Faithful

Lilyy03 · 2006-12-24T20:16:46Z

“Gibbs Free Energy.” I write the words in delicate, curling calligraphy. Each stroke ends with a tiny flourish. The capital letters stand taller and thicker, swelling with pride at their position. I glance up to check the progress of Mr. Alder’s… lecture. “Out of all the students in this school, you seniors should be setting the example for others, not parading your crybaby attitudes day in and day out…” I return to my notebook, and begin sketching Mr. Alder as I imagine he will be in ten, maybe twenty years’ time. His face is still rectangular, but his hairline has receded all the way to the back of his head. His mouth, outlined with the remnants of a beard, is drawn down at the ends but tightly shut. I add a few wrinkles where I expect his endless frowns and scowls to take the most toll. He is still a tall man, but the small bulge above his waistband has grown to a sagging pot belly. “…and if you don’t learn to suck it up, you won’t have a chance of surviving in the adult world.” As delightful as all this is, the blaring of the bell is a welcome sound. My notebook, and the few others in the room that are still open, slap shut in unison. Bags are picked up and slung over shoulders. The original targets of Mr. Alder’s wrath are the first out the door, and the rest of us are hardly less eager. The hallways are crowded and bustling. A few people linger, but most dash to and down the stairs. I am one of them, but more out of having nothing better to do, than actual enthusiasm. At the bottom of the stairs, there are still more people milling about. In spite of their din, I can hear the orchestra rehearsing “Sleigh Ride” in the music room. “Mona!” calls a familiar voice. I turn and smile as I see a short, dark girl hurrying towards me. It’s Alice, my best friend here, by virtue of being the only one I have. “Have a merry Christmas!” she says, with the sort of cheery goodwill that every mall Santa should strive for. She is carrying a stack of green envelopes, from which she takes one with my name on it and gives it to me. She then hurries off, to share the green-enveloped merriment with all her other friends. I tuck the envelope into my backpack, and begin looking around for my sister, Valerie, who said she would be here to drive me home if it snowed. I quickly spot her; she is standing near the tall Christmas tree by the entrance and, as usual, a flock of gawking boys is nearby. She has many of the same characteristics I do, but in more attractive ways. We both have brown hair, but mine is messy, while hers is sleek and highlighted with blonde. We both have green eyes, but mine are hidden by glasses. Our mouths are practically identical, but she somehow manages to smile much more. “There you are,” she says, abandoning her group of brand new admirers. “Everything alright?” “Very,” I say, not really listening. “How was …chemistry?” “Mmh… Unfortunate,” I say, walking through the double doors into a glittering white world. “Apparently someone yawned. It sent Alder up the wall.” “I see,” says Valerie. Now she‘s the one not listening. “How do you walk in those?” As we crunch over the snow, she’s staring at the tattered black slip-ons that have been the faithful guardians of my feet for the past three years. “Well, how do you walk in those ?” I say. Her boots have tall, needle-thin heels. We reach her car and get inside without more conversation. After driving a block, she tries again. “So are you going to the Winter Dance?” “Of course not,” I say, rolling my eyes while looking out the window. “I don’t think anyone would even have nightmares of dancing with Pudgy McFour-Eyes.” “Oh shut up,” she says. “You’re curvy, not pudgy or anything like that. You’d be a very pretty girl if you’d just believe it!” It’s what she’s been telling me for years, and it’s a vicious circle. To be it, I must believe it, but how do I believe it when it’s so obviously not true? “Listen, Mona. If you go, I’ll take you shopping for a dress to wear to it.” “No.” “And shoes.” “No.” “And I will personally do your hair at no cost.” It dawns on me that this must actually mean a lot to her. She is both a very money-minded person, and a professional hair stylist. “Really, Val, it won’t happen.” We reach the street my mother and I live on. Red brick apartments crowd around it on either side. A few windows have multicolored Christmas lights clinging to them, and a few doors have wreaths. “Oh, who‘s this…” says Valerie. A white-haired woman, hunched forward and clutching a shawl around herself, shuffles along the sidewalk. She holds three leashes, each one pulled taught by the squirming terrier at the end of it. As she passes our car, she shoots an angry glare at us. Clearly, youngsters driving cars in her neighborhood is an abomination. “Mrs. Carwin, of course,” I answer, knowing it wasn’t an actual question. “Of course,” says Valerie. “Remember how everyone would skip her house on Halloween? The woman knows how to intimidate!” I shrug. “At least she‘s not contributing to everyone‘s cavities.” But I know of Mrs. Carwin‘s long-established reputation of unfriendliness. “Ta-da,” says Valerie, stopping before the last building. Our two-foot Christmas tree is visible through a window on the second storey. “See you, Mona.” “See you.” I have eaten dinner, showered, changed, phoned Alice to thank her for the card, done homework for two hours, read for several more hours, and gone to bed by the time my mother comes home from work. She is a waitress at a restaurant that serves lunch and dinner, but they are open for dinner so late that I think they should have a breakfast menu. I hear her walking around the living room and kitchen, as usual. She sets her things down, gets something from the fridge, and sits on the couch. The TV is flipped on, and she browses the channels. After going through several--news, cartoons, cooking (I would have liked to fall asleep to the sound of a chocolate cake being made)--she settles on a soap opera. “How could Tammy have done such a thing!” moans an anguished TV actress. “All those people, what will they think!” “Perhaps we shouldn’t be too harsh on her,” says a man. “Keep in mind, we’re not even supposed to know.” “Excuse me, miss,” says a second man. “I’m Gordon--nineteen nineteen to nineteen forty-three…” Oh? As I drift off, I wonder if he’s counting how many dreadful deeds Tammy has committed. “I need to know if you’d be willing to help me,” the second man continues. He seems uninterested in the current argument between the other two characters, about whether the first man has had something going on with Tammy. “Excuse me, miss,” he says again. I pull the sheets over my head. Won’t the blasted woman just ask him what he wants? “Mona?” My eyes open at once. What is this? I slowly tug the sheets away from my head. I don’t see anyone on the side I’m facing, so I turn. And there, near the foot of the bed on my left side, someone is standing. “What the hell !” I yelp, sitting up. The person--a young man, it seems--lifts a finger to his lips. “No, not hell,” he says, in a voice that still sounds as if it is coming from another room. “Not now, at least.” “Leave me alone,” I hiss. “I’ll call the police!” “I’m sorry… they won’t be able to do anything with me,” he says. His shoulders sag and he bows his head slightly. I want to ask him if he’s actually sad about that, but there are more important things to sort out. “How did you get in here?” He looks up again, and spreads his arms in an expansive gesture. One of them simply glides through my bedpost. My mouth has gone dry. “I’m very sorry for disturbing you,” he says, taking a small step closer. “And frightening you.” Almost without thinking, I pick my glasses up off my nightstand and put them on. With things in focus, I can see that he is indeed a young man, with very short sandy-colored hair, and brown eyes. He is wearing an olive green shirt, olive green trousers, and russet shoes. But, somehow, none of these colors look they way they should. They are a little paler, a littler grayer. And--very, very faintly--every inch of him is glowing. “This is ridiculous,” I whisper, shivering as I shrink back into my pillow. “It probably is.” He pauses, tilting his head. “But what are you afraid of? Obviously, I can’t hurt you…” He waves his arm through my bedpost again. “ Stop that!” “Sorry,” he repeats. “I should introduce myself properly--Gordon Carwin. Born nineteen nineteen, died nineteen forty-three.” Bizarre as the situation is, the numbers and his appearance snap together in my mind. “A soldier? The second world war?” “Exactly, Mona,” he says, grinning. Something else in what he said is vying for my attention. “Carwin? There’s a Mrs. Carwin living close to here.” “There is,” he says. His smile falters and vanishes. “It’s the reason I’m here.” “Go on,” I say, half resigned that I’m dreaming--but why not play along. “Ella--Mrs. Carwin--and I were married. She was an extraordinary girl, and we loved each other very much.” The thought of Mrs. Carwin having both a first name and a lover is jarring to me. “After I left, for the war, we could only write letters to each other. I couldn’t tell her most of what was going on, so I filled my letters with talk of the things we’d do together when the war was over. And there was one small promise--that when I came back, I’d have someone draw a proper portrait of us together.” I notice that my heart has stopped trying to batter my chest open. “And?” I say. “And it never happened, of course. Invasion of Sicily…” The silence is strange. A sick, peculiar sort of awkwardness I’ve never felt before. “Mona, do you know what it is that keeps people here after they die? What keeps them from leaving like they should?” I shake my head. “Promises. Hopes. Intentions. Things that should have been fulfilled, but weren‘t.” “So you’re still here because of… That picture?” “Yes.” Over the past several things he’s said, his voice has gone even fainter. “And in the past sixty years, you’re the first person I’ve found who could do it for me.” “Why?” I say, leaning forward. “I saw you drawing in school today. You don‘t just see what people are--you see what they were and will be. And I thought, perhaps, you could see what Ella was like when we were both alive…” It’s becoming harder to see him. His glow is fading. “Will you, Mona?” “I--I’ll try,” I say, bewildered. He is gone. I spend the first morning of winter break lying in my bed, staring at the ceiling. I’ve decided I wasn’t dreaming. I haven’t allowed myself to sleep--both out of wanting to prove this, and being startled and confused. “Mona, are you up yet?” my mother shouts. “Mmmfffuhhnnn,” I articulate as I rub my eyes. She pokes her head into my room. Her dirty blond hair is tugged into a ponytail, and she’s wearing a low-cut turquoise sweater--a good indication that she’s going out. “I have to go shopping before work,” she says. “No pressure, but have you done your Christmas shopping yet?” “Nuhh.” “Suit yourself.” She grins. “Good luck with the checkout lines.” With that, she darts out. After a few minutes, I crumble out of bed. I don’t care if Frankenstein, Dracula, and Casper the Friendly Ghost are all coming to see me tonight. I am going to need sleep. I stagger to my desk and sit down on the chair, yawning. I stare out of the window in front of me. A few snowflakes are falling, and the street seems deserted. But then, three small dogs bound into view, a shuffling figure in tow. Mrs. Carwin. I open a desk drawer and pull out my sketchbook and pencil, my eyes fixed on her all the while. Her chin and nose are small and pointed. Very thin lips, but perhaps they were once fuller. Her hair is in short ringlets, but long ago they would have been darker, and maybe longer. Suddenly, one of the dogs makes an odd hopping movement, one of its front paws in the air. Mrs. Carwin stops, and crouches down. She takes the paw and rubs it, while the other two dogs sit with their faces intently pointed at her. After a moment, she stops rubbing, and gives the dog the quickest of kisses on the tip of its nose. I continue sketching as they walk out of view. Sitting on the edge of my bed, I attempt to brush my hair. The world outside is mostly dark, except for some faint blue glow near the horizon--leftovers from the day. I turn my head to deal with some particularly troublesome strands--and jump. “Hello, Mona!” says Gordon. “Ah, hi,” I say, putting down my brush. “Why did you disappear yesterday?” “Oh, the program your mother was watching seemed nearly over… I didn’t want to cause trouble. How are you?” “Fine,” I say. “I started on the picture.” “Oh!” His face seems to light up even more as he smiles. I reach over and open my desk drawer, pulling out what I had drawn in the morning. It is in colored pencil, on a sheet of paper with frayed holes along the edges after being pulled out of my sketchbook, Mrs. Carwin--or Ella--has a rather pretty face, framed by shoulder-length black curls, and is wearing a yellow dress with black shoes. She’s smiling, and looking down slightly, as if listening to something pleasant. Gordon is beside her, smiling even more broadly. He is holding an umbrella that covers both of them. A few thin streaks over the picture hint at rain. Gordon is silent for a few moments as he looks at it, but his smile stays in place. “It’s quite perfect, Mona,” he says. “Thank you.” “How did you see me at school yesterday?” I blurt. Rather rudely, I suppose. “Oh, ghosts can be invisible when they wish. I rather like it--one of the perks of being this way.” I feel a little envious. “And… You said Ella was an extraordinary girl. What was she like?” I fiddle with my brush as I say this, knowing what my next question would be. “She was very kind, and intelligent. She had a way of understanding people, and knowing just what would make them smile. And she was very loyal.” His eyes seem to be looking at something distant. “She seems rather… different, these days,” I say, picking my words carefully. “Why is that?” “Nastier?” says Gordon. He chuckles, and then sighs. “Do you know the story of Penelope, Mona?” “Yes.” “Ella had a similar troupe of suitors, once word came back that I was dead.” “Oh.” “She wouldn’t have anything to do with them. I’d have liked her to maybe give one of the decent ones a chance… But she didn’t. She couldn’t weave--or even crochet--so she spurned them. Some were persistent, but her spurning just became harsher. She became bitter about how she’d been treated… I think that, eventually, she went from spurning just them, to spurning the entire human race.” “I see.” I don’t say anything for a moment, as I think about it. “And the picture--is that all you meat to do for her? I mean…” What a lovely way to put it. Gordon laughs. He has the mirthful sort of laugh that makes others want to laugh too. “Oh, no, there was more… Most of them, I could only stand by and watch until they no longer needed to be done. But the picture…” “You know, since Christmas is the day after tomorrow, I could wrap it and leave it at her door, as a present?” He nods, and looks as if he’s about to say something--but the lock of the door rattles. “Oh, there’s mom again,” I say. He has already disappeared. Just one thing left to do. After buying presents for Valerie (a CD from her favorite band) and my mother (a pair of earrings), I go to Leon’s Art Supplies. It is owned and run by a quirky old man--an artist who takes pride in having the first four letters of Da Vinci’s first name. For similar reasons, he’s always treated me in a rather fatherly way. “Mona!” he says, his rounded face splitting into a smile as the door chimes ring. “What can I get you today?” “A frame,” I say, stomping the snow off my shoes. “I got a new shipment in just yesterday!” he says, ambling out from behind his cluttered counter. “They’re simple, but a great steal--” “Oh thank you--but I don‘t think that’s what I‘m after,” I say. “I want something beautiful, that’ll last a long time…” It is Christmas Eve. Valerie has already come by. She took the presents we got for her, and left us two--one large, the other small and thin. I watched TV with my mother for a while. She’s gone to bed now, and I am in my room, wrapping one last present with grinning reindeer wrapping paper. I am looking at the happy young pair for the last time. For now, anyway. “Mona, this has been very kind of you.” I hear Gordon’s voice behind me. “It’s fine,” I say, pulling apart a piece of tape. “It’s rare enough that I do anything for anyone else.” He comes next to me, and sinks into a sitting position--but half an inch above the floor. “Are you still going to come around after tomorrow?” I ask. It is my awkward way of saying the I’ve started to like talking to him. “No,” he says. “I don’t think I’ll be able to.” “Why’s that?” “This is the last promise I have. After you give it to her, I’ll be… Free to go.” “Go?” I say. I turn to look at him as I smooth out the paper. “Go. To wherever it is I’m going.” “You don’t know?” “I don’t.” Something he said two days ago strikes me. “You said--when I said what the hell--that it wasn’t hell now at least. You’re not going to--?” “I might be,” he says, resting his chin on his hand. “If that’s where all people who kill go. But what I was thinking of when I said that was the hell on earth that I‘d already seen…” “Wouldn’t you rather stay?” I try not to betray my worry. He smiles. He’s looking at something far away again. “Ghosts have a restlessness, Mona. A restlessness more powerful than any living thing could feel. I hardly have a choice, now.” No one speaks, for a few minutes. “It’s been nice meeting you,” I finally say. “Likewise. I suppose I should be going--let you get your rest.” “Oh.” “Merry Christmas, Mona.” “Merry Christmas--and good luck.” He nods, and fades into the darkness. On Christmas morning, I get out of bed as soon as I wake. There are important things to do--and maybe the thought of presents is still a little exciting. My mother is already up. Standing by the kitchen counter, she’s holding what looks like a small piece of paper. “Good morning,” I say, yawning. “Morning!” she says. “Merry Christmas. Look what some angel left for me!” She tosses her head, laughing. The earring sparkle as the catch the light. “What’s that?” I ask, pointing at the piece of paper. “A ten-dollar gift certificate to that beauty salon Valerie works at. I suppose they’d polish a nail or two for that much.” We laugh together. “But it looks like she spent a pretty penny on you,” she says, nodding at the large unopened package. I pull the paper away carefully--we might need to use it next year. Inside is a silver-colored cardboard box with a lid. I think I know what this is going to be, and roll my eyes. A pair of boots. They are black, like Valerie’s. Their heels, though, are a little shorter and thicker--just a little. There’s a note with them as well. “Dear Mona, These are for you. Wear them. I’ve thrown out the receipt so DON’T try to return them. If you somehow manage to, I’ll kill you. Your loving sister, Valerie.” An hour later, I set out for Ella’s house. I carry the picture under my arm, and am obediently wearing the boots from Valerie. I surprise myself sometimes. Ella--or Mrs. Carwn--lives a few blocks away from me. Instead of red brick apartment complexes, there are small, narrow houses. Hers, like most of them, has white siding and a brown roof. The window next to the front door has its curtains partly drawn back. I pause, staring at it. I can’t see anyone moving inside, so I take a step closer, and then another. I glance around, and can’t see anyone outside, either. I decide to take the chance, and press my face against the window. It seems to be a living room. There is a red oriental rug on the floor, decorated with whirling patterns in green and beige. A floral sofa is against the opposite wall. On it lie the three little dogs, nestled against each other and fast asleep. On the walls of the room are a few framed pictures. Most of them are paintings of flowers or animals--but not all. I spot what I am looking for. Black and white photographs. There are only three. They are hung in a column next to a corner of the room. The top one is of two people, standing on a hill, holding each other’s hands, and laughing. The second photograph is of the same two people, I presume--with a third. A young woman and man sit next to each other on a bench. The woman is laughing again, with her head tilted upwards. The man is bent forward, grinning at the baby that sits on her lap. So they had a child. The third one is dominated by a long, narrow box. A lone figure, dressed in black, slumps next to it with one arm over its top. I step back, shivering. My legs yearn to run away. It was hard coming to this house when I was a trick-or-treating eight-year-old, and it is hard now. But it’s nice to think that I’ve become a little braver over the past ten years. I gently set the package down on the small patio before the front door. The doorbell is a circular, off-white button on a black cube. I press it. As soon as it sounds, the terriers spring into action and start yipping. I dash off as well--Mrs. Carwin won’t need my explanations. There is a low stone wall along the side of her front yard. I duck behind it, but peer past its edge. The door opens, and Mrs. Carwin steps out. She is shivering. Instead of the shawl she wears while walking her dogs, she is clutching a white sweater around herself. Her pants are brown, as are her patchy house slippers. At first she doesn’t see the package at her feet--but one of the terriers jumps forward and begins sniffing it intensely. She scowls, stoops down, and picks it up. Her fingers, curved and claw-like, make a gash across the wrapping paper--and stop. She glances up, blinking a few times. She looks back down. She pulls some more paper away, but slowly and delicately--as if not wanting the sound to be heard. Stopping again, she bends to lift up the dog that has been standing and wagging its tail in front of her. She turns and goes back into the house, pushing the door closed with her foot. Well, that is that. I stand up, and walk away. I wonder what she thought of it. Maybe, someday soon, I’ll actually befriend her. And maybe I’ll see the picture on her wall, a semi-happy ending to the story of the photos. Near the apartments, I decide to cross the street to get on the side of it we live on. There are some shiny streaks of iciness that I walk over or around. One, however, I fail to spot. My heel slides, and my feet fly out from under me. As I fall backwards, I curse myself for ever listening to Valerie. I open my eyes. All I see is white--an endless dome of white. Gordon’s face floats into view. I suppose this means I’m dead now? “God, oh God…” he says. He’s taking me to God? Oh dear… But wait--his hair is black. It’s longer, too. I frown, and move my head. It’s against something very hard and cold. “Oh good!” he says, grinning. “I was afraid I’d have to take you to the ER.” “How--how long have I…” “Only a minute,” he says. “Are you alright?” “I think so.” I push myself up with my hands, so that I’m sitting. The back of my head throbs. This person does look very much like Gordon. “Who are you?” I say, wincing. “Sam,” he says. “Sam Carwin. I just got here… I’ve come to visit my grandmother for a few weeks.” “Of course,” I say, as I rub my head. “Are you ok to get up? It’s just that the middle of a road isn’t the best place to sit…” “Oh--yes.” I now notice that a car is a few feet away. I get to my feet, a little shakily. “Where are you going?” Gord--Sam asks. “I’ll drive you.” “Nah I’m fine thanks,” I say. I take two steps, and promptly slip again. I find myself splayed against the hood of the car. “No, really, let me.” His eyes are wide and look concerned, but the beginning of a laugh is flitting around his mouth. He opens the car door. He takes me by my elbow, and holds it while I get inside. Once he’s inside as well and I’ve told him where I’m going--very close to here--I can’t help but ask more questions. “So Mrs. Carwin is your grandmother?” “She is. Do you know her?” I think for a moment. “Not as well as I’d like.” “She can be a tough one to get to know. I wish I’d tried a few years earlier.” “Why’s that?” “Well, she’s only just agreed to let me come visit and help her for more than a couple days. And since she has just a few months left…” “A few months?” He looks at me. “She has cancer.” My hearts skips a beat, or several. I say the first condolence that comes to mind. “I’m so sorry.” He sighs, and looks back to the road. “She seems to be dealing with it well,” he says after a pause. “Emotionally, I mean… you know…” I do know. He stops in front of the apartment. “Thank you--a lot,” I say as I get out. “Of course. I suppose I’ll be seeing you around?” “I suppose so,” I say, smiling in spite of myself. “Goodbye!” “Bye!” he calls. He begins driving away--but slowly, as if he’s still watching me. I turn, and start walking inside. “Goodbye,” I say again, but to someone else. Silence. Except--but perhaps it is just in my head--for a voice as soft and free as the beating of a butterfly’s wing at the other end of the Universe. “ Goodbye .”

smaur

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Points 2834

Reviews 131

Wed Jan 10, 2007 7:20 pm

smaur says... · Wed Jan 10, 2007 7:20 pm

Okay. I read this — all of it. I was a little surprised to find myself disappointed when the story was over. Despite its length, despite the clichés (plain girl, beautiful older sister; no friends; Christmas good cheer), it managed to carry me through the story. Which is rare because, y'know, so many stories written with these elements tend to veer off into the deep end of Trite Painful Despair. And Faithful didn't. Kudos for that.

I like that, even regarding the clichés, you didn't take some of the more predictable (and potentially painful) plot turns — for example, when she draws the picture of her teacher, the classic route would be for her teacher to find it, and of course she'd be humiliated in front of the class, and everyone would think she was a freak. You don't take the ugly duckling/beautiful swan path with her, either — when her sister offers to do something of a makeover (ahh, teen movies!), she doesn't take it up, and she doesn't change into a stunning beautiful girl by the end of the story. Even when she gives the gift to Mrs. Carwin, we don't see the grumpy old lady turning into a sweet charming wonderful person because someone Actually Cares About Her.

Another thing: a lot of your sentences are phrased in this quirky charming way:

Each stroke ends with a tiny flourish. The capital letters stand taller and thicker, swelling with pride at their position.

And:

I don’t care if Frankenstein, Dracula, and Casper the Friendly Ghost are all coming to see me tonight. I am going to need sleep.

“God, oh God…” he says. He’s taking me to God? Oh dear…

Things like that? They kept the story flowing. They made the story engaging. So, yay! You win. Or something.

Regarding the present tense: I like it. And I totally disagree that a story can be told better in past tense than in present tense, simply on the merit of the tense. I admit, I didn't even notice the tense, except at the very beginning (and not in a bad way).

It's long after Christmas, so I don't know if you're still editing it — i.e., whether a critique will actually be helpful at this point. Still, I do think that you can pare down some of the story that teeters towards superfluity. Tighten the narrative. I suspect most of the after-school stuff (seeing her friend, etc.) can be snipped out:

As delightful as all this is, the blaring of the bell is a welcome sound. My notebook, and the few others in the room that are still open, slap shut in unison. Bags are picked up and slung over shoulders. The original targets of Mr. Alder’s wrath are the first out the door, and the rest of us are hardly less eager.

The hallways are crowded and bustling. A few people linger, but most dash to and down the stairs. I am one of them, but more out of having nothing better to do, than actual enthusiasm.

At the bottom of the stairs, there are still more people milling about. In spite of their din, I can hear the orchestra rehearsing “Sleigh Ride” in the music room.

“Mona!” calls a familiar voice. I turn and smile as I see a short, dark girl hurrying towards me. It’s Alice, my best friend here, by virtue of being the only one I have.

“Have a merry Christmas!” she says, with the sort of cheery goodwill that every mall Santa should strive for. She is carrying a stack of green envelopes, from which she takes one with my name on it and gives it to me. She then hurries off, to share the green-enveloped merriment with all her other friends.

At this point, it serves to set the mood well, but I think that you should establish the Christmasness well before this, i.e. closer to the beginning.

The meeting of Sam Carwin is abrupt, not necessarily in a good way. If you had, say, a part two, this would be a good point to introduce him. Right now, it feels too rushed and tacked on — in a lot of ways, it detracts from the focus of the original story, which is the Carwins and their portrait. Now, the reason I like this is because it ensures there won't be any overly trite conclusion with Mrs. Carwin, but it's still awkward and out of place within the overall framework of the story.

In summary: good story. Plotwise, lacking, but the writing and delivery salvaged the premise. Obviously, this is not a very in-depth critique, at all, and if you want a more substantial one, I'd be happy to help.

"He yanked himself free and fled to the kitchen where something huddled against the flooded windowpanes. It sighed and wept and tapped continually, and suddenly he was outside, staring in, the rain beating, the wind chilling him, and all the candle darkness inside lost."

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Lilyy03

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Points 890

Reviews 116

Thu Jan 11, 2007 5:08 pm

Lilyy03 says... · Thu Jan 11, 2007 5:08 pm

Smaur, thank you so much for that critique! It's very helpful. You're right that, as it's past Christmas, I'm not really editing the story now. But the advice you've given is still going to be useful. Thanks again!

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saves

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Points 890

Reviews 13

Wed Dec 17, 2008 9:47 am

saves says... · Wed Dec 17, 2008 9:47 am

I only found one mistake though i wasn't really looking.

Ella--or Mrs. Carwn--lives a few blocks away from me. Instead of red brick apartment complexes, there are small, narrow houses. Hers, like most of them, has white siding and a brown roof. The window next to the front door has its curtains partly drawn back. I pause, staring at it. I can’t see anyone moving inside, so I take a step closer, and then another. I glance around, and can’t see anyone outside, either. I decide to take the chance, and press my face against the window.

In the first sentence of that paragraph Carwin is spelt wrong.

Overall this was a fairly good story, though I think you should have ended it at the giving of the present.

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