Finders, Keepers

The piercing sound of the phone echoed in the hall. A grey cat miaowed disapprovingly the exact moment Mrs startled in her chair. She rose and went for the phone with wistful energy that used to give her that playful charm in her younger days. The spark was still there, but it had evolved to something more grown-up and experienced, like the first yellow leaves of a September maple.
Mrs picked up the phone hopefully, though she had promised herself to get rid of the habit. Hope was useless.
"Hello?" she said. Then she cleared her throat, as her voice had gotten a bit hoarse from not talking a lot recently.
An intolerably cheery voice took over the line. "This is Nadine Miller from the Herald & Post, good afternoon! I'm doing a poll about senior citizens' opinions considering the –"
"I'm not interested." Mrs hung up. The denied disappointment on her face made her look rather worn-out, emphasizing her soft wrinkles as if it were shadow cast upon the moment. She didn't know what she had expected from the sudden phone call, but she sure didn't need any immature twenty-somethings ringing her up, not having a clue what life really meant and having the nerve to call women in their prime senior citizens. To heck with them.
Mrs snorted quietly. Dame gave her the told-you-so eyes, even though she was almost as old in cat years as Mrs was in human years.
"I am not a senior citizen, thank you very much," Mrs said to Dame, who was still looking at her despotically. Senior citizens were grey-haired, plump old ladies or gentlemen who smelled like pipe tobacco or cookies fresh from the oven. They also had a large circle of acquaintances from the Saturday afternoon bingo club or wherever they made their time pass. This didn't apply to Mrs, either.
Generally she avoided using the word 'lonely' in any conditions – she considered herself more like 'socially challenged.' Externally she was indifferent as ever, but on the inside she couldn't help feeling a bit gloomy at times. A certain sort of melancholy was in her nature, though, but this was different – it was the kind that could be blocked by having someone to have intellectual conversations with, for example. She could always talk to Dame, of course, but as wise as the cat sometimes seemed to be, Mrs had yet to witness her reply.
In any case, Mrs hadn't had a proper associate in years. She had everything else, though, overwhelmingly even. Especially after her mother had passed away a good nine or ten years ago and left her with unthinkable amounts of property that her late investor husband had gained and left Mrs's mother. Mrs had used up most of the advantages brought by the sudden wealth, but in the end it wasn't much. Sure, you could get something fresh to wear and buy yourself several fashion lines, but what was the use when you didn't have anyone to show off for? And of course you could also get rid of the homely dust on your soles and take off to a tropical paradise, but it wasn't really worth it unless you had someone to sip margaritas with at sunset, was it?
Mrs had long since made herself clear that she wasn't a pessimist. Pessimism was for those who knew they could afford whining. Mrs liked to play with the thought of having the ability to do anything she could ever desire, but there was one thing her money didn't grant her: the permission to complain. During her less secure phase she might have let herself cherish a negative thought on occasions, but nowadays she was smarter than that.
It wasn't until that very afternoon, after that stupid phone call of Nadine Miller's, that Mrs thought of something completely new. She had been fiddling a 20 pound note absently in her hands, which had given her an idea. She knew better than to ruin it with childish excitement, but she had to admit that the thought was somewhat intriguing.
Mrs took a calm sip of the coffee next to her. She wasn't going to let the thought escape from her, so she had the time to breathe and measure her chances. It tingled her brain cells nicely, and she was pleased to find that the self-taught cynicism hadn't killed off every lively bit of her soul.
Would it work, though? Would it be worth it?
"It's just money, after all," Mrs said out loud, glancing at Dame as if to get reassurance from her. But the cat had gone back in her chair and managed – even through sleep – to look like she couldn't care less.
Despite the cat, Mrs stood up and went to look for her wallet and a ball-point pen. From what she recalled, there was a good deal of cash in her wallet.

*

A few minutes later, Mrs was sitting at the living room table with a stack of £20 notes in front of her. She took the pen in her left hand and let it waver over the notes for a while. The tiny piece of her brain she had obviously inherited from her mother was scolding her for being out of her mind, but she ignored it and pressed the pen against one of the notes. With a vigorous look on her face, she started drawing a series of numbers over the Queen's hair. She kept going until each and every one of the notes contained not only their standard serial number, but also the number to Mrs's mobile phone.
Then she dropped the notes into her handbag, wrapped herself into an autumn coat, and left the house. Dame was still sleeping.

*

A young man stepped out of the coffeehouse he'd been having late breakfast in. He bade his mates goodbye and left for the other direction. However, after just a dozen feet or so, his eyes focused on something lying on a red mailbox against the wall. Stepping closer, he noticed it was a £20 note. Something was written on it – a phone number? The man looked suspiciously over his shoulder, apparently thinking someone was playing a prank on him. Then he shrugged and slipped the note into his pocket, completely unaware of the woman observing him from the other side of the street.

*

Mrs had no intentions of running after the man. She didn't really care, and if anything, it made her feel content that money on the street made its finder glad. But if the man wasn't honest enough to call the number and find out the rightful owner of the note, he just wasn't worth it.

She left another note on one of the chairs in Waverley railway station. At first it looked like no one would notice it in the crowd, but then one girl almost sat on it – and pocketed it without blinking. Mrs shook her head, but wasn't really surprised. In fact, she wasn't entirely sure whether she would act any nobler in the situation of finding free money. But it was fascinating to see how people reacted to it.
The station turned out to be so lively at that point of the day, Mrs decided to make her third strike there as well. She had to be sneaky so that no one would see her drop the note, and she also had to get far enough from it so that the finder wouldn't have the chance to ask her about it.
Mrs checked her back, and pretending she was only lacing her shoes, placed a note carefully in front of a vending machine. Then she went to sit on one of the chairs, trying to look like a casual commuter. Again, people didn't pay much attention to the purple piece of paper on the floor. Mrs's eyes fixated on a relatively nice-looking man among the crowd, and she found herself hoping for him to pick up the note. And as if the man had some sort of a telepathic ability, he made his way to the vending machine and noticed the money. He picked it up, and Mrs could tell from his surprised face that he was reading the phone number. For the longest time, the man stood and stared at the note, until he dug out some coins from his wallet, bought a can of soda from the vending machine (Mrs couldn't tell which brand) – and put the £20 note back on the floor.
Mrs considered going after him, but decided not to. She wasn't satisfied with the results yet, but was feeling immaturely thrilled about the fact she was doing this. She wondered what Nadine Miller would think about a 'senior citizen' playing a silly game like this and chuckled at the bewildered expression she imagined on the girl's face.

*

The stack of the marked notes was getting thinner and thinner. Many didn't even notice the notes, let alone the numbers, and most people eyed them as if they didn't know what to think. Most of the notes had found their way straight into people's pockets or wallets, even though some of the finders had tried to ask around for their owners at first. One of the notes had been eaten by a dog.
Mrs wasn't exactly losing her trust for mankind, but it did surprise her a little how greed seemed to overthrow honesty in case of most people – no one had called her yet telling they had found money with Mrs's number on it. She had checked many times that she had written the number right, so the problem couldn't be there. She had been sowing the money for more than two hours now, and she was starting to feel a bit hungry. However, Mrs wasn't the kind of person who leaves things halfway, so she decided to finish the project before anything else. And if no one took the hint and called her about the money, then maybe she was destined to believe she was living in a world of injustice and downright theft.
"So be it," Mrs muttered under her breath. With less excitement than before, she tossed one of the last notes on the steps of a restaurant. She strode on the other side of the street and slipped behind a statue where she couldn't be seen.
It was a smaller side street, so it wasn't exactly busy at that moment. But soon enough a man came from the other direction, with a supermarket's orange plastic bag in his hand. He was decent-looking, and old enough so that Mrs didn't have to feel like any sort of cougar-in-training. Not that she'd felt like one in any point of this experiment, but she did realise she seemed like a creepy old woman who was decoying her juniors with money.
This was purely a test on people's honesty, though.
The man was walking down the street, passing the note. Then he returned to look at the restaurant menu, and seemed to find the Queen herself staring at him from the stone steps. Mrs didn't quite dare to continue looking when she saw the man digging something from his pocket. He must've had noticed the phone number by now.
When nothing happened, Mrs sighed and prepared to leave – but then she felt her mobile phone vibrate in her handbag. She could barely stop herself from gasping. She took the phone out and stared at the strange number flashing on the screen for a while until she pressed the 'Answer' button and took a deep breath.
"Um... hello?"
A firm, but gentle voice filled her ear. "Hello, I don't know who I'm talking to, but I was wondering whether you had perhaps lost some money."
"How did you know?" Mrs said, stepping out from behind the statue so that the man could see her.
His expression was an odd mix of confusion and amusement. For a second he looked like wanting to run from her as fast as possible, but then he relaxed and stayed where he was.
Mrs hung up on him and went a little closer. "I don't blame you if you think I'm mental, but there is an interesting story behind this and I'd like to share it with someone over a cup of tea."
The man blinked, smiling slowly. "Well, I s'pose I've got time."
He handed the note to Mrs, but she shook her head. "You can keep it."
"No, no, I can pay with my Visa," the man resisted.
"The tea's on me," Mrs said and smiled. "I happen to have some extra money with me today."

Demmie!

So when was the last time you submitted a story, exactly? Who cares, though, this one's mine! *eats*

I. NITPICKS

with wistful energy

with the, or with that, maybe?

The denied disappointment

denied disappointment? Bit bizarre.

shadow casted upon the moment.

cast.

He called his mates goodbye

he bade them goodbye? Said goodbye to them? Called doesn't sound quite right...

Mrs's eyes fixated to a relatively nice-looking man

on a, not to a.

She had been sowing the money for more than two hours now,

As in, on that specific day?

II. PAST?

I'd just like to know a bit more about Mrs. Does she not have children, does she regret that fact? How long had her husband and her been married, how did he die, did she grieve much? Did her mother live a freakishly long time, or is Mrs not as old as we might think?

It's just that she seems a really interesting quirky character, and I think that having lived such a long life, we should perhaps know a little bit more about her than we do. And what exactly is she hoping for when she hears the phone ring?

III. OVERALL

I honestly don't have much to say- I really liked this. It was funny and sweet and original. As I said, I would like to see some more character- well, not development, but just a little bit more about her. Also maybe a bit about the man who rings her- what does she notice that's unusual about him, perhaps? But mostly, it's good- you're not as rusty as you think you are.

Hope I helped- drop me a note if you need anything!

-Stella x

Hi Demeter,

Demeter wrote:The piercing sound of the phone echoed in the hall. A grey cat miaowed disapprovingly the exact moment Mrs startled in her chair. She rose and went for the phone with wistful energy that used to give her that playful charm in her younger days. The spark was still there, but it had evolved to something more grown-up and experienced, like the first yellow leaves of a September maple.

I don't like this. You don't use enough description and instead rely on words as crutches to get you through the valley of imagery, each time. "The piercing sound". How do we know what a piercing sound is unless you can go into it with more depth, just a little more? "miaowed disapprovingly". That tells us absolutely nothing. I have no idea what a disapproving miaow would sound like as opposed to...a normal miaow. It's up to the writer to shed light on descriptions instead of just throwing in what I call pseudo-imagery - that is, imagery packed up in one-word phrases like "disapprovingly" that actually doesn't do anything as far as describing a sensation is concerned.

Mrs picked up the phone hopefully, though she had promised herself to get rid of the habit. Hope was useless.

In this case the "hopefully" is fine, because it's difficult to outwardly gauge a person's inner hope. Beyond the raising of an eyebrow or the eagerness of the aching fingers to clasp the telephone, there's not much that can convey moderate loneliness. However, my point earlier still stands.

"Hello?" she said. Then she cleared her throat, as her voice had gotten a bit hoarse from not talking a lot recently.

I shouldn't have to tell an Instructor to avoid info-dumps, but apparently I am forced to, because that's exactly what this is. Just say that she cleared her throat, and maybe, if you really want to get the point through that she hasn't talked a lot, include a little bubble of reflection after that. Something like "God, she hated having to start a conversation with someone she didn't know; it was one of the reasons she never had in the past year." That was bad, I understand, but come up with something better.

An intolerably cheery voice took over the line. "This is Nadine Miller from the Herald & Post, good afternoon! I'm doing a poll about senior citizens' opinions considering the –"

I am pretty sure that someone from an organization, whether it be non-profit or newspaper or whatever, would say "Good afternoon" before they started their speech. Check on that.

"I'm not interested." Mrs hung up. The denied disappointment on her face made her look rather worn-out, emphasizing her soft wrinkles as if it were shadow cast upon the moment.

What's with all these weasel words? "Rather", "a bit", "a little", etc. Are you afraid of...what exactly? It's making the reader queasy every time one of these pops up - and in your story, that is a lot of times - so please cease their usage when inappropriate and begin showing more resolve in your imagery.

She didn't know what she had expected from the sudden phone call, but she sure didn't need any immature twenty-somethings ringing her up, not having a clue what life really meant and having the nerve to call women in their prime senior citizens. To heck with them.

Subjectively, I dislike the last sentence. An old woman - stereotypically, as you seem to be trying to make Mrs - doesn't come off to me as having to censor herself by using weak words like "heck". Either go all the way or take that watered-down version out entirely.

Mrs snorted quietly. Dame gave her the told-you-so eyes, even though she was almost as old in cat years as Mrs was in human years.

"I am not a senior citizen, thank you very much," Mrs said to Dame, who was still looking at her despotically.

How do you look at someone despotically? This is another one of your pseudo-imagery that needs to be corrected.

Senior citizens were grey-haired, plump old ladies or gentlemen who smelled like pipe tobacco or cookies fresh from the oven. They also had a large circle of acquaintances from the Saturday afternoon bingo club or wherever they made their time pass. This didn't apply to Mrs, either.

Take out the last sentence. The reader already knows that Mrs doesn't have these experiences, considering that she's mentally ranting about them either out of wistfullness or anger.

Generally she avoided using the word 'lonely' in any conditions – she considered herself more like 'socially challenged.' Externally she was indifferent as ever, but on the inside she couldn't help feeling a bit gloomy at times. A certain sort of melancholy was in her nature, though, but this was different – it was the kind that could be blocked by having someone to have intellectual conversations with, for example. She could always talk to Dame, of course, but as wise as the cat sometimes seemed to be, Mrs had yet to witness her reply.
In any case, Mrs hadn't had a proper associate in years. She had everything else, though, overwhelmingly even. Especially after her mother had passed away a good nine or ten years ago and left her with unthinkable amounts of property that her late investor husband had gained and left Mrs's mother. Mrs had used up most of the advantages brought by the sudden wealth, but in the end it wasn't much. Sure, you could get something fresh to wear and buy yourself several fashion lines, but what was the use when you didn't have anyone to show off for? And of course you could also get rid of the homely dust on your soles and take off to a tropical paradise, but it wasn't really worth it unless you had someone to sip margaritas with at sunset, was it?
Mrs had long since made herself clear that she wasn't a pessimist. Pessimism was for those who knew they could afford whining. Mrs liked to play with the thought of having the ability to do anything she could ever desire, but there was one thing her money didn't grant her: the permission to complain. During her less secure phase she might have let herself cherish a negative thought on occasions, but nowadays she was smarter than that.

This is the biggest info-dump I've seen in a while. Granted, you executed some of it skillfully and fluidly, but the fact remains that in three large paragraphs, absolutely nothing happens. That's boring. Fix it.

It wasn't until that very afternoon, after that stupid phone call of Nadine Miller's, that Mrs thought of something completely new. She had been fiddling a 20 pound note absently in her hands, which had given her an idea. She knew better than to ruin it with childish excitement, but she had to admit that the thought was somewhat intriguing.

There's one of those weasel words again: "somewhat". Alone, it does work well to provide a damping effect on the excitement, but since I've had the misfortune to come across so many of these weak words, it just serves to further annoy.

Mrs took a calm sip of the coffee next to her. She wasn't going to let the thought escape from her, so she had the time to breathe and measure her chances. It tingled her brain cells nicely, and she was pleased to find that the self-taught cynicism hadn't killed off every lively bit of her soul.

So now she acknowledges that she's a crusty old cynic? What happened to all of the self-righteous indignation toward the world that Mrs presented earlier? A person can't just go a 180-degrees on a worldview in a few paragraphs like that. I'm not sure if I'm missing something or whether this is just bad continuation and writing.

The rest of this story, of which I am not going to do a line-by-line, was downright tiresome. If you had perhaps led to something in the end - some twist, some warm conclusion - then that might have made the wait worth it. As it is, though, this story was basically a roller coaster car going higher and higher on the tracks...and then just stopping there, never actually taking the thrilling plunge down.

So she wanted to gauge the goodness of people, and finally did. Is that it? That's the entire story?

Some parts that I want to make notes of:

Mrs wasn't exactly losing her trust for mankind, but it did surprise her a little how greed seemed to overthrow honesty in case of most people – no one had called her yet telling they had found money with Mrs's number on it. She had checked many times that she had written the number right, so the problem couldn't be there. She had been sowing the money for more than two hours now, and she was starting to feel a bit hungry. However, Mrs wasn't the kind of person who leaves things halfway, so she decided to finish the project before anything else. And if no one took the hint and called her about the money, then maybe she was destined to believe she was living in a world of injustice and downright theft.

That there is the type of moralistic slop that kills any story, no matter what. The first and last sentences especially made me wince because of the heavy-handed language you used.

"greed seemed to overthrow honesty in case of most people"
"she was living in a world of injustice and downright theft"

Really? This holier-than-thou attitude of the piece came very close to making me not even want to read any more of it.

His expression was an odd mix of confusion and amusement. For a second he looked like wanting to run from her as fast as possible, but then he relaxed and stayed where he was.

Out of all the sentences in this story, this is one of the worst offenders of the pseudo-description mentality. You can't just tell the reader what his expression was and expect him to understand. You have to...well, describe it. Imagery. Same goes for the "looked like wanting to run from her as fast as possible". How does a man look like that? Show us.

In general, you might as well have deleted this and put up a bolded sign saying "Be Honest!" This piece is far beyond saving; the entire premise, the entire core of the work is flawed and doesn't lead anywhere. Please put this away and try something else, preferably prose that interests the reader enough to carry him to the end and in the process gives him an insight on life that 99% of the world doesn't already know.

Hope that helped,
Galerius

Well, I wasn't sure about this, at first, and I knew I shouldn't judge books by their cover. I'm glad i didn't. This was amazing! It had me giggling and saying 'Oh my goddess, how could he do that?' I really hope you post more, I would be very glad to read it. Well, that's all, bye-bye now!

(One, two, one two. Work it! Work it! That's right! Now squats!)

Heya Demsy,

So I won't go into much line-by-line detail with things, seeing as Galerius already did that, but I'll give you my general thoughts.

This story screams you, Demsy. It's got your good-naturedness and warmness written all over it. And so I had to like it for that. It was a little difficult for me to completely grasp the point of the story, however. Your character's experiment was a little bizarre, and I can't tell yet whether she did it to get to know someone new, or to somehow vindicate her faith in humankind. Whatever the reason, I left this piece a little confused, or perhaps the right word is unfulfilled.

Though it's difficult to see how you could have avoided it, the info-dump that Galerius pointed out was kind of excessive. Keep in mind, I'm/we're critiquing this from a purely aesthetic point of view. Top marks on this assignment are guaranteed. Watch your adverbs, too. "Despotically", "hopefully", and other ly words that I stumbled across are generally detrimental to any piece of literature. They do the writer's job for them. They are weak, substanceless words that only serve to over-emphasize.

I enjoyed the bit in the train station. I wasn't expecting the young man to return the money to its place. I don't know if I'd be able to do that, regardless of whether or not there was a phone number on it...

I think that the overall trouble with this story is that it doesn't have enough time to develop properly. The players are set up, the background is given, and then the moral of the story swoops in to save the day. I think it's perfect right now for your portfolio, but if you want to do something professional with this, I'd consider lengthening it, and adding more conflict and depth.

Anyway, *licks*

-Kylan

Haha, I think Bubbling was better.

Long review:

Anyway, I liked the idea of reading something of yours. I haven't been in chat for a while so you won't have had the chance to enlighten me yet, but was this written for an assignment of some sort? If so, great. Top grades for you. But like Kylan I agree that if you want this to go somewhere other than the pile of paper by your computer, then the best recommendation I can offer is that you lengthen this out and develop the characters. It felt like it took too long to get into the story, and then there wasn't really much of it other than a tidy moral to guide us to the end.

My problem was this: I understood Mrs' character deeply, but no one else's. Sure, they're just the minor characters, but perhaps you could have added in a bit more of the final one, the one that calls her, the events leading up to the note. You gave us a good background analysis of her, but then I felt like it was all necessary, as if every detail was relevant when in fact the motives are no clearer. I struggled with them; did she drop the notes solely to test people's greed, or to find someone worth her time, to show off to? At the start I thought it was something trivial, like wanting someone to phone her. But then that doesn't add up either. In short, Mrs' character is in a mess. She comes across at the start as being very serious and traditional, interested in the grandeur of life but a little lonely to say the least. But then she's rebelling against old ladies who make cookies, and carrying a mobile phone, in crowds full of ordinary people.

That said, create more characters. Experiment with the (English) language a little more and don't be afraid to go wild with your characters. If you develop them, go the whole mile and give them motives, make them relateable.

In any case, great idea! I honestly think this could go somewhere. Right now, however, it's too messy. Feel free to let me know/spam my inbox/attack me in chat if you post an updated version.

Short review:

Boobo.

Awh, this was really cute. Quite a clever idea, really. Big ups for originality, too. Not much to say about it in-depth, but overall it was a nice read.

I don't have much to say except that I really enjoyed this. Mrs. is such an interesting character but I would like if you explored her past and why she has such a poor view of the world and why she's still hoping. I love the character.

I think my only problem is with the experiment itself: what does Mrs. expect from it? It was slightly muddled and left me feeling a bit unsatisfied.

Overall it was a funny and quirky story and it really made me smile and pump my fist in the air even though I'm one of those people who'd just keep the money.

Hello, I really liked this (apart from the info dump in the middle! ) Other than that I thought it was a quirky little story that I really enjoyed! Well Done!

I really wanted to know more about this character Mrs... She seemed to be very interesting and I love the way she has such a poor view of life and the younger generations, but she still has hope, that idea touched a nerve. It was sweet

Well Done,
Keep Writing
~Lydia

How wonderful.
Really, I adored this. As Mrs (good idea name-wise, by the way) gets her idea, I felt excited wondering what it could be. This simply delighted me, her idea, the way she went about it..
Actually; It got me thinking about some of Roald Dahl's short stories, the way this one is. I felt the same excitement as I did when I read some of those.
All in all, this story was absolutely charming, I'm glad I read it.