it was really good u have amazing description and i like how you show emotion and how the mood is set. its great!
lyndzi
For a moment he felt that he was seven, waking out of a three-day coma after Girec’s beating.
He pressed his palms to the dirt floor and pushed himself up.
Émon smelled the distinct odor of mud and yarrow, a salve that eased the pain of slow-healing wounds.
Beyond the tree stood a maze of over a thousand gray shacks, rag doors rippling in the breeze.
His mother coughed, and Émon crawled to her side. “Morning, Momm.” She smiled weakly. “You feeling any better?”
He collapsed [s]to[/s] on? hands and knees, sucking breath through his teeth.
He was alone on the muddy bank except for a few children further down; most of the other Untouchables [s]were[/s] had headed to work by now.
He turned to start for home.
Émon retreated a step and made his mouth smile. “Didn’t see you.”
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.
He jerked upright from where he lay, slumped across the stack of bricks he was loading.
Émon licked his busted lip and tasted blood.
She turned slowly and strode away.
“Emperor Feron-Shious, may his reign endure forever, has decreed that brick-working camps have to increase their production by a fourth.”
“Well, he’s thirty-four now.”
The [ ? ] glared at his chart as Émon approached. “Number?”
He laid slumped against her cot for nearly an hour, staring at nothing, thinking of nothing.
Something inside his heart broke.
A huge knot formed in Émon’s throat. “I miss her,” he whispered.
The tear-trails on his face were already evaporating.
)
Ah well. Here is the review, take it or leave it.
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 came from a fellow laborer, limping by, bent under a load of bricks. Émon watched him. His almond-brown eyes fixed on the man with his usual intensity; he always looked at people. Really looked, never glanced.
...pushing the dark locks out of his eyes.
Heart beating a little quicker, he picked up another mud-and-straw brick and fitted it snugly between two others on the load in front of him. The bricks formed a large cube, tightly stacked on the burlap sheet.
Émon frowned at the load for a moment, retucking his tunic into his sash to hold it in place.
He didn’t know why he felt the need to do a good job. He tried not to care.
Émon sat back on his heels. Once again, he would hoist the hundred and seventy pounds to his back. Once again, he would trudge the ninety yards from the brickyard to the storehouse. Two hundred and sixteen steps. Émon had counted.
He touched his breastbone, running his fingers over the spider tattoo that marked it.
Again he heard footsteps and pivoted to face the newcomer.
Traistal, black-haired and sun-browned, always kept his chin up as if he were nobility instead of a slave. Though twenty years older than Émon, he had been Émon’s only friend in the past two years. He set down his load of bricks, shaking his head slightly. The somberness in his gray-green eyes made Émon’s heart sink.
Very very good!
His almond-brown eyes fixed on the man with his usual intensity…
Two hundred and sixteen steps. [s]Émon had counted[/s].
Émon retreated a step and made his mouth smile. “Didn’t see you.”
She started to leave, hesitated. “How’s your Momm doing?”
“I wanted to get bread rations for my momm.”
“Well, he’s thirty-four now.”
Émon blinked. “That was fast adding.”
“I remember because I was eighteen when he came to power.”
“Traistal, my momm will die without me.”
Émon rolled his shoulders, and felt the scabs that striped his back wrinkle. They’ve just begun to heal, too. He tried to speak calmly. “Should I expect a bad beating?”
Traistal spoke offhandedly.
“Traistal, when am I going to learn to stop getting myself in trouble?”
“When you allow the overseers to break your spirit.”
“If I can keep going at thirty-seven, I think you can at seventeen.”
He gazed into space, the pale gray sky above the walls that caged him in the work camp. Suddenly, he remembered the dream he’d had last night.
Émon hesitated, remembering the image from his dream: a muscular, blue-eyed man standing on a fog-shrouded hill. “He was gazing up at the stars, I don’t think he saw me. And I just… felt this voice.”
“Then the voice faded. And I knew, I don’t know how, that something wonderful or horrible would happen tomorrow.”
...small white scar along his left temple.
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.
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.
“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 [s]before she could[/s]. Émon tucked her thin blanket around her shoulders. “Stay right here, I’ll catch you breakfast.”
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!
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.
Émon rolled over onto his stomach and pulled himself up again, joint by joint.
This is not going to be a good day.
"There is adventure in simply being among those we love, and among the things we love -- and beauty, too."-Lloyd Alexander
“All you said was that you two were friends and then you split ways before the camps were formed.”
“That’s all you need to know.” He touched his scar again. He always did when Émon mentioned Eiamar.
“When am I not?” Traistal smirked. “If the advantages of your work outweigh the disadvantages of your rebellion, you’ll survive.”
And if not… Well, those were the terms. Émon and Traistal both knew it.
Traistal laughed grimly. “I hope to see you later.”
An explosion of pain plunged Émon into the world of unconscious. He swam furiously away from it when he first passed out, then slowed when the coolness of sleep obliterated feeling. He sank deeper, savoring the nothingness— he wouldn’t wake, not for a long time. Just floating in the void, heedless… until he descended into a dream, a memory of nearly twelve years ago.
Yeah, I know you love them, but this one is not needed here unless you really wanted to slow down the pacing of this paragraph. Which is already comes across pretty slow as it is....a memory of nearly twelve years ago.
He was five...
He was five, sitting on the floor and running his fingers over the dirt. Several other children near his age played together in a corner of the shack. Some sort of singing and [s]hand[/s]-clapping game. A few of them were probably his siblings, but Émon was never sure. As usual, they didn’t include him in their game. Émon stared at the dirt, listened to their chorused rhyming, a ritual he would never be part of. The only time he’d ever tried, the other children covered their ears and yelled at him to stop.
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