Caste of the Spider

*twitches*

Okay... um... it really wasn't that bad. No seriously. If I were a writer, committed solely to the I can look at this and say, "Hey, this is fairly well written piece of work." The problem is, I'm not. I'm studying to be a biochemical engineer. Which might seem irrelevent at first for the critiquing of this story... but... um... yeah. Just know that I see things in a peculiar way. And right now? My brain is hurting from the strange lack of biology involved.

...shall I explain?

You have these characters working hard in the frosty weather. Now, I don't mean to be as optimistic as Traistal, but being beaten is the least of their worries. Their worries should be concerned with staying alive in this cold weather. No, not all of their fingers have to fall off or anything, but you must realize that, with the amount of clothing that's covering them, hypothermia is going to affect them. Forget the torture, consider this...

Several Symptoms of Hypotherma:

* Mild hypothermia (32-35°C)

o Lethargy

o Confusion

o Shivering

o Loss of fine motor coordination

* Moderate hypothermia (28-32°C)

o Delirium

o Slowed reflexes

* Severe hypothermia (<28°C)

o Very cold skin

o Unresponsive

o Coma

o Difficulty breathing

o Abnormal heart rhythms

From http://www.emedicine.com/emerg/topic279.htm.

And, to reinforce this critique so that it doesn't seem quite like a medical textbook, I have had frostbite before. And it sucks. But the first thing I noticed was your body starts to shut itself down and you have to struggle to stay awake. It was actually kind of bad, but since my sister and I were together, plus we were close to a fire, everything turned out okay. But it's funny... when you're in your room, you don't actually think of the weather as anything special, but out there, it affects your life greatly. O_o

So! It's not just going to be a battle against the bad guys to survive. In fact, that would be cheating your story. You have all this potential REAL conflict going on, but you have decided to go with the usual, cliched fantasy story of oppression. Whatever for? Make this something new and exciting! You're too good of a writer to let this go past you.

More interesting links about cold exposure:

Using the cold weather as a means of torture.

Emedicine's take on frostbite (which is also something you're going to want to look at).

On gangrene... because some of your characters might get it.

Also... this might be a little disturbing, so don't look at this if you don't have a very strong stomach, but I find it helps to have a picture to describe, rather than just describing it alone. So here is a picture of bad frostbite:

Once again, a caution -- nasty picture alert.

Hahaha... nah. You're a good writer. But you can be much better with some research, my dear.

Merci beaucoup, Snoink!!!

I had thought of those issues-- in passing. My dad actually knew someone who was friends with some kids who had grown up in the backwoods of Appalachia (sp?). Lived outdoors a lot, slept outdoors a lot, even in winter. They walked barefoot through the snow without a second thought.

However... you're right, I can't expect the reader to believe that no one's got frostbite unless I do a little explaining. Thanks a ton for all the links, I'll check 'em out (except for the last one-- I don't have a strong stomach)!

That was the most unique crit I've gotten yet... Helps me think...

Thanks again, Snoink!
Cheers! ~Shafter

Well, since you asked nicely... I didn't even know there was a third draft up! Apparently the 'watch this topic' option doesn't work for edits. *ahem* Anyway. To business.

Shafter wrote:The thump of footsteps on the cold ground made Émon’s head snap up. Despite the frosty weather, sweat slid from his forehead down his face like tears. But the sound belonged to a fellow laborer, limping by, bent under a load of bricks.

Great imagery. I can tell he's tense. But 'the sound belonged to' is a bit awkward to me; perhaps 'was made by' or 'came from' instead?

Shafter wrote:A few drops of ink beneath his skin had cursed him as an Untouchable and chained him to a work camp from the day of his birth.

'Since he was born' would suffice, and be more in keeping with character, methinks.

Shafter wrote:Émon stared at the dirt, listened to their chorused rhyming, a ritual he would never be part of. He couldn’t sing.

I know, I know what you're trying to do, but what five-year-old would think that? He'd be more likely to say something about how the other kids said he couldn't sing, or how his momm oh-so-gently let him know that this was one talent he just didn't have. Five-year-olds come to absolutes by what other people tell them, not their own decisions. It's called being impressionable.

Shafter wrote:Émon didn’t listen to them much, too absorbed in the dirt, too distracted by the children’s game. Just fragments of conversation— something about incomprehensible concepts such as “freedom” and “the old days.” But he stopped for a moment when he heard the other woman say, “Who’d have known that such a young emperor could be so cruel?”

Nice background. But the words 'something about' could be omitted.

Shafter wrote:No, Momm. Don’t fall, don’t fall… Émon’s arms felt like they were on fire now, burning with effort. Don’t fall…

“Hurry up!” An overseer snapped his whip in their direction. This was the first day Émon had seen this young man. The new overseer’s tunic was sleeveless, showing off powerful muscles. Émon had already learned his name: Girec.

Shaitha faltered again, slowed. Hurry, Momm, please hurry… Émon saw Girec’s scowl, felt his impatience. Her thin arms strained, sweat dripping down her forehead. A few hurried steps…

Her foot snagged on uneven ground. She lost balanced, stumbled sideways, crashed into a stack of bricks that were dry but still unfinished. Mud exploded everywhere, dotting Émon with clay. The pile of bricks toppled and shattered.

“Idiot!” Girec charged toward her with rage that Émon could feel like a blow.

Shaitha lay face down on the ground for a moment, then struggled to her knees. Her blue eyes shone with terror.

Émon didn’t breathe.

“I’m sorry!” Shaitha cried. “I’ll work extra tonight, I’ll—”

Girec slammed his knee into her head.

Words cut short, she collapsed on the bricks, sprawled like a corpse, still conscious. His whip sang through the air, slashed her arm. She screamed— Émon’s tray slipped from his hands, crashed to the ground. Momm! She screamed again… he dashed toward the overseer, seized his burly arm. “Stop!” he yelled. “Stop!” Girec shouted an obscenity and flung him aside. Émon hit the ground hard, stunned for a second. Another shriek—

Émon staggered to his feet, grabbed a heavy kiln-fired brick and threw it as hard as he could.

The brick hit Girec in the chest with a dull thud. Time froze.

Everything within Émon said Run! But fear rooted him to the ground. Girec regained his breath. Émon couldn’t move, he couldn’t think. All he could do was watch Girec run at him with insane fury in his eyes.

And then the whip came down. The cord bit into his chest, he fell to the ground screaming. Blow after blow tore at his body until unconsciousness finally rescued him.

Ahhh, beee-YU-tiful! Fragments! Italics! Immediacy! *wipes proud tears* So much better.
That's all I've got. Now...*puppy eyes* Chapter Two?

Snoink is right about the whole weather thing. The temperature can actually be above freezing if the wind chill is cold enough. But in a city, with all of the people and buildings, temperature can actually be higher than outside of the city. Now all of this really depends on how cold it actually is in your story, but you should have at least some effects. Is absolutely necessary for the weather to be "frosty"? Perhaps another word would serve better.

Now on to the story.

I'm interested to see where it's moving. It's fairly solid so far. Nothing that makes me not want to continue reading. The dialogue is good, your characters are developing nicely.

“Good-bye, Émon.”

“Good-bye, Traistal.”

I didn't like this. Firstly, people normally don't talk like this. Secondly, it's somewhat redundant and I sort of just passed it by. This is an opportunity for you to show some quirk in your characters as they say bye to one another, and a simple "good-bye, Emon" does not do justice.

Hands throbbing, he bravely lifted a tray. It weighed nearly as much as he did, but he vowed he wouldn’t fall.

I didn't like the word "bravely" here. It's almost as if you're trying to impose on us that he should be seen as brave, but we can already see that by his actions.


Perhaps Girec was a bit too over the top at the end? Since he's just an overseer, I don't think he would be so mad because they knocked over the bricks, but that he will probably catch slack over it. Maybe you could work that in there?

Another thing I noticed is that Emon seems to go into darkness a lot. I don't know if that's a good thing so early along.


Overall, nicely done. I'm not quite sure where this is headed, but I suppose I'll just have to come back if you post more.

The story was very good, but I think you should pick some simpler names. Reader hate nothing else, but for names they can't pronounce. I'll admit, I have the same problem, but Sometimes, you get a feeling for the character by their name.

There were some grammatical errors in this peice, but I think over all, the story was very good and I think ti was written well.

Unfortunately, I'm not as observant as Imp, so I can't really nit pick, so count yourself lucky.

Good work. Keep it up.

-Pros

Green = Comment
Black = Review

*

The child ran its tiny fingers through Shaitha’s silver-brown hair as Shaitha talked to another mother.

Babies don’t normally run their fingers through peoples hair. They are more likely to grip or pull, it has happened to me often enough as is a rather difficult job to free yourself from them. Remember, a baby isn’t developed enough to do something like that.

Émon didn’t listen to them much, too absorbed in the dirt, too distracted by the children’s game.

Wow! This brings up my earliest memory of playing with dirt and not caring what others would say about that.

Émon held up his palms, which were scraped raw from the rough mixture. His voice quavered. “They hurt, Momm.”

Was that extra ‘m’ intentional?

I wasn’t sure whether this was from his memory or if this is Émon being punished for whatever he did in the start or if it is both. It does suit to be both.

Some of the ellipses were annoying to read, as usual I missed them out. You’ll find it is better not to have them in as it slows the reading down.

And I think you really should consider what Snoink has said. I know I could never work for too long in the cold, no matter what the punishment for not doing as I’m told would push me to do that. Plus he has no top on, bare-chested in the cold is very unlikely.

The dialogue between Émon and Traistal was very natural and flowed well. I’m sorry to say the end was a little cliché, Émon should have moved or at least run to his mother’s side. Time and time again I’ve seen/read of characters rooted to the stop when something/someone is about to approach them.

I don’t know if you found that to be of any help.

-- Myth

Yay! Critiques! Thanks everybody.
I'll be posting chapter two "soon." (To quote Aslan: "I call all times soon.") Right now my story can go one of three or four ways, and I have to decide which way I'm going to take it before I post again.
Thanks again for the crits!

wow thats crazy good! I actually piactured it in my mind, and i havn't done that with any body elses writing on here! That was seriously good!

Lyndzi

You know what this thread is missing? MORE STORY!!! (yes, I've entirely given up being objective here, just please post the blasted thing!) Have a nice day.

Wow, it looks like people have given you a lot of critiques. Well, overall I really liked the story and can't wait for the next installment. Hope it comes out soon.

DANG! That makes the prologue I just wrote seem like a five year old wrote it. It was amazing. I kept trying to find mistakes, but all I can say is how much I liked it. Bravo!

Quote:
The thump of footsteps on the cold ground made Émon’s head snap up. Despite the frosty weather, sweat slid from his forehead down his face like tears. But the sound belonged to a fellow laborer, limping by, bent under a load of bricks.
I am fully aware of the fact that I am going to be picky right now, and you have every reason not to agree with me. Émon’s head snapped up, didn’t it? So the third sentence in the extract above is like the answer to the ‘snapped up’ part. What is the second sentence doing there? I know you wanted to describe your character a little, but that takes the flow out of that bit. You could take out the ‘but’, of course, but I think it would just make it a bit worse… Oh, I don’t know. I would just delete the second sentence. Wow, that was… Eh, I don’t know… The best of it all is that I probably didn’t make no sense at all.

Quote:
Émon put the last brick on the load and sat back on his feet.
Pardon me, but I can’t really imagine ‘sitting back on your feet’. Is that an English expression? I’m Polish, so don’t think that I’m being ironic or something.

Quote:
Two hundred and sixteen steps. Émon had counted.
Just wanted to say that I liked this part.

Quote:
Émon swam furiously away from the pain when he first passed out, then slowed when the coolness of sleep obliterated feeling.
I can’t truthfully say that this sentence is, or sounds, but or incorrect. I think that I would say that he passed out first, then add the first part. -Eh, there I go again, changing people’s work when its probably perfectly fine… Sorry, I just couldn’t stop myself, hehe.

Quote:
Several other children, near and below his age,
I would cross out the ‘below’ part. After all, you didn’t write above, did you?

Quote:
“Momm?” Émon said uncertainly.
Two ‘m’s? Oh, I see that later on you use them too. So I guess it’s okay.


Try not using ‘but’ at the start of the sentence. Avoid it when it’s not necessary. -Then again, I’ve always been picky to the ‘but’ sentences, hehe. Of course, at some points its okay, but nevertheless…

I liked the way how you described Émon throughout the story; you gave information without making it less interesting. I found the whole story very absorbing; there will be more, right? One of the best I read on this site,

-elein

Thanks for the crit, elein!

Don't feel like you're being too nitpicky-- you made valid and helpful points. Thanks so much for taking the time to look over it!

Cheers, Shafter

CHAPTER TWO-- ELUSIVE HOPE

Émon slowly opened his eyes. For a moment he felt that he was seven, waking out of a three-day coma after Girec’s beating. No, that had been years ago. Now he lay on his stomach, cocooned in a pile of straw; his back pulsed dully. His gaze swept the room and took in the familiar lines of the ten-by-ten-foot shack. Shaitha lay nearby on a straw pallet, shivering in her sleep.

He pressed his palms to the dirt floor and pushed himself up. True to his word, Traistal had carried him home and bandaged his back and arms with rags. Émon smelled the distinct odor of mud and yarrow, a salve that eased the pain of slow-healing wounds. He brushed straw off his chest, then peeled back a bandage. The bloody gash beneath was only skin-deep.

Not nearly as bad as I expected.

The wind moaned outside. Émon crawled to the rag that hung over the doorway and pulled it aside. Maybe the sky would threaten a winter rain, and he wouldn’t have to go to work. The sun wasn’t up yet, but a cold dew caught the faint light and sparkled on the bare branches of the small apple tree that grew outside their door. Beyond the tree stood a maze of over a thousand gray shacks, rag doors rippling in the breeze. No sign of rain.

His mother coughed, and Émon crawled to her side. “Morning, Momm.” She smiled weakly. “You feeling any better?”

“Y-yes.” Her voice was a broken whisper.

“The apple tree’s beautiful this morning.” He smoothed the hair from her pale forehead. “The dew looks like living crystals on the branches.”

“Spring is coming, yes?” she whispered.

Émon glanced toward the door and the gray January sky. “Soon, Momm. Very soon.”

Shaitha tried to speak, but a coughing fit seized her before she could. Émon tucked her thin blanket around her shoulders. “Stay right here, I’ll catch you breakfast.”

The fit subsided. She shook her head.

Émon was already on his knees, rewrapping long strips of cloth around his arms to help keep himself warm. “You have to eat if you’re going to get better.”

Her voice came out hoarse. “You’ll be late.”

“No arguments, Momm.” He refolded his tunic around his chest, tightened his sash to hold it in place and stood up. Too quickly. Blood rushed to his head as a spasm of pain ripped down his back. He collapsed to hands and knees, sucking breath through his teeth.

He could sense his mother wince. Clenching his jaw until it hurt, he ground out, “I’m all right.” He got to his feet again, much slower, and stepped outside. He touched a branch of the tree and watched the dew drip from the twigs. The poor tree had budded already, even though there were months of winter ahead.

Émon strode between the hovels until he climbed down to the bank of the Sa-trani River. Émon thought it looked like a pool of brown blood. He was alone on the muddy bank except for a few children further down; most of the other Untouchables were headed to work by now. Émon halfheartedly searched for fish, but saw none.

He sighed. Movement caught his eye, and he turned to see a rat scuttling toward the water to drink.

Émon dove for the creature, seized it and broke its neck before it could even squeak. He held up breakfast and frowned at it. Rats seem to be the only things that get fed around here. At least it was big enough for him to take a few bites without guilt. He turned to start home.

An Untouchable nearly a foot taller than him blocked his way.

Émon retreated a step and made his mouth smile. “Didn’t see you.”

The man grinned. “Thanks for bringing me breakfast.” He held out his hand.

Émon imagined how easily the hand could fit around his neck. “It’s for my mother.”

The grin disappeared. “Give it over.”

Émon took another step back. “You know, I don’t have much energy to spend in a day. You’re not worth it.”

“Good to know.” The man shoved him hard, knocking him into the shallows. “The rat. Now.”

Émon gained his footing in the icy water, trying to hide the pain that raced down his back. “No!”

The Untouchable lunged at him. Émon threw the rat as hard as he could over the man’s head and dodged to the side. He kicked him in the back of the knees to fell him, then ran, flinching whenever another spasm seized his legs.

He found the rat in an alley. He picked it up, took a few bites, spat out the fur, and headed home, hoping the man wouldn’t seek revenge and kill him.

His mother smiled in thanks when he brought her the half-eaten rat. Émon placed the food in her hand, then stroked her cheek. His voice barely remained steady. “I’ll see you tonight.”

Shaitha drew his hand to her lips and kissed it. Émon gazed at the flecks of blood her lips left and felt a knot in his throat. “Love you, Momm.”

Émon stepped out the door and limped down the deserted footpath that led to the work area just as the sun’s rays slipped over the walls. The clear light brought a little warmth, but it also reminded him that he was behind schedule. I can’t be late, not again. He quickened his pace. Come on, faster—

A hand from behind seized his shoulder and whipped him around. Someone punched Émon hard in the stomach then struck his jaw. Stars flashed across his vision, he collapsed, landing hard on his back.

The man who’d tried to steal his rat stepped over him and continued toward the work area.

Émon rolled over onto his stomach and pulled himself up again, joint by joint.

This is not going to be a good day.

***

“Émon!”

He jumped, dropping the brick still clutched in his hand. When had he fallen asleep? He jerked upright from where he lay, slumped across the stack of bricks he was loading. A white winter sun shone in his eyes as he looked up at the figure in front of him.

It was Ria, a slight young woman who’d recently been transferred to the camp. She set down two trays of dried bricks on the piles beside him and clapped the dust off her hands. “What’re you trying to do, get your back ripped open again? Your overseer’s going to be here any minute.”

Émon licked his busted lip and tasted blood. “Thanks, Ria.”

She started to leave, hesitated. “How’s your Momm doing?”

“She’s getting better.”

Ria nodded. She understood. “Oh.” She turned slowly and strode away.

Émon shook his head, slapped himself a few times, making his cold face sting. Wake up! Good thing Ria had caught him sleeping instead of—

A shadow fell across him. He looked up.

Girec scowled down at him.

He was more severe, his jaw lined with a scruffy beard, his eyes cold and gray as iron— but it was the same man who had beaten him into a coma ten years ago. Émon could still hear the Untouchables’ song running through his head. Girec, Girec, son of a werak… He hunched over his work and arranged the bricks on the burlap sheet as fast as his numb fingers would let him.

“You’re lagging.” Threat edged Girec’s voice like a blade.

“I’m working as fast as I can.”

“Work faster.”

Émon folded the burlap over the bricks. “I can’t.” He tied the ropes correctly, stalling for time. He didn’t want Girec to know that he could barely even lift the load today, much less carry it to the storehouse.

“You don’t have a choice.” Girec slammed his foot onto the load and leaned forward. “Our dear and gracious emperor has issued another Decree.”

Émon’s head jerked up to meet Girec’s gaze. His stomach knotted.

“Emperor Feron-Shious, may his reign endure forever, has decreed that brick-working camps have to increase their production by a fourth.”

“A fourth!” Émon couldn’t conceal his horror. The camp had been forced to put out more bricks before; an eighth more, a tenth more. But a fourth? Was that even possible? “Why?”

“What am I, a fortune teller?” Girec yanked his foot off the load. “To the storehouse. Now!”

Émon couldn’t stall any longer. He stared at the load, grabbed the rough knots with his hands and heaved it up. The bricks lay heavy against his chest; usually he carried them on his back, but that would be too painful today.

Girec tapped his fingers on the whip in his belt. Émon took a step, feeling with his toes for obstacles. His lungs restricted with the effort, tendons in his wrists strained, calf muscles quivered. He clenched his teeth. Don’t fall. Don’t fall!

His legs ignored the command and buckled. He crashed to his knees, still clutching the load.

Girec stepped in front of Émon. With one quick motion he drew his whip.

Émon looked him straight in the eyes.

Girec paused.

“Don’t beat me,” Émon said.

Girec’s arms fell to his sides.

“I haven’t done anything wrong. Don’t beat me.”

Girec stared at him.

Émon got to his feet, still gripping the load. Girec didn’t move. Step by step, Émon limped toward the brick storehouse.

He ducked inside the boxy brown structure and jostled his way past other Untouchables. He set down his load in the proper place. Then he stood up straight.

And collapsed.

His legs cramped, twisting his muscles into knots so tight his limbs kicked without his consent. He closed his eyes, knowing he was powerless to stop the spasms until his muscles unclenched. Émon forced his mind away from the pain.

Girec hadn’t beaten him.

Why?

His muscles suddenly relaxed. Someone leaned over him, and when his eyes focused he realized it was Traistal. Émon tried to smile.

Traistal frowned in return, helped Émon to his feet and propelled him out the door and back into the sunlight.

As soon as they were a few paces away, Traistal said, “Why did you come to work today?”

Émon struggled to keep up with his stride. “I wanted to get bread rations for my momm.”

“You’ll be lucky to get any rations today.”

“I can hope.”

“Have fun doing that.”

“I will.”

This remark evoked the resigned smirk Émon was hoping for. “You’re unusually cheerful today. Haven’t you heard the news about the brick quota?”

Oh… that’s right.

Traistal slowed his stride a little. “I wonder what kind of a monument Feron-Shious is building now.”

“Another tower praising his mercy, I’m sure.” Émon breathed in sharply pain shuddered down his spine.

Traistal didn’t break stride. “He’s arrogant. That’s always been his problem.”

“Arrogance?”

Traistal smiled thinly. “I was at his coronation.”

“How’s that possible? I thought—”

“Twenty years ago, Untouchables were allowed to walk the streets in relative freedom.” They had arrived at the loading area; Traistal knelt to help Émon stack bricks. “Sure, they’d get spat on, jeered at, beaten sometimes, but they were free.”

He said “they” instead of “we.” Strange… Before Émon had time to think about it, Traistal moved on with his thought.

“Feron-Shious was fifteen at the time. His smug smile told the crowd he wasn’t going to be a puppet for his father’s aides. And he hasn’t.”

Émon tried to work some calculations. “He was my age when he put the Untouchables in camps?”

“Just about.”

Émon blew on his hands, flexed his fingers. “I can’t imagine someone so young being that cruel.”

“Well, he’s thirty-four now.”

Émon blinked. “That was fast adding.”

“I remember because I was eighteen when he came to power.”

“Oh.”

They stacked bricks side by side for a while in silence. It occurred to Émon that this wasn’t Traistal’s job, and he must be staying for a reason.

He was right. After a long moment, Traistal spoke. “Any more dreams about Eiamar lately?”

Émon shook his head. “Not since last time.”

“Ah.” There was another silence, which Traistal finally broke. “I have another plan.”

Émon froze. All other thoughts fled from his mind. “You’re going to escape?”

Traistal shook his head. “You are.”

Émon’s mind shut out the possibility. “Traistal, my momm will die without me.”

“If you escaped, I would take care of her.”

Émon rubbed his cold fingers. “I won’t leave her.”

“Émon, you have a calling in life that doesn’t involve an Untouchable camp.”

“Neither does yours.”

“Émon…” Traistal hesitated, made sure no one was within earshot. “Even now, I’m working to escape. But not in the usual way.”

“What do you mean?”

“I can’t tell you, but my point is this: I already have a chance of escape. You don’t. If I escaped and you didn’t, how would that feel on my conscience?”

“I would feel the same way.”

“Émon, if both plans work, we’d both be free.”

For a moment, Émon imagined what it would be like to be free. He would never be beaten or starved again, ever. He wouldn’t have to submit to anyone, he wouldn’t…

Then he remembered his mother.

“No. I can’t— won’t think about escape until she recovers.”

He strode away, and didn’t wait to hear Traistal’s reply.

***

The sky was streaked with purple and scarlet, the colors of the Naryen-Mair flag, when the dismissal bell tolled. Émon scuffed his feet along the ground as he walked toward the gate to check out.

The glared at his chart as Émon approached. “Number?”

“K63582.” His voice was a dusty rasp.

“Well, K63582, you’re charged with Disregard of Schedule and Insolence to an Overseer. You’ll work three extra hours today.”

Émon’s torn back flared with pain. “Three hours? You can’t do that to me, I’ll—”

The gatekeeper met his gaze grimly, and Émon cut off short. “You’ll work under Pachar. Get to it.”

“You beat me yesterday. What did I do today?”

“You were late.”

“By five minutes.”

“You were insolent.”

“No more than usual.”

The gatekeeper looked up again and rested his weight on one foot. “Are you asking for another beating? You’ve been torn up enough lately. Just do as I say.”

Émon didn’t have strength to protest any more. He turned to obey.

A cold breeze whispered over his face. Suddenly, he felt hollow, as if all the life had been drained out of him. He shook his head, trying to clear the feeling, but it persisted. Aching and exhausted, he went back to work.

Three hours later, Émon limped homeward, hands tucked beneath his armpits, shivering in the chill breeze. His legs wobbled with each step. And his hands were cold. Powers, his hands were cold.

At last he pushed the rag door aside and stumbled into his house. His mother lay on her pallet, eyes closed.

“Momm?” Émon said. “I’m home.” She didn’t move.

Dread clawed his throat. “Momm? Sorry I’m late.” She still lay motionless, her face a pale mask.

Émon spoke once more. “Momm?” Trembling, he reached out and touched her hand.

It was cold.

He felt like someone had just thrown him off a cliff. He sank to the ground beside her. Oh, Momm… Émon pressed his face to her hand, numb with sorrow. His last light had gone out, and he was lost in a dark world. Alone.

He laid slumped against her cot for nearly an hour, staring at nothing, thinking of nothing. Emptiness swallowed him up. He felt weightless, drifting in a current of fear and grief. It became a stream, and then a river, a black, pounding river…

Something inside his heart broke.

He was on his feet, bolting out into the sharp night air, dashing between the shacks, breathless— he didn’t know where he was going— just running, trying to outsprint the knowledge that his mother, his protector, his friend, the love of his life, was…

Émon stopped suddenly in front of one of the hovels. Of course he had ended up here. He tried to regain his breath. “Traistal,” he gasped. Then, louder, “Traistal?” No answer. “Traistal, it’s me.”

He heard Traistal stir. A few seconds later Traistal pushed aside the rag door and stepped toward him. Traistal’s wife, at least Émon thought it was his wife, poked her head out before returning to the darkness of the shed.

“My momm’s dead,” Émon blurted.

Traistal didn’t answer. Émon strained to see his face in the darkness. Still nothing.

“She’s dead.” His words sounded so small, so childish.

Traistal’s voice was soft. “I heard you the first time, Émon.”

A huge knot formed in Émon’s throat. “I miss her,” he whispered.

Traistal remained silent.

Émon wanted to cry. He wanted to break into racking sobs, to weep, to scream at the sky about the injustice of life. But he couldn’t. The tear-trails on his face were already evaporating. “Traistal, please say something.”

“What can I say?” Traistal said gently. “She’s dead. She’s escaped from hell into heaven.”

I still miss her.

“I know.”

His eyes were dry now. Why couldn’t he cry? “Traistal, what should I do?”

Traistal considered him for a moment. The light of the twin moons was finally bright enough for Émon to see the older man’s face. His expression was composed, grim.

“You ready to hear my plan now?”

Émon felt a tiny spark of excitement which was quickly drowned. He was wretched, feeling hope when his mother had just died.

“There’s no shame in it, Émon. You loved her in life, and now she would want you to move on.”

Émon forced himself to nod.

Traistal drew a deep breath. “Here’s what you have to do.”

Quote:
For a moment he felt that he was seven, waking out of a three-day coma after Girec’s beating. No, that had been years ago. Now he lay on his stomach, cocooned in a pile of straw; his back pulsed dully.
Okay, so the sentences are grammatically correct, but I somehow get the feeling that this doesn’t flow right, As I really can’t tell you why, don’t change it until two more people tell you the same, lol. Maybe you should add an ’-’ (forgot how it’s called, hehe) before the ’No’? Oh, I don’t know.

Quote:
He was alone on the muddy bank except for a few children further down; most of the other Untouchables were headed to work by now.
I have objections to the ‘were headed part’. ‘Were heading’? But that would mean that he indeed was not alone, so I suppose that’s not what you mean. The Untouchable ‘were headed’ by someone? Oh, lets just stop at ‘I don’t get it’.

Quote:
He picked it up, took a few bites, spat out the fur, and headed home, hoping the man wouldn’t seek revenge and kill him.
I found this a bit melodramatic. I suppose that the ‘seeking revenge’ part is okay, but ‘kill him’? Especially since you have it in one short sentence.
Also, about the part when the he ate the rat. ‘He spat out the fur’. Like, only the fur? I mean, rats have bones, etc., too. Okay, so I’m not a rat expert.

Quote:
He jerked upright from where he lay, slumped across the stack of bricks he was loading.
He can’t be laying and loading at the same time. Maybe: ‘(…) he was supposed to be loading’?

Quote:
It was Ria, a slight young woman who’d recently been transferred to the camp.
‘Slight young woman?’ Update: I looked it up in the dictionary (grrrr). Apparently it can mean slim ?? Nevertheless, in my opinion it looks weird.

Quote:
He was more severe, his jaw lined with a scruffy beard, his eyes cold and gray as iron— but it was the same man who had beaten him into a coma ten years ago.
I had to reread this sentence, but not because pf the meaning, I understood it quite all right, but the ‘more’ up there is making me think (ouch). Okay, so you have ‘more’. Without the ‘more’ you couldn’t have placed the ‘but’, right? Sp the ‘more’ is essential. (Ha, I’m explaining this too myself. Still have to figure out what is wrong, lol).
Oh, I think I have what’s bugging me. You describing how Girec looks now, but in a bit of a contrast to the past. Yes? If not, then don’t read what I write next, lol. ‘his jaw lined with a scruffy beard, his eyes cold and gray as iron’. You have ‘more’ in the first part, you should have something similar here. ‘His eyes cold and grey as iron - but’. -Now here, the but is kind of awkward. You would have to do something like the ‘more’ on the first part, I think.
Wow. And all that to one sentence? Geez.

Quote:
“I know.”
His eyes were dry now. Why couldn’t he cry? “Traistal, what should I do?”
Who said the first ‘I know’? Because that is not clear. Traistal? Traistal was the last one to speak, so that should have been included. Emon? Emon is talking now. You have an ‘I miss her’ in italics, was that supposed to be in quotes.


Okay, so that’s all. Haha, I hope you have a copyright on this, lol.

One thing that caught my attention in Emon (what is the shortcut to that ‘E’, lol.) was that he doesn’t seem to have any major flaws… He’s too perfect for me, somehow. No, he won’t leave his mother. He doesn’t really feel any anger, or any negative emotion, to tell the truth. Give him a flaw, something.
Oh, but when his mother died - that whole part was really good. Especially the dialogues.
Also, when he first met the Untouchable who tried to tale his rat - I think that there you should describe the pain he felt more. After all, he’s after a serious beating, isn’t he? Not a while ago he couldn’t stand up to quickly, and here we have him dodging and kicking someone. Again, a bit down, when the Untouchable hit him - he hit him and that’s basically the end? How does he feel?
And no, Emon does not feel anger. No. -but that’s an assumption. I have no idea what he’s feeling.
(Ah, but the Geric part was good) Now, why exactly Girec did not beat him isn’t too clear. Why?

Oh, here’s something I omitted (was rereading the ‘rat and Untouchable fragment’)

Quote:
He kicked him in the back of the knees to fell him, then ran, flinching whenever another spasm seized his legs.
‘He kicked him in the back of the knees to fell him’ - Unclear sentence alert.

Traista; rules, lol! Nice name and character, hehe. And, who is Shaitha to Emon?