Scavenger

*DELETED*

Gyr and Sunny, I'm not sure whether to brick you up in a sewer full of radioactive waste or buy you free passes to Middle Earth. Just to note: what was here is now entirely irrelevant. Everything is being reworked, and I mean everything, and it's all your two faults. Darn you/thank you.

This didn't last long, did it?

with the extreme tips of my fingers

Nix “extreme”—tis redundant.

The blanket caught around my ankles, tripped me up and landed me on the rush-covered floor.

I don’t like “landed me.” Perhaps “I landed” or find a different very, such as “and threw me to the rush-covered floor” or “dumped me on the rush-covered floor.”

‘Ooh, I know what that means. Stinking dratted, darned, awful, annoying, blooming aggravating maiden.’ I wrinkled my nose. ‘I’m not a maiden.’

‘Maiden or girl.’

‘I’m not a girl.’

‘No, of course not. You’re a boy.’

‘Of course!’

I’m very confused…

an expression which must have matched Napoleon’s after Waterloo: why me?

*chortle*

Druth ran a hand through his feathery black hair, stretched, groaned and shivered.

The word order here gives me a mental image of his hair stretching, groaning, and shivering. Perhaps remedy?

‘But I’m not. So it doesn’t count. So you loose!’ I bounced up and down on the spot.

Now who does she remind me of?

‘Boys and girls of every age, wouldn’t you like to see something strange?’ I sang under my breath

Why is this bit in italics? It really threw me off.

‘Sa.’

Unless you’re setting this in Fal’s world, darling, I’m afraid you’re going to have to find another word.

‘The world you come from… it can be dangerous to bring it into this one.’

‘Don’t start getting all like that little green guy… what’s he called again? Slaughters his sentences and wears a brown dress.’

‘Yoda?’

Okay, now I’m really confused!


Dara

I like her, a lot, but she does just border on the annoying. She probably wouldn’t suffer from a little bit of toning down, but not too much, methinks. As said before, though, she severely confuses me. The best theory I’ve got so far is that she’s from ‘our’ world and has somehow gotten into…well, it looks like Fal’s world from here. Except she said she’s an elf? Or is it the guy who’s the elf? Well, if I’m supposed to be confused, then you’re doing a great job. If not, you might want to clarify.

P.S. The bit with her getting up was brilliant—maybe just a few more effects, such as the sound(s) she makes as she hits the floor or such.

TL G-Wooster wrote:One: Pell oddi cartref

The bird was twittering outside again. Always the same: bid-a-boo, bid-a-boo, bid-a-boo. It monopolized my whole attention, even though it had sung exactly the same song at exactly the same time in exactly the same place for the last three months.

Bid-a-boo, bid-a-boo, bid-a-boo.

I took hold of my blanket with the extreme tips of my fingers, paused, then flung it up into the air and rolled out of bed. The blanket caught around my ankles, tripped me up and landed (landed? hmm...how about deposited? or dumped?) me on the rush-covered floor. I bundled the blanket up and (comma) wrapping it around my shoulders, went to the door and opened it. The air was cool, and the grass damp under my bare feet, each blade beaded with white drops of dew (this is ALMOST a run-on. you may want to make it a little simpler). The early morning sunlight glinted off the sea in the near distance (is this an oxymoron? lol), and I could smell salt and iodine.

‘Woo hoo,’ I murmured. Then louder, ‘Woo hoo!’

The bird gave an affronted peep but I didn’t care. I whirled around in a circle, the blanket flapping against my night shirt. The sky was a dizzy blue, a gull spun around in it above me, it was going to be a hot day and we were going to Arlow. (oooh, definitely a run-on. Please fix?)

I bounced back into the cottage. The one room was simple but very clean. My bed under the skin-paned window, a table, a chair, a stool, and Druth’s bed in the far corner. Druth was still under his blanket.

‘Druth!’ I poked his back. He muttered something and rolled over. ‘Dru-uth…’ I tugged at his shoulder. ‘Wake up! We’re going to Arlow today!’

‘Today, yes.’ He opened one eye. ‘Not barely after sunrise.’ (Lol)

‘Come onnn.’

‘Go away.’

‘Won’t! Won’t, won’t, won’t, won’t, won’t, won’t, won’t –’

He pulled the blanket over his head. ‘Mlanann innogen.’

‘Ooh, I know what that means. Stinking (comma?) dratted, darned, awful, annoying, blooming (comma?) aggravating maiden.’ I wrinkled my nose. ‘I’m not a maiden.’

‘Maiden or girl.’

‘I’m not a girl.’

‘No, of course not. You’re a boy.’

‘Of course!’

(I understood this, but I think gyr might be right - this dialogue is a little confusing. Maybe put the "stinking, dratted, darned..." in quotes to show that she was quoting what Druth said?)

‘Dara.’ Druth sat up in despair. ‘Tell me again. Just how old are you?’

‘Thirteen,’ I answered promptly. ‘Thirteen years, ten months, three weeks and a day tomorrow. I think it’s three weeks, anyway.’

Druth tipped his head back [s]on his neck[/s] (I don't think you need that) and gazed at the ceiling wearing an expression which must have matched Napoleon’s after Waterloo: why me?

‘You getting up now?’

He sighed and swung his legs over the side of the bed. ‘It’s just Arlow, Dara. Just the town.’

‘Yeah, but I haven’t been there before! I’ve been here three months and never been to the nearest big town. That’s sad.’

Druth ran a hand through his feathery black hair, stretched, groaned and shivered.

‘Your tuft’s all spiky,’ I said, pointing with my chin to the bit of hair that sprang up and over Druth’s eyes. He shook his head sideways, like a horse and went to the water jug on the table.

‘And your eyes are all gummy,’ I added helpfully.

Druth splashed water on his face.

‘And your back’s all crooked. And your ears are too big. And –’

Druth raised his head, water dripping off his chin, his golden eyes murderous. (Hehe. As a side note, I really like how you describe his characteristics without actually DESCRIBING them, if that makes any sense...)

‘O-kay.’ I waved my hands about in the air. ‘A little praise never hurt anyone.’

‘Shut up and pass me the towel.’

I complied, saying smugly, ‘I’m so cool, I don’t need to wash my face.’

‘Or so filthy.’ (Okay, this doesn't work. If she said "I don't need to wash my face - that's how cool I am" and then he replied "or so filthy" it would be better.)

‘But I’m not. So it doesn’t count. So you loose!’ I bounced up and down on the spot.

‘Go and feed the chickens. You’ve got too much steam.’

‘Steam! Can Stan scream of steam with cream and a beam and reams and reams of steam? Steam steam, steamy steam steam steamy…’

‘Out.’

‘I’m not dressed,’ I pointed out sweetly.

‘And your point is?’

‘Touché. Shay, shay, shay…’ I went outside. Our cottage was on the very outskirt of the village, and the chicken pen was at the back, looking toward it. I opened the door of the house and the chickens all came charging down, falling over each other in their haste. One of the hens pecked at my ankle and I shoved her away before leaning over to take the water bowl. Bartigern, the cockerel had made straight for the food dish and was now standing in it, but politely hopped out when I nudged him.

‘Boys and girls of every age, wouldn’t you like to see something strange?’ I sang under my breath, taking the bowls back into the house. Druth was rummaging in the cupboard. I filled the food bowl from the sack of pellets in the corner and left the water bowl on the table. ‘Come with us and you will see, in our town of Halloween…’

The chickens were waiting impatiently by the door of their pen; when I set the bowl down there was an immediate scramble. I squatted down on my heels and watched their backs as they gobbled down pellets: white, brown, speckled, brown. Bartigern shoved the speckled hen – Earca – out of the way and managed to get his foot caught on the edge of the bowl, spilling pellets around their legs.

‘Here’s their water.’ Druth leaned over the post-and-wire fence to put their water in.

‘Has it got their vinegar in?’

‘Sa.’

The chickens drank deeply, tipping their heads back to swallow. The sun caught the iridescent neck feathers of the two brown hens, making them shine green in its light.

I shivered. The sun was warm, but the wind was cold and my nightshirt was thin.

‘Go inside and get dressed,’ Druth said. ‘I’ll see to Gabhie – she won’t need milking today.’

I went back into the cottage and pulled my box out from under my bed. Under a ragged copy of Midsummer Night’s Dream were my clothes. I dressed hurriedly, but instead of pushing the box back immediately, I knelt down and took out the play (script? Might work better). Its spine was creased and a few of the pages had folded over. I smoothed them out slowly, carefully. The words caught my eye: ‘The course of true love never did run smooth.’

‘What have you got?’

I jumped; I had not heard Druth come back in. After a moment, I said, ‘Da’s play. Midsummer Night’s Dream.’

A tiny pause. Then Druth said gently, ‘That doesn’t belong here. You shouldn’t look at it.’

‘Why not?’ I screwed my head around to glare at him.

‘The world you come from… it can be dangerous to bring it into this one.’

‘Don’t start getting all like that little green guy… what’s he called again? Slaughters his sentences and wears a brown dress.’

‘Yoda?’

‘Yeah, him. Now explain that to me. How does an elf know more about the popular culture of another world than one who’s been there, done that, got the T-shirt, without bringing one into the other?’

‘Erm…’ Druth pondered for a moment, then shrugged. ‘You lost me after the first five syllables.’

‘How can I not bring it in? [s]I can’t[/s] (I don't think that's necessary).’

‘Maybe you should just…’ Druth sighed. ‘Na. Keep it. Remember where you came from, just don’t… flaunt it.’

‘I never flaunt.’

‘… and be careful at Arlow.’

‘Of course I will! I’m always careful!’ I shoved the box back under my bed and went to get the jam out of the cupboard for breakfast. Pushing all thoughts of parallel universes aside, I forgot to ask exactly what I should be careful about.


---

Apart from everything else, I'd like comments on Dara. How does she come across? What does she seem like? Is anything about her too confusing?

Dara (Raven, hehe): I like her a lot - she's a very unique character. The only real issue I'm having is that sometimes her voice when she's narrating is totally dissimilar to her voice in dialogue. Like, when she describes the beauty of the sun on the hen's necks, she doesn't sound like an annoying thirteen year old. In that last paragraph when she's narrating - that's perfect. I think that sounds like her. But occasionally I feel like you slip and it's YOU writing rather than Dara.

Also, I know it's your story and you have your reasons, but I kind of feel like you need a prologue. Just a tiny bit of backstory giving us a taste of how all these parallel universes happened and why Dara's not freaked out by now. What happened? How'd she get there? I'm sure you'll probably write about it eventually, but I thought I'd bring it up.


I'm sorry I shredded so thoroughly. This is why I don't critique very often...I feel like I always talk about the bad and not the good. I really, really liked it, despite my OCD grammatical corrections. I'm excited to read more. :D

Deleted words indicated by strike-outs; added/modified parts in bold; my commentary in red.

One: Pell oddi cartref [Whadduzthat mean?]

The bird was twittering outside again. Always the same: bid-a-boo, bid-a-boo, bid-a-boo. It monopolized my whole attention, even though it had sung exactly the same song at exactly the same time in exactly the same place for the last three months.

Bid-a-boo, bid-a-boo, bid-a-boo.

I took hold of my blanket with the extreme tips of my fingers, paused, then flung it up into the air and rolled out of bed. The blanket caught around my ankles, tripped me up and landed me on the rush-covered floor. I bundled the blanket up and wrapping it around my shoulders, went to the door and opened it. [<< Awkward sentence alert.] The air was cool, and the grass damp under my bare feet, each blade beaded with white drops of dew. The early morning sunlight glinted off the sea in the near distance, and I could smell salt and iodine.

‘Woo hoo,’ I murmured. Then louder, ‘Woo hoo!’

The bird gave an affronted peep but I didn’t care. I whirled around in a circle, the blanket flapping against my night shirt. The sky was a dizzy blue; [What's a "dizzy blue" anyway?] a gull spun around in it above me; it was going to be a hot day and we were going to Arlow.

I bounced back into the cottage. The one room was simple but very clean. My bed under the skin-paned window, a table, a chair, a stool, and Druth’s bed in the far corner. Druth was still under his blanket.

‘Druth!’ I poked his back. He muttered something and rolled over. ‘Dru-uth…’ I tugged at his shoulder. ‘Wake up! We’re going to Arlow today!’

‘Today, yes.’ He opened one eye. ‘Not barely after sunrise.’

‘Come onnn.’

‘Go away.’

‘Won’t! Won’t, won’t, won’t, won’t, won’t, won’t, won’t –’ [My head. It hurts.]

He pulled the blanket over his head. ‘Mlanann innogen.’

‘Ooh, I know what that means. Stinking dratted, darned, awful, annoying, blooming aggravating maiden.’ I wrinkled my nose. ‘I’m not a maiden.’

‘Maiden or girl.’

‘I’m not a girl.’

‘No, of course not. You’re a boy.’

‘Of course!’

‘Dara.’ Druth sat up in despair. ‘Tell me again. Just how old are you?’

‘Thirteen,’ I answered promptly. ‘Thirteen years, ten months, three weeks and a day tomorrow. I think it’s three weeks, anyway.’

Druth tipped his head back on his neck and gazed at the ceiling wearing an expression which must have matched Napoleon’s after Waterloo: why me?

‘You getting up now?’

He sighed and swung his legs over the side of the bed. ‘It’s just Arlow, Dara. Just the town.’

‘Yeah, but I haven’t been there before! I’ve been here three months and never been to the nearest big town. That’s sad.’

Druth ran a hand through his feathery black hair, stretched, groaned and shivered.

‘Your tuft’s all spiky,’ I said, pointing with my chin to the bit of hair that sprang up and over Druth’s eyes. He shook his head sideways, like a horse and went to the water jug on the table.

‘And your eyes are all gummy,’ I added helpfully.

Druth splashed water on his face.

‘And your back’s all crooked. And your ears are too big. And –’

Druth raised his head, water dripping off his chin, his golden eyes murderous.

‘O-kay.’ I waved my hands about in the air. ‘A little praise never hurt anyone.’

‘Shut up and pass me the towel.’

I complied, saying smugly, ‘I’m so cool, I don’t need to wash my face.’

‘Or so filthy.’

‘But I’m not. So it doesn’t count. So you [s]loose[/s] lose!’ I bounced up and down on the spot.

‘Go and feed the chickens. You’ve got too much steam.’

‘Steam! Can Stan scream of steam with cream and a beam and reams and reams of steam? Steam steam, steamy steam steam steamy…’

‘Out.’

‘I’m not dressed,’ I pointed out sweetly.

‘And your point is?’

‘Touché. Shay, shay, shay…’ I went outside. Our cottage was on the very outskirt of the village, and the chicken pen was at the back, looking toward it. I opened the door of the house and the chickens all came charging down, falling over each other in their haste. One of the hens pecked at my ankle and I shoved her away before leaning over to take the water bowl. Bartigern, the cockerel had made straight for the food dish and was now standing in it, but politely hopped out when I nudged him.

‘Boys and girls of every age, wouldn’t you like to see something strange?’ I sang under my breath, taking the bowls back into the house. Druth was rummaging in the cupboard. I filled the food bowl from the sack of pellets in the corner and left the water bowl on the table. ‘Come with us and you will see, in our town of Halloween…’

The chickens were waiting impatiently by the door of their pen; when I set the bowl down there was an immediate scramble. I squatted down on my heels and watched their backs as they gobbled down pellets: white, brown, speckled, brown. Bartigern shoved the speckled hen – Earca – out of the way and managed to get his foot caught on the edge of the bowl, spilling pellets around their legs.

‘Here’s their water.’ Druth leaned over the post-and-wire fence to put their water in.

‘Has it got their vinegar in?’

‘Sa.’

The chickens drank deeply, tipping their heads back to swallow. The sun caught the iridescent neck feathers of the two brown hens, making them shine green in its light.

I shivered. The sun was warm, but the wind was cold and my nightshirt was thin.

‘Go inside and get dressed,’ Druth said. ‘I’ll see to Gabhie – she won’t need milking today.’

I went back into the cottage and pulled my box out from under my bed. Under a ragged copy of Midsummer Night’s Dream were my clothes. I dressed hurriedly, but instead of pushing the box back immediately, I knelt down and took out the play. Its spine was creased and a few of the pages had folded over. I smoothed them out slowly, carefully. The words caught my eye: ‘The course of true love never did run smooth.’

‘What have you got?’

I jumped; I had not heard Druth come back in. After a moment, I said, ‘Da’s play. Midsummer Night’s Dream.’

A tiny pause. Then Druth said gently, ‘That doesn’t belong here. You shouldn’t look at it.’

‘Why not?’ I screwed my head around to glare at him.

‘The world you come from… it can be dangerous to bring it into this one.’

‘Don’t start getting all like that little green guy… what’s he called again? Slaughters his sentences and wears a brown dress.’

‘Yoda?’

‘Yeah, him. Now explain that to me. How does an elf know more about the popular culture of another world than one who’s been there, done that, got the T-shirt, without bringing one into the other?’

‘Erm…’ Druth pondered for a moment, then shrugged. ‘You lost me after the first five syllables.’

‘How can I not bring it in? I can’t.’

‘Maybe you should just…’ Druth sighed. ‘Na. Keep it. Remember where you came from, just don’t… flaunt it.’

‘I never flaunt.’

‘… and be careful at Arlow.’

‘Of course I will! I’m always careful!’ I shoved the box back under my bed and went to get the jam out of the cupboard for breakfast. Pushing all thoughts of parallel universes aside, I forgot to ask exactly what I should be careful about.

Okay, well -- I like the style it's written in, but right now I'm majorly confused, especially as to what time period this takes place in.

Dara is a major brat and I already hate her character, so good job on characterization? I'm worried, though, that she's going to become too annoying. It's going to be difficult writing an entertaining story with a pest for the protagonist (some would argue Harry Potter managed it, but I never thought Harry was that annoying).

So yeah, a confusing first chapter, but of course you can clear all that up later.

Prokaryote

*blushes*

I'm sorry! I should put a warning in my sig that I'm a ruthless editor...

I really do like it, twit!

Lol, Sunny, it isn't that, I adore it when people shred. It's simply that this beginning has now passed into my box of "old drafts." This story is giving me more headaches than all my other stuff put together... Now, the plot's changed, the Raven's changed, everything has changed. Look out for Scavenger draft six in this same thread. ^_~

‘Even if you are a minority of one, the truth is the truth.’ – Mohandas Karamchad Gandhi



Drych-ddelwedd

There was a tiny hole in the curtain in front of me. Its edges were slightly ragged, and a microscopic tear wandered away into the rest of the rough fabric. I wanted to poke my finger through it, make it larger. Would Quennel notice? I could hear his voice on the other side of the curtain, loud and stirring. ‘When we think that the world is within our grasp, that we know all – only then do we realize just how little we do know.’

He always started off with that; he said it impressed the audience. No matter where we were – in a pig sty, a lord’s hall, or the back room of a printer’s shop like today – Quennel always insisted on being dramatic.

‘As human beings, we know the difference between good and evil. We know what means this and what means that. We can realize truth and lies. We are at an advantage in nature. But for this creature here – this mix of Elf and human blood – there is no such advantage.’

This creature here. Even after months of being exhibited, that phrase still stung.

‘This mixed breed, this hybrid of two different species – what place has she in nature? Too human to be an animal, too animal to be a human. The Elves are at one with nature, but the hybrids?’ I could imagine Quennel’s shrug, his wide-spread hands and slowly shaken head. ‘They are forever divided. They can live with neither humans, Elves or animals. And so they live in Carathara, the land far beyond here, the wide, harsh plains providing the perfect isolated habitat.’ He paused, let that information sink in. ‘All but one of the hybrids. All but one! Ladies and gentlemen, there is only one hybrid not living in Carathara. That one,’ – Quennel would have raised his finger now – ‘that one hybrid, ladies and gentlemen, is here in Kiona. Here, before you now.’

The curtain quivered on its line, strung across the room. Quennel’s fingers appeared at the edge; dirty finger-nailed but otherwise clean, tanned brown against the dark red curtain.

‘Ladies and gentlemen. See the only hybrid in Kiona. See… the Raven.’ Quennel flung the curtain wide.

It was a good-sized audience made up of small boys, young working-class men with their sweethearts on their arms, a few older men and two elderly women in matching lavender silk hoods. One of them put her hand to her mouth when she saw me; the other blinked and looked away, then back again. The boys crowded close, grubby fingers outstretched, but a sharp word from Quennel halted them.

‘Keep back! She may look tame, but be careful. She bites.’

Quennel let them stare at me for a moment longer, then he said sharply, ‘Turn around!’ Slowly I turned, letting the audience see me fully. Quennel had set up three large mirrors in a semi circle against the wall behind me, and as I turned, I saw myself in three different directions. Left profile, straight on, right profile. It was strange, but I found it difficult to connect myself with the creature that I saw in those mirrors.

That creature had short dark hair hanging in lank strands over its face. A black feather was tied into a side lock of hair, its tip almost brushing its shoulder. Its skin was blotched with walnut juice, creating mottled dark brown patches, and tracings done in dark blue and brown paint ran in strange, curling, smudged designs over its face, bare arms and legs. It wore a thin leather waistcoat and short, tight trousers. Two soft, curling black feathers were tied around each of its wrists and ankles, and a leather collar was fastened around its neck.

That was not me. That was a strange little thing, wild and animal-like, seeing the world out of inhuman, light brown eyes. It would look on dispassionately at the misfortunes of others, not turn a hair if any one of the audience dropped down dead in front of it. It was a picture of something else, some being that wasn’t real, couldn’t be real. I pitied the creature in the mirrors, doomed forever to the loathing and prejudice of others, never allowed to have a sensible idea of its own. It was an animal.

‘Go down!’ As I dropped down onto all fours, Quennel began his commentary again. ‘See, ladies and gentlemen, the way that the Raven is made. Arms and legs all the same length. Pointed features, a sure sign of her Elven blood.’

I tucked my head under my arm and peered at the audience behind me. The boys gawked. The men stared. The young women drew in their breaths. I stared at them unblinkingly.

‘Stand up!’

I rose and turned around once more. Quennel spread his arms wide, as though he were embracing the audience, inviting them to share his secret. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls. This freak, this abomination against nature. See her. Imagine her back in Carathara, living the normal life of a hybrid. Cannibalism. Bestiality. Inbreeding. Murder. Violence. Disease. Death. That is the pitiful excuse of an existence that hybrids have. They have no dignified thought, no concept of right or wrong. They are animals, living only for their own desires with no feeling or empathy for their fellow creatures. Fear them, ladies and gentlemen, fear the Raven. Boys and girls, be wary. This isn’t like the bogey stories your parents used to tell you to make you behave; this, my friends, this is the real thing. A very real danger. A horror. A freak. A hybrid.’

A hybrid, I thought. All that fear and danger contained in one little word. Hybrid. Me. I couldn’t tell whether it made sense or not.

‘Hey, mister,’ one of the young men called out. He shot a sideways glance at the girl on his arm, as though he hoped she were noticing this. ‘Does it ’ave the Sense, like what the Elves’ve got?’

‘Ah.’ Quennel nodded gravely. ‘Every Elf has the Sense, true. But hybrids are different. For some, their Elven blood runs strong and thick, and for others it has been watered down by generations of inbreeding. For some direct crosses, the human blood is strongest and there is no Sense. But for others…’ He turned his hand and unfurled his fingers as though he were offering the young man a gift. ‘For others, the Elven blood pounds through their veins, bringing with it the power of air, the awareness of nature, and above all… the Sense. The Sense that allows them to read other’s thoughts, to feel life and living movement, to feel the emotions and moods of the people around them. To bond with another living creature – a Sense-familiar – to share souls and minds and thoughts and feelings in a way that we can only dream of. The Sense, ladies and gentlemen, one of the greatest natural wonders.’

‘But ’as it got it?’ the young man demanded, not very impressed.

Annoyed by his irreverent manner, Quennel gave him a patronising glance. ‘Of course it has, my dear boy. Just because the Raven has no Sense-familiar doesn’t mean that she doesn’t have the thing itself. She just doesn’t show it, that’s all.’

The young man didn’t look very convinced. Hard luck, boy, I thought, completing my turns and feeling a little dizzy in consequence. Just take Quennel’s word for it. He’s right on this one, anyway.

In the opposite corner of the room, next to the door, Morley piped a few notes on his whistle, a signal that the show was over. Quennel smiled, and spread an arm towards the door. ‘All you get for your money, ladies and gentlemen, all you get for sixpence, and I think you’ll agree ’twas money well spent.’

The elderly ladies immediately shuffled towards the door, and the young girls pulled their escorts forward when they would have lingered longer. One of the boys made a quick dash forward and would have touched my shoulder, but I ducked out of his way and Quennel, dropping like a hawk, latched onto the boy’s ear.

The boy squealed, ‘Ah-ow! Leggo!’

Quennel said grimly, ‘Out,’ and pushed him out of the door to run after his friends who had already fled.

Quennel turned back and grinned at Morley. ‘Now that,’ he said, dropping his polished accent for more comfortable tones, ‘was a good day. I’ve lost count of the people we’ve ’ad in!’

‘Maybe we should stay here in Londlow, then,’ Morley said. ‘Carry on while we’re doing well.’

‘When we’re doing well is the right time to leave. Keeps the people wanting, makes ’em eager when we come back.’

‘But Selseaton’s days away. The hybrid might not travel well.’

‘It will travel well,’ Quennel said calmly, ‘because I sez it will. Selseaton being the capital and all – the money we’ve made here’s nothing compared to what we’ll get there.’

Morley shrugged and wiped the mouthpiece of his whistle. I squatted down onto my heels, keeping my eyes on the dark-beamed ceiling. Quennel came and stood behind me. I resisted the urge to look around at him.

‘Good little Raven,’ he said. His hand patted my head, then stroked the side of my face. I whipped my head around and hissed at him, but he only laughed. ‘I don’t care how much you hate me, Raven. I’m the only one who keeps you alive.’

‘My gratitude makes me lie awake at night,’ I said.

He smiled. ‘You’re a freak. An animal that just happens to have the ability to be sarcastic. I can accept that, but out there,’ – he waved a hand towards the door – ‘how many people out there would let you think even one thought of your own?’

‘None of them.’ My voice was flat, reciting the words – the facts – that he had hammered into my head since the day he had found me in the burned ruins of my home. ‘No one would let me do anything. No one would care if I starved to death in front of them. People would kill me. They fear me. I shock them, make them sickened. I’m a freak, a hybrid, a slave, a mistake. I’m yours. I am the Raven, the only hybrid out of Carathara.’

‘Good little hybrid.’ Quennel pinched the top of my ear gently, and this time I let him.


--

Um, basically comments about everything... and again about the Raven.

Hey! I'm here, due to your friggen awesome request.

Too human to be an animal, too animal to be a human.

Just wanted to tell you that this was the best sentence ever. lol. I don't know why either.

That was not me. That was a strange little thing, wild and animal-like, seeing the world out of inhuman, light brown eyes. It would look on dispassionately at the misfortunes of others, not turn a hair if any one of the audience dropped down dead in front of it. It was a picture of something else, some being that wasn’t real, couldn’t be real. I pitied the creature in the mirrors, doomed forever to the loathing and prejudice of others, never allowed to have a sensible idea of its own. It was an animal. How could it be me?

Perfect paragraph, although I would ditch the last sentence. We know that the monster thingy is her, so just don't. It really gives us a clear image of what she looks like and how she reacts to herself.

Um, basically comments about everything... and again about the Raven.

Comments about everything? Wow. What can I say?

WAS THAT TERRIFIC OR WHAT?

Uh, yeah. That basically sums it all up. But anyway, to blab on longer: I really like your character. I already feel for her/it. Very creative. I love the hybrid idea. Very creative.

You know, I've never really been one for fantasy, but this... this is different - in a good way. No. Scratch that.

In a great way.



I think this is perfect the way it is. I would absolutely love to read more. Very interesting. I don't have any complaints.

Fantastic.

-Jared

*squeals*

I love it! I feel a little better now that I have an idea of who and what she is...even though I sort of already knew. Um, I didn't see a lot of mistakes...I think there was one spot when Quennel said something like "neither human or animal" and that should be a "nor" instead of an "or". Anyway, that was very well written and I'm excited for more! :D

Oh, so this is Raven's story...*head/desk* I'm a dummy. But I have copy/pasted and shall begin work post haste!

This creature here. Even now, after months of being exhibited, that phrase still stung.

An excellent line, but I would nix the “now.” It just sounds better to me.

All but one of the hybrids. All but one!

I should nix the first sentence—it gives the second more power.

Here. Here, before you now.’

I think it might work better if you nix the first “Here” and say something like “It is here, before you now” or such.

dirty finger nailed

I think you meant “fingernails.” Had a horrible image there for a second.

You don’t want to see ’er in a rage.

He’s been so suave and sophisticated (seemingly) up till now—all of a sudden he’s “’er”, tis rather a jolt.

Poetic license, I thought, eyeing Quennel’s stick. With that thing around, how is anyone allowed to get in a rage? Much less express it.

Hmmm, I’m not sure here—but I had to read this a number of times before I got it. Perhaps it was the use of the phrase “Poetic license”—it made me look at the way he phrased his warning rather than the content, and using the word “anyone” rather than “I” threw me as well.

I found it difficult to connect myself with the creature that I saw in those mirrors.

The creature in the mirrors

You see the trouble.

That was not me. That was a strange little thing, wild and animal-like, seeing the world out of inhuman, light brown eyes. It would look on dispassionately at the misfortunes of others, not turn a hair if any one of the audience dropped down dead in front of it. It was a picture of something else, some being that wasn’t real, couldn’t be real. I pitied the creature in the mirrors, doomed forever to the loathing and prejudice of others, never allowed to have a sensible idea of its own. It was an animal. How could it be me?

A masterful bit of character development. Need I say more?

‘Now that,’ he said, dropping his polished accent for more comfortable tones, ‘was a good day. I’ve lost count of the people we’ve ’ad in!’

You see what I meant about the earlier ‘er?

‘When we’re doing well is the right time to leave. Keeps the people wanting, makes ’em eager when we come back.’

Sound business sense, especially for this kind of show. *nods sagely*


Random question: One would have thought (at least, I was rather hoping) that the showman would have explained why she’s called “the Raven.” I’ve always wondered.

I lowered myself onto my heels, keeping my back straight and my eyes on the dark-beamed ceiling.

Okay…I really can’t see this in my head, sorry.

I whipped my head around and snapped at him,

With her teeth? I’m assuming you mean she tried to bite him, you just don’t make it quite clear.

‘I’m the only one who ]keeps you alive.’

‘My gratitude keeps me awake at nights,’ I said.

Her response is wonderful, but the repletion of “keeps” bothers me.

‘An animal that just happens to have the ability to be sarcastic. I can accept your sarcasm, but out there,’

Am I being a repetition Nazi here? It’s just there are so many good synonyms!


What, that’s all? That’s all!


Oh, btw:

I'm not sure whether to brick you up in a sewer full of radioactive waste or buy you free passes to Middle Earth.

Will the radioactive waste give me superpowers? This will seriously affect my decision. *hug*

This is very well written and I see little room for improvement. However, I would like to make a few comments and suggestion:

At the beginning, you talk of the small hole through the fabric and yet you don't mention what your narrator can actually see through it or whether she's trying to see through it. Does she stand perfectly still, afraid that she will get in trouble for moving and disturbing the curtain and possibly revealing a part of herself early or frightening the crowds? I think you just need to expand on that a little bit. And what colour is the curtain? Your reader doesn't have much to focus on, other than a disembodied voice and the Narrator's own thoughts and opinions.

That leads me into my second point: description. You have some lovely, visual description, particularly of the Raven and the crowds but you've neglected the other senses and it's difficult for your reader to really feel the atmosphere. First, is it hot and stuffy standing behind this curtain or is it cold, does she shiver? Is the wall smooth and cold at her back or does she not have her back to a wall? Your extract/ story begins with a very limited visual setting so make up for that with other senses like scent - can she smell the crowds from there? Can she smell Quennel? And sound. I'm sure she can hear more than Quennel's voice. Perhaps the shuffling of people walking beyond the show or the occasional gasp or snicker from the crowds? Then there's always touch and taste, combine these with her emotions. How does she feel when he pats her on the head and strokes her cheek? Does she feel inferior, humiliated or just extremely angry. Does his touch send a shiver down her spine - do people touch her often. Does she secretly long for that human interaction? And taste. Is she hungry or thirsty? Do they treat her badly, do her lips taste slightly cracked because they only let her drink in the brief intervals between shows? Consider everything in minute detail, even if you don't intend to write about it.

Your dialogue was excellent, though I'm sure you don't need me to tell you that, and your characterization was good. I think the plot was interesting, though it's hard to judge from such a short extract, and in general, this was really pleasant to read. Keep up the good work and let me know if you have any questions xx

Cychwyn ar daith

We left Londlow early the next day. It was warm, with a tiny wind that whipped up strands of the carthorse’s mane and blew dust in our eyes. Quennel cursed loudly. Morley blinked and said nothing.

I sat in the back of the cart, my lead tied to a large crate that held most of Quennel and Morley’s clothes and possessions. The other luggage included a smaller crate containing two scrawny chickens and a leather trunk. Morley, wedged between the trunk and large crate, held a small canvas bag. Quennel sat on the seat up front, next to the carter whom he had hired to drive us to Selseaton.

The cart rattled from side to side, first over the cobblestones of Londlow’s streets, then onto the road that led out of the city into the countryside. Houses changed to hedges, and we turned onto a smaller road, leaving the traffic behind. The way ran ahead, divided into three parts: dusty grey earth rubbed bare by cart wheels and a strip of untouched grass in the middle.

Lying on my back, I could see the sky burning bright blue above, like a wide, smooth bowl turned upside down. I was inside the bowl, looking up at the carefully glazed base. Smears of thick white paint – clouds – hung motionless in the blue, making pictures of people and animals within themselves.

I sighed and closed my eyes, feeling the hot floor of the cart press against my cheek. My charcoal ‘tattoos’ would need to be redone when we got to Selseaton, but even that thought could not change the fact that the sky was beautiful; powerful, omnipresent. Comforting.

The cart jolted; Quennel swore. Lazily but carefully, I reached out with my mind and felt for his thoughts. They were not interesting or even very coherent – a stream of grumbles and feelings: the seat was too hard, the sun too hot, the dust too annoying, and the carter too stupid. Then one solid thought formed: all right for the hybrid, cursed creature. I Sensed him turn and scowl at me. Asleep, lazy beast.

Man, I thought. I like that.

Quennel turned back and I left his mind. At least I get the Sense from being a hybrid, I thought, a little sourly. I get the Sense, just nothing else. I wonder if Quennel would swop – my Sense for his pure human blood. Yeah, right. Still with my eyes closed, I frowned and rolled onto my side. Bringing my knees up under my chin, I wriggled on the boards to get comfortable, then went to sleep.

---

A sharp poke in my side awakened me a few hours later. The cart had stopped by an inn and the carter was getting down and unhitching the horse. Morley poked me again. ‘Get up.’

‘What’re we stopping for?’ I asked, jumping stiffly down.

‘Drink and a rest.’

‘Do I get either of those?’

‘Rest, yes. Drink, if you’re good.’ Quennel wrapped my lead around his wrist and nodded to Morley. ‘Go and ask the landlord if we can borrow an extra stall.’

‘Stable stall?’

‘Yes, Morley, a stable stall. Say it’s for an exhibit. We can’t take it in with us, after all, can we?’

Morley shrugged and went into the inn. A few minutes later he was back. ‘He says it’s all right, so long as it ain’t anything what’ll scare ’is ’orses.’

‘Well we’re fine there.’ Quennel handed my lead to Morley. ‘Go stable it. I’ll be inside. Make sure that it’s secure. No, wait – stay with it yourself.’

Morley opened his mouth to protest, shut it, bit his lip, and then asked, ‘Can I have a drink first?’

‘If you’re good.’ Quennel laughed and entered the inn.

Morley made a rude gesture at the inn door and led me to the stable, which was a long, thin building joined onto the inn at the back. Inside it was light, smelling of hay and leather. A row of stalls ran against the right hand side, and a ladder leading to a hayloft stood at the end.

Morley opened one of the stalls at the end and led me in. He tied my lead to a ring set low in the wall and bolted the low door. Then he hesitated. I blinked owlishly at him. He sighed and said, ‘Behave. If you’re good, then I’ll bring you a drink. If you’re naughty, then you won’t get a drink and Quennel will beat you. Understand?’

I nodded and sat down meekly. ‘Yes’m.’

Morley left. I heard him close the stable door. After waiting a minute or two, I reached up and untied my lead. The horse in the stall next to me – a chestnut with a long thin nose – gave me a cursory glance and then turned back to staring at the wall.

I swung my lead around in the air, enjoying the whitt-whitt-whitt-whitt sound of whirling leather. There was a spider struggling to reach the top of the door. It slipped and swung on its thread, legs waving frantically. I caught it on my finger and stuck its thread on the wall. The spider caught and began to climb. It found a knothole and rested there a moment before continuing its journey. When it reached the sloping ceiling, it scuttled around aimlessly for a bit before settling down. It twitched a front leg triumphantly and began to spin.

I wrapped the end of my lead around my wrist and put my hands on the wall that connected my stall to the empty one next to it. I hoisted myself up and swung a leg over the edge of the stall. It wasn’t thick enough to sit comfortably astride, so very carefully, holding onto the beam that ran above my head to the spine of the roof, I stood up. My bare toes gripped the stall edge; I could just feel the rough wood under my brine-toughened soles.

My next door neighbour turned his head as far as his halter would allow and stared at me, his ears flicking back and forth. Big thing. Danger. Danger? Big thing up. Bird? Big bird thing?

Big thing good, I told him, a grin spreading over my face. I let go of the beam and spread my arms out. Balancing like this reminded me of Da. It had taken him so long to teach me how to balance and somersault and cartwheel. Every member of our family had had to learn, and Da had started early. Handstands first, arithmetic afterwards. Da had despaired over my seeming lack of balance, but I had got there. Eventually.

I took a step forward and another; humming under my breath, then out loud: ‘Boys and girls of every age, wouldn’t you like to see something strange? Come with us and you will see – this our town of Halloween…’

A longer step and I stuck my leg out to one side. ‘This is Halloween, everybody make a scene. Trick or treat ’till the neighbours gonna die of fright…’

I pivoted around and made a circle in the air with my arms. Then another step and I reached up to touch the ceiling beam. ‘I am the one hiding under your stairs; fingers like snakes and spiders in my hair.’

My feet groped to find my balance, slipping a little. I swayed and recovered again. The stable was quiet; my singing hardly disturbed the dust motes that danced in the rays on sunlight falling through the skylight onto the floor. ‘Halloween, Halloween, Halloween, Halloween…’

I gripped the ceiling beam and carefully lifted my right leg straight up, feeling the muscles stretch as I touched my toes to my right ear. I needed to do this more often; the strain meant that I was out of practise. Balancing on the stall wall, I went through all the exercises that I could. The arabesque penchée wasn’t too difficult, but the fouetté nearly made me fall off.

‘Tender lumplings everywhere, life’s no fun without a good scare! That’s our job but we’re not mean, in our town of –’

‘What the hell!’

I froze. Four stable boys stood in the doorway, their eyes sticking out like they had goitre.

There was a long, long silence. Then I slowly lowered my arms to my sides. As if that had been a signal, they rushed forward. I leapt down back into the stall, knees bent, and pressed myself into the back right corner. They stared at me over the door.

‘Gorblimey,’ one breathed.

‘Wha’ is it?’

‘It was singing…’

I took a deep breath. ‘Singing is a very generous term.’

They leaped back, creating a very comic effect. ‘Wha’…’

‘Did it…’

‘I thought…’

I stood up, went to the lower door and looked at them over the top. We stared at each other for a few minutes, then the biggest of the boys slowly reached out a hand. Very quickly and lightly, he touched my arm.

‘Flesh and blood,’ I said.

‘Where?’ He snatched his hand back hurriedly.

I rolled my eyes. ‘No, aswon. I,’ – I pointed to myself – ‘a-am,’ – I spread my fingers wide – ‘flesh and blood.’ I gave a wide, exaggerated smile and blinked my eyes.

They goggled. I pointed to the red-haired one. ‘What have you got in your pockets?’

Redhead sucked in his lower lip, blinking. ‘You talk funny.’

I hitched myself up and got my elbows over the door. ‘Do not dare to presume that you may talk thus! Do you know who I am?’

Redhead sputtered, ‘I… you…’

‘I am Doctor John Carter, loved up and down County General for generations! I cut patients open and diagnose them after they’ve been chewed up by runaway alligators!’ I thrust my head forward and glared at the boys who had retreated to the opposite wall by now. ‘I get stabbed in the back and held at gunpoint! I angst about my family and date nurses and sew up schizophrenics and –’

‘And just what is going on here?’ Quennel demanded. He strode forward; the boys gulped, began to stammer excuses and I dropped down into a crouch on the floor.

‘We didn’t do nothing, sir…’

‘We was just lookin’…’

‘We heard it…’

‘Then it just started gabblin’…’

‘What is it, never saw anything like it…’

‘It says it’s a doctor – is it a doctor, sir?’

Quennel yanked the stall door open and pulled me up by my collar. He gripped my chin and turned my face up towards him. I looked at the floor and refused to meet his eyes. He frowned, then said to the boys, ‘Did you do anything to it? No,’ – sarcastically – ‘of course you didn’t.’

‘We didn’t, honest!’

Quennel flapped a hand at them. ‘Go away. If you fiddle with ’er again, I’ll see that you all loose your jobs.’

‘Oooh, sir!’

‘Believe me, I will.’

‘Yes, sir.’ They left reluctantly, looking back and whispering.

Quennel tightened his grip. ‘What,’ he asked, ‘did you do?’

‘Nothing.’

He pressed my collar against my throat, his fingers digging into my neck. ‘What did you do?’

‘Nothing. I just… did ballet exercises and… and talked.’

‘Talked? Talked about what?’

‘TV,’ I muttered.

‘What?’

‘TV,’ I said, louder.

Quennel pushed his face close to mine. ‘Talk properly,’ he said, each consonant sharp with precision.

‘I am. You just don’t know what TV is.’

Quennel released my collar and hit me smartly across the face. I stumbled back into the far corner, my hand pressed against my cheek.

‘Don’t speak to me like that again.’ Quennel pointed a finger at me. ‘Do you hear? Don’t you ever speak to me like that again.’

‘Yes. I mean, no…’

‘No what?’

‘No, master.’

‘Good.’ He opened the door and went out, bolting it shut after him.

I stared up at the ceiling. The spider had begun a web, weaving and gluing silk like the whole world depended on it.


---

Does the whole stable-scene feel rushed? I can't see whether it is or not... comments on everything, but especially the stable-scene's rushed or not ness.

TL G-Wooster wrote:Cychwyn ar daith

We left Londlow early the next day. It was warm, with a tiny wind that whipped up strands of the carthorse’s mane and blew dust in our eyes. Quennel cursed loudly. (Sorry, this is nitpicky, but why is he cursing?) Morley blinked and said nothing.

I sat in the back of the cart, my lead tied to a large crate that held most of Quennel and Morley’s clothes and possessions. The other luggage included a smaller crate containing two scrawny chickens and a leather trunk. Morley, wedged between the trunk and large crate, held a small canvas bag. Quennel sat on the seat up front, next to the carter whom he had hired to drive us to Selseaton.

The cart rattled from side to side, first over the cobblestones of Londlow’s streets, then onto the road that led out of the city into the countryside. Houses changed to hedges, and we turned onto a smaller road, leaving the traffic behind. The way ran ahead, divided into three parts: dusty grey earth rubbed bare by cart wheels and a strip of untouched grass in the middle.

Lying on my back, I could see the sky burning bright blue above, like a wide, smooth bowl turned upside down. I was inside the bowl, looking up at the carefully glazed base. Smears of thick white paint – clouds – hung motionless in the blue, making pictures of people and animals within themselves.

I sighed and closed my eyes, feeling the hot floor of the cart press against my cheek. My charcoal ‘tattoos’ would need to be redone when we got to Selseaton, but even that thought could not change the fact that the sky was beautiful; powerful, omnipresent. Comforting.

The cart jolted; Quennel swore. Lazily but carefully, I reached out with my mind and felt for his thoughts. They were not interesting or even very coherent – a stream of grumbles and feelings: the seat was too hard, the sun too hot, the dust too annoying, and the carter too stupid. Then one solid thought formed: all right for the hybrid, cursed creature. I Sensed him turn and scowl at me. Asleep, lazy beast.

Man, I thought. I like that. (Is this like, 'Man, I like that'? or is it stating, 'man', like human being? I'm confused)

Quennel turned back and I left his mind. At least I get the Sense from being a hybrid, I thought, a little sourly. I get the Sense, just nothing else. I wonder if Quennel would swop – my Sense for his pure human blood. Yeah, right. (I don't think the 'yeah right' is necessary, personally) Still with my eyes closed, I frowned and rolled onto my side. Bringing my knees up under my chin, I wriggled on the boards to get comfortable, then went to sleep.

---

A sharp poke in my side awakened me a few hours later. The cart had stopped by an inn and the carter was getting down and unhitching the horse. Morley poked me again. ‘Get up.’

‘What’re we stopping for?’ I asked, jumping stiffly down.

‘Drink and a rest.’

‘Do I get either of those?’ (Haha.)

‘Rest, yes. Drink, if you’re good.’ Quennel wrapped my lead around his wrist and nodded to Morley. ‘Go and ask the landlord if we can borrow an extra stall.’

‘Stable stall?’

‘Yes, Morley, a stable stall. Say it’s for an exhibit. We can’t take it in with us, after all, can we?’

Morley shrugged and went into the inn. A few minutes later he was back. ‘He says it’s all right, so long as it ain’t anything what’ll scare ’is ’orses.’

‘Well we’re fine there.’ Quennel handed my lead to Morley. ‘Go stable it. I’ll be inside. Make sure that it’s secure. No, wait – stay with it yourself.’

Morley opened his mouth to protest, shut it, bit his lip, and then asked, ‘Can I have a drink first?’

‘If you’re good.’ Quennel laughed and entered the inn.

Morley made a rude gesture at the inn door and led me to the stable, which was a long, thin building joined onto the inn at the back. Inside it was light, (do you mean bright?) smelling of hay and leather. A row of stalls ran against the right (hyphen) hand side, and a ladder leading to a hayloft stood at the end.

Morley opened one of the stalls at the end and led me in. He tied my lead to a ring set low in the wall and bolted the low door. Then he hesitated. I blinked owlishly at him. He sighed and said, ‘Behave. If you’re good, then I’ll bring you a drink. If you’re naughty, then you won’t get a drink and Quennel will beat you. Understand?’

I nodded and sat down meekly. ‘Yes’m.’

Morley left. I heard him close the stable door. After waiting a minute or two, I reached up and untied my lead. The horse in the stall next to me – a chestnut with a long thin nose – gave me a cursory glance and then turned back to staring at the wall.

I swung my lead around in the air, enjoying the whitt-whitt-whitt-whitt sound of whirling leather. There was a spider struggling to reach the top of the door. It slipped and swung on its thread, legs waving frantically. I caught it on my finger and stuck its thread on the wall. The spider caught and began to climb. It found a knothole and rested there a moment before continuing its journey. When it reached the sloping ceiling, it scuttled around aimlessly for a bit before settling down. It twitched a front leg triumphantly and began to spin.

I wrapped the end of my lead around my wrist and put my hands on the wall that connected my stall to the empty one next to it. I hoisted myself up and swung a leg over the edge of the stall. It wasn’t thick enough to sit comfortably astride, so very carefully, holding onto the beam that ran above my head to the spine of the roof, I stood up. My bare toes gripped the stall edge; I could just feel the rough wood under my brine-toughened soles.

My next door neighbour turned his head as far as his halter would allow and stared at me, his ears flicking back and forth. Big thing. Danger. Danger? Big thing up. Bird? Big bird thing?

Big thing good, I told him, a grin spreading over my face. I let go of the beam and spread my arms out. Balancing like this reminded me of Da. It had taken him so long to teach me how to balance and somersault and cartwheel. Every member of our family had had to learn, and Da had started early. Handstands first, arithmetic afterwards. Da had despaired over my seeming lack of balance, but I had got (gotten there? made it there? Not sure...) there. Eventually.

I took a step forward and another; humming under my breath, then out loud: ‘Boys and girls of every age, wouldn’t you like to see something strange? Come with us and you will see – this our town of Halloween…’

A longer step and I stuck my leg out to one side. ‘This is Halloween, everybody make a scene. Trick or treat ’till the neighbours gonna die of fright…’

I pivoted around and made a circle in the air with my arms. Then another step and I reached up to touch the ceiling beam. ‘I am the one hiding under your stairs; fingers like snakes and spiders in my hair.’

My feet groped to find my balance, slipping a little. I swayed and recovered again. The stable was quiet; my singing hardly disturbed the dust motes that danced in the rays on sunlight falling through the skylight onto the floor. ‘Halloween, Halloween, Halloween, Halloween…’

I gripped the ceiling beam and carefully lifted my right leg straight up, feeling the muscles stretch as I touched my toes to my right ear. I needed to do this more often; the strain meant that I was out of practise. Balancing on the stall wall, I went through all the exercises that I could. The arabesque penchée wasn’t too difficult, but the fouetté nearly made me fall off.

‘Tender lumplings everywhere, life’s no fun without a good scare! That’s our job but we’re not mean, in our town of –’

‘What the hell!’

I froze. Four stable boys stood in the doorway, their eyes sticking out like they had goitre.

There was a long, long silence. Then I slowly lowered my arms to my sides. As if that had been a signal, they rushed forward. I leapt down back into the stall, knees bent, and pressed myself into the back right corner. They stared at me over the door.

‘Gorblimey,’ one breathed.

‘Wha’ is it?’

‘It was singing…’

I took a deep breath. ‘Singing is a very generous term.’

They leaped back, creating a very comic effect. ‘Wha’…’

‘Did it…’

‘I thought…’

I stood up, went to the lower door and looked at them over the top. We stared at each other for a few minutes, then the biggest of the boys slowly reached out a hand. Very quickly and lightly, he touched my arm.

‘Flesh and blood,’ I said.

‘Where?’ He snatched his hand back hurriedly.

I rolled my eyes. ‘No, aswon. I,’ – I pointed to myself – ‘a-am (why the two 'a's?) ,’ – I spread my fingers wide – ‘flesh and blood.’ I gave a wide, exaggerated smile and blinked my eyes.

They goggled. I pointed to the red-haired one. ‘What have you got in your pockets?’

Redhead sucked in his lower lip, blinking. ‘You talk funny.’

I hitched myself up and got my elbows over the door. ‘Do not dare to presume that you may talk thus! Do you know who I am?’

Redhead sputtered, ‘I… you…’

‘I am Doctor John Carter, loved up and down County General for generations! I cut patients open and diagnose them after they’ve been chewed up by runaway alligators!’ I thrust my head forward and glared at the boys who had retreated to the opposite wall by now. ‘I get stabbed in the back and held at gunpoint! I angst about my family and date nurses and sew up schizophrenics and –’

‘And just what is going on here?’ Quennel demanded. He strode forward; the boys gulped, began to stammer excuses and I dropped down into a crouch on the floor.

‘We didn’t do nothing, sir…’

‘We was just lookin’…’

‘We heard it…’

‘Then it just started gabblin’…’

‘What is it, never saw anything like it…’

‘It says it’s a doctor – is it a doctor, sir?’

Quennel yanked the stall door open and pulled me up by my collar. He gripped my chin and turned my face up towards him. I looked at the floor and refused to meet his eyes. He frowned, then said to the boys, ‘Did you do anything to it? No,’ – sarcastically – ‘of course you didn’t.’

‘We didn’t, honest!’

Quennel flapped a hand at them. ‘Go away. If you fiddle with ’er again, I’ll see that you all loose your jobs.’

‘Oooh, sir!’

‘Believe me, I will.’

‘Yes, sir.’ They left reluctantly, looking back and whispering.

Quennel tightened his grip. ‘What,’ he asked, ‘did you do?’

‘Nothing.’

He pressed my collar against my throat, his fingers digging into my neck. ‘What did you do?’

‘Nothing. I just… did ballet exercises and… and talked.’

‘Talked? Talked about what?’

‘TV,’ I muttered.

‘What?’

‘TV,’ I said, louder.

Quennel pushed his face close to mine. ‘Talk properly,’ he said, each consonant sharp with precision.

‘I am. You just don’t know what TV is.’

Quennel released my collar and hit me smartly across the face. I stumbled back into the far corner, my hand pressed against my cheek.

‘Don’t speak to me like that again.’ Quennel pointed a finger at me. ‘Do you hear? Don’t you ever speak to me like that again.’

‘Yes. I mean, no…’

‘No what?’

‘No, master.’

‘Good.’ He opened the door and went out, bolting it shut after him.

I stared up at the ceiling. The spider had begun a web, weaving and gluing silk like the whole world depended on it.


---

Does the whole stable-scene feel rushed? I can't see whether it is or not... comments on everything, but especially the stable-scene's rushed or not ness.

The scene does not feel rushed at all. It was actually my favorite part. I loved her singing! And apparently I don't watch enough TV, 'cause I don't know what she was talking about, lol. Most of the stuff in bold in the actual story are just suggestions - take them or leave them. Nice job, I'm excited for more!

swop

swap

I'll see that you all loose your jobs

lose

The stable scene did not feel rushed, not in terms of content, but in terms of what it reveals? Perhaps. You do reveal a lot, and yet conversely, we learn very little. It just makes us question. Which is good in a sense, but not so much in another - it will get annoying very quickly.

The exposition in the beginning, regarding the exact positioning of Quennel and Morley was annoying. We don't really need to know exactly where they are in the cart and in relation to one another or whether they just farted or blinked or breathed - as long as we know they're there, it's enough.

This was good, well written and interesting. I certainly want to read more, if only because I'm confused as to just what it happening and just what the 'hybrid' is, exactly.

Kudos.