Young Writers Society

I DIED ON JANUARY 12TH, 2006. Family and friends gathered together to mourn my tragic, untimely passing. It was an unseasonably warm day. Outside of the cemetery gates, children could be seen playing games, their hands blackened by the filth of the city. The naked trees, standing stagnant in the air, seemed full of shame in heat like this. A cluster of people marched with small steps towards my freshly dug grave. The attendees dripped with sweat due to the black garb they had worn for this, the saddest of occasions.

Words were spoken on my behalf by people that I barely knew; people who probably knew me less. I thought it was funny how embellished all of the stories they told about me were. Grand tales were recounted of my heroics and courage in the face of adversity, all told by liars who didn't even know my middle name. But, the thing that bothered me most, was that they all kept trying to talk about what kind of a man I was. Who were they to talk about what kind of man I was, when none of them really knew me to begin with? As they put my body into the ground, at least nine people cried, one of which was the lady who delivered my mail. I don't know her name.

I couldn't stand to watch them all pretend to be so distraught. It had to be an act, there is no way that they really were going to miss me that much. I wouldn't miss them. I can honestly say, that if I had lost any of them, my life would in no way have been altered. I would have been able to go on living, just as I had been. But then there was my mom. I will never forgive myself for doing this to her. She is alone in her grief, the only person with honest tears flowing down her face. I may be dead, but it is obvious that this has killed her more than it has me. I wish that I could explain it to her. I wish that I could explain it to everyone. Most of all, I wish that I could explain it to myself. But it is far too late to be wishing for anything. It is too late for everything.

After the service, at the reception, they served shrimp. I always thought that a man's importance could be measured by what kind of food they served at his funeral. They wouldn't waste the good food on just anybody. Like at the funeral for the Governor, I bet they served something fancy, like filet mignon or something with duck sauce. The more worth a person had, the better the meal. Apparently, I was worth shrimp. Honestly, I was a bit surprised. I expected more of a chips and dip situation. At most I thought they'd have a deli platter or something, but definitely not shrimp. Shrimp was for a mayor, or a senator; it wasn't for the butcher's son.

But my funeral still isn't for a few months. It's only September. Right now, I'm at another funeral. It's my Father's funeral, and it is nothing like my own. It is raining, the droplets washing away the memories of a summer close to ending. The kids are in school, and the streets are empty. There are no fake tears here, or stories being altered, just human beings grieving the loss of a man they considered precious. It is, in all accounts, a sad day indeed. My dad died doing what he loved most in life, eating. He was never really a spokesmodel for healthy habits. He was halfway through his reuben when his heart finally just gave out. I'm willing to bet that his only regret in life was not getting to finish that sandwich.

My mother had payed for me to fly home so that I could attend the funeral. I knew that my mom would not be able to manage on her own, so I decided to move back into the house and help her with things for a while. I would be working in my father's shop. As I mentioned before, I am the butcher's son, making my father, the butcher. Meat was his life's work, but more importantly, it was his passion. I can remember spending my childhood working with him in his shop, learning all there was to know about meat. He would spend hours teaching me about the different cuts of meat, trying to make me believe that any of it actually mattered. He always used to tell me that, without him, people would go hungry. When I was younger I used to believe him, I even had dreams of becoming a butcher and running the shop alongside him. But eventually I realized whose dreams they really were, and it all seemed pointless after that. So after graduation, I left, promising never to come back to this town, or to speak to my father again. I only got to keep one of my promises.

I listened as everyone took turns speaking about my father, each of them having his or her own little anecdote about him. Be it happy, sad, or even comical, there wasn't a person there who didn't have anything to say about my father. But when it was my turn to speak, I could think of nothing to say. I had spent the majority of my life with this man, and yet, I couldn't muster a thing to talk about. I could feel the anticipation of the crowd as I sat there in silence, their eyes watching me with stone gazes, waiting for me to go up and say something. But alas, there was nothing. Nothing for the man who raised me. Nothing for the man who used to walk me to school every morning before going to work. Nothing for the man who cried the day I left. There had to be something. I walked up to the podium, hoping that the words would come to me, but none did. I stood there, looking out to the crowd, wishing I had just stayed in my seat. I turned around and looked at my father, just lying there. His eyes were closed, but he was staring at me too, waiting for me to say something, anything. I could no longer take it, so I walked back to my seat in shame, where upon my arrival, my mother gave me a hug. Then something happened that I didn't expect. Everyone began to clap. What were they clapping for? I hadn't done anything. It made me furious. I didn't deserve their applause. I had failed them, and worst of all, I had failed my father.

I was so upset, I left before before the service had ended. I didn't care who watched me, or what they thought about it. As I paced around the cemetery, I saw her for the first time. She was sitting on a bench, smoking a cigarette. She had short black hair and jade green eyes. The dress she had on was as black as her hair was. I had no idea who she was, or who she would eventually become. At that moment, she was no one; just another face in a sea of anonymity. Then she spoke:

“Hey, you're his son, aren't you?”, She asked.
“Yeah, I am, did you know him?”
“Not really, I mean, he was my butcher, thats about as far as our relationship went. I am sorry for your loss, though.”
“Thanks, I appreciate that.”


Amongst the countless condolences I had received throughout the day, her's was the only one that actually felt real. She wasn't sitting there trying to praise my father or telling me about how I was going to get through this. She was just genuinely sorry. I don't know what it was about her, but she seemed to care more than anyone else, but out of everyone, she should care the least. And then, she told me her name:

“I'm Lucy.”
“ I'm Oliver”
“It's a pleasure to meet you Oliver. So, how long will you be in town for?”
“I'm not exactly sure yet, I'll be talking over the shop for a while, at least until my mom can handle things on her own.”

Then she stood up and began walking away. Confused, I called out to her:

“Where are you going?”
“The reception. There's supposed to be some good food.”
“Oh, right. Well, enjoy.”

She continued walking away. I was a little taken aback by what had just happened. Normal people just don't leave mid conversation, it's rude. She didn't care, though. I wonder now, if I had known what was to come, would I have just walked away, or would I have done it anyway? Who am I kidding? I know the answer to that question. For whatever reason, I couldn't help but feel drawn to her, so I called out to her again:

“Do you mind if I join you?”

She began to laugh, and at first I didn't understand why. Then it dawned upon me, I had just asked her if I could go to the reception of my own father's funeral.

“Go right ahead.”, she said, still laughing.

She was right about the food. The reception had been catered using the meat from my dad's own shop, which was the best in town. My mom had prepared everything from roast beef sandwiches to veal shank. While we ate, Lucy told me a little about herself. She moved here about the same time that I left. She had come here to go to college, but dropped out after a year. She worked at the dry cleaning place across the street from my shop. I watched her lips while she talked. They didn't seem to match the words she was saying, but to be honest, I had pretty much stopped listening by that point. It wasn't that I didn't care what she had to say, I did. I just couldn't take my eyes off her lips. They were dancing across her face with each word she spoke, so graceful in the way that they moved. Then she said something that caught my attention.

“If you could say anything to your dad right now, what would it be?”, she asked.
“That depends, would he be able to answer me?”
“Does it really matter?”

For the second time that day, Lucy began walking away mid conversation. Frustrated, I called out to her.

“When will I see you again?”
“The next time I'm craving some lamb chops, I guess.”

And with that, she was gone.

Jpah wrote:I DIED ON JANUARY 12TH, 2006. I adore this beginning!! I don't know why, I think I always imagined starting a novel like this. Family and friends gathered together to mourn my tragic, untimely passing. It was an unseasonably warm day. Outside of the cemetery gates, children could be seen playing games, their hands blackened by the filth of the city. The naked trees, standing stagnant in the air, seemed full of shame in heat like this. A cluster of people marched with small steps towards my freshly dug grave. The attendees dripped with sweat due to the black garb they had worn for this, the saddest of occasions.
Watch your grammer in this paragraph, it appears that you use too many short sentences, try a varied length instead.

Words were spoken on my behalf by people that I barely knew; people who probably knew me less. I thought it was funnyI don't think this word fits with the mood. how embellished all of the stories they told about me were. Grand tales were recounted of my heroics and courage in the face of adversity, all told by liars who didn't even know my middle name. But, the thing that bothered me most, was that they all kept trying to talk about what kind of a man I was. Who were they to talk about what kind of man I was, when none of them really knew me to begin with? As they put my body into the ground, at least nine people cried, one of which was the lady who delivered my mail. I don't know her name. I love this last sentence too!

I couldn't stand to watch them all pretend to be so distraught. It had to be an act, there is no way that they really were going to miss me that much. I wouldn't miss them. I can honestly say, that if I had lost any of them, my life would in no way have been altered. I would have been able to go on living, just as I had been. But then there was my mom. I will never forgive myself for doing this to her. She is alone in her grief, the only person with honest tears flowing down her face. I may be dead, but it is obvious that this has killed her more than it has me. I wish that I could explain it to her. I wish that I could explain it to everyone. Most of all, I wish that I could explain it to myself. But it is far too late to be wishing for anything. It is too late for everything.

After the service, at the reception, they served shrimp. I always thought that a man's importance could be measured by what kind of food they served at his funeral. They wouldn't waste the good food on just anybody. Like at the funeral for the Governor, I bet they served something fancy, like filet mignon or something with duck sauce. The more worth a person had, the better the meal. Apparently, I was worth shrimp. Honestly, I was a bit surprised. I expected more of a chips and dip situation.LOVE! At most I thought they'd have a deli platter or something, but definitely not shrimp. Shrimp was for a mayor, or a senator; it wasn't for the butcher's son.

But my funeral still isn't for a few months. It's only September. Right now, I'm at another funeral. It's my Father's funeral, and it is nothing like my own. This is a strange jump, you need a more soft transition. Before you were describing your funeral as if it was now. It gets quite confusing!It is raining, the droplets washing away the memories of a summer close to ending. The kids are in school, and the streets are empty. There are no fake tears here, or stories being altered, just human beings grieving the loss of a man they considered precious. It is, in all accounts, a sad day indeed. My dad died doing what he loved most in life, eating. He was never really a spokesmodel for healthy habits. He was halfway through his reuben when his heart finally just gave out. I'm willing to bet that his only regret in life was not getting to finish that sandwich. I honestly love this sentence :L

My mother had payed for me to fly home so that I could attend the funeral. I knew that my mom would not be able to manage on her own, so I decided to move back into the house and help her with things for a while. I would be working in my father's shop. As I mentioned before, I am the butcher's son, making my father, the butcher. Meat was his life's work, but more importantly, it was his passion. I can remember spending my childhood working with him in his shop, learning all there was to know about meat. He would spend hours teaching me about the different cuts of meat, trying to make me believe that any of it actually mattered. He always used to tell me that, without him, people would go hungry. When I was younger I used to believe him, I even had dreams of becoming a butcher and running the shop alongside him. But eventually I realized whose dreams they really were, and it all seemed pointless after that. So after graduation, I left, promising never to come back to this town, or to speak to my father again. I only got to keep one of my promises.

I listened as everyone took turns speaking about my father, each of them having his or her own little anecdote about him. Be it happy, sad, or even comical, there wasn't a person there who didn't have anything to say about my father. But when it was my turn to speak, I could think of nothing to say. I had spent the majority of my life with this man, and yet, I couldn't muster a thing to talk about. I could feel the anticipation of the crowd as I sat there in silence, their eyes watching me with stone gazes, waiting for me to go up and say something. But alas, there was nothing. Nothing for the man who raised me. Nothing for the man who used to walk me to school every morning before going to work. Nothing for the man who cried the day I left. There had to be something. I walked up to the podium, hoping that the words would come to me, but none did. I stood there, looking out to the crowd, wishing I had just stayed in my seat. I turned around and looked at my father, just lying there. His eyes were closed, but he was staring at me too, waiting for me to say something, anything. I could no longer take it, so I walked back to my seat in shame, where upon my arrival, my mother gave me a hug. Then something happened that I didn't expect. Everyone began to clap. What were they clapping for? I hadn't done anything. It made me furious. I didn't deserve their applause. I had failed them, and worst of all, I had failed my father. There is a bit of conflict here. At some points he doesn't seem to care about his father, yet at others he feels ashamed of himself. This needs clearing up.

I was so upset, I left before before the service had ended. I didn't care who watched me, or what they thought about it. As I paced around the cemetery, I saw her for the first time. She was sitting on a bench, smoking a cigarette. She had short black hair and jade green eyes. The dress she had on was as black as her hair was. I had no idea who she was, or who she would eventually become. At that moment, she was no one; just another face in a sea of anonymity. Then she spoke:

“Hey, you're his son, aren't you?”, she asked.
“Yeah, I am, did you know him?”
“Not really, I mean, he was my butcher, thats about as far as our relationship went. I am sorry for your loss, though.”
“Thanks, I appreciate that.”


Amongst the countless condolences I had received throughout the day, her's was the only one that actually felt real. She wasn't sitting there trying to praise my father or telling me about how I was going to get through this. She was just genuinely sorry. I don't know what it was about her, but she seemed to care more than anyone else, but out of everyone, she should care the least. And then, she told me her name:

“I'm Lucy.”
“ I'm Oliver”
“It's a pleasure to meet you Oliver. So, how long will you be in town for?”
“I'm not exactly sure yet, I'll be talking over the shop for a while, at least until my mom can handle things on her own.”

Then she stood up and began walking away. Confused, I called out to her:

“Where are you going?”
“The reception. There's supposed to be some good food.”
“Oh, right. Well, enjoy.”

She continued walking away. I was a little taken aback by what had just happened. Normal people just don't leave mid conversation, it's rude. She didn't care, though. I wonder now, if I had known what was to come, would I have just walked away, or would I have done it anyway? Who am I kidding? I know the answer to that question. For whatever reason, I couldn't help but feel drawn to her, so I called out to her again:

“Do you mind if I join you?”

She began to laugh, and at first I didn't understand why. Then it dawned upon me, I had just asked her if I could go to the reception of my own father's funeral.

“Go right ahead.”, she said, still laughing.

She was right about the food. The reception had been catered using the meat from my dad's own shop, which was the best in town. My mom had prepared everything from roast beef sandwiches to veal shank. While we ate, Lucy told me a little about herself. She moved here about the same time that I left. She had come here to go to college, but dropped out after a year. She worked at the dry cleaning place across the street from my shop. I watched her lips while she talked. They didn't seem to match the words she was saying, but to be honest, I had pretty much stopped listening by that point. It wasn't that I didn't care what she had to say, I did. I just couldn't take my eyes off her lips. They were dancing across her face with each word she spoke, so graceful in the way that they moved. Then she said something that caught my attention.

“If you could say anything to your dad right now, what would it be?”, she asked.
“That depends, would he be able to answer me?”
“Does it really matter?”

For the second time that day, Lucy began walking away mid conversation. Frustrated, I called out to her.

“When will I see you again?”
“The next time I'm craving some lamb chops, I guess.”

And with that, she was gone.

Parts of this actually made me laugh out loud! If this was what you were going for well done, although I am hopelessly tired and hysteria is probably setting in. Keep writing this! You have real talent

Very good. I love how you did this through the point of view of the man who died. It gives very emotional and descriptive insight. Hope to read more of this soon!!! Good luck and Happy Writing!!!! Keep up the good and amazing work!!! Hopefully you post more soon!
Soulkana<3

Wow, I love this. I really do. I don't even know why I like it so much, but I literally, *literally* couldn't stop reading. Anyhow, I agree that the huge jump from the narrator's funeral to his dad's is too sudden. I was like "Wha...?" I have to say, once the duologue started, and Lucy entered the story, I didn't like it as much...

“Hey, you're his son, aren't you?”, she asked. There is a no need for a comma after the question.
“Yeah, I am, did you know him?” This sounds strangely. The pauses caused by the commas seemed unnatural. It would read better like this, "Yeah, I am. Did you know him?" Or, "Yeah, did you know him?" Or, "Yeah, I am; did you know him?"
Maybe it's just me, but that's what I think.

“Not really, I mean, he was my butcher, that*'s about as far as our relationship went. I am sorry for your loss, though.”
* ad a ' there.
“Thanks, I appreciate that.”
Try replacing 'that' for 'it.'

I liked that she was the one who seemed genuinely sorry. I understood how he felt.


“I'm Lucy.”
“ I'm Oliver”
“It's a pleasure to meet you Oliver. So, how long will you be in town for?”
“I'm not exactly sure yet, I'll be talking over the shop for a while, at least until my mom can handle things on her own.”

^
This part seemed kind of just thrown in there so we would know these characters' names. Idk if that's true, but I got that feeling. Also, "It's a pleasure to meet you, Oliver" sounds kind of strange. Maybe that's how she would talk, but I think she'd be like "Nice to meet you. How long are you gonna be in town?" Or something. It just seems that your diolgue seems a little unnatural in places. To me, anyway.

The parts where she walks away in mid-conversation added an interesting touch, and I smiled at the part where he asked if he could join her to the reception.

“If you could say anything to your dad right now, what would it be?”, she asked.
^ Again, you don't need a comma following a question.

I kind of disliked the part where he was describing why Lucy came, and going on about her lips..it lost my interest a bit.

Nice ending. I have to say, as I started out with saying, I really really enjoyed this, (surprised myself, honest) but one last comment is; doesn't this seem a bit too long for a prologue? It's more chapter length, or part of a chapter. A prologue should probably be a bit shorter, to fit in the category of 'pro' logue. Hehe Please message me when the next chapter is out!!!

Hi there, Jpah!
Thank you for the request, I'm here to review this for you. ^^

I DIED ON JANUARY 12TH, 2006.

Opening lines can be either important or non important depending on the circumstance but here, it's seems to be quite important, lol. Also, it's quite a catch, a kick as a matter of fact to grabbing someone's attention. However, I do suggest you not caps the date. It makes it looks overly-dramatic.

“Hey, you're his son, aren't you?”, She asked.
“Yeah, I am, did you know him?”
“Not really, I mean, he was my butcher, that's about as far as our relationship went. I am sorry for your loss, though.”
“Thanks, I appreciate that.”

How is this in any way the most 'real' condolence he received all day? To me, it felt forced, unreal and like she didn't care much at all. Just like a pat on the back while saying, "Hey, sorry that your dad died. I didn't know him but he was my butcher. lol. So yeah, sorry."
Maybe you should explain a little more about the feelings behind her words or give us more of a description of the setting and emotions.

“The reception. There's supposed to be some good food.”

Do people really have receptions at funerals? I wouldn't really know because the only funeral I went to was my Grandmother's and we did not serve shrimp and dip for everyone. I think it's just weird you'd fill your belly and eat after seeing/ mourning someone's death. Take this with a grain of salt though because as I said, I'm not very experienced with funeral business. lol

Okay, so I'm not going to nitpick every little thing but there are some things you should look over. Most of that involves a bit of grammar mistakes that you could probably catch by yourself which involve commas and sentence construction. What I noticed was some of your sentences were too telly, in fact half this chapter was a bit too telly. You told us many things at once which isn't really a good thing. Try showing a little more by throwing in some action in there to balance the piece out.

Another thing I want to point out is the dialogue. Your dialogue is too short and isn't punctuated correctly. Let's take a look at one of your dialogues right here in this scene:

“Hey, you're his son, aren't you?”, She asked.
“Yeah, I am, did you know him?”
“Not really, I mean, he was my butcher, thats about as far as our relationship went. I am sorry for your loss, though.”
“Thanks, I appreciate that.”

"Hey, you're his son, aren't you?", She asked.
Wrong.
->>"Hey, you're his son, aren't you?" she asked.
*Notice how I left out the comma? Also, I did not capitalize 'she'.
If you want to know more about dialogue punctuation and all that awesome stuff, check out our YWS Grammar and Research forum that we have. They're quite helpful if you want to go over the basics. While some website may make it confusing and difficult, YWS makes it quick and easy to learn the basics so be sure to look that over. ^^

Overall however, I do think this piece has potential. It's interesting in it's own way and has unique characters to appeal to the readers so I will give you ten points for that. =] I'm kind of upset that you made so many characters die in the first chapter though, this means that we don't really get a feel for them or care much if our MC is experiencing a loss.

Also in some areas, I feel like you're just going with the flow - not thinking much of what's going to happen so the writing feels like it's on thin ice, if you know what I meant. A few random things going on. Anyway, it was interesting and hopefully you have a good plot to rip from all of this. :)

Keep writing and if you have any questions, just shoot me a message.

All the best,
-Shear

Very nice! Love the opening line! When I saw your title, I was not that impressed but figured, why not read it? The first line caught my attention instantaneously, and the story kept me engrossed.

This is a very outside the box tale and it is very much appreciated! I do however wonder, where will it go?

But my funeral still isn't for a few months. It's only September. Right now, I'm at another funeral. It's my Father's funeral, and it is nothing like my own.

This is...a very interesting jump. I would recommend more explanation but...I rather like the suddenness of the jump, it is unique and unexpected. In my opinion unexpected is a good thing. I have a feeling you intend to connect the dots in later chapters?

~FW~