Wraith

...so. This was written for Nanowrimo 2005, an overly epic saga of late nights and too much caffeine. As a result, it obviously needs tons and tons of editing, and my efforts have been somewhat minimalistic (the word "minimalistic" is used very loosely here). So, um, pull out your scalpels, claws, pitchforks, butter knives, whatever, and have it. Tear it to pieces. Please. You'd make my life a happier place for it.

Also — if I do post multiple chapters (this is just chapter one, in case you're wondering, although the formatting is a little, um, different than the usual format of chapters) would it be preferable to (a) post the entire thing in one thread or (b) post each chapter as a separate thread?

And: would you mind if I hammered you with dozens of questions about your reaction(s) to the story?





Wraith

Chapter One
Chapter Two





- Chapter One -


/1


"There," says the demon. "She's all yours."

Roman looks down at the figure lying in the circle of stones, a mass of tangled hair and sodden wings. Her bones jut out sharply, limbs bent at awkward angles. She's a mess, but he doesn't care.

She's an angel.

"Payment?" the demon asks. Roman spares him an impatient glance, swallowing a shudder of revulsion.

"You'll get it," he says shortly.

The demon tips his hat, flashing a smile.

"I'd better."

And he's gone, the air shimmering behind him. Roman rubs his eyes and turns to the angel. She's still unconscious, bound in the circle. To him.

He takes a deep breath, shivering with anticipation. His palms are slick with sweat.

"Wake up," Roman whispers.



/2


She wakes up.

Her head throbs, a steady pounding in her temples. She can feel her limbs distantly, shadows sketched to her body. And her wings, they feel strangely heavy ...

She opens her eyes and the world explodes.

Steady hands. They grip her shoulders, murmuring something indistinct in her ear. She fights to keep her vision as it slips and slides. Sharp edges, bright lights — so much, too much, they burn her eyes until she has to close them again, warding off the bewildering assault of colours and shapes and angles. Chaos. The afterimages blaze fire against her eyelids.

Her stomach surrenders to a losing battle; she vomits all over the cold stone floor before her.

She's crying, huddled over a pool of vomit and tears and spit, her shoulders shuddering. Gasping for air, fighting off a rising wave of panic and fear and terror. Her wings flutter feebly. Beneath them, her shoulder blades give a painful stab.

She tries to remember, to pick something out of the muddle of her mind; nothing makes sense. Memories slip out of her grasp, leaving vague sensations of forgotten things in their wake.

The world crumbles around her. Someone catches her before she falls.



/3


Dying and living and dying.

Time melts. She's given something to drink, hot and bitter, but she chokes it back up. Dreams of flying and wakes on the floor. Fragments of memory filter through her mind — the pungent smell/taste of magic. Confusion, fear. Swimming in her dreams, crying; she can't find her way to the surface.

Her wings feel strange. Before her, everything blurs, and she finds herself drifting off into a fitful sleep.



/4


She's lying on a cotton sheet, clad in a flimsy shift, the cold stone floor seeping through thin fabric. Her head aches dully. She's afraid of opening her eyes, uncertain of what she'll find.

"Here," says a voice, tilting her head back roughly. She struggles against the grip — magic sings through the air, stinking sharply of forgotten things, forcing her muscles to relax. The metal edge of a cup is thrust against her lip. She tries to drink and chokes again on the bitter taste, coughing up hot liquid. Her lungs burn, nostrils flaring fire, and all over again she dissolves into tears.

Footsteps on the floor. Her sobs fade away; the silence echoes strangely in her ears.

She keeps her eyes closed for a moment longer. The dark is comforting with its lack of complexity. It reminds her of the place before this one, the world from which she came — blackness, unbroken and unchanged.

Deep breath.

Her eyes flutter open.

It doesn't hurt as much this time. The new universe does not seem quite so dizzying or menacing as before — still, the oddness of it stabs at her heart. Everything – the stones that encircle her, the door at the edge of the room, the strange sensation of magic – is so strange, disorganized and unfitted and complicated. The lack of uniformity is distinctly unsettling. Shapes merge into shapes; every object has shadows within shadows. Even the light streaming in beneath the crack of the door is too bright, too harsh.

This is not the way it was in my world, she knows. Her memories of the before-place are strange flickering ghosts, insubstantial in her grasp, but it was different and she remembers that. Less complicated, more structured. Simpler. Not this chaotic attack of blinding lights and tangled shapes. She can feel the oddness of this new place in her bones — she can taste the difference on her tongue. She wants it all to go away. If only she could close her eyes and wish her world back into existence.

It doesn't work.

She's sitting in the center of a circle, sketched in dusty chalk and shimmering with magic. It's surrounded by a ring of stones, some smooth and speckled, others jagged and harsh and forbidding. (So many different shapes, textures, colours. Why are there so many?) The room is bare, empty of anything save for the circle. She's alone. Dimly, she recalls vomiting, and realizes the floor is clean. Dusty but clean. Someone was here; someone who is not her, someone to clean up after her.

Deep breath. She exhales, working the saliva in her mouth, and calls out. It's not a phrase or a word – just a sound, echoing off the stone walls. That's what my voice sounds like, she thinks. How strange.

Footsteps, and the door bursts open. A man stands there, silhouetted against the light. She has to squint again — it's too bright and harsh, too new. They stare across the room at each other, man and angel, and she finds her voice again.

"You're human," she says.

"You're awake." He comes in, closing the door behind him. Walks towards her carefully. She thinks maybe she's seen his face before; not in the place before, but here. Now.

"I know you," she says. "I remember you."

"Yes." He doesn't offer any further explanation. She's content to adjust her eyes to the sight of another living being, to familiarize herself with the strange patterns of light and shadow that play across his face, the bizarre textures of his skin and confusing shapes that define his features.

"I'm not human," she says suddenly.

"No," he agrees, and this time his voice is surprised, as if maybe it was obvious.

She says a strange word, a word that isn't a word but more of a flicker of magic, and he looks even more surprised and maybe a little confused. She tries again, searching for a word in her vocabulary, one that will make sense in this human world.

"My wings," she says at last, panicking. She tries to move them, and they stab at her shoulder blades, painfully heavy. Her wings ...

He doesn't move. Standing, he watches as she twists around, trying to feel the silken tips of her wings. The pain overwhelms her and she doubles over, gasping, hot tears already stinging her eyes.

"They hurt," she manages.

His face is expressionless.

"You know, don't you?" Her voice trembles, accusing. "What's wrong?"

"Do you want something to eat?" he asks, avoiding her gaze.

She struggles to her feet. Her legs sway beneath her, but she manages to stumble to the edge of the circle.

"What happened to me?" Her voice rises, tears blurring her vision. She steps over the edge of the circle, over the line of stones —

Crack.

She falls to the ground, bewildered, her head exploding with pain all over again. The world spins sickeningly over her. He moves to the edge of the circle, looking down at her.

"You're bound to the circle," he says.

Her stomach churns. She feels the bile rising in her throat.

"I want to go home," she pleads.

His face is calm, not a flicker of emotion marring its surface.

"You're bound to this world, too," he says.

She shudders. The last thing she remembers is his face, ever-passive, hovering over her.



/5


He brings a steel cup steaming with black liquid. She sniffs at the odour as it wafts towards her and recognizes it; the bitter drink. She thought she'd dreamt it — apparently not.

He crosses over the stones and into the circle, kneels and looks at her.

"Can you drink it yourself?" he asks.

She nods, wordlessly accepting the cup. Wrapping her fingers around it, she savours the warmth, lifts it to her lips. It's as bitter as she remembers, but this time she manages to swallow it without coughing. He watches as she drains the cup and hands it back to him.

"What does it do?" she asks.

He doesn't say anything.

"Is it going to – kill me?" The word sounds strange on her tongue. Kill. Can she die?

He shakes his head and stands, making to leave.

"Wait, stop," she says quickly, before he can go. "Don't leave. I want — to talk."

He looks awkward. Trapped. She's about to say more, perhaps plead, but he sets the cup down and sits on the floor across from her, carefully keeping outside of the circle.

For a moment, they don't say anything. She's too busy drinking in the sight of another person – another person, real person, and a human at that – to say anything.

He fidgets, still looking uncomfortable.

"I'm Roman," he says at last. And then, in a rush: "Well, I'm not actually Roman, but that's my name."

She blinks at him.

"My name," he says again, slowly this time, "is Roman."

"Your name." She tries to search her memories; ever-mercurial, they retreat to a shadowy corner of her mind where she can't reach them.

"Yes."

She looks at him. His name is Roman, she thinks. Aloud, she says:

"What's mine?"

Roman looks startled. "Yours?"

"My name."

"You – you don't have one." He runs a hand through his hair. "He never told me your name."

She blinks again. "Who's he?"

"I've never heard of you having a name, either," he adds, ignoring her question.

There's an awkward silence, and he frowns, thinking hard.

"Do you – want a name?"

She looks bewildered. "Don't I need one?"

"Yes — yes, I suppose you do." He picks up the cup and stands, hesitating. "I'll think of something."

And then he leaves.



/6


It's dark and she's cold. She wraps the thin cotton sheet around her bare arms and shivers convulsively. Her stomach is twisting into dry knots; she hasn't had anything since the drink he gave her forever ago, and she's hungry. She tries to remember what she used to eat, back in the before-place, but the only thing she can remember is a ghostly taste on her tongue, a flitting memory that disappears before she can pinpoint it.

It must be hours after he left. Her shoulders start hurting again. She can feel the weight of her wings, strange and heavy and painful; she can feel her shoulder blades straining to carry them. Something trickles down her back and she reaches up to touch it. It's thick and bright red: blood.

I never bled before, she thinks, and feels a familiar surge of panic. We didn't bleed. We couldn't bleed.

The pain works into her bones, stabbing, white-hot, endless. It drives her every drop of being, until she can't see beyond the searing pain. I'm dying, she thinks. Dying dying dying ...

Her head feels light and her wings are strangely heavy, and finally she wads up the sheet of cloth and places it under her as a pillow, falling asleep.



/7


The sheet is wet with blood and feathers. Grey feathers, speckled black. She snatches one up and holds it to the meager light, heart thumping. It has power, her wings. Magic. It makes her dizzy all over again.

Swallowing back a lump of tears, she balls up the cotton sheet again, this time so she won't have to see her own blood.

She still holds the feather, turning it over in her hands. It reminds her of the before-place so strongly that something inside her crumbles. She can only remember little bits and pieces, fragments dancing teasingly in front of her, but she wants to go back so badly she can feel it tugging at her heart. It's killing her. The vast emptiness of the new world echoes; too confusing for her to grasp, too lonely and quiet. Too cold.

She wants to go home.

Huddled over the mess of sheets and feathers, she doesn't see him come in until he's standing right in front of her.

"I want to go back," she says quietly, clutching the feather so tightly that it's crumpled in her fist.

He doesn't say anything. She looks up at him — his face is blank. They stare at each other for a moment, and then he turns to go.

At the door, Roman stops.

"Your name is Birch," he says. His voice is low. He doesn't look at her. For a long moment, he stands in the doorway, and then he closes the door behind him.





>> chapter two

Well, this is certainly different. I like it, the whole idea of the story is very good. I will, however, say that the constant breaks and paragraphs get annoying. The first couple of times; okay, your showing the disorientation, the pain, and I assume the fever resulting from the clipped wings.

One thing I saw:

She remembers the ozone smell/taste of magic

It would be better, I think: She remembers the ozone smell; the taste of magic.
The way its set out there, its as if you can't decide which she experiences.

Overall: Well done. But the little paragraphs and breaks better stop.
It would be better I think if you posted a bunch of chapters (say 5 or so) in one post, then another bunch; slowly taking chunks out of the story.

Well this was interesting. I was confused because the first part is hard to read. You're writing style is...different and it is a little hard to follow but I really really like the idea of an angel being taken from her world to another. And the way you make her feel like she is in such a strange and exotic land was a great touch. Even though you described that she was taken from her world it still seems like you didn't supply enough information which left me confused. A little advice: You write it kind of like someone would write poetry but it dosen't flow like poetry. The broken paragraphs are part of the problem but the way you describe it and the way you narrate the story is one of the main problems.

And he's gone, the air shimmering behind him. Roman rubs his eyes and turns to the angel. She's still unconscious, bound in the circle. Bound to him.

He takes a deep breath, shivering with anticipation. Rubs his sweaty palms and squeezes his eyes shut.

When he opens them, she's still there.

Here, I took a piece of your story to use for an example. This may sound strange but, it would seem like William Shapner is narrating this story with all of the pauses and the lack of flow.

All in all this is a great story but, the main thing I'm trying to say is: This story was hard to read. I will continue to read it becuase it is a great Idea but it still needs some work.

Payback time! Let's see if I can help you like you helped me.

First up, I really don't know the answer to the question of chapter per thread or all on one thread. I've faced the dilema before, and never solved it. The problem with doing it in separate threads is that if people see "part 2" in the title chances are they won't read it unless they've read part one. The problems with doing it all on one thread is that people have trouble sifting through the mess of story and critiques to read it, and then critique it. It's a little daunting for some people. Plus, people won't know that you've updated it and won't always realise that more has been posted since the last time they read it. All in all I think I'm in favour of separate threads.

And of course you can hammer me with questions! Fire away! I'll answer as best I can.

Now ...

It's in present tense, as I'm sure you are aware. Which is ... a little unusual. I kept trying to read it in past tense and stumbled over the first few lines until I got that hang of it. If that happens to other people too, I'd think about changing it.

Well, there's a lot of these numbered breaks, basically separating a lot of nothing. She's sick, and that's all we're reading for a fair while. She gets a strange drink and coughs it up a few times. And we hear about it over and over again. I'd try to limit all this and try to put more information into a smaller space. By the end, we get her wings are heavy, we get she's sick, we get she doesn't really remember anything, now can we move on from it?

The demon tips his hat, flashing a smile.

Hehe! The demon has a hat! That's great! I love it! Why can't all demons wear hats? A demon with a hat ... that's just great.

I actually think the short, brokenness of this piece really helps express the confusion Birch is experiencing. I wouldn't use it when she's recovered, but it's good in this bit where she's ill.

I think you're doing too much telling. And you use the pronoun "she" too much. I don't really know what you could do to limit the shes, but I'd try to if I were you. There's just too many, and they don't mix well with the present tense either. As for the telling, well, you could really almost get away with it because it sort of suits the situation, and you're mixing it up with showing rather well ... but still, I'd do something about it.

She can't tell time. Her world spins on a confused axis, a jumble of everything and nothing, memories and dreams that blur together.

See, what you seem to be doing a lot of the time is to tell us something, and then show us. I'd try to get rid of that hard line between the two. YOu could add the first sentence on to the end of the second with a conjunction ... but that would get rid of your choppy shortness that you might want to keep in this first chapter. Well, really she's feeling a bit better by the end of this part, so what we could do is start dropping back into normal writing. I don't know really. I'm just thinking aloud.



Unfortunately I'll have to come back and look at this ... well, probably next weekend. Annoying parents and their stupid computer time limits ... I'll be back though. I just can't really predict when.

Awkward sentences:

"Roman looks down at the figure lying in the circle of stones, a mess of tangled hair and sodden wings. "

The commas make it weird, lol. Like there's a figure lying in the circle, and there's also a mess of tangled hair accompanied by sodden wings, seperate, of course.

"That's what my voice sounds like, she thinks, and feels strange."

AHA! I figured it out. You're right... the "and feels strange" is the culprit. Why? Because you have two different things going on. She's thinking some, and then feels strange. But what is strange? Her? Her mind? You don't really have a subject. Maybe if you seperated these sentences...

Unneeded sentence:

"Could she die, in the world before this one?"

It's a matter of timing. You set it up so beautifully... and then kill it with this sentence. Get rid of it please!


I didn't mind the style. I thought it was nice and dramatic, as well as pretty damn poetic. Maybe that's because I was weaned on your writing though...


I love your characters! From the demon with the top hat to the angel to the mysterious Roman... it's just wow.

Roman has to be my favorite character so far. The way you've described him is so mysterious. He seems kind, but he also seems cruel. Is he a merciless man who has stolen an angel from the heavens because he wanted the best sex in his life? Or maybe he's guarding for another reason? What reason? Does he want to save the world? Why is he giving her (I presume) alcohol? Does he want to kill her?

You have a lot of unanswered questions about him, but because of that, I'm liking him more. Too often, many writers make their characters mysterious by not telling everything, but you've given us a bunch of information, yet that makes him even more mysterious! Bravo!



*grumbles* You better post more soon...

Hehe. My turn, my turn. In all seriousness, the story was little drawn out when the character prospective switches to the angel. In the beginning, I was sucked in by learning of a demon and this man Romen. Then you move on by describing the angel's personal problems. I feel it brought the story itself down a little by the descriptions of the angel recovering from whatever happened to her.

That being said, since there is no visible grammatical errors, I'll have great fun on one of my favorite activities and that is character analization. A warning though, I may sink deep in the analization process though. It's up to you whether you take it to heart or not. Now, on to the slots. I will be quoting each one and give me opinions in italics.

/1

"There," says the demon. "She's all yours."

Roman looks down at the figure lying in the circle of stones, a mess of tangled hair and sodden wings. Her bones jut out sharply, limbs bent at awkward angles. She's a mess, but he doesn't care.

She's an angel.

"Payment?" the demon asks. Roman spares him an impatient glance, swallowing a shudder of revulsion.

"You'll get it," he says shortly.

The demon tips his hat, flashing a smile.

"I'd better."

And he's gone, the air shimmering behind him. Roman rubs his eyes and turns to the angel. She's still unconscious, bound in the circle. Bound to him.

He takes a deep breath, shivering with anticipation. Rubs his sweaty palms and squeezes his eyes shut.

When he opens them, she's still there.

"Wake up," Roman whispers.

Two things here. Since this is the beginning(unless it is presented in chapter 2)there is no visible descriptions of Roman or the demon. I had a faint, mind you, a very faint idea of what the demon looked like. Mainly because I used to write horror fiction and my imagination never fails me in that area. So, a minor vision of what my definition of a demon looks like came about. But I don't know his, assuming it's a male, height or if it had wings and a arrow-shaped tail. The basically cliche outline of a demon/devil.

Romen on the other hand, he's not only a mystery he has no hair, eye color, height, weight or clothes for that matter. As for his background, I'm sure this will be explained later on, so I won't burden you with this.

So, that's my minor nitpick with descriptions; there's hardly any in Chapter one.

Roman
-Struck a deal
-Has an attachment to this angel
-Has a debt to be payed(to demon)
-Emotionless(which I find odd by the way. Theoretically, if I met a demon, my body would probably tremble and shake. A demon to me is an evil thing from another dimension. Roman seems to be handling this too well. It's inhuman. You're forgetting how a person would function if confronted with such a thing. However, since you lacked details to the demon, there is actually no reason for Roman to really reaction with emotion. This is a minor mistake because as a reader, I'm not drawn to his character by means of attachment. The demon might as well of blasted him with a lightening bolt and I wouldn't care. He just struck a deal with something inhuman, there should be something else going through Roman's mind)
-Excited about the angel
-Seems to marvel her

Demon
-Appears to be polite
-Wears a hat
-Magical, due to disappearing in a flash
-Believes in the motto; nothing is free of charge

/2

She wakes up.

Her head throbs, a steady pounding in her temples. She can feel her limbs, distantly, like shadows sketched to her body. And her wings, they feel strangely heavy ...

She opens her eyes and the world explodes.

Steady hands. They hold her shoulders, murmur something indistinct in her ear. She fights to keep her vision as it slips and slides, colours and angles merging into indistinct blobs. There's so much – so many shades of colours, so many shapes and textures, and they burn her eyes until she has to close them again, has to ward off the bewildering assault. The afterimages blaze fire against her eyelids.

Her stomach surrenders to a losing battle, and she vomits all over the cold stone floor before her.

She's crying, huddled over a pool of vomit and tears and spit, her shoulders shuddering. Gasping for air, fighting off panic and fear and terror. Her wings flutter feebly. Beneath them, her shoulder blades give a painful stab.

She tries to remember. She tries to pick something out of the muddle of her mind, but nothing makes sense. Memories slip out of her grasp, leaving vague sensations of forgotten things in their wake.

The world crumbles around her. Someone catches her before she falls.

Again, what does the angel look like? However, the descriptions of her slipping in and out consciousness is great. And the pain she's feeling is superb.

Angel
-In severe pain and discomfort
-Memory is weak; amnesia?
-Pinned? She seems immobile or lacks the energy to walk, let alone move any part of her body
-Very emotional
-Lieing in a puddle of vomit
-Wings are injured? They do not cooperate.

Since these are short, I'll combined the two but my comments will be still in italics.

/3

Everything blurs. It's all a confused muddle of smell and taste and touch, and she can't pick anything out of it. She dreams of flying and wakes up on a cold stone floor. She's given something to drink — it's hot and bitter, and she chokes it back up. Her wings feel strange. Head swimming, she goes back to sleep.

Great description for being unconscious. I wonder what this liquid is?

/4

She can't tell time. Her world spins on a confused axis, a jumble of everything and nothing, memories and dreams that blur together. She remembers the drink, hot and bitter, burning her throat. She remembers the ozone smell/taste of magic. She remembers confusion and fear, time melting into indistinguishable lumps.

She remembers swimming in her dreams, dying and living and dying. She remembers crying, shallow gasps of air, because she's swimming and she can't find her way to the surface.

Her shoulder blades hurt.

Angel
-She is drunk/mildly drugged(In 3, she drinks concoction and then she feels stiffness in her wings and conks out?)
-Craves, or rather dreams of flying
-Remembers the ozone?(May I ask what does the ozone have to do with an angel? It doesn't make sense. If you are trying to describe the smell or feel of, I assume Heaven, I suggest rewording the "She remembers the ozone smell/taste of magic." Consequently, what is the definition of magic? Magic is not tangible but it exists in our minds, right? I suggest also finding a different approach on describing magic since it cannot be touched, nor tasted. If you need help with figuring a way to describe it, I can try. It may take me a day or so, but I might be able to figure a different solution to properly describe magic, so it seems more realistic and connects with the angel)
-Last sentence - Dreams of rebirth over and over? (Interesting way to describe her dreaming over her previous life before she became an angel. I enjoyed this. Good work!)

/5

She's lying on a cotton sheet. The cold stone floor seeps through the thin fabric, and she shivers. Her head aches dully. She's afraid of opening her eyes, afraid of what she'll find.

"Here," says a voice, tilting her head back roughly, and she fights the grip. The smell of magic sings through the air, forcing her muscles to relax. She tries to drink and chokes again on the bitter taste, coughing up hot liquid. Her lungs burn. She dissolves into tears all over again.

Footsteps on the floor. Her sobs fade away. She listens to the silence; it echoes strangely in her ears.

She keeps her eyes closed for a moment longer. The dark is comforting. With its lack of complexity, it reminds her of the place before this one, the world from which she came. Blackness, unbroken and unchanged.

She takes a deep breath, and opens her eyes.

It doesn't hurt as much this time. Her eyes adjust to the strange colours and shapes, the foreign textures. The oddness of it stabs at her heart. It's so different. She can't remember anything from the before-place, the place before this one – nothing substantial anyway, just strange flickering ghosts of memory.

But it was different, and she remembers that. It was less complicated, more structured. Simpler. Not a chaotic attack of colours and shapes, not these bizarre angles and lights and objects. She feels the oddness of this new place in her bones – she can taste the difference on her tongue. She wants it all to go away. If she closes her eyes, maybe it will all straighten out.

It doesn't.

She's sitting in the center of a circle, sketched in dusty chalk and shimmering with magic. The room is bare, empty of anything save for the circle. There's an image painted into it, and she squints at it, trying to decipher the strange lines. It's a face – a girl, or a woman. She looks at it, and it's surprisingly familiar; she's seen it somewhere before, in a dream or in the place before this one, or somewhere. She's seen it before.

Deep breath. She exhales. She works the saliva in her mouth and calls out. It's not a phrase or a word – just a sound. It echoes off the stone walls. That's what my voice sounds like, she thinks, and feels strange.

Footsteps, and the door bursts open. A man stands there, outlined in light. She has to squint again. They stare across at each other, man and angel, and she finds her voice again.

"You're human," she says.

"You're awake." He comes in, closes the door behind him. Walks towards her carefully. She thinks maybe she's seen his face before; not in the place before, but here. Now.

"I know you," she says. "I remember you."

"Yes." He doesn't offer any further explanation. She's content to adjust her eyes to the sight of another living being, to familiarize herself with the new shapes and lights and shadows.

"I'm not human," she says suddenly.

"No," he agrees, and this time his voice is surprised, as if maybe it was obvious.

She says a strange word, a word that isn't a word, but more of a flicker of magic, and he looks even more surprised, and even a little bit confused. She tries again, searching for a word in her vocabulary, one that will make sense in this human world.

"My wings," she says at last, and a wave of panic washes over her. She tries to move them, and they stab at her shoulder blades, painfully heavy. "My wings!"

He doesn't move. He stands, watching her as she twists around, trying to feel the silken tips of her wings. The pain overwhelms her and she doubles over, gasping, the hot saltiness of tears already stinging her eyes.

"They hurt," she manages.

His face is expressionless.

"You know, don't you?" Her voice trembles, accusing. "What's wrong?"

"Do you want something to eat?" he asks, avoiding her gaze.

She struggles to her feet. Her legs buckle under her, but she manages to stumble to the edge of the circle.

"What happened to me?" Her voice rises, tears blurring her vision. She steps over the edge of the circle —

Crack.

She falls to the ground, bewildered, her head exploding with pain all over again. The world spins sickeningly over her. He moves to the edge of the circle, looking down at her.

"You're bound to the circle," he says.

Her stomach churns threateningly. She feels the bile rising in her throat.

"I want to go home," she pleads.

His face is calm, not a flicker of emotion marring its surface.

"You're bound to this world, too," he says.

She shudders, and the last thing she remembers is his face, ever-passive, hovering over her.

(Well, there doesn't seem to be anything new as far as character development than what I said above as far as emotions go.)
Angel
-Intrigued by another visitor
-Confused why her wings still are immobile
-Bound to some type of circle/bound to this world
(Something just popped into my head. Theoretically, if an angel is missing from Heaven, where is God? Heh, I didn't mean to turn this crit into a religious POV, but to me it makes sense. An angel is missing from Heaven, I'm guessing? So, why isn't any other magical forces aiding in her dilemma? You mentioned magic above, so shouldn't other forces far superior to a simple angel be apart of her pain? Some force that can for see, without physically being on earth? Of course, I'm seeing way too much into the future but keep that in mind. Not to mention, I'm over-analyzing, lol. I warned you.)

Roman(This will be fun, lol)
-Seems wary of the angel
-Avoids direct contact with the angel, by sitting away from her
-Seems mildly compassionate by offering food or perhaps he sees the angel as his investment and as an investment, he doesn't want her to 'die.'
-Surprisingly quiet
-Seems curious of her
-Lonely?
-Is definitely drawn to the angel

/6

He brings a steel cup steaming with black liquid. She sniffs at the odour as it wafts towards her and recognizes it; the bitter drink. She thought she'd dreamt it — apparently not.

He crosses into the circle, kneels and looks at her.

"Can you drink it yourself?" he asks.

She nods, wordlessly accepting the cup. Wrapping her fingers around it, she savours the warmth, lifts it to her lips. It's as bitter as she remembers, but this time she manages to swallow it. He watches as she drains the cup and hands it back to him.

"What does it do?" she asks.

He doesn't say anything.

"Is it going to – kill me?" The word sounds strange on her tongue. Kill. Can she die? Could she die, in the world before this one?

He shakes his head and stands, making to leave.

"Wait, stop," she says quickly, before he can go. "Don't leave. I want — to talk."

He looks awkward. Trapped. She's about to say something more, but he sets the cup down and sits on the floor across from her, carefully keeping outside of the circle.

For a moment, they don't say anything. She's too busy drinking in the sight of another person – another person, real person, and a human at that – to say anything.

He fidgets, still looking uncomfortable.

"I'm Roman," he says at last. And then: "Well, I'm not actually Roman, but that's my name."

She blinks at him.

"My name," he says again, slowly this time, "is Roman."

"Your name." She tries to search her memories; ever-mercurial, they retreat to a shadowy corner of her mind where she can't reach them.

"Yes."

She looks at him. His name is Roman, she thinks. Aloud, she says:

"What's mine?"

Roman looks startled. "Yours?"

"My name."

"You – you don't have one." He runs a hand through his hair. "He never told me your name."
She blinks again. "Who's he?"

"I've never heard of you having a name, either," he adds, ignoring her question.

There's an awkward silence, and he frowns, thinking hard.

"Do you – do you want a name?"

She looks bewildered. "Don't I need one?"

"Yes — yes, I suppose you do." He picks up the cup and stands, hesitating. "I'll think of something."

And then he leaves.

Angel
-Intrigued by a human(Not sure if I mentioned it or not; I forgot)
-No name/identity - Would like a name
-Learns of another individual
-Eager to talk with Roman
-Curious
-Wonders about death; can she die? Immortal?
-Age?

Roman
-Figity/uncomfortable
-By asking if she can drink herself, this shows despite his uncertainty, Roman is willing to assist her with drinking
-Afraid of this 'circle'(I wonder what this circle represents? )
-Nervous
-Seems caring by offering to name her
-Selfish/Self centered(He struck a deal with a demon and now has an angel? And has a payment to fill to the demon. This a sure sign of his character.)

/7

It's dark and she's cold. She wraps the thin cotton sheet around her bare arms and shivers convulsively. Her stomach is twisting into knots, dry and painful; she hasn't had anything since the drink he gave her forever ago, and she's hungry. She tries to remember what she used to eat, in the before-place, but the only thing she can remember is a ghostly taste on her tongue, a flitting memory that disappears before she can pinpoint it.

She looks at the face drawn on the circle. With a finger, she traces the lines of the face; the flowing features, the waves of hair. It's all sharply familiar, but she can't remember who it is, or what.

It must be hours after he left. Her shoulders start hurting again. She can feel the weight of her wings, strange and heavy and painful; she can feel her shoulder blades straining. Something trickles down her back, and she reaches up to touch it. It's thick and bright red: blood.

I never bled before, she thinks, and feels a familiar surge of panic. We didn't bleed. We couldn't bleed.

The pain works into her bones, stabbing, white-hot, endless. Searing into every thought, every drop of being, driving her to the brink of insanity. I'm dying, she thinks. I'm dying dying dying...

Her head feels light, and her wings are strangely heavy, and finally she wads up the sheet of cloth and places it under her as a pillow, and she falls asleep.

Angel
-Experiences hunger
-Pain in her wings intensify
-Bleeds; Not immortal anymore
-Is she dieing? Or it appears this way for her because she never bled before?

/8

The sheet is wet with blood and feathers. Grey feathers, speckled black. She snatches one up and holds it to the meager light. She feels her heart thumping inside of her. It has power, her wings. Magic. It makes her dizzy all over again.

Swallowing back a lump of tears, she balls up the cotton sheet again, this time so she won't have to see her own blood.

She holds one of the feathers, turning it in her hands. It reminds her of the before-place so painfully that something inside of her crumbles. She's remembering little bits and pieces, fragments dancing teasingly in front of her. She wants to go back so badly it's killing her. Huddling over the mess of sheets and feathers, she doesn't see him come in until he's standing right in front of her.

"I want to go back," she says quietly, clutching the feather till it's crumpled in her fist.

He doesn't say anything. She looks up at him — his face is blank. They stare at each other, and then he turns to go.

At the door, he stops. His voice is low.

"Your name is Birch," he says. He doesn't look at her. He stands in the doorway for a long time, and then he closes the door behind him.

(I saved the best for last because now I've reached the end. I'm not sure what's gonna pour from my fingers but now I'm going to try dig deeper into their character.)
Roman
-Uncaring and cruel(In his possession is an angel and she's clearly suffering, cold and is probably sitting in her vomit. It's clear that making sure the angel is comfortable is not his top priority and IS only seeking to keep his investment alive.)
-Dismisses angel's plea to return to her home
-Widower?
-Looking to recreate another race altogether? (Let's look at this; we have a human man and a female angel. If sex becomes involved, what traits would the offspring have? Dun.. Dun...)
-Seems distraught
-Save humanity?(Since we have no knowledge of the world, whether we're in the present or future, Roman is the only human we've met. You have mentioned the use of magic with the angel, right? So, is Roman using the angel's magic to undo any wrongs humanity suffered? Like, did a massive comet crash and he was the only survivor? Does the angel actually have the power to shift into the past and change history?)
-Regardless of his fear of the angel, he seems intrigued by her. He keeps returning to check on her health

Angel
-Seeks passage to Heaven, I'm assuming?
-Despite being in so much pain, she seems resilient. (Her wings are damaged, she's hungry and bleeding. Not to mention cold and lieing in vomit. Yet, she is remarkably able to cope and fight that wonderful emotion depression, lol.)
-Has/Had magic
-Named Birch
-Connection to other spiritual creatures/animals?(revolves around magic)
-Capable of speaking mentally?(Same as above. Revolves around magic)
-Seems to be in control still(Even though several attempts were made to move her wings and she clearly is sad, the angel hasn't displayed a more critical emotion; panic. Even depression has not surfaced yet. Actually, I'm amazed anger has presented its ugly mug. If I was physically handy capped, I would certainly be frustrated, angry and depressed. Sadness itself is an incredibly strong emotion but when it is combined with panic and anger; things change drastically within ourselves. So, since the angel hasn't displayed any of these, she is still in control and only has experienced pain and sadness. I think she experienced confusion too.)
-Why is she alone?(Eh, I apologize for going on a minor religious POV again but one thing puzzles me. If she is an angel, where are the other angels? Or is she the only one left? Actually, that's not true because I remember now, the angel stating 'we never bled before.' So, if she's not the only one left, where are her compodres?)

I believe I covered enough, lol. My conclusion of the analyzing is that the angel needs work, in my opinion because her character isn't as defined as Romans'. It was a little harder to list the angel's characteristics. Roman's character is more defined and complex.

All in all, I like this story. I have a minor flaw with reading, I admit. If a story doesn't catch my attention on the first two paragraphs, I usually don't finish. And to be honest, Number 3 of the slots, almost turned me away from this story because it dragged. The only thing that snapped my attention was the dialogue, which was awesome by the way. The dialogue was precise and right on par and helped me as the reader to define the angel and Roman.

Before I go, about my little reading flaw, it's not your fault as a writer. You did a great job with this story, beside the lack of descriptions with the character's physical appearances. But I guess it makes it more challenging to catch a fussy reader as my self's full attention.

Have a great day, Smaur!

Wow that was really good. It was written in a very intensley unique style. Nice job.
-Niknik

This is good for your age. Write more.

Thanks for the feedback, guys. (Especially Griffinkeeper — wow, your constructive criticism is more thorough and insightful than anything I've ever read before.) Chapter unos has been revamped; some changes are minor, others, slightly less minor.

Snoink wrote:"Roman looks down at the figure lying in the circle of stones, a mess of tangled hair and sodden wings. "

The commas make it weird, lol. Like there's a figure lying in the circle, and there's also a mess of tangled hair accompanied by sodden wings, seperate, of course.

Whoops. The idea here was that not that there was (a) a mess of tangled hair and (b) sodden wings, but that there was a mess of (a) tangled hair and (b) sodden wings. If that makes sense. I don't know if it was the comma or the word choice that gave the wrong impression; I tweaked the word choice, but I'm not entirely sure if that helps with the initial problem. Does it?

Éloeré >> I went back and re-edited the story, and while I did that I dug up as many unnecessary mentions of "she" as possible. There's still a lot, but I hope it doesn't clutter the writing anymore.

And fishr, I'm pretty sure you already know how much I love the character analyses. If you don't ... remind me to write you a nice long rambling incoherent PM about how much I did, because that was great.




ETA: Okay, I think this is how I'm going to do the chapters: I'll post them all in this thread, so the story won't be overcluttering the Fantasy forum. But, at the end of every chapter I'll post a link to the next one, so that if people want to skip all the critiques and non-story bits, they can.

Hopefully that makes sense.

Okay! Questions for people who've read chapter unos.

1. When I refer to the "before-place" in the narrative, do you know what I'm talking about?

2. What's your impression of aforementioned 'before-place'? - When you finish reading the chapter (without looking for this specifically) what do you remember of Birch's (rather vague) descriptions of her old world? Don't use preconceived ideas of angels and where they belong — just from the story so far.

3. Do you get a sense of the atmosphere of the basement?

4. What does the following excerpt mean to you?

She says a strange word, a word that isn't a word but more of a flicker of magic, and he looks even more surprised and maybe a little confused. She tries again, searching for a word in her vocabulary, one that will make sense in this human world.

It's not supposed to make complete sense, but — what's your understanding of this passage?



If anyone does end up answering the questions — thanks in advance.

- Chapter Two -


/1


He brings her soup in the morning. He's poured over the instructions, read them twice, and still it tastes too watery. But it's hot, and when he offers it to her, she takes it gratefully. Standing a careful distance away from the rim of the circle, he watches as she sips it, fingers curled around the sloping edges of the bowl. It occurs to him that she might be cold, that the thin cotton sheet spread beneath her may not be warm enough in his frigid basement.

But she can't be cold, he tells himself. She's an angel.

She looks so forlorn, shoulders hunched over, wings trailing across the floor. As she bends her head over the soup bowl, dark hair falling to curtain her face, he can see the blades of her shoulders above the low-backed cotton shift. There's blood matting her feathers, crusting the joints that fuse together her wings and skin. He looks again, and realizes there's even blood dried on her sheets.

As if she knows what he's thinking, she lifts her head and stares up at him, eyes sorrowful.

"They hurt," she says.

He doesn't answer.

She sets the bowl down, wiping her hands on her thin shift.

"At night, I wake up, and they're bleeding." Her hands flutter up to her shoulders, as if she's trying to reach her wings. Pain twists her face. "I don't know why – they never used to —" Her voice catches and she stops, eyes glistening with tears.

Roman looks at the bowl and thinks about her voice. Her words are strangely accented, so subtly altered that he can hardly pick out the difference between the way she talks and the way he does.

She's not done her soup, he thinks. Maybe she doesn't like it.

"Listen to me!" Her voice rises sharply, hysterically. He snaps out of his reverie and looks up. Her face is dusty, streaked with tears.

"Fix my wings," she whispers.

They look at each other for a long while, and he remembers that she will have to meet everyone eventually.

"The pain will go away," he says aloud. "Soon."

Soon.

He picks up the soup bowl, still warm to the touch, and carries it away.



/2


Birch sits in her circle and waits. The cold of the stone soaks into her skin, into her wings. She shudders and wraps her arms around herself, huddling for warmth. The before-place was neither warm nor cold, she remembers; it simply had no depth of temperature. Here, the cold permeates the air, rising from the floor, from the walls and the ceiling. The comfort of the hot soup is fleeting. Soon she's left to her own devices, bare toes curled from the chill, wings twitching spasmodically.

Her head pounds, a dull ache. She wonders what people are like, what the rest of the human world looks like — how big it is, if it's noisy or happy or colourful. Is it as confined as her circle, as cold and frightening as the room? She remembers the light behind the door, molten gold outlining Roman. Beckoning. She remembers the steaming hot soup, slippery with noodles, the steel cup of hot bitter liquid. Warmth.

The rest of the world lies behind the door, less than ten feet away from her.

Beyond her circle.

Birch takes a deep, shaky breath and stands up. Her legs wobble and she barely manages to catch herself, tottering forward. Her wings bump clumsily against her legs. Another step. Her hands are trembling. She stands at the edge of the circle, looking at the door. A ribbon of light glimmers from a crack beneath it. Lifting a foot, she steps over the border of stones and across the circle.

A sharp sound. The world splits in two and she screams. Her head explodes, bursting with the sound of thunder. Wings twitching, she's keeled over on the floor, vomiting up noodles and soup, her lungs searing. She can't think. (Don't try don't try don't think don't — oh fuck it hurts) She tumbles to the ground, thrashing. Her head connects with stone, pain blossoming in her temples.

The door burst open and Roman hurtles to her side. He's shouting something but she can't hear it over the thundering in her head and the sound of someone screaming —

There's a lightning crackle. The air is acrid with magic, intensifying the pain in her head. She's raising her hand to shield her eyes, but her movements are strange, too sluggish. She can't hear anything; the air is thick, oppressive, and she feels as if she's underwater, struggling to break to the surface.

Roman moves towards her. He must be saying something, because his lips are moving, but she can't hear him, and she can't think past the roaring in her head, and Roman slides slowly out of her vision.



/3


She's dreaming of flying when it wakes her. Her back is burning. She can almost feel her spinal cord folding in on itself; she can almost feel her wings splitting off. Her head pounds relentlessly, the blades of her shoulders bleeding once again. For a moment, she lies in the circle, cheek pressed to the floor, and imagines her life ending. A final breath exhaled, only a glimmer of disturbance where she once existed.

And then she realizes: I want to live.

The door creaks open, harsh light spilling onto her face. It doesn't help the headache; she cringes away. There's a whistle of air as Roman shuts the door behind him.

He's carrying a black leather case. Still lying on the floor, she watches wide-eyed as he unzips the case.

"What's in it?" she asks.

He turns at the sound of her voice, a strange smile on his lips.

"I'm going to fix your wings," he says.

She scrambles to sit up, watching as he opens the case.

Rows of gleaming silver instruments lined neatly beside each other, nestled in black. Sharp instruments.

Birch feels a shudder of involuntary panic.

"How?" she asks.

He picks up one of the tools, hefts it in his hand. Testing its weight.

Fear bubbles in her chest.

"How?" she repeats.

He looks back at her and smiles again, gently.

"I'm going to cut them off," he says.

The wind is sucked out of her lungs.

She stares at him dumbly, trying to digest his words. His smile, strange and gentle, echoes oddly in her head.

"No," she whispers. The word is caught in her throat. She can hear her heart drumming in her chest, a tiny fragile bird pounding to burst from her ribs. He tests the edge of a blade, glancing up at her. There is kindness in his eyes, and it chills her, wraps spindly icy fingers around her heart and squeezes until she can't breathe.

Her stomach is compressed into a tiny hard knot.

"It'll only hurt a little," he says, stepping towards her.

She stumbles back to the outer rim of the circle, away from him.

"No, you can't," she pleads, her voice rising steadily. "Please, no — not my wings, please, Roman, no —"

Her hands scrape across the floor, bruising her knuckles, but she doesn't notice. He reaches the edge of the circle and she tumbles backward. Leaning forward, he wraps a hand around her wrist and she fights him as she never has before, thrashing and clawing. Somewhere above the frenzy in her mind, she can hear herself screaming, thin and sharp and desperate. Roman shouts something — her face stings as if he's slapped her — the air stinks with the burnt stench of magic. Suddenly she can't seem to fight him anymore.

He tightens his hold around both of her wrists and she sags to the ground, tears spilling out of her eyes.

"No," she breathes softly. "No, no, no ..."

Roman props her up in the center of the circle and she can't move out of it, trapped into place by the puppet strings of his magic. She rocks back and forth, staring at the ring of stones that surround her, willing her mind to empty itself. The air in the room is suddenly colder, a thin piercing wail echoing against the walls, and she realizes it's her.

Roman weaves the air. She watches him numbly, his fingers skating through the stillness, spinning an intricate web of flickering blue. It illuminates the entire room, a dance of lightning blue magic throwing shadows into sharp relief. His lips move, a low hum of words underscoring the ghastly wailing that fills the room. He says a word, and it's not really a word but a phrase spoken in magic, and it fills her with a moment of clarity, blazing and intense. For one dizzying moment, she remembers everything – painfully, vividly, in perfect detail – of the before-place. Everything.

Then the word is gone and the humming is gone and her memories dissipate. She's left with the high keening – is that really her? – and the leather case of tools and the web of glowing blue magic. And Roman.

"It won't hurt much," he says. He's gripping a blade in one hand, a foreign instrument in another.

She falls silent. For a moment there's only the murmur of magic, rippling in the air.

"Please don't do this," she begs. "Please, Roman, you don't know what will happen, please ..."

His eyes flicker with exhilaration.

"Of course I know what I'm doing," he soothes, voice thick with hunger.

She doubles over and begins to cry softly. Her limbs are still bound into complacency. The purr of magic rises to thunder – her heart seems lodged in her throat – and Roman squats behind her.

The blade slices into her skin.

Birch falls.

Knife in her skin, feathers falling before her. They brush against her skin like powder, the whisper of dreams ghosting past her face. She doesn't feel them — her world is collapsing. Blood bubbles out of her skin, seeps down her back, soaks through her shirt. Fingers clenching and unclenching, she's trying to fight but his magic binds her, and there's so much pain so much pain so much

She swims in and out of darkness. There's a roar of thunder; it fills her ears and she can't see anything. Her eyes burn. She's writhing inside her shell, face wet with tears, and her eyes sting and she can't see anything except light, bright light, too much light, and she's

Falling.

Her wings. She can't feel her wings. She can't think about her wings, she can't think about anything except the blinding brightness of magic, its overpowering stench driving her slowly steadily insane. And the pain, burning white hot until it spills over, strands of silky feather sticking to her tear-stained face, and the pain will kill her and there's so much light and there's too much and she can't

Breathe. She's almost forgot the rhythm — in out, in out, in out. Her breath is coming too quickly, chest rising and falling to the pulse of her heart. Her fingers gouge into her palms – why is there so much blood? – and there's feathers and blood and feathers and blood, and there's too much light, too much magic, too much everything, and it's going to kill her ...

Birch falls apart.



/4


She's lying on the floor; it's cold and dark, and something's wrong.

Feathers. Blood.

She tries to sit up — the pain makes her gasp. Her shoulder blades are blazing fire. She can't stand up, and her spine feels so strange, and her wings —

Her wings.

The pain is almost crippling.

She has to sit up, she has to see —

Her back seizes up, and she's left gasping, the fire in her shoulders dizzying. And her wings, her wings ...

"Roman," she gasps.

She tries to crawl to the edge of the circle, but she can't — her limbs aren't functioning properly. Scrambling for purchase on the stone floor, her fingers brush through something soft. Feathers.

Feathers and blood, and so much light ...

The door opens and she cries out — the light is too bright, its intensity hammering into her skull. Roman shuts the door behind him, electric blue magic glowing from his passive features. It stirs an image in her mind, of stark blue magic throwing light into the shadows, and suddenly she's shaking uncontrollably, her heart leaping.

"My wings," she chokes.

He switches on the light. It's too dim, but in it she can see him smiling at her. She's shuddering, and her hands can't stop trembling —

"Don't you remember?" he asks softly.

Feathers and blood, too much light and too much magic ...

Too much everything.

"No." She shakes her head, desperately, her voice quavering. "No."

"It's better this way," Roman says.

"My wings," she says brokenly. "You took my wings."

Roman crosses the floor to stand at the edge of the circle. Birch shrinks back, her fingers slipping against the stone. The memory overwhelms her — she crashes to the floor, pain bursting through her skull, pounding down her back.

Her shoulders feel strangely empty.

She can't feel her wings.

Birch starts to cry.

"I'll see you tomorrow," says Roman, and he leaves, shutting the light behind him. He leaves Birch to herself, to the darkness and the burning aching pain and the strange emptiness.

She can't find her wings.

HAHA!

Er... sorry.

You got away with it in the beginning, because it felt more like a prologue. But guess what, Missy? It ain't working now.

What you're doing is switching POV in the first part of the second chapter. Okay, so you know that. But do you know how awkward it sounds? Very awkward!

Okay... how do I explain it?

For the last chapter, you've mostly been in the angel's POV. So, when you finally do switch to Roman's, it's like you're thinking, "Well, I like Roman because he's awesome, and I want the readers to know about him, and about the soup, but I don't want to do it in the angel's POV because it's inconvenient for me."

Girl, you just don't do that...

For one, it eliminates half the challenge of writing. You've chosen the angel, now stick with her! Let us know more about her heavenly goodness. For another, it helps ruin Roman. In chapter one, you set up this really mysterious character that we WANT to know more about. Then you go in his POV, and he instantly becomes less mysterious. Snap!

And then, because you describe Roman already, you seem to see no need to describe him further in the story. For instance, observe:

He looks back at her and smiles again, gently.

"I'm going to cut them off," he says.

The wind is sucked out of her lungs.

She stares at him dumbly, trying to digest his words. His smile, strange and gentle, echoes oddly in her head.

You describe his smile as gentle. But what else? Do any other body movements give him away to a motive more sadistic? By describing more, you might make him even more mysterious, thus more compelling. But for now, you barely describe anything, so becomes less cool.

Remember mysterious = awesomeness.

With this said, I still liked it a bunch. I figured out that the wings had to go; I was just wondering how. In my fanfic, they'll wilt away, but obviously Roman is a little more... well... not like my Roman.

Happy editing!

I like this story muchily!

Although I do agree with what Snoink's saying --> A mysterious character does seem loads cooler. There's nothing wrong with switching characters - or at least I hope there isn't, 'cause that's what I'm doing... - but in your case, I think it'd be better if you stick with the angel. I'm feeling really sorry for her right now.. They way you described the moment when Roman cut off her wings was really scary!

The style you use is really different from anything else I've ever seen... but I definately like it. It works well with the way the angel is thinking at the moment. I reckon it makes it quite dramatic the way it's written, though I don't know if it would work so well in a calmer situation...

Waiting to read more..(!)


~KayJuran~

I meant to finish this critique much; much sooner but time had other plans for me. I'm so sorry! This chapter was exciting. I could understand what Birch was experiencing, having her wings clipped. Your writing style is unique and you've done an exceptional job giving each char their own fears or quirks and still force readers to crave more for the simple fact – the mysterious Roman but he might be too mysterious? More on that later.

1. When I refer to the "before-place" in the narrative, do you know what I'm talking about?

2. What's your impression of aforementioned 'before-place'? - When you finish reading the chapter (without looking for this specifically) what do you remember of Birch's (rather vague) descriptions of her old world? Don't use preconceived ideas of angels and where they belong — just from the story so far.

3. Do you get a sense of the atmosphere of the basement?

4. What does the following excerpt mean to you?

I'm just going to quote the questions so there in front of me and it's easier to answer them.

1. I don't have a clue what your definition is, . I only formed my own opinion and I believe Birch is referring to life-after death.

2. At the risk of being labeled as deranged, my initial view was probably like Birch's in a sense; vague. However, what I envisioned was, uh… It's hard to describe in detail. I saw her walking on air but in a misty fog. Her body was opaque, so I saw mist swirl through her 'body' but there was no other objects around, like trees, grass, birds; notta. It was this body, with white hair, wings and no skin, I guess? But there she was, walking slowly in an empty atmosphere. Then again, I tend to have an overactive imagination, so all it generally takes is a few details and my mind forms these bizarre images, lol. But that's what I first saw through Birch's descriptions.

3. Well… Because in the first chapter there were no descriptions of the room itself, I just imagined it was a stone tower. I don't know why I imagined a stone tower but it happened. As far as the atmosphere, yes, there was a certain 'feel' to it.

I imagined a dim room (*shrugs* I don't know why I thought this either) with the sour scent of caked blood. However, other details that were described such as Birch's discomfort, the puke and her melancholy disposition; I didn't 'feel sorry' for her, at least not yet.

No, I'm sure whoever read Wraith besides Snoink and I, would probably poke needles in my hands for the last remark. I've tried to piece together the reason for not being sympathetic, even a smidge, towards Birch. The reasoning I came up with is that Roman is so mysterious, when I read the story; I'm more interested in finding more information about him. For whatever reason, I'm more intent on learning about Roman then actually sinking into the angel's suffering.

I'm not sure if that was your first intention or not, but at the moment, Birch's suffering in a way intrigues me because through her agony, Roman comes to the rescue!

I sort of went off base here, yes I know. But overall, the physical atmosphere for me was a dim room, with cries echoing off the stone walls.

4.

She says a strange word, a word that isn't a word but more of a flicker of magic, and he looks even more surprised and maybe a little confused. She tries again, searching for a word in her vocabulary, one that will make sense in this human world.

What does this passage mean to me?

By ignoring the over usage of 'word,' it shows a couple of things here. One, we see Birch may bleed but she still associates herself as inhumane by looking for a way to communicate in the mortal world. Now, I'm not entirely sure how a simple phrase or word, signals the usage of magic but judging from the first sentence Birch has an alternative language. She may speak English but clearly she has her own dialect, accent, language; what have you. English seems to be Birch's second language and by accidentally communicating in it, Roman probably was gaping wide mouth, lol.

Hope that answers the questions but let's take a closer peek at Chapter two, shall we?

He brings her soup in the morning. He's poured over the instructions, read them twice, and still it tastes too watery. But it's hot, and when he offers it to her, she takes it gratefully. Standing a careful distance away from the rim of the circle, he watches as she sips it, fingers curled around the sloping edges of the bowl. It occurs to him that she might be cold, that the thin cotton sheet spread beneath her may not be warm enough in his frigid basement.

An excellent paragraph because four or so sentences, as the reader, I learn a few things about our little friend, Roman. So, he slaved over the soup, taking special care to not screw it up; even checked the instructions twice but the soup still flops belly up.

This was my first clue that Roman might not be the middle-aged man I first saw in chapter one. I shrugged and thought maybe he was just one of those people that just sucked at cooking, like me. However, in the last sentence, he realizes JUST now that she might be cold? As far as we know, Birch is rolling in her blood and puke and Roman thinks she might be cold? Eaither, Roman was deprived of oxygen at birth, or he is very much a person that doesn't notices things quick; doesn't catch on or… is young, like a child or an adult with a child-like mind.

Interesting…

But she can't be cold, he tells himself. She's an angel.

Hehe. I was waiting for this. Roman, my friend, you're in for a rude awakening.

Birch takes a deep, shaky breath and stands up. Her legs wobble and she barely manages to catch herself, tottering forward. Her wings bump clumsily against her legs. Another step. Her hands are trembling. She stands at the edge of the circle, looking at the door. A ribbon of light glimmers from a crack beneath it. Lifting a foot, she steps over the border of stones and across the circle.

A sharp sound. The world splits in two and she screams. Her head explodes, bursting with the sound of thunder. Wings twitching, she's keeled over on the floor, vomiting up noodles and soup, her lungs searing. She can't think. (Don't try don't try don't think don't — oh fuck it hurts) She tumbles to the ground, thrashing. Her head connects with stone, pain blossoming in her temples.

Are angels allowed to say fuck? lol. Actually, it's a nice touch and I personally like the fact Birch swears when something is acute and unbearable. It gives the impression, even an angel will curse and the image we (er, me), I have is they're not some perfect and pure beings. The swear brings Birch down to our level in a sense – humanity.

Re-reading these two paragraphs, I'm glad Birch decided to be a tad brave and attempt to venture outside the circle (prison). Since she felt a sharp crack, it's obvious now that Birch is not only a prisoner, but the circle is a magical force field.

The question still remains – how did the circle get in Roman's basement and who put it there? I'm guessing the demon but I could be wrong?

There is kindness in his eyes, and it chills her, wraps spindly icy fingers around her heart and squeezes until she can't breathe

When I first read this, it confused me. If she sees kindness or warmth in Roman's eyes, how does that cause fear to develop? Granted it, he's probably creepy to her body with scissors or a knife, I would think some other emotion from Roman would signal more panic. Maybe Roman displays a crooked smile or clips scissors in a mocking fashion as he approaches.

I bring it up because generally when I see kindness or that 'softness' in a person's eyes; it relaxes me. I know whoever I'm in contact with is generally friendly or caring in some respect. I'd switch the word kindness.

Maybe something along the lines of:

He crept closer, clipping the scissors in the air, mocking her misfortune. The metal clicking together chills her and invisible spindly, icy fingers wrap themselves around her heart until she can't breath.

Heh, like me, you might want to experiment also with sentences and word usage. That was a rough example. I'm not sure if it was required but I added a comma after spindly.

By the way, the verb usage is great! I could totally picture thin, bony fingers wrapping themselves around a neck, wrists, heart; you name it. Great work!

Roman shouts something — her face stings as if he's slapped her — the air stinks with the burnt stench of magic.

What other magic is there, besides the circle? And what exactly did Roman shout to cause that reaction from Birch? Why did she feel that he slapped her by a single phrase or word?

That confused me as well as the next line:

Roman weaves the air. She watches him numbly, his fingers skating through the stillness, spinning an intricate web of flickering blue. It illuminates the entire room, a dance of lightning blue magic throwing shadows into sharp relief. His lips move, a low hum of words underscoring the ghastly wailing that fills the room. He says a word, and it's not really a word but a phrase spoken in magic, and it fills her with a moment of clarity, blazing and intense. For one dizzying moment, she remembers everything – painfully, vividly, in perfect detail – of the before-place. Everything./

Soo… If I understand correctly, Roman possesses magic himself? My first impression from the three sentences was Roman was glowing or the basement room was glowing a bluish color, but he was the cause of it all. Then Roman speaks a word Birch understands but it wouldn't be something a human would understand.

The phrase, "He says a word, and it's not really a word but a phrase spoken in magic." So, from that whole paragraph, my impression is that Roman knows some means of magic and Birch acknowledges this from Roman's bizarre speech.

Then for a brief second, she remembers her entire existence, so either the wing clipping forced her memory or whatever Roman said in magic; she remembered, at least for a while.

She falls silent. For a moment there's only the murmur of magic, rippling in the air.

I'm starting to see a pattern here. A thought occurred to me and whether it's important or not, I'll let you decided.

Through Chapter one and two, Birch is basically suffering from amnesia. She can't form clear, crisp images. Only fragments of the life she lived before she ended up in Roman's dungeon of doom so how is she possibly able to remember what magic sounds or looks like? It's apparent that Birch is in rough shape so I was kind of wondering of all things, how is she able to remember about her version of magic?

Like I said, it's probably not important but when you said, "there's only a murmur of magic," I was just curious that in her delicate condition she was able to remember that much. It's actually amazing on her part. Go Birch! She's a fighter, huh?

Roman shuts the door behind him, electric blue magic glowing from his passive features. It stirs an image in her mind, of stark blue magic throwing light into the shadows, and suddenly she's shaking uncontrollably, her heart leaping.

Is Roman still glowing like he was in the basement, clipping her wings or is the blue light emitting behind him, from a different room, like the kitchen? Just wondered, that is all.

Confusion was brought up in POV switches. When I read Chapter two twice, I personally wasn't confused. I do agree you might want to decide who you want to focus on most, that is if you decided to stay with a first person POV but the occasional switch might not be a bad idea either.

The slight switch in Roman's POV was cool in the beginning because the reader was able to gain access what the heck is going through his mind. It just might be something you might have to test but I think if it's written well by anyone, occasional POV changes shouldn't disrupt the flow of the story too much. Then again, this is purely my opinion and like I mentioned, it might be something to test out; PVP switches with characters.

Overall, I'm hooked. Roman's mysterious nature is puzzling and it pushes me find out more about him. Birch on the other hand, her character is starting to unfold also. Despite her agony, she tries to walk and this shows mental strength on her part. She seems to want to communicate with Roman, but then again, would rather claw his face, lol. Of course, not literally, but Birch is definitely not pleased and more so now since Roman robbed Birch of her wings.

Is all hell going to break loose?

Awesome work and I love your choice: no concrete descriptions – Show, don't tell. Thanks for the reminder. Have a nice day/night, Smaur.

Oh, ya. Before I forget, I started the finish of the critique pretty late, so if something didn't make sense; feel free to ask,

Okay! Thanks, guys, for reading it (or not reading it, as the case may be ... bookworm_9867 — perhaps you could elaborate on why it was confusing/boring?) despite my butchering of every grammatical rule in the universe.

First off >> Snoink. We already (kinda) discussed this, but I'm going to try to go in-depth as possible and explain my kind of bizarre train of thought:

(1) There must be POV switches. - It's not really a question of laziness so much as necessity. Birch, the principal character of the story, provides the basic framework of the story, but the detail of it is laid by the supporting characters. I think approximately a third of this story (very rough estimation) is not told from Birch's point of view, simply because there are things in the story that she has No Way of Knowing, and without these other characters filling in the details, the story would make absolutely no sense.

On top of that, like I said before — the story isn't only about Birch and her problems. It's also very much (to take an example) about Roman and his relationship with the demon. It's also about certain other characters who have yet to be introduced but also provide a very important part to the story, most of which happens when Birch isn't really contributing anything valuable.

I don't know how coherent this is, but the bottom line is that there will have to be POV switches or the story will make absolutely no sense. Plus it'll be condensed to the very basic idea of Birch and her conflict (which is the main idea, but by no means the only one).

(2) The POV switches will be inconsistent. - For a couple of reasons. First of all, introducing all the characters whose POV the story is (at one point or another) told from at the very beginning of the story would majorly clutter the story. Plus, of course, it would detract from the main focus of the chapter — Birch. (And the focal intent of chapter unos, which is that we get a sense of Birch and her suffering and complete disorientation.) To descend into the land of crappy analogies, think of, um, trees. The trunk breaks off into several different branches, some of which (in their various digressions and meanderings) interconnect. That was more or less the intention; the story starts off as primarily from Birch's point of view and then branches off to other characters and their points of view, which all come back to Birch in some form or another.

The other thing is, switching the POV consistently would drag out the story well beyond its length. Some of the characters don't become relevant until the middle of the story. And for some blocks of the story, Birch more or less does nothing, while the (mis)adventures of Characters Q, X, and Y are very very important. I suspect the pacing of the story is already wonky (hence the story outline, which I still need to finish — but I digress), but having entire passages of Birch sitting and twiddling her thumbs (or doing things that are more or less irrelevant to the plot) would drag the story on and on and on.

I don't think inconsistent POV switches are always a bad thing — I hate to bring up the crappy Real Book Do It argument (as this is hardly Real Book material), but I have read books where it's worked well so I know it's not completely impossible.

But I've more or less told you this before, which brings me to the question: Why didn't this POV switch work? I'm not trying to discount your critique (no, really ), I'm just very argumentative and need to know the exact mechanics of your reasoning. And you did agree that it could sometimes be done well (not sure if you remember) and said something along the lines that, "this one wasn't." So, explain! And I will give you lots of cookies.

Thanks, all of you, for the critiquing. I think I have a long-winded reply for you, fishr — gimme a bit of time and I'll scrape up my reply to your lovely crit.