Young Writers Society

[079. Storm] Broken Bones

October, 1804

Close-hauled with triple-reefed topsails, beating into a strong wind, Pegasus cut a desolate shape on the rising foamy waves of the Atlantic. The dark clouds had appeared two days ago, brooding and angry, casting the sea in gloom. Only today had the wind burst into action, unexpected, the ship heeling and rocking and cracking. Captain Savage had immediately ordered hands aloft to reduce sail. It was tough going, and only made more uncomfortable by the fierce lashing rain that cut across the deck.

It was Lieutenant Mitchell’s watch. He stood uneasily on the quarterdeck, his eyes watching the sea and every so often checking the helm. Carelessness from the quartermaster now would doom them all. Beside him was the sailing master Mr. Douglas.

Grimly, Mitchell turned to him. “Let us pray this is the worst of it,” he said.

“Indeed, sir. Unfortunately I do not share the optimism.” Mr. Douglas had seen service on four ships prior to the Pegasus, and had experienced many a terrible storm. He also had a knack for knowing the weather, as all sailing masters inherently seemed to possess.

There was an achingly loud crash; the smashing of wood and a horrible groan from the gun deck below. Screams of pain. Thunderous noises emanating below. There followed a further smashing of wood, and another. Ominous silence followed suddenly, and Mitchell was past the coaming and through the hatch in a flash, darting below to investigate the trouble. It was immediately clear. On the starboard side, there was one cannon missing.

The eighteen-pounder had disastrously broken loose from its holdings and moved aft, sweeping down the deck. Remains of bulkheads lay splintered and broken. Mitchell looked to where it had ended up: on top of two seamen, a pool of blood below it. The Lieutenant swore, but was thankful it had somehow trapped itself before doing further damage, catastrophic as it was in the midst of a storm. Free and rolling, a cannon was an untameable beast. Breathless. There were many other casualties. Six men lay on the oak. Three of them looked like they would never move again. At some point Mr. Jewell, the midshipman, had appeared beside him, and the boy quivered. Mitchell turned angrily toward him. “Send for the surgeon,” he ordered fiercely.

Mitchell watched him go, and turned to the survivors of the ordeal. “Secure that gun!” he shouted, above the sound of the waves crashing against the hull, and the repetitive thud of sharp rain on the ship.

Later on the Captain summoned Mitchell to his cabin, and grilled the Lieutenant. “It was your responsibility to make safe the guns, Lieutenant. I would hope you would do your duty. I cannot abide neglect.”

“Sir, I must protest, I –” he started, but was cut off.

“Oh you must, must you? Did you check the holdings as ordered?”

“Yes, sir, and--”

“Then I fail to see you how you can protest. I cannot have cannons rolling around my gun deck, Lieutenant. If you feel such a need to cause damage, pray throw yourself instead of my ordnance – it might knock some sense into you. Do you understand how important it is to have the ship secured in a storm?”

“Indeed, sir, that is why I thrice had the guns checked.”

“There are five dead mean that would contest that, Jack,” Captain Savaged said, sighing, his anger abating, reverting to Mitchell’s Christian name as he did so. “Two more have broken bones. By God man, we were lucky! If it hadn’t trapped itself on those two men, it could have ripped a hole in the stern!” His tone had become less accusatory and had a soft edge.

Mitchell had also dwelled on the morbid fact that the deaths of those two seamen had perhaps saved the ship. “I am sorry, sir, but I checked the moorings myself, and I swear they were true and right.”

“It is a nasty business, broken bones and stormy weather. Well, I don’t doubt your word. Mr. Douglas said the same thing. Let us hope this storm brings us no more unwanted surprises.”

Outside, the wind howled. The ship’s bow plowed through the water and drove relentlessly forward.

Glossary

Beating = sailing very close to the wind.

Bulkhead = a wall within the hull of a ship.

Close-hauled = s ailing close to the wind, with the sails turned almost 90 degrees.

Coaming = raised section of deck around a hatch or opening to prevent entry of water.

Quartermaster = helmsman.

Reefed topsails = Lessen sail area by tying parts of it to the spar– it is dangerous to have too much sail exposed in strong winds.

*glee beyond reason* Jack wrote!

I must say that for a landlubber, you seemed to handle the ship-talk deftly without going overboard (ha, ha). Most people, when they research something new, put every ounce of their being into proving that they know exactly what they know what they're talking about, usually with consequences for the reader. You seemed easy with it--it was just another part of the characters' world. And that, my friend, is fabulous and what this genre as a whole needs a lot more of.

PROSE YOGA

I know you only started writing again recently, but I'm still going to pick on you about style because you're Jack and therefore awesome sauce. You're a poet--or at least, you used to write a lot of poetry, most of it beyond good. That's one of those things that you can't afford to forget when you're writing narrative, because it's something that will set you apart. It means you're good at writing itself (the putting words together stuff), and not just at storytelling.

What separates classic literature from the bestseller rack is usually this idea of storytelling vs. writing. Poets already have the hand-up because they look at words in a different light--consider them for sound and abstract "feeling" as well as just another way to get a point across. Storytellers are capable of doing this occasionally, but there's not nearly the same internal brain-talk going on. When you're writing narrative, you'll want to include an element of your poetry in it. Why? This piece, with a few passive sentences and bits of description that were to be expected, was very good as a whole, but the language itself wasn't extraordinary. Using that poet-yness to make your language as well as your dialogue, characters, etc. will make the story as a whole much more interesting and unique for the reader.

What to do?

1) Do some freewriting. You don't have to write a story that necessarily makes sense--write one that just sounds pretty. Listen to diction and to the sound of words as you do so.

2) Write some poetry while taking breaks from prose, even if it's awful.

3) Find your poetry mindset when you sit down to work on stories. You're already good with characters and plot, so those are things that you don't need to use all of your brainpower on.

TENSION!

It was a dark and stormy night, AND TWO SAILORS WERE JUST BRUTALLY CRUSHED TO DEATH BY A GIANT CANNON FALLING ON THEIR HEADS.

Sounds great, right? In theory, it's awesome sauce--but in this story, you were lacking the tension you need to make this live up to its full potential. Dramatic suspense, as far as readers are concerned, is the best thing to cross this earth since the release of Master and Commander.

The key to writing something suspensefully is TO WRITE IT IN CAPITAL LETTERS. Okay, not really. BUT IT HAS TO BE THE MOST EARTH-SHATTERING THING THAT HAS EVER HAPPENED TO THESE CHARACTERS, EVEN IF IT ISN'T.

1) Build up some nerves. How are your characters feeling?

2) Make sure the consequences of such a storm are known.

3) Make us invested in your characters. What sort of lovely pathos can you build up with wives waiting at home, and so forth?

__

Basically? If you don't tell me when you're done with the draft of Pegasus, you're simply not allowed to live.

Jack! I love you for writing.

The dark clouds had appeared two days ago, brooding and angry, casting the sea in gloom.

Aren't storms always brooding and angry?

Only today had the wind burst into action, unexpected, the ship heeling and rocking and cracking.

It's weird to see these together, because "Only today..." and "The ship..." are two completely different phrases, but there is just "unexpected" between them.

and was only made more uncomfortable by the fierce lashing rain that cut across the deck.

a horrible groan from the gun deck below. Screams of pain. Thunderous noises emanating below.

They're too close for comfort. And shouldn't "Emanating" be 'emanated"?

There are five dead [s]mean[/s] men

Outside, the wind howled.

Wind always seems to howl, doesn't it? Try finding new, more beautiful words.

I love your narrative voice here. It's real fab. But you didn't use much imagery or descriptors or anything, and at some points your phrases were cliché. The biggest people I had was that, though you told us it was a storm, and mentioned rain drops and wind and all that, I didn't feel like I was in a storm. I could imagine one being there, yes, but it still wasn't the same.

I second Sam on the tension thing! This is good, rather awesome, but it needs some conflict to get me to care more about those ucky crushed bodies.

But, yes. I'm overjoyed to see you writing!

I have come to whip you back into shape, Jack. * tsk, tsk * A little rusty from not keeping with writing but otherwise your knowledge with sailing stands strong. Your character development suffered a little it seems but if you really have not written much, it’s understandable. And if you have, we can always point fingers at the first draft for headaches and frustration.

When Mitchell was introduced, I ended up scanning the paragraphs, rather reading the full story at first. This is of course not a good thing. It means I got bored and unfortunately quick so early into the storyline. I suspect the first paragraph might have been the culprit. You began describing the rough sea, and having to counter the sails according to the strength of the wind. Personally, I have a short attention span – a disability – so in stories if they aren’t specifics that force me to utter, “Huh? What the hell?” Chances are I’ll move on to the next book. Mystery or the unusual catch my attention – dramatic action too. I know you want to tell us about the “lingo” of the sails and boats in general by sharing your knowledge but in the next few paragraphs with a cannon missing and so forth, it’s evident something went amiss. There’s plenty of action concerning causalities as well. I just think there’s a way you can show us the sea is rough without telling us right off that bat. [/end repetition]. I’m not sure if the first paragraph is essential to start the story off? I’m probably wrong, but it was a thought. My grandfather had the sea running through his veins from birth. Later he enlisted in the Navy, and then taught his daughters and sons as well as his granddaughters and so forth the “ways of the ship” and how to navigate if a compass isn’t handy. I retained some of his teaching but not everything. Your knowledge of the boat and sailing in general surpasses mine greatly. I’m amazed how much you know in this area. It’s awesome! ^ ^

Anyway, onward!

Your dialogue is quite good. Realistic according to the conflict involved and it’s not forced. It’s also accurate to the turn of the century, which is always nice for newbies interested “how they spoke in the day.”

“Then I fail to see you how you can protest. I cannot have cannons rolling around my gun deck, Lieutenant. If you feel such a need to cause damage, pray throw yourself instead of my ordnance – it might knock some sense into you. Do you understand how important it is to have the ship secured in a storm?”

I got a nice chuckle from this dialogue. Remind me never to cross Mitchell.

The glossary is wonderful. Thank you for the less incline, in other words, the dimwitted such as myself who are not familiar.

Best of luck, and I enjoy all your sailing adventures you write. It’s all very cool and interesting to try and remember what my grandfather tried teaching me several years ago.

Thanks, guys! Muchos helpful, my fellow historical enthusiasts. Indeed this wasn't very good, just a little short piece for Cal's contest, and I will endeavour to better myself from now on.

YES! YOU WROTE! Eeee, I'm excited.

I think my biggest gripe with this is what Sam said: lack of tension. This should be really, really exciting! And while the prose works for me, the dialogue and characters' reactions to the storm and and broken bones and death and destruction and all that jazz... doesn't.

There was an achingly loud crash; the smashing of wood and a horrible groan from the gun deck below. Screams of pain. Thunderous noises emanating below. There followed a further smashing of wood, and another. Ominous silence followed suddenly, and Mitchell was past the coaming and through the hatch in a flash, darting below to investigate the trouble. It was immediately clear. On the starboard side, there was one cannon missing.

THIS is good. This is tense. This is a glaringly uncool situation we have going. ...And then they open their mouths.

Mitchell turned angrily toward him. “Send for the surgeon,” he ordered fiercely.

Those two adverbs are making poor Twain twitch in his grave right about now. You're better than that anyway. You don't need those wimpy adverbs to get your point across.

Later on the Captain summoned Mitchell to his cabin, and grilled the Lieutenant. “It was your responsibility to make safe the guns, Lieutenant. I would hope you would do your duty. I cannot abide neglect.”

Is it not storming anymore? It sounds like they're doing this over a cup of tea and biscuits or something.

“Then I fail to see you how you can protest. I cannot have cannons rolling around my gun deck, Lieutenant. If you feel such a need to cause damage, pray throw yourself instead of my ordnance – it might knock some sense into you. Do you understand how important it is to have the ship secured in a storm?”

“Indeed, sir, that is why I thrice had the guns checked.”

This seems like such an inadequate response from two men who should be strongly affected by all the things happening around them. It sounds more like an exchange between a superior and a subordinate after a poor showing in a training exercise, rather than a hectic, dangerous night on a ship during a storm, when men lost their lives.

“There are five dead mean that would contest that, Jack,” Captain Savaged said, sighing, his anger abating, reverting to Mitchell’s Christian name as he did so. “Two more have broken bones. By God man, we were lucky! If it hadn’t trapped itself on those two men, it could have ripped a hole in the stern!” His tone had become less accusatory and had a soft edge.

There's nothing in particular I can pinpoint here, but I really don't like this section. The sigh, the use of "man," the idea of holes being ripped, the softening of tone... it just feels contrived.

So, essentially, your prose is still yummy, but your characters and dialogue need to keep moving until they shake off the dust.

I am soooooooo happy you're writing again. Really. I can't wait to see more!

I really have nothing negative to say and everyone else covered the critiques.

So here's what I have to say: I liked your descriptions, a lot. Keep writing.