Once A Dream, Always A Nightmare

Pretty much, it has frequent (italics) flashbacks of them before the car accident that forced Rochelle to move, and now she's back for a three week visit.

I'm unsure if i am actually going to pursue this story, and this is more or less a prologue/chapter one. I'm not (if i do keep going with it) going to keep going with the flashbacks. They're mainly her personal thoughts triggered by the things she does.

I AM AUSTRALIAN SO IT IS AUSTRALIAN NOT AMERICAN SPELLING! Please refrain. Realise/specialise/centre/colour/honour/mum etc just leave. Leave it because it infuriates me when it always gets changed! Hmm. it does get incredibly annoying sorry for that rant but please if you're nitpicking spelling - leave it! I am going to go insane otherwise. Might not be that bad either XD


**
He lay on his stomach in the hammock that hung between the two palm trees in his front yard. I climb in, sitting on top of him and wrapping my scarf around his eyes. Duncan struggles, pushing me aside enough to roll onto his back. I pull his lips onto mine, kissing him long and hard, melting against him as his arms encircle my waist. He lifts the scarf to reveal one eye, his smile growing wider.


Amelia skipped past, her blonde pigtails swinging, her thin arms pumping high into the air, her lacy pink skirt swirling around her pale legs.
“Mummy! Mummy! Mummy! Look mummy look!”
She tugged at Harriet’s sleeve, pointing over at the cream couch where her older brother Byron and his girlfriend Larissa, two years his senior, were in the midst of a hormone-driven make out session. Harriet’s wrinkled face creased into a deep frown, her pink-nailed fingers bringing the whistle around her neck to her lips. Amelia jammed her own pink-nailed fingers into her ears, the sharp noise slicing through the silence. Byron leapt up, Larissa slipping from beneath his muscular body, yanking her top down over her mini skirt.
“Mum!” Byron whined, grasping Larissa’s wrist and pulling her back to him.
“You know the rules.” Harriet didn’t turn her back on them, her fierce eyes watching Byron as he tried to kiss Larissa goodbye. The blonde refused, blushing a deep red, rebuffing his every move, hurrying from the house with Byron in close tow. Amelia dodged that couch and sat on the floor instead, looking up at me with wide eyes.
“Can we watch Dora?”
I opened my mouth but Byron’s complaints drowned out my own complaints completely. With shoulders hunched and brow set, he stormed back in, stealing the remote from Amelia and collapsing back on the couch. Amelia cried out and jumped on top of him. I half expected him to do what her dad does to her, but instead of slapping her, making her cry, he just ignored her. She clung to his Good Charlotte shirt, blocking his view so he listened to her.
“Amelia!”
He bumped her and she tumbled onto the couch, her eyes watering. I watched his face soften, then lean over and scoop her up.
“Rochelle dearest, do you mind staying with them? I’d leave him, but I know he won’t look after her. If you’re here I’ll feel better.”
“Sure Mrs Darrington, they’ll be in one piece when you get back.”
“Byron love?”
“Yeah mum?”
“Rochelle will be looking after you tonight. Listen to her. Do what she tells you to do, even if she tells you to go to bed. You too Amelia – eight o’clock bed time and not a minute later. You hear me?”
“Yes mum.”
“I’ll be back by ten.”
“No worries Mrs Darrington.”


Ms Frestter offers us cans of diet cola and freshly cut watermelon. Duncan’s arms remain locked tight around my waist and I nestle my head on his chest, letting my hand rest on his muscular chest, watching the sunset slide down behind the cliffs on the horizon. She asks if I’d like to sleep over, telling me she’s just changed Duncan’s sheets so they’re clean and crisp. His eyes say it all, and an hour later we’re snuggled tightly together, the door shut, the window open, me on top of him, the summer wind floating through his room eliminating the need for a blanket. I glide my fingertips down the unshaven curve of his chin; tilt it toward me so I can plant a tender kiss upon his lips. He kisses me back, telling me that he loves me, the three best words in my vocabulary.



One week. Four assignments due in. Holidays closing in. On my calendar I watched the days slide away like jelly left in the sun too long, swirling into a drain that was my life leading up to the visit back across the country. Byron, who’d broken up with Larissa after getting drunk and hooking up with her friend at the end-of-year midnight party, joined me to the airport, claiming he had nothing better to do, and he owed me for ‘looking after him’ that one night. It wasn’t that I minded, I enjoyed the company, but it felt awkward. After experiencing first hand what he was like drunk, spending the entire night ensuring that he remained loyal to Larissa, I felt a closer connection.
“You should loosen up a little.”
He touched my shoulder lightly, his green eyes sparkling.
“Flight 341 now boarding.”
Picking up my bags, I gave him one last hug, all too eagerly racing down the tunnel toward the plane. He called my name but I ignored him.


“Duncan?”

His golden blonde hair is whipped back as he lifts his head out of the sun roof.

“Shell?”

I lean over to kiss him, touching his bruised shoulder with warm fingers, his skin twitching when I touch it. He laughs and squeezes my hand, his other hand loose on the steering wheel.





The coding is not behaving, so sorry! But i cannot get Italics to work!

Cut in half in case it was tooo long?

---

We stand facing each other, neither of us daring to feel the other as the minutes disappeared between our hot bodies. Eventually he reaches out, grasping my hand, rubbing it with his soft fingers. I notice his uncle watching from a distance, his wrinkled face creasing into a smile.



The alcohol is sweet, the sun bright in the sky, his skin soft and tender beneath my nervous fingers. He takes my hand and guides it across his stomach, over his nipples, down into his jeans. The empty Bacardi bottle dribbles the last droplets onto the sand. His peach coloured towel provides a perfect backdrop.


He takes my hand and leads me after his uncle. In the baggage collection, he bumps me aside to take my suitcase, the muscles in his arms bulging with the weight. His uncle tells us he’ll go grab the car, so we wait in the bitter cold Sydney air, taxi’s pulling up, people climbing in, then drive off, leaving only the stale fumes to warm us.


We skip across the hot sand hand in hand, ignoring the other people around us who look and frown as we race each other from one rock to the next. The surf crashes down around our ankles, the sun dipping lower and lower on the horizon, bathing us in a deep orange glow. He spins me around through the air, pretends to drop me and scoops me up in the last second, laughing all over again. Every inch of him is gripped with delight.


His uncle’s silver Ute is just like I remember, the front left light scratched, roof splattered with pink paint, the tray dented in several places, masking tape keeping the oil cover on. Duncan lifts my suitcase into the back tray, tying down the cover then hops into the middle. I don’t complain, despite my whole left side is crushed against the worn down door, a piece of metal poking into my thigh. He takes my hand and squeezes it; I lift my eyes to look into his and smile.


The beach is empty when we trot back to his blue Falcon. It’s almost dark but he doesn’t turn on the headlights, spinning his wheels a few times and heading out of the car park in the dark. The tyres screech onto the road as the engine is gunned to 4000 revs, its full tank powering the car into 100 kilometres in under forty seconds. The highway stretches out in front of us. I lean across and flick on the high-beams; he switches them off for fun.


His uncle takes the wrong exit and has to circle back onto the freeway, cursing at the improved road signs, now several metres into the air, instead of on the side of the road like in the other states. Duncan squeezes my hand and rests his head on my shoulder, a move I didn’t rebuff. His uncle flicks on the CD player, ABBA bursting out through the dented, mangled speakers, the sound crackly and rough, like his greying hair.


We’re swallowed by pitch black darkness, the radio playing Gyroscope’s 1981, our favourite song for absolutely no reason. He turns another sharp bend, pretending to lose control just to scare me, laughing when I scream.


I lean my head against the cold glass window, staring at the long scar down my forearm, the grim reminder of that night.


Duncan guns the engine again, hitting 110 kilometres, opening the sunroof but doesn’t stand up, he’s not that dumb.
”Dunc, you’re going too fast.”
”Baby, this car won’t hurt us. Trust me, this car I can handle.


His uncle slows down for the exit ramp. Streetlights flash red, at least twenty cars waiting for the right turn. He snakes around into the left lane, pushing his way into a space further up the line. Duncan doesn’t move. His eyes are closed. I have a vague inkling of what he might be thinking of.


Duncan closes his eyes, tilting his head back and releasing one hand off the wheel. I lean across but he pushes me back, laughing heartily. He knows this road, so I should trust him. Sure.
“If I die, it’ll be your body that my mum will cremate first.”
He speeds around another sharp bend, headlights shading his face pure white, his eyes growing wide. I scream when I turn around. The truck has drifted onto the opposing lane, the oncoming car invisible without the headlights on. The 4WD swerved into our lane at the same time Duncan swerved, the two cars now on a head-to-head collision course. I pull my legs up and cover my face with both arms, gripping onto my jeans as he swerves violently left. The car releases an ear-splitting screech as the 4WD scrapes along the side, the door being dented sharply inwards, jabbing me in the side. Duncan struggles for control, the wheels hitting a small rock on the side of the road, turning into a death spin.


We’re back on the freeway, his Uncle tapping his foot on the floor along to Waterloo, bopping his head for extra effect. Duncan opens his eyes and winds his arms around my neck, his lips brushing my cheek.


With one final yank at the steering wheel, the car ends its spin, slamming into the barrier and bouncing off. I scream and Duncan yelps as it begins to roll, turning over several times before coming to a halt. I open my eyes but my vision is blurry and smoke stings them. Duncan isn’t moving. I try to undo my seatbelt, but a piece of metal has jammed into the console, wires handing out and tangling around the gaping hole in my seat. I hear voices, but they fade. I try to scream for help; try to call out Duncan’s name. My throat is dry and all I breathe is smoke, my eyes stinging so bad that I can’t open them at all, and my body feels numb and hot. I shut my eyes, allowing my body to succumb to the lulling sleep that drags on my every breath. Somebody calls out something, but I’m already too far gone.

**

Hey Niccy! I didn't think your post was too long - I don't think you should cut it in half next time.

He lay on his stomach in the hammock that hung between the two palm trees in his front yard. I climb in, sitting on top of him and wrapping my scarf around his eyes. Duncan struggles, pushing me aside enough to roll onto his back.

I thought it was a tad bit confusing to read "He" in the first sentence, and then for you to give him a name only one sentence later. I thought it was a new character for a moment - not an exceptional problem, but it did make me pause.

I pull his lips onto mine, kissing him long and hard, melting against him as his arms encircle my waist. He lifts the scarf to reveal one eye, his smile growing wider.

So far, you intro paragraph has been all "telling". Like, "He did this, and she did this". It's best to try to mix in some "showing" lines within a story.

Byron leapt up, Larissa slipping from beneath his muscular body, yanking her top down over her mini skirt.

Muscular body? Most handsome boys are described as muscular. Perhaps, if you so choose, you could find some more descriptive language for him beyond what is expected of a handsome boy.

looking up at me with wide eyes.

This is the first time the "me, I" narrator shows up in this part. Where was she before, while the making out was happening? What did she think?

he stormed back in, stealing the remote from Amelia and collapsing back on the couch. Amelia cried out and jumped on top of him. I half expected him to do what her dad does to her, but instead of slapping her, making her cry, he just ignored her. She clung to his Good Charlotte shirt, blocking his view so he listened to her.

What a jerk! She just wants to watch her TV show.

I watched his face soften, then lean over and scoop her up.

The way you have this phrased, it seems like his face leaned over and scooped her up. Try adding a subject in the second half, "then he leans over".

“Rochelle dearest, do you mind staying with them? I’d leave him, but I know he won’t look after her. If you’re here I’ll feel better.”
“Sure Mrs Darrington, they’ll be in one piece when you get back.”

Wait, who is Rochelle and Mrs. Darrington? I'm getting muddled with so many character names, you need to put in some introductions so I know who these people are. It's not good to throw too many names at the reader. I'm assuming that Rochelle is the narrator, and Mrs. Darrington is... the women she's babysitting for? Her neighbor?

“No worries Mrs Darrington.”

No worries, Mrs. Darrington. Comma.

letting my hand rest on his muscular chest

You should try not to use the same description of a person more than once so soon, unless it's a feature that needs to be described so.

She asks if I’d like to sleep over, telling me she’s just changed Duncan’s sheets so they’re clean and crisp. His eyes say it all, and an hour later we’re snuggled tightly together, the door shut, the window open, me on top of him, the summer wind floating through his room eliminating the need for a blanket.

Wait, did his mother say that? Did his mother suggest the girl sleepover in Duncan's bed? That's very unrealistic, and if his mom IS like that, then you should describe her as such, because that is an exception from the ordinary.

One week. Four assignments due in. Holidays closing [s]in[/s].

On my calendar I watched the days slide away like jelly left in the sun too long, swirling into a drain that was my life leading up to the visit back across the country.

Nice description here!

We stand facing each other, neither of us daring to feel the other as the minutes disappeared between our hot bodies. Eventually he reaches out, grasping my hand, rubbing it with his soft fingers. I notice his uncle watching from a distance, his wrinkled face creasing into a smile.

What is the setting here? If you're going to hop around so much, it would be best to occasionally establish a setting.

people climbing in, then drive off, leaving only the stale fumes to warm us.

I really like this phrase. I think you should add more descriptions like this into your writing.

The tyres screech onto the road as the engine is gunned to 4000 revs

Tyres! Haha. Interesting typo

he switches them off for fun.

Oh that is so foreshadowing. So dangerous!

WHAT'S MY AGE AGAIN
I'm really confused about their ages. I thought Byron was little because he seemed to be babysat, but then he drinks a lot... and I don't know how old the narrator is either. You need to clarify on ages, or the character's ages will hop up and down in my head as I read, and that's not very enjoyable. You don't need to be specific - just to use words like "child" or "young adult" or "college-aged".

ADDITIONAL COMMENTS

I really enjoyed how you switched between those two scenes at the end - it added a lot of dramatic effect to your story. And it was interesting, because the scenes were so similar and yet different. Very nice writing, there.

I do wonder where the uncle is taking them though, and why. Perhaps some clarification?

I enjoyed the story though! PM me if you have any questions.

~ Clo

It begins with a flashback, in HER POV and then chops back to present day. I have to fix that later

I am really enjoying this, though one suggestion that I have is about the ages. Why does this Byron fellow need to be babysat? I mean, was he not making out with his girlfriend just moments ago?
I really liked this line:

were in the midst of a hormone-driven make out session.

I think that was nice wording and very... explanatory.
One other thing that I would suggest is that... well, I don't really understand. She (the narrator) is babysitting, then suddenly she is at the airport, then she is in the car again. Maybe put a little more detail into what is going on in between each jump. It would make the story less confusing.[/color]

Hi,
I'm too tired to write a full review, so I'll do it tomorrow. I know, silly reason to still write a reply, but however, I am. I really liked this story, it was interesting, but still a bit confusing. You should pick up "Summer Sisters" by Judy Blume. The way you wrote this story somehow reminds me of that.
This is a very good start and like I said, tomorrow I will give a proper review.

Love,
N

Oh my Clo THANKYOU! That was great! Oh and thanks too Macs! Yess i do like that sentence too... and i will definitely fix up the things you all picked up on! Sorry my stories are always sooo long

He lay on his stomach in the hammock that hung between the two palm trees in his front yard. I climb in, sitting on top of him and wrapping my scarf around his eyes. Duncan struggles, pushing me aside enough to roll onto his back. [s]I pull his lips onto mine,[/s] I press my lips to his, kissing him long and hard, melting against him as his arms encircle my waist. He lifts the scarf to reveal one eye, his smile growing wider.


Amelia skipped past, her blonde pigtails swinging, her thin arms pumping high into the air, her lacy pink skirt swirling around her pale legs.
“Mummy! Mummy! Mummy! Look, Mummy, look!”
She tugged at Harriet’s sleeve, pointing over at the cream couch where her older brother Byron and his girlfriend Larissa, two years his senior, were in the midst of a hormone-driven make out session. What was Harriet doing before Amelia brought this to her attention? How can you be in the same house and not know that two people are snogging like that? Harriet’s wrinkled face creased into a deep frown, her pink-nailed fingers bringing the whistle around her neck to her lips. Amelia jammed her own pink-nailed fingers into her ears, the sharp noise slicing through the silence. Byron leapt up, Larissa slipping from beneath his muscular body, yanking her top down over her mini skirt.
“Mum!” Byron whined, grasping Larissa’s wrist and pulling her back to him.
“You know the rules.” Harriet didn’t turn her back on them, her fierce eyes watching Byron as he tried to kiss Larissa goodbye. The blonde refused, brushing herself off. She blushed[s]ing[/s] a deep red, rebuffing his every move, hurrying from the house with Byron in close tow. Amelia [s]dodged that[/s] avoided the couch and sat on the floor instead, looking up at me with wide eyes.
“Can we watch Dora?”
I opened my mouth but Byron’s [s]complaints[/s] grumblings drowned out my own complaints completely. You used "complaints" twice here. It felt kinda redundant to read. With shoulders hunched and brow set, he stormed back in, roughly stealing the remote from Amelia and collapsing back on the couch. Amelia cried out angrily (Because there are two kinds of "crying out": angry and hurt. I'm guessing she'd be more angry over a TV remote.) and jumped on top of him. I half expected him to do what her dad does to her, but instead of slapping her, making her cry, he just ignored her. She clung to his Good Charlotte shirt, obstinately blocking his view [s]so he listened to her.[/s]
“Amelia!” Did Byron say this, or was it someone else? It is unclear.
He bumped her and she tumbled onto the couch, her eyes watering. [s]I watched[/s] his face softened after a moment of watching Amelia pout, then he lean over and scoop her up.
“Rochelle, dearest, do you mind staying with them?" asked Harriet. "I’d leave him, but I know he won’t look after her. If you’re here I’ll feel better.” At least, I assumed this is Harriet speaking.
“Sure, Mrs Darrington, they’ll be in one piece when you get back.”
“Byron, love?”
“Yeah, Mum?”
“Rochelle will be looking after you tonight. Listen to her. Do what she tells you to do, even if she tells you to go to bed. You too, Amelia – eight o’clock bed time and not a minute later. You hear me?”
“Yes, Mum.”
“I’ll be back by ten.”
“No worries, Mrs Darrington.”


Ms Frestter offers us cans of diet cola and freshly cut watermelon. Duncan’s arms remain locked tight around my waist and I nestle my head on his [s]chest[/s] shoulder, letting my hand rest on his muscular chest, watching the sunset slide down behind the cliffs on the horizon. She asks if I’d like to sleep over, telling me she’s just changed Duncan’s sheets so they’re clean and crisp. His eyes say it all, and an hour later we’re snuggled tightly together, the door shut, the window open, me on top of him, the summer wind floating through his window, circulating around the room, eliminating the need for a blanket. I glide my fingertips down the unshaven curve of his chin; tilt it toward me so I can plant a tender kiss upon his lips. He kisses me back, [s]telling me that he loves me,[/s] saying the sentence without really speaking: I love you. The three best words in my vocabulary.


One week. Four assignments due in. Holidays [s]closing in[/s] coming closer all the time. On my calendar I watched the days slide away like jelly left in the sun too long, swirling into a drain that was my life leading up to the visit back across the country. Byron, who’d broken up with Larissa after getting drunk and hooking up with her friend at the end-of-year midnight party, [s]joined[/s] went with me to the airport, claiming he had nothing better to do, and he owed me for "looking after him" that one night. It wasn’t that I minded; I enjoyed the company, but it felt awkward. After experiencing first hand what he was like drunk, spending the entire night ensuring that he remained loyal to Larissa, I felt a closer connection.
“You should loosen up a little.” You might want to explain this comment a little more; we can tell that she's stiff as a board, but you might want to add it anyway. He touched my shoulder lightly, his green eyes sparkling.
“Flight 341 now boarding.”
Picking up my bags, I gave him [s]one last hug[/s] a last-minute hug, all too eagerly racing down the tunnel toward the plane. [s]He[/s] Byron called my name, but I [s]ignored him.[/s] did not turn back.


“Duncan?”

His golden (blonde) hair is whipped back as he lifts his head out of the sun roof of the (insert type of car: truck, wagon, etc.

“Shell?” Her nickname, I presume? Maybe you could have someone call her this sooner.

I lean over to kiss him, [s]touching[/s] brushing his bruised shoulder with warm fingers, his skin twitching slightly when I touch it. He laughs and squeezes my hand, his other hand loose on the steering wheel.

OVERALL: I like this a lot! I like how you tempered the romance; the flashbacks were interesting, and so was her interaction with Byron.

You tend to ignore commas. When you are giving a direct address to someone ("Look, Mummy, look!), then you must put commas around--or before--the name, to separate it from the rest of the sentence. Watch that in the future.

Other than that, as I said before, I like this a lot. Good work!

~Sunny

Sorry! I just found this part. I think if you put it with the other half, it wouldn't be too long.

Anyway, here it goes:

We stand facing each other, neither of us daring to feel the other as the minutes disappeared between our hot bodies. Eventually he reaches out, grasping my hand, rubbing it with his soft fingers. I notice his uncle watching from a distance, his wrinkled face creasing into a smile.

The alcohol is sweet, the sun bright in the sky, his skin soft and tender beneath my nervous fingers. He takes my hand and guides it across his stomach, over his nipples, down into his jeans. The empty Bacardi bottle dribbles the last droplets onto the sand. His peach coloured towel provides a perfect backdrop.

He takes my hand and leads me after his uncle. In the baggage collection, he bumps me aside to take my suitcase, the muscles in his arms bulging with the weight. His uncle tells us he’ll go grab the car, so we wait in the bitter cold Sydney air, taxi’s pulling up, people climbing in, then drive off, leaving only the stale fumes to warm us.

I am seriously confused. See, when I read the first paragraph, I want to read more of that story, and then I read the second paragraph, and I get in the mind-set that the next one's going to be about the same thing. Th bouncing from one time to the next, thought providing a fast-pace feel, right now make the story choppy and confusing. I don't know what you'll do about that, but it is your story.

We skip across the hot sand hand in hand, ignoring the other people around us who look and frown as we race each other from one rock to the next. The surf crashes down around our ankles, the sun dipping lower and lower on the horizon, bathing us in a deep orange glow. He spins me around through the air, pretends to drop me and scoops me up in the last second, laughing all over again. Every inch of him is gripped with delight.

Ah, I love this. Sooo romantic.

Duncan lifts my suitcase into the back tray, tying down the cover, then hops into the middle

Comma need there.

He takes my hand and squeezes it; I lift my eyes to look into his and smile.

Shouldn't you add "somewhat painfully" there at the end? Just kidding. It just sounds like an uncomfortable position to be in.

It’s almost dark but he doesn’t turn on the headlights, spinning his wheels a few times and heading out of the car park in the dark.

Comma in between "dark" and "but".

The tyres screech onto the road as the engine is gunned to 4000 revs, its full tank powering the car into 100 kilometres in under forty seconds.

Should "tyres" be "tires" or is that your usual spelling? Just wondering.

Duncan guns the engine again, hitting 110 kilometres, opening the sunroof but doesn’t stand up, he’s not that dumb.

Make this two sentences:

Duncan guns the engine again, hitting 110 kilometres, opening the sunroof but doesn’t stand up. He’s not that dumb.

He speeds around another sharp bend, headlights shading his face pure white, his eyes growing wide. I scream when I turn around. The truck has drifted onto the opposing lane, the oncoming car invisible without the headlights on. The 4WD swerved into our lane at the same time Duncan swerved, the two cars now on a head-to-head collision course. I pull my legs up and cover my face with both arms, gripping onto my jeans as he swerves violently left. The car releases an ear-splitting screech as the 4WD scrapes along the side, the door being dented sharply inwards, jabbing me in the side. Duncan struggles for control, the wheels hitting a small rock on the side of the road, turning into a death spin.

Yikes, I'm losing my nails here.

I shut my eyes, allowing my body to succumb to the lulling sleep that drags on my every breath. Somebody calls out something, but I’m already too far gone.

Great ending.

OVERALL: Very exciting, but confusing. Obviously the drive with "his uncle" reminded her of that night, but the transitions are not very smooth between present time and the past.

Also: how old are they? I'm picturing maybe 16-19 age group. Am I wrong? You might point that out so it's less confusing for the readers. And I don't know who anyone is. You use three names: Rochelle, Duncan, and "his uncle." The rest are pronouns. You could change that to narrow it down to who's talking.

Good work!

~Sunny