first morning here, but I need time to sleep. I need to sleep, not a good idea to put a comma in front of a because. because the next fifty nights I will have a total insomnia because of my horrid second cousin. The second because feels a little strange. I'm pretty sure what effect your trying to give, but it doesn't flow well

I get up and reach for the slippers under my bed with my feet. Slowly, I put on the jeans and the tank-top-without-washing-instructions, the [/s]same[/s] ones I wore the previous day. I brush my hair with a purple hairbrush I once won from a fair. "Same isn't needed because you've put "the" in front of jeans

I spread some red lip balm onto my lips and take a deep breath. I know what to expect: a perfect geek making sweet curtsies and chirping: "Oh Mrs Chevrolet, this kitchen is simply adorable" and "Mrs Chevrolet, this apple pie of yours - it's indescribably delicious!".

I step down the stairs in a way that hopefully is being very smooth and graceful. I'm sure she'll be greatly impressed by me.

Mom's voice echoes from the kitchen.

"What's keeping her, I told her to be here to welcome you!" I can almost hear Mom gritting her teeth.

Then I hear an unfamiliar laughter. "Well, I can wait. At least the surprise won't be ruined too early."

So, it's a surprise our Victoria-Josephine wants?

I push the door wide open and blurt: "What surprise?" Why is she asking that question?

The first thing I notice about her is that she doesn't have denim overalls nor a straw hat. She's wearing a black tee and leggings, and over them a white tank top and a tennis skirt. She looks a little weird. Her expression is rather perplexed--and Mom's is annoyed.

"Good heavens with you, is that what you call a greeting?" I'm guessing the mom said this?

I don't give her any answer. Instead I'm trying to keep from staring the girl while fumbling for toast bread with my back toward her Which her?. I feel irritated. She has the shiniest, the smoothest, the thickest, the longest and the most chocolate brown hair I've ever seen. Oh well. It's not that long. Actually, it's not very special after all. A very good indication as to how she's toning everything of her cousin's down

Her eyes are some vague shade of olive green. Did I mention that I've always disliked the mix of brown hair and green eyes? If you have green eyes, you should have red or blonde hair. That's how it goes. It just looks way better.

"Your eyes are of the same colour as mine", she notices. Well, that italacize "that" took her long enough.

"You have the eyes of great aunt Magdalene", Mom says in a voice that oozes milk and honey.

I don't want to have some old hag's eyes, I just want Miss Candyfloss Head out of here!

When I finally manage to grab the toast bread, I have to face her; [s]because[/s] the toaster is on the other side of the room.

She doesn't say a word, only brushes a chocolate tress of hers behind her ear. I bet she's trying to be attractive like Audrey Hepburn or something.

Her silence really starts to disturb me.

Mom nags: "Aren't you going to consider her at all? Oh, now I have to fly. I'll leave you here to get to know each other. Don't you dare flee anywhere!"

Of course, the last words are line is? meant for me. Who else? Mom puts on some Liz Taylor and snatches her purse. She gives a quick kiss for to? both the weird girl and me, whispering: "Behave yourself."

She's off. The toast jumps from the machine. Eek. She hands me a knife for butter. I don't take it, but fill my mouth with the dry toast instead.

"I truly understand if you want to protest. I don't know about you, but I'm able to demonstrate even though there was some butter on my bread."

I keep my lips together. She moves on to examine her croissant.

"It's strange, this consistency of the southern breakfast. Leafy, if you know what I mean."

Leafy? You never answer this question.

After a moment of thinking I open my mouth and burst out: "Why don't you tell your name?"

I try to survive with as little talking as possible, but I have to know why she behaves like she's here every morning eating leafy southern breakfast.

Her olive eyes twinkle. "So you're interested now? I was thinking that if you don't want to know anything about me, I won't tell anything. I don't find it fun to talk to people who aren't interested at all."

Ah. She's odd.

"My whole name is Cinnamon Ivory Yarrow", she sings. Yeah, right.

"Really funny."

She – Cinnamon, what a name! – only raises her eyebrows. Is that even a real name?

I guess it is, because she doesn't exactly seem like a joker. I actually didn't muff a stroke with that Victoria-Josephine. However, I'd rather be even The-violet-that-sways-in-the-wind than Cinnamon.

"Lizzie", I introduce myself with my middle name.

Again, that laughter that doesn't fit in our kitchen. "Well, at least your name's easy to remember... Satin."

She's pronouncing it wrong. "It's Sa-tiiiin. You said it like Sa-tin", I say that or it out loud by mistake.

"I'm sorry, Sa-tiiiin. Why don't you want to be Satin? If your mother hadn't talked about you so much by your real name, I'd be calling you Lizzie now."

I decide not to answer – again. I'm trying to keep up with my quota of rudeness, but there's something mysterious about Cinnamon. Like she was behind a glass wall all the time. She's weird. Besides, I like my name, I just didn't want Cinnamon to think that I'm on her side. Which I'm not.

Cinnamon just keeps eating and doesn't even look like she's wanting to hear my answer. Someone else would've already been demanding, "Why don't you say anything, I hate silence".

"I think it's all nice", she says.

"What?"

"Silence."

Can she read people's mind, too? I wouldn't be surprised.

"Silence is nice, because you can hear your own thoughts better. You can just sit there and listen to yourself, the CD of your own life. You don't believe how different thoughts you can get when you are just being quiet and giving them time." Hmm, first you say she's never owned a digital clock and the electronics section of a Willosian story (love that, by the way) consists of nutcrackers, and now there is a CD reference....

I guess I'm looking a bit amazed, because Cinnamon goes on: "You don't think that much, do you?"

Actually I do. Right now, I'm thinking that Cinnamon could jump up and run as far away as she can. She's a freak. I'm getting goosebumps because of her. She's probably trying to brainwash and manipulate me in some twisted way. Maybe she's planning to take me to her spaceship!

Well, okay, maybe freak is a little too strong expression. But I've never been surer of one thing, or actually two. The first one is that I'll never let Misty – or anyone else – anywhere near Cinnamon. And the second one is that I've never ever met a more peculiar person than my second cousin.

I'm starting to think Satin's personality is closer to your then Cinomen's. This section again is more fleshed out personality wise then the last one.

Other then that, still a good story. I want to find out what happens next!