Deep Wounds [Chapter 1]

Here is the first chapter of Deep Wounds I wrote a prologue first so be sure to read that! Thank you!



Chapter 1

I stand on the sidewalk scrunching my nose as I smell horse poop and weeds. The bus pulls to a stop and I quickly climb on. Though, the bus really doesn’t smell that much better. I stand for a moment in the aisle and can feel everyone’s eyes on the black patch over my left eye.
I quickly sit down near the front and see a girl dressed in a jeans and a cowgirl t-shirt. Her hair is in braids and a cowgirl hat on her head. I know from first glance that this was not my type of person.
“Howdy,” a western accent ringing. “Ya new here?”
“Yep,” I say quietly. I’m actually surprised she is talking to me. With my black eye-patch, Californian tank top, and short shorts. It actually feels kind of breezy today though, I guess I’ll need some new clothes, though I really don’t want them.
“So where you from?” the cowgirl asks.
“L.A.” I tell her.
“Oh. Pretty different then huh? I moved her from Texas last year, its not that different.”
The moment is filled with silence and I can feel her gaze stare at my eye patch. “What happened?” she finally asks. I have been waiting for this, but how can I tell her? I barely know her!
I gulp. “My dad…was murdered and…” I pause. I can already see tears in her green eyes. “And the murderer took my left eye.”
The girl looks down and fiddles with one of her braids. “I’m sorry…it must be hard…do you live with your mom then?” she asks.
I look down also. I shake my head. “No my mom died a couple years before that. She had a heart attack. So now I live with my Aunt Linda and Uncle Tommy.”
“I’m really sorry…” she whispers. She looks up at me and my single eye and her pair meet. “I’m Becky,” she tells me.
“I’m Ginger,” I tell her my name. It sounds strange, nobody ever calls me Ginger. They just call my Ginge, or Gingie, or…I stop thinking for a moment. My dad used to call my his little spice. My throat chokes as I think about the story he told me about half an hour before he died…that story replays in my mind…


It was back in High School when he had met her. The football players went to IHOP for breakfast one day and so did the volleyball players. They sat near each other, taking up nearly one section of the restaurant.
“I’ll take extra ginger on my pancakes,” my mother had said. My dad always told me that the waitress had looked at her strangely, but took the order anyway.
“You like ginger?” he asked, smiling.
She smiled back. “Its my favorite,” she pulled out of her gym bag a little bottle of ground ginger. “I take it everywhere if need be,” she laughed and my dad laughed with her. It all flowed after that. They went to homecoming, prom, sweethearts, you get the idea. That was their senior year. They started to date seriously and suddenly, they were separated. She went to BSU and he went to USC and then by some coincidence, his older sister, Linda, had chosen to go to BSU as well. They met and became very close friends.
She drove with Linda to see their families in L.A. during Thanksgiving one year, and my dad had been there. They laughed and kept in touch frequently, and a year later at the next Thanksgiving, he proposed.
Two years later, my dad was an engineer and my mom an artist. They were done with schooling and they decided to have me. They had a hassle naming me, of course, like all parents, but it was my dad’s idea for my name.
“Honey, do you remember at IHOP?” he had asked her when he held her for the first time.
“Of course I do,” she had replied.
“How about we name her Ginger?”
“Ginger? Like my Ginger pancakes?” my father had always told me she had laughed.
“Yes, since you loved it so much,” he smiled.
“It sounds perfect. Our little Ginger….”


“Ginger!” a voice takes me from the story and I see Becky gesturing me to get out of the bus seat.
“Sorry,” I say and quickly hop off.
The school is tall, no doubt about that. Trees are planted somewhat around it, and everyone is in their “groups.”
“I have to go inside to get my schedule,” I told Becky.
“Sure thing, I’ll see you around,” she told me and I went into the building.

Hey there. I'm Hawkie, and I'll be reviewing you today.

i. Nit-picks

I stand for a moment in the aisle and can feel everyone’s eyes on the black patch over my left eye.

You use "eye" twice in the same sentence; it's a bit redundant. Substitute "gaze" for "eyes."

With my black eye-patch, Californian tank top, and short shorts.

This is a fragment. Change it to something like "With my black-eye patch, Californian tank top, and short shorts, I must look really weird."

I moved her

Should be "here."

“L.A.” I tell her.

You should have a comma before the dialogue tag. It looks really weird, but:

"L.A.," I tell her.

- is correct.

“I’m Ginger,” I tell her my name.

Since it's already obvious that she's telling her name, you don't need to say it. Just use "said," instead.

“Its my favorite,”

Should be "it's."

she pulled out of her gym bag a little bottle of ground ginger.

Pulling ginger out of one's gym bag is not a form of speech. Change it to something like "'It's my favorite,' she said, and pulled out of her gym back a little bottle of ground ginger."

my father had always told me she had laughed.

Capitalize "he."

ii. Overall

I'll be honest with you: I don't like where this might be going. I do think you can make a good story out of it, but there are some pitfalls that you'll need to avoid, mainly this one, the downfall of many teen/romance stories: overblown angst.

Your narrator has obviously suffered a lot. However, you reveal all of her suffering way too fast, and it's overwhelming. You want us to feel sorry for her because she's been through so much; however, I have no foundation for liking or rooting for her yet, so while I may feel sympathetic, it's not as deep-rooted, not as personal. Give me a rich, compelling character, and I'll want to know her back-story. Don't mix up the order.

Also, would your MC really start spilling her tragic past to this girl she doesn't even know? Why wouldn't she make up some other story or excuse? Months asking her "what happened to you?" has probably hardened her; I'd expect her to have at least a few alternate stories up her sleeve. Give her some inner toughness. Have her persevere. She's the protagonist, after all; she needs to be able to take action, not just ride along wherever the flow takes her.

Keep working on this! PM me if you have any questions. ^^

-Hawks-

Ok, I'm Genevieve. I'm just doing a little nit-picking. It's pretty good, I'm not sure about continuing, because I'm not sure how you can continue the story and make it still intriguing, this is because you've given out all the information of her past, that should be mysterious and full of suspense up in a few lines. You could have included cliff-hangers etc. to build it up, but thats up to you.

I stand on the sidewalk scrunching my nose as I smell horse poop and weeds.

Ok so this is interesting, why did you use the word poop, it sounds a little childish and you could have easily used a more mature word, eg. faeces, or even poo, that makes your writing more mature, and also, since when do weeds smell?

The bus pulls to a stop and I quickly climb on. Though, the bus really doesn’t smell that much better.

I'm kind of wondering, why does she really care what the bus smells like? I mean fair enough if she went on the bus to get away from the smell, but she didn't, and if she did you need to tell us. I think you should definately tell us why she got on the bus.

I stand for a moment in the aisle and can feel everyone’s eyes on the black patch over my left eye.

OK, so this isn't bad at all, but the word eye is a little repetitive.

I quickly sit down near the front and see a girl dressed in a jeans and a cowgirl t-shirt. Her hair is in braids and a cowgirl hat on her head. I know from first glance that this was not my type of person.

Nice description here.

I’m actually surprised she is talking to me. With my black eye-patch, Californian tank top, and short shorts.

Why is she surprised, I think you should change the indicated full stop to a comma, or say that her attire might be the reason she isn't expecting anyone to talk to her.

It actually feels kind of breezy today though, I guess I’ll need some new clothes, though I really don’t want them.

Just because it's kind of breezy doesn't mean anyone needs new clothes, and if she was just talking about how they made others not want to talk to her, why doesn't she want new ones?

“Oh. Pretty different then huh? I moved her from Texas last year, its not that different.”

Where is she? How is it so different to L.A and Texas?

The moment is filled with silence and I can feel her gaze stare at my eye patch. “What happened?” she finally asks. I have been waiting for this, but how can I tell her? I barely know her!
I gulp. “My dad…was murdered and…” I pause. I can already see tears in her green eyes. “And the murderer took my left eye.”

Why is she so open to tell her, she has contemplates it, but then just dives right in?

I look down also. I shake my head. “No my mom died a couple years before that. She had a heart attack. So now I live with my Aunt Linda and Uncle Tommy.”

She just keeps opening up!?!?!?

It was back in High School when he had met her. The football players went to IHOP for breakfast one day and so did the volleyball players. They sat near each other, taking up nearly one section of the restaurant.
“I’ll take extra ginger on my pancakes,” my mother had said. My dad always told me that the waitress had looked at her strangely, but took the order anyway.
“You like ginger?” he asked, smiling.
She smiled back. “Its my favorite,” she pulled out of her gym bag a little bottle of ground ginger. “I take it everywhere if need be,” she laughed and my dad laughed with her. It all flowed after that. They went to homecoming, prom, sweethearts, you get the idea. That was their senior year. They started to date seriously and suddenly, they were separated. She went to BSU and he went to USC and then by some coincidence, his older sister, Linda, had chosen to go to BSU as well. They met and became very close friends.
She drove with Linda to see their families in L.A. during Thanksgiving one year, and my dad had been there. They laughed and kept in touch frequently, and a year later at the next Thanksgiving, he proposed. Two years later, my dad was an engineer and my mom an artist. They were done with schooling and they decided to have me. They had a hassle naming me, of course, like all parents, but it was my dad’s idea for my name.
“Honey, do you remember at IHOP?” he had asked her when he held her for the first time.
"Of course I do,” she had replied.
“How about we name her Ginger?”
“Ginger? Like my Ginger pancakes?” my father had always told me she had laughed.
“Yes, since you loved it so much,” he smiled.
“It sounds perfect. Our little Ginger….”

I like the flash back, and how it tells us about her name and her parents, good job.

“Ginger!” a voice takes me from the story and I see Becky gesturing me to get out of the bus seat.
“Sorry,” I say and quickly hop off.
The school is tall, no doubt about that. Trees are planted somewhat around it, and everyone is in their “groups.”
“I have to go inside to get my schedule,” I told Becky.
“Sure thing, I’ll see you around,” she told me and I went into the building.

This bit confused me, since when was she going to school? Why did Becky yell at her to get off the bus, did they have a conversation you haven't written that told Becky that she was going to this particular school?

All in all I think you did a good job. If this sounds really mean, picky or wrong, I'm sorry, I'm only trying to help.