Young Writers Society

Sam put his pants back on and stumbled to his feet. Muir had already closed her eyes and fallen asleep, for all of the world to see. Sam reached down and picked up his jacket from where it lay. It still smelled of her, a slightly musky scent with a hint of sea salt. He took a whiff, then put it back on. The sun would be setting in a few hours. He needed to at least be home before that happened.

So Sam stumbled away, on legs that felt like they were made of rubber. He was still struggling to catch his breath. Muir was a lot of fun, but he’d never known her to be that much fun. Usually they just hugged and kissed and all that nice clean dreamy stuff. Not that Sam felt any worse for what he’d done. He guessed he had been looking forward to when it would finally happen. It had just been a little more than he expected, heck, a lot more.

Sam finally got his breath back and left the beach. The sea grass on the dunes swayed in the breeze, giving the appearance of an ocean not that different from the one at his back. Both rolled with the movements of the wind, undulating under the breath of the world. Sam tramped through the grass back towards where he had left his bike.

He reached the bike. It was right where it was supposed to be, undisturbed. It squeaked in protest as Sam set it back on its wheels. He’d had it for a few years now. In all that time it had served him well, and had never failed him when he needed to come here, to be with Muir. It was a loyal possession, one that made Sam proud. He began to wheel it back towards the road.

When Sam reached the road, he heard a sound behind him. It echoed over the dunes like a distant roll of thunder. For a moment, Sam could not figure out what it was. There were no storms out on the horizon. Then another possibility, a frightening one, entered his mind. With horror he realized what it had been; a gunshot. And it had come from back over the dunes; from the beach.

Sam dropped his bike and raced the way he had come. His mind raced as well, trying to calm him. ‘You’re worrying over nothing,’ he told himself. ‘There are plenty of reasons to shoot of a gun. There’s nothing wrong.’ But he knew that wasn’t true. There were few reasons one shot a gun, and fewer still why you shot it on a beach.

Halfway back to the beach, out of breath and full of adrenaline, Sam came to the top of a dune and saw someone coming to meet him. It was his mother, the last person Sam expected to see here, and the one he dreaded seeing the most. Her long black hair trailed out behind her and she walked with a purpose. His father’s service revolver was in her hand.

A sickening feeling hit Sam’s stomach and his knees buckled beneath him. The sky was grey now, or so it seemed to him. It stretched above him, over the small world that he had just been given to replace the one that had just been torn away from him. He wished that it would just fall on him.

His mother came up to him. She was like a tower, fashioned of ivory and topped with an impossible dark flame. “Go home,” she said to Sam.

“Why?” Sam asked, not in response to her command.

“Somebody has to keep this family together,” she answered. “That little bit of damnation would have taken your soul and torn you away from home. Now go home. This is over.”

Sam lunged forward and tore the revolver from his mother’s grasp. It felt hot and heavy with death. He tossed it as far away as he could. It arched out away from them, a black spot under a grey sky, and landed with a thud in the dunes.

Sam turned back to his mother. Her face wore an expression of hurt upon it. She held the hand that had gripped the revolver. It had probably been wrenched when the weapon had been torn from it. Sam wanted to do a lot worse to the hand that had offended.

“Sam, I did it for us. We’re a family.”

“Family doesn’t do this. Family doesn’t kill.”

Sam walked on past his mother, on towards the beach.

“Don’t do this to me Sam!” his mother cried out. “I need you here! We need to be a family!”

Sam didn’t pay any attention to her. He just rushed on under a darkening sky. Night would soon arrive in this place. But to Sam it already seemed to be blacker than any night.

He reached the beach and looked to where he had just spent such precious time with Muir. His heart sank when he saw her lying there, not moving. The sand to her side was dark with blood. She had not tried to flee, might not even have had the chance.

Sam rushed over to her and fell to her side. A small glimmer of hope entered into him when he saw that Muir was still alive. Her breath was short and hurried. The hole in her side was still bleeding. Sam ripped off his jacket and put it there to stop the blood. He prayed to whatever deity might be listening, prayed that he was not too late.

Muir’s eyes fluttered open. “Sam?” she asked, her voice still strong. “Is that you?”

“It’s me, Muir,” Sam said. He was choking back tears. “I’m here; you’re going to be alright.”

“No,” Muir said. “The wound I’ve been given is a mortal one. I may never age, but that don’t mean I can’t be killed.”

Sam shook his head, trying to deny this. “No, you’ll be alright,” he said. “You’ll be…”

“Sam, be the strong lad I enjoy and listen to me.”

Muir strained to sit up but failed. She had lost a lot of blood already. Sam picked her up and cradled her in his arms.

“Take my skin and the weapon that did this to me. Take them to my father’s house. Tell him what has happened to me.”

“Where is your father’s house?” Sam asked, desperation in his voice.

“The land where my myth begins,” Muir replied. “You call it Ireland.”

“Where in Ireland? Where, Muir?”

“You’ll know when you get there.”

Sam nodded, taking in her instructions. “I’ll do it. I swear I’ll do it, Muir.” He cried a little now.

“Don’t cry. Swear you love me enough to do this.”

Sam controlled himself and took a deep breath. “I swear that I love you enough to do this.”

“Then walk on the journey and keep to the ways of the Deep, or all will be lost to you. Heed those instructions, if nothing else.”

Muir coughed up a bit of blood and trembled. Sam feared that she was already gone, but her eyes remained open. She looked up into his.

“Kiss me, Sam. Seal this oath and then go on your way.”

Sam bent down and kissed Muir. She responded to his affection as best she could. For a moment electricity sped through Sam’s body. It felt as though he was being infused with a deep power. Then Muir’s body faded away, and there was nothing at his lips, nothing to hold. Sam wept.

After a while, Sam forced himself to get to his feet. The wind whistled around him and the sea began to get rough. It was hard to believe that, only a short time ago, Sam had been pleading with Muir for time to think. What good was all that thought now? That grieved him as much as her death.

But now Sam had something to do. Muir had given him a task, and he had promised to do it. Oaths had been taken, now the called out to be fulfilled. And Sam knew that they must be, or then he would be damned. You meant what you said when you spoke with a child of the Deep.

Sam bent down and picked up Muir’s seal skin from where it lay. It was a dull brown, nothing special to most, but to him it was more important than the most regal of any royalty’s raiment. It was an important part of his task. With a deep breath Sam took in what was left Sam took in what was left of her scent. A musky smell, with a hint of sea salt.

“Is it dead?” asked the voice of his mother.

Sam stood silent for a moment. This would be a hard oath to keep indeed, if the first obstacle he had to face would be his mother.

“Yes,” Sam replied.

“Good. I was afraid I’d have to shoot it again. It’s over now though.”

Sam turned to his mother. She had recovered the service revolver. Of course she had. Some things could only happen one way, the hard way. Sam sighed.

The two of them stood silent, locked in a struggle that was beyond the usual ones that parents and their offspring have. Ancient powers had become involved in this, vows ensured that there would be no easy end to it. This could either end in disgrace, diaspora, or death.

“Give me the gun,” Sam said to his mother.

“No,” she replied. “You go on home. We’ll talk about this later.”

“We’re not going to talk. I’m going to go. I promised her I’d do something. I’m taking the revolver and I’m going.”

“You promised to shoot me, didn’t you?”

“There’s been enough killing today.”

Sam’s mother pointed the revolver at him. Her eyes blazed with anger and her hair whipped out behind her in the wind like a demon’s tail. Sam’s blood froze in his veins.

“You treat your mother like this?” she asked.

“You treat your son like this,” Sam replied.

“I do everything for you.”

“It’s the other way around, Mom. I take you to Dr. Rueger’s, make sure you take your pills, and keep the rumors down. That’s a tall order, all things considered.”

“You keep thinking that,” his mother said. “I let you think you’re doing important things, all for your self esteem, to keep the family together. I can see that was a big mistake.”

“Give me the gun Mom,” Sam said. “You need to rest.”

“You need to get home!” his mother yelled. “Get home! We’re going home and we’re going to act like a family! We’ll put it all back together!”

“We’ll do that on our own,” Sam said as he walked forward.

His mother pulled the trigger of the revolver. Her aim was off, the bullet only grazed Sam’s arm. But it sent a lightning bolt of pain through Sam’s body. He yelled and put a hand to the wound, stopped in his tracks. He looked up and saw his mother pulling the hammer back for another shot. At this he charged forward and collided with her. The revolver flew out of her hand and landed in the sand. Before she could recover Sam fell on the weapon. Sand got into his new wound, making it scream out again. But Sam stood up through the pain and pointed the revolver at his mother. She glared at him like a cornered animal.

“Are you going to shoot me?” she asked.

Sam shook his head. He was sick of killing, and he had not even had to commit the act himself yet. He lowered the hammer of the revolver and tucked it into his pants.

“Don’t follow me,” he said. “Tell everyone whatever story you want to, even the truth. They wouldn’t believe that anyway.” Sam turned to walk away.

“Don’t do this to me!” his mother screamed after him. “You won’t get far! I’ll stop you, you hear me? We’ll be a family again!”

Sam ignored her and simply walked on down the beach. Other things were on his mind. The full weight of what he was undertaking now had an opportunity to sink in. There were plenty of obstacles between here and Ireland. He had the entire country to cross, and then the Atlantic Ocean. What’s more, he had to do it walking, and in the ways of the Deep, adhering to the codes of the world of magic. For a moment, Sam was daunted by the sheer size of it. Then he shook his head. It would do him no good to worry about what he hadn’t even gotten to yet. One thing at a time.

The gunshot wound was still bleeding. It might need stitches, Sam didn’t know. He put Muir’s seal skin over it to staunch the bleeding. He had nothing else to use, he had left his jacket back with his mother. Almost as soon as the skin touched the wound, a soothing warmth spread out from it.

“As you held my blood, now I hold yours,” Muir’s voice said faintly.

“Muir?” Sam asked.

There was no reply. Sam pulled the sealskin away. Now the wound had closed up, leaving only a nasty scar. For a moment Sam wondered just what this meant. Was there still residual magic left in the skin, some pure essence of the Deep locked up in it? Or was Muir not completely gone? The journey’s end would tell, Sam decided. And that was a long way off.

Sam walked down the beach. A few miles on was Avalon. There he could get some clothes and supplies before the real journey began. He would only stay in that place a short time though. A promise made was a debt unpaid, and Muir’s world had its own stern code for those things. Sam was now bound to those laws; there was no way out of it. He took a deep breath and kept on going.

Okay, so this is a fairly simple, and ultimately cliche story. It's well written, with only a few, minor typo's but nothing new is said; nothing new occurs. It's an old story.

I mean, why not do something different with it? You nearly went there, veered close to the topic - the main question I have is, why does it have to be love? Why can't he just be going down there for a good fuck? You got close to that, but then shifted back to the good old love story. And not the most well executed of those, either.

I didn't buy the almost senseless abuse from the mother. I mean, when you lose the one other prominent member of family, the result would be her appreciating and loving her son more - smothering, almost. But even if you take away that element, and leave it as it is - we don't know the characters well enough to care. We don't know the histories. The result is that you have to tell us outright, through dialogue turning possible drama into melodrama; there's no subtext - its stated outright.

Also, doesn't he have any friends? Any dreams? Nothing to make that crucial decision a little harder?

Conrad -

Unfortunately, I have to echo Jiggity's opening paragraph. You really didn't do much with this. I had really high expectations for part two, but instead all I found was a story about cutting the apron strings and selkie sex. It was well-written. It was neat and clean. But there's nothing special about it. I'm looking at this story as if I was a magazine publisher and you had just sent me this piece, expecting me to publish it. And I have to ask myself: where is the innovation? Where is the readability?

[empty sea shells]

I haven't read much by you; only this piece and your Gene Candy story and I realized while reading this portion of The Deep that Sam has the same problem the main character of Gene Candy has. He's empty. Granted, he's much better than otter-boy, but that's only because you gave him convincing dialogue. And as I've said before, dialogue is the window into the soul of a character. Once you take away the dialogue, Sam just becomes an average guy with empty sea shell feelings. But I have some of the same problems in my short stories so I really can't counsel you here...

Also, Sam's mother is a very flimsy character. She's a stereotype. She's a stick figure without a face, without a real personality, mainly because you didn't take the time to give her one. Actually, you did the best you could with a story like this, but as I said earlier, a story like this doesn't cut it.

[show me your teeth]

I echo Jiggity as well on the argument/abuse coming from the mother. There was hardly any provacation and it escalated too quickly. It was like you said to yourself, "Okay. I really need him to get in an argument with his mom, so I'll throw in this 'you're just like your father' spiel." Be more creative in this area. Cause the mother to become angry at something more potent and serious, like having sex with a selkie.

[and once again...]

Again, you succumbed to shopping list descriptions. Not for the entire piece, but for a part. After he leaves the house and while he's riding his bike home in particular. I understand that it's hard to write all that cream filling 'between scenes' stuff, but I'm sure you can do better at telling us readers what your character does between arguing with his mother and buttoning his pants.

Anyway. I think that you could have done a lot more with this. I expected a plot twist or something... But writing-wise, as always, this was pretty well-written. Kudos.

-Kylan

Oh dear.

I do hate to sound like a broken record, which, coming after Jig and Kylan, I might seem. But they’re rather right. I was it coming, and was honestly disappointed with this ending. You could have written better, you showed us you could write something interesting, new, and engaging with most of your first part. But then we come to this, and you fail to meet the standard you’ve given us.

On the matter of cliché: we’ve all seen this before. The creature dies, and the one left behind has a task. The mother was always going to be the obstacle, and I’m not surprised you went where you did with it. It’s not just an easy route, it’s a sensible route, there’s a reason such things become cliché. They tend to work.

What I think part of your problem is is that you tired to end it way too quickly. This is not a “short” short story, not with the tale you’re telling. You need to draw out the tale and let us sink into it before you up and end it. The mother comes in way too quickly. We need him to deliberate, I think, and decide to do something. Then the mother intervening will be somewhat more in place. I’d love to see him decide what he’s going to do and come back to a dead Muir, much like you’ve done but with an extended time line. I think that was unexpected and well done. However, the mother rant wasn’t. The others are right in that she got too angry too quickly, too wild and out of there in such a short space of time.

Sam also doesn’t detail much of what he does for his mother. Heaven forbid he should take her to the doctor for her meds, ne? I understand that keeping down rumours would be tough, but doesn’t he do more? She’s obviously a terrible woman, but I don’t feel for Sam anymore. You’re mum’s sick and you’re complaining because you need to take her to get her meds? Harsh, man, harsh. You know? Perhaps that’s just me. ^^

Other than that, you need to read through this and find all those little typos in there. There are definitely some in there, but I’m not one to go through and point them all out for you. I’ll be glad to do that with any other versions I see of this story after this, because I figure you’d have enough time to change them on your own, then. ^^

All in all, I’m still interested. ^^

*Hearts* Le Penguin.

Conrad -

This was better than what you had written previously. You had much more action, much more conflict, and reasonable dialogue. However, I must be truthful with you, because I know you're the kind of guy who'd rather have something real and helpful, rather than something empty. I didn't like this.

[anti-depressents and Sam]

And there is one reason in particular: an extreme lack of emotion. When Sam heard the gunshot and then saw his mother walking back from the beach, he knew that Muir had been shot. He knew that his mother had fired that shot. The normal assumption would be that Muir was dead and the normal reaction would be hysteria and fury and blinding hate and loss. Immediately. He wouldn't try reasoning with his mother, he would shove her aside and run down to the beach screaming Muir's name at the top of his lungs. Instead, Sam was robotic. He was too calm. His actions were too halting. I noticed that you tried to make this piece more feeling-oriented like I suggested, but I don't feel that you went about doing that correctly. Try writing thoughts and feelings using italics. Try making Sam's stream of consciousness less mechanical and more human by just portraying how utterly broken he would be after Muir died, instead of having an attitude of quiet, mournful stoicism. He's a teenager. He just had steamy sex. He would be out of his mind.

Savvy?

[some nitpicking]

Usually they just hugged and kissed and all that nice clean dreamy stuff

I didn't get that impression at all in the first chapter. Besides, I picture Muir as more animal than human and she wouldn't be satisfied with 'clean' stuff. Also, this passage doesn't sound like your normal writing style. It kind of sticks out like a sore thumb.

It had just been a little more than he expected, heck, a lot more.

Again, this didn't sound like you. I realize that you're probably just trying to show the reader what's going through Sam's mind, but it falls flat.

He reached the bike. It was right where it was supposed to be, undisturbed. It squeaked in protest as Sam set it back on its wheels. He’d had it for a few years now. In all that time it had served him well, and had never failed him when he needed to come here, to be with Muir. It was a loyal possession, one that made Sam proud. He began to wheel it back towards the road.

Okay. What do you notice about this seven sentence paragraph? I notice that there is only one of those sentences with an 'and' in it. That fact is the cause of your shopping-list-itis. I know why you wrote it this way: this was just extraneous detail and you wanted to move on to the more exciting stuff and so you shot off a bunch of verbed action sentences that sound halting and forced. Try adding more conjunctions like 'but' and 'and' and 'because' and 'or'. The key is to have varied sentences lengths.

Sam dropped his bike and raced the way he had come. His mind raced as well, trying to calm him. ‘You’re worrying over nothing,’ he told himself. ‘There are plenty of reasons to shoot of a gun. There’s nothing wrong.’ But he knew that wasn’t true. There were few reasons one shot a gun, and fewer still why you shot it on a beach.

This is what I meant by empty emotion. The thing about Sam is that he's too calculating to be human. He plans things out too much, he's too organized. Mix him up a little. Make him more scrambled.

Sam sighed

And this is case-in-point. Sam sighed. After the love of his life was brutally murdered by his mother. He was mildly disappointed and resigned to the fact that someone he loved was bleeding all over his jacket. What? Does that sound natural to you?

Her aim was off, the bullet only grazed Sam’s arm.

I imagined Sam and his mother six or seven feet away from each other. And at that distance, it's practically impossible to miss your target, unless Sam's mother's hands were shaking badly or something. And if that's the case, say so.

Anyway. I believe that this was better structurally than the last version, but it had more holes as well. I'm not quite sure what you want out of this piece (re: publication or intrinsic pleasure) so I'm not sure where to help you anymore. My advice would be to start writing something else. Clear your mind with fresh blood.

Anytime you need me to crit something of yours, I'm here.

-Kylan

Sam put his pants back on and stumbled to his feet. Muir had already closed her eyes and fallen asleep, for all of the world to see. Sam reached down and picked up his jacket from where it lay. It still smelled of her, a slightly musky scent with a hint of sea salt. He took a whiff, then put it back on. The sun would be setting in a few hours. He needed to at least be home before that happened.

So Sam stumbled away, on legs that felt like they were made of rubber. He was still struggling to catch his breath. Muir was a lot of fun, but he’d never known her to be that much fun. [You really need to vary some of these sentences. You need longer, more descriptive sentences at this point instead of a long list of medium sentences.] Usually they just hugged and kissed and all that nice clean dreamy stuff. [Don't make light of kissing and hugging or you'll have trouble setting the write scene later on. You're writing a romance here and you're going to be wanting your readers to think 'sweet' or 'sexy' when they kiss, not 'nice clean dreamy stuff.'] Not that Sam felt any worse for what he’d done. He guessed he had been looking forward to when it would finally happen. It had just been a little more than he expected, heck, a lot more. [You need better description of it than that. You need to really show your reader what that meant to Sam. If it meant as much as you're seeming to suggest, have him lay there longer, thoughts of his mother far from his head and only her there to occupy his mind.]

Sam finally got his breath back and left the beach. The sea grass on the dunes swayed in the breeze, giving the appearance of an ocean not that different from the one at his back. Both rolled with the movements of the wind, undulating under the breath of the world. Sam tramped through the grass back towards where he had left his bike. [Some good imagery.]

He reached the bike. It was right where it was supposed to be, undisturbed. [Don't use short sentences like that. Short sentences are for action scenes or when you want to be dramatic. Instead link these first two into something like: 'He reached the dune behind which he'd hidden his bike, relieved to find it undisturbed.'] It squeaked in protest as Sam set it back on its wheels. He’d had it for a few years now[s]. In all[/s] and in that time it had served him well, and had never failed him when he needed to come here, to be with Muir. It was a loyal possession, one that made Sam proud. He began to wheel it back towards the road.

When Sam reached the road, [Try not to repeat road. Maybe tarmac?] he heard a sound behind him. It echoed over the dunes like a distant roll of thunder. For a moment, Sam could not figure out what it was. [Colon here instead of full stop.] There were no storms out on the horizon. Then another possibility, a frightening one, entered his mind. With horror he realized what it had been; a gunshot. And it had come from back over the dunes; from the beach.

Sam dropped his bike and [s]raced the way he had come[/s] ran, kicking up small clouds of dirt as his feet thudded heavily over the ground. His mind raced as well, trying to calm him. ‘You’re worrying over nothing,’ he told himself. ‘There are plenty of reasons to shoot [s]of[/s] a gun. There’s nothing wrong.’ But he knew that wasn’t true. There were few reasons one shot a gun, and fewer still why you shot it on a beach.

Halfway back to the beach, out of breath and full of adrenaline, Sam came to the top of a dune and saw someone coming to meet him. It was his mother, the last person Sam expected to see here, and the one he dreaded seeing the most. Her long black hair trailed out behind her and she walked with a purpose. His father’s service revolver was in her hand.

A sickening feeling hit Sam’s stomach and his knees buckled beneath him. The sky was grey now, or so it seemed to him. It stretched above him, over the small world that he had [s]just[/s] been given to replace the one [s]that had just been[/s] torn savagely away from him. He wished that it would[s] just[/s] fall on him.

His mother came up to him. She was like a tower, fashioned of ivory and topped with an impossible dark flame. “Go home,” she said to Sam.

“Why?” Sam asked, not in response to her command.

“Somebody has to keep this family together,” she answered. “That little bit of damnation would have taken your soul and torn you away from home. Now go home. This is over.”

Sam lunged forward and tore the revolver from his mother’s grasp. It felt hot and heavy with death. He tossed it as far away as he could. It arched out away from them, a black spot under a grey sky, and landed with a thud in the dunes.

Sam turned back to his mother. Her face wore an expression of hurt upon it[s]. She[/s] and she[s] held[/s] nestled the hand that had gripped the revolver. It had probably been wrenched when the weapon had been torn from it. [This line is unnecessary. How she's hurt her hand is rather obvious so delete it.] Sam wanted to do a lot worse to the hand that had offended. [Mmm. I don't like this line. Be more explicit. Really paint a picture in the reader's mind. Show the reader how angry Sam is.]

“Sam, I did it for us. We’re a family.” [How is this said? Coldly? Pleadingly?]

“Family doesn’t do this. Family doesn’t kill.” [This isn't a great line f dialogue but I'm not sure what alternative to suggest.]

Sam walked on past his mother, on towards the beach.

“Don’t do this to me Sam!” his mother cried out. “I need you here! We need to be a family!”

Sam didn’t pay any attention to her. He [s]just[/s] rushed on under a darkening sky. [Extend this sentence. You need at least one long sentence here to contrast with the shorter ones.] Night would soon arrive in this place. [Possibly link this sentence with the next.] But to Sam it already seemed to be blacker than any night.

He reached the beach and looked to where he had just spent such precious time with Muir. His heart sank when he saw her lying there, not moving. [You don't have to tell her that his heart sank. This would be much more dramatic as 'She was still.' or something equally short and simple.] The sand to her side was dark with blood. She had not tried to flee, might not even have had the chance.

Sam rushed over to her and fell to her side. A small glimmer of hope entered into him when he saw that Muir was still alive. Her breath was short and hurried. The hole in her side was still bleeding. Sam ripped off his jacket and put it there to stop the blood. He prayed to whatever deity might be listening, prayed that he was not too late. [Again, you need more variety of sentence structure here.]

Muir’s eyes fluttered open. “Sam?” she asked, her voice still strong. “Is that you?”

“It’s me, Muir,” Sam said. He was choking back tears. “I’m here; you’re going to be alright.”

“No,” Muir said. “The wound I’ve been given is a mortal one. I may never age, but that don’t mean I can’t be killed.”

Sam shook his head, trying to deny this. “No, you’ll be alright,” he said. “You’ll be…”

“Sam, be the strong lad I enjoy and listen to me.”

Muir strained to sit up but failed. She had lost a lot of blood already. Sam picked her up and cradled her in his arms.

“Take my skin and the weapon that did this to me. Take them to my father’s house. Tell him what has happened to me.”

“Where is your father’s house?” Sam asked, desperation in his voice.

“The land where my myth begins,” Muir replied. “You call it Ireland.”

“Where in Ireland? Where, Muir?”

“You’ll know when you get there.”

Sam nodded, taking in her instructions. “I’ll do it. I swear I’ll do it, Muir.” He cried a little now.

“Don’t cry. Swear you love me enough to do this.”

Sam controlled himself and took a deep breath. “I swear that I love you enough to do this.”

“Then walk on the journey and keep to the ways of the Deep, or all will be lost to you. Heed those instructions, if nothing else.”

Muir coughed up a bit of blood and trembled. Sam feared that she was already gone, but her eyes remained open. She looked up into his.

“Kiss me, Sam. Seal this oath and then go on your way.”

Sam bent down and kissed Muir. She responded to his affection as best she could. For a moment electricity sped through Sam’s body. It felt as though he was being infused with a deep power. [Too many short sentences here. Maybe a colon after body instead of the full stop.] Then Muir’s body faded away, and there was nothing at his lips, nothing to hold. Sam wept.

After a while, Sam forced himself to get to his feet. The wind whistled around him and the sea began to get rough. It was hard to believe that, only a short time ago, Sam had been pleading with Muir for time to think. What good was [s]all[/s] that thought now?[s] That[/s] It grieved him as much as her death.

But now Sam had something to do. Muir had given him a task, and he had promised to do it. Oaths had been taken, now they called out to be fulfilled. And Sam knew that they must be, or then he would be damned. You meant what you said when you spoke with a child of the Deep.

Sam bent down and picked up Muir’s seal skin from where it lay. It was a dull brown, nothing special to most, but to him it was more important than the most regal of any royalty’s raiment. It was an important part of his task. With a deep breath Sam took in what was left [s]Sam took in what was left[/s] of her scent. A musky smell, with a hint of sea salt.

“Is it dead?” asked the voice of his mother.

Sam stood silent for a moment. This would be a hard oath to keep indeed, if the first obstacle he had to face would be his mother.

“Yes,” Sam replied.

“Good. I was afraid I’d have to shoot it again. It’s over now though.”

Sam turned to his mother. She had recovered the service revolver. Of course she had. Some things could only happen one way, the hard way. Sam sighed. [Too many short sentences so add a longer one. Perhaps describe the revolver.]

The two of them stood silent, locked in a struggle that was beyond the usual ones that parents and their offspring have. [Think of a metaphor or simile to describe their struggle instead.] Ancient powers had become involved in this, vows ensured that there would be no easy end to it. This could either end in disgrace, diaspora, or death.

“Give me the gun,” Sam said to his mother.

“No,” she replied. “You go on home. We’ll talk about this later.”

“We’re not going to talk. I’m going to go. I promised her I’d do something. I’m taking the revolver and I’m going.”

“You promised to shoot me, didn’t you?” [Scared/ angry? I'm having trouble gauging the mother's tone of voice.]

“There’s been enough killing today.”

Sam’s mother pointed the revolver at him. Her eyes blazed with anger and her hair whipped out behind her in the wind like a demon’s tail. Sam’s blood froze in his veins.

“You treat your mother like this?” she asked.

“You treat your son like this,” Sam replied.

“I do everything for you.”

“It’s the other way around, Mom. I take you to Dr. Rueger’s, make sure you take your pills, and keep the rumors down. That’s a tall order, all things considered.”

“You keep thinking that,” his mother said. “I let you think you’re doing important things, all for your self esteem, to keep the family together. I can see that was a big mistake.”

“Give me the gun Mom,” Sam said. “You need to rest.”

“You need to get home!” his mother yelled. “Get home! We’re going home and we’re going to act like a family! We’ll put it all back together!”

“We’ll do that on our own,” Sam said as he walked forward.

His mother pulled the trigger of the revolver. Her aim was off, the bullet only grazed Sam’s arm. But it sent a lightning bolt of pain through Sam’s body. He yelled and put a hand to the wound, stopped in his tracks. He looked up and saw his mother pulling the hammer back for another shot. At this he charged forward and collided with her. The revolver flew out of her hand and landed in the sand. [Too many medium length sentences here.] Before she could recover [Comma here.] Sam fell on the weapon. Sand got into his new wound, making it scream out again. [Comma after again instead of the full stop.] But Sam stood up through the pain and pointed the revolver at his mother. She glared at him like a cornered animal.

“Are you going to shoot me?” she asked.

Sam shook his head. He was sick of killing, and he had not even had to commit the act himself yet. He lowered the hammer of the revolver and tucked it into his pants.

“Don’t follow me,” he said. “Tell everyone whatever story you want to, even the truth. They wouldn’t believe that anyway.” Sam turned to walk away.

“Don’t do this to me!” his mother screamed after him. “You won’t get far! I’ll stop you, you hear me? We’ll be a family again!”

Sam ignored her and simply walked on down the beach. Other things were on his mind. The full weight of what he was undertaking now had an opportunity to sink in. There were plenty of obstacles between here and Ireland. He had the entire country to cross, and then the Atlantic Ocean. What’s more, he had to do it walking, and in the ways of the Deep, adhering to the codes of the world of magic. For a moment, Sam was daunted by the sheer size of it. Then he shook his head. It would do him no good to worry about what he hadn’t even gotten to yet. One thing at a time.

The gunshot wound was still bleeding. It might need stitches, Sam didn’t know. He put Muir’s seal skin over it to staunch the [s]bleeding[/s] spasm of blood. He had nothing else to use, [Maybe colon or dash here.] he had left his jacket back with his mother. Almost as soon as the skin touched the wound, a soothing warmth spread out from it.

“As you held my blood, now I hold yours,” Muir’s voice said faintly.

“Muir?” Sam asked.

There was no reply. Sam pulled the sealskin away. Now the wound had closed up, leaving only a nasty scar. For a moment Sam wondered just what this meant. Was there still residual magic left in the skin, some pure essence of the Deep locked up in it? Or was Muir not completely gone? The journey’s end would tell, Sam decided. And that was a long way off. [He's a little too unaffected by this. It seems as if he does not really care one way or the other.]

Sam walked down the beach. [Extend this line.] A few miles on was Avalon. There he could get some clothes and supplies before the real journey began. He would only stay in that place a short time though. A promise made was a debt unpaid, and Muir’s world had its own stern code for those things. Sam was now bound to those laws; there was no way out of it. He took a deep breath and kept on going.

Okay so I didn't like this chapter as much as the last, mostly because Muir barely talked in it and your dialogue isn't as interesting without her. In fact, your story isn't as interesting without her. The mother was a dull, slightly pathetic character. You didn't make her fearsome enough for the reader to fear for Sam's life and you didn't make her rational enough for the reader to pity her. She only had one way of speaking and that seemed to be half screaming half justifying but then, that could just be because you didn't define what tone of voice she used. And in general, I think she needs a lot of work.

Muir's death also could be improved. It was too short for my liking and Sam took it too well. But then, if that's his character, I suppose that's his character. But I'll admit I don't like him. I care nothing for him so you need to strengthen his personality. Maybe use italics to show us his direct thoughts every now and then and to show us just how distraught/ angry he is. Because the way it reads at the moment, he's concentrating on a single kiss while the love of his life is dying.

I hope this helps a little and I did still find parts of it interesting but it needs some work. Feel free to pm me with questions and good luck with re-drafting,

Heather xx

Hi Conrad. Here to review Part 2, as promised yesterday.

It had just been a little more than he expected, heck, a lot more.

To me, Heck doesn't seem to fit there. What about Hell instead?

I hate to do this but I have to echo Kylan, Jig, and Pengu. As Kylan pointed out, someone who just lost their loved one would not try to reason with the person that killed them. There would be anger, crying, something. We need to see more of his emotions there.

As Pengu said, the time between everything was too quick. Let Sam go home, mull over what Muir said, have him write down a list or something having to do with leaving, and have his Mom find it. Then maybe his Mom goes down and begins to talk to Muir with her gun hidden and then shoots her unexpectantly. That's just a thought; I can't comment on the cliche part because I haven't read many stories like that but maybe that'll help.

Sorry for just echoing what everyone has said and tell me if you revamp this.

Are you going to write another part? It's fine without one but I want to know about his journey.

-alwaysawriter