Unveiled Truth (temporary title)

Just so there's no confusion, the MC is a boy. His name's Dean, hence the title at the top. Thanks, folks.

Prologue

Dean
(Baghdad, Iraq, 2003)

The ground outside is steaming from the heat of the hanging sun. The sweltering heat never lets up in this desert, but I still love it. Regardless, I dare not step out onto the blazing floor barefoot. I slip on my father’s leather sandals - still too big on me - and walk out the door of my uncle’s house to play with the other boys.

We are vacationing in Al Hilla, Baghdad, Mamma and Baba's home town. The city is busy and bustling, as usual . Taxi drivers honk their horns at children who are running around the roads carelessly. The neighbors are conversing with each other in a way that would make anyone who doesn't speak Arabic think they are having a fight.

The market across the street is as big as a shopping mall, but made up of many booths and tents to shield everyone from the hot sun. Merchants sell a variety of things on each stand; jewelry, carpets, prayer rugs, beads, stones and produce. They speak rapidly and persuasively to unwilling customers.

My mother had run down to the market moments ago to buy some eggs. Noora, my ten-year-old sister, is scraping out a layout of hopscotch on the cracked sidewalk and explaining the game to our younger cousins. They watch eagerly over her shoulder. Inside, my father is having tea and watching the soccer game on the tiny television set with my uncles.

I cross the length of the sidewalk and turn down the shaded alley to where the only other boys in the family, Ali and both Mohammads, are playing and join them in their game of soccer. It's difficult to play in Baba's big sandals. I keep tripping over the soles every time I try to kick the ball into the goal. My cousins take advantage of this with malicious laughter. Finally I decide to just take the shoes off; the ground is much cooler in the alleyway.

I play with them until the sun rises into the middle of the sky. The ezan - the call for midday prayers - reverberates across the city.

My cousins throw the ball down and scurry out of the alleyway to make it on time. I put my father’s sandals back on and trailed after them.

I cross over to the sunlight and my foot barely touches the sidewalk before the world suddenly quivers beneath me, followed by a noise that claps as loud as a thousand thunderstorms. My hands fly up to cover my ears and I tumble onto the hot, shaking ground. The heat sears into my skin, but the convulsing ground won't allow me to stand back up.

The earth joggles for only a few moments and the blaring thunder lasts a split second before I feel hot gritty sand and bits of shrapnel land all over me, burning holes into my clothes and cutting my face. I squeeze my eyes shut and suffer through the throbbing, blistering pain, biting my lower lip to force myself not to scream.

I begin to hear other noises through the loud ringing in my ears. Screaming. The rhythm of feet trampling on the ground. The echo of car alarms howling in the air. My eardrums are still pulsating and it sounds as though I'm hearing everything from underwater.

I slowly open my eyes, seeing the world from a vertical angle. The air is filled with heavy black smoke that stings my eyes and makes me cough. It swirled in a dark billow above my head.

There are other people on the ground, frozen in shock, crying out in terror or trying to get away. Fearfully expecting the thunder to start again, I get onto my hands and knees and begin to crawl on the sizzling sidewalk under the thick layer of smoke, praying that everything is all right. I keep my head down and try not to breathe in too much of the ash, ignoring the stinging of the hot ground.

Some time later, I get close enough to the house to be able to see through the dark smoke. My uncles are in front of the house with my father, who is barefoot. They are yelling at the top of their lungs and trying to gather the children back into the house with my aunts. My ears are still a little muffled and I can’t understand what they are saying, but they scream a single word repeatedly that makese me understand what is happening.

“Infijar! Infijar!”

Infijar. Explosion.

My stomach lurches into my throat. Only one thought comes to my mind. I turn my head to look across the street at the market my mother had gone to. The black smoke has thinned down some, but there is nothing left of the market except rubble and flames surrounded by dark smog. It is completely destroyed.

My body becomes paralyzed. The ground burning into my hands and knees is nothing.

My father is shouting my name. His bellows ring higher and louder than my uncles’ voices, but my mind is racing and he sounds very far away. I feel like I am hearing everything from inside of a suffocating, inescapable tunnel.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see him rush over to me. He swears and takes his sandals off my feet and puts them on his own. He picks me up and throws me over his shoulder, runs through the smoke and back to the house.

He sets me down next to the door and tells me to stay while he went to see if everything is okay. But I know the true meaning beneath his words.

The haze in my mind instantly clears and iss replaced by a blazing determination. I set my jaw and tell him I am coming with him. His dark eyes narrow, his lower lip curls in and for a moment I wonder if he is going to slap me across the face.

“Mamma!”

Suddenly my sister bursts out of the house in hysterics. Her little face is streaked with tears. She pumps her legs and runs down the pathway to the street, heading for the demolished market. Baba wheels around and grabs her, still kicking and screaming, and throws her into my arms. She yells Mamma's name again and tries to wriggle free. I tighten my arms around her like a straitjacket, forcing her to be still.

I look back up at Baba. His eyes are on fire. He screams at me to protect her and threatens to break both my legs if he sees me anywhere near the market. Then he spins around and sprints across the road, disappearing into the thick black smoke.

I don’t intend on listening to him, but I have to make Noora safe before I dp anything. I pull her back into the house, ignoring her sobbing protests. As I cross the threshold, I hear sirens in the distance. The Iraqi police are coming with the American soldiers. But I know I am not going to wait for them.

I go to the back of the house where my aunts and the rest of my cousins are. I set Noora down next to them. She is too weak with grief to fight me now. Her shoulders slump and she stares down at the ground crying, still mumbling Mamma's name over and over again. I tell her everything will be all right, but the weight of the lie is heavy even on my own tongue. She lifts her little head to look at me. There is no light of hope in her dark, wet eyes.

I kiss her on the forehead and tell her to stay put while I went to check up on things. I recognize the familiarity of Baba's words and swallow the hard lump in my throat. I don’t like lying to my sister. Regardless, I turn and walk out of the house without a second glance.

My aunts are too busy trying to calm the other children down to notice me leaving. I know it will be hard to breath in the ashy air, so pick up my Baba’s checkered turban along the way and cover my nostrils and mouth as I cross the street to where the bombing had occurred.

The orange sunlight combined with the heavy smoke makes everything look hazy and dark. I step over the hot, flaming rubble carefully. My uncles’ voices are loud and thunderous as they call out for my father. I am shorter than them and the dark fog allows me to slip around the wreckage without being seen.

I make my way along the demolished market, not entirely sure where I am going because of the fog, but determined to find Baba and Mamma, if she had survived. The thought tugs painfully at the invisible strings tied to my core, but I push the idea aside quickly and continue.

I go deeper into the catastrophe and my uncles’ shouts turn into echoes reverberating from the corners of the destroyed space. The heat is unbearable here. I'm sure I am the only one who dares to travel this far into the heart of danger. Cindery particles float in the air, making it difficult to breathe even with my father’s turban over my mouth and nose. The smoke rakes against my tongue and the back of my throat, making me gag and choke. I struggle to keep my eyes open against the stinging as I walk. I keep running into the crumbled, burning walls of what is left of the market, but I'm glad that I'm able to see clearly; I don’t even want to imagine the dead bodies of the civilians scattered all over.

I creep further down the aftermath and my uncles’ voices begin to fade away and the loud sirens become soft resonance in the distance. Another noise becomes audible. It is faint, but it is clear. It sounds like someone is weeping. I follow it, holding my hands out to guide me through the rubble. It gets louder and louder as I move forward.

I find myself walking along a blasted down pathway leading into the ruins of a store. Through my squinted eyes, I see that only half of the small building is still standing. The rest is lying in a crumbled heap on the sand. The sobbing drifts from around the destroyed wall and I run around it.

Underneath the broken ceiling and surrounded by the dark smoke, my father is kneeling next to a person on the ground, crying in a way I never thought a man could cry. The echoes of his sobs fill the ruined space. My gaze moves over to the person on the floor. It's hard to discern the face, but when I finally recognize who it is, a wrecking ball crushes my heart.

It was Mamma. Her entire face is burned off. Her skin, once tan and beautiful, is now nothing more than burnt flesh. The shape of her skull is protruding from underneath the scorched canvas and her eyeballs stick out and moved frantically from side to side because her eyelids are gone. Her clothes are singed through and I can see the extent of the damage. Splotchy, charred redness coveres her arms and chest, but the worst part of it all is that her lungs are clearly visible. They expand and contract with each gasping breath she takes. I am amazed she is still alive. Barely alive. She must have been standing at the heart of the explosion.

I am suddenly bound to the spot I am standing in, unable to take my eyes off her. She would have looked horrific to anyone else, but the only thing I see is my mother, mangled and burned. I know there is no way she will survive this, and it shatters my heart.

Suddenly her jerking eyes stop on me. Even though she is raw and terrible, it's impossible not to recognize those dark eyes. They pierce through my soul like a spear. She slowly lifts her long, burnt arm and tries to reach out to me. She wheezes my name, but her voice is barely audible. Hearing that wheeze makes my insides tighten painfully, but I still can’t move.

My father snaps his head back when he hears my name. His red, tear-filled eyes land on me and I feel like a deer caught in the headlights. He stands up and glowers down at me from his towering height, making me feel exceptionally small in comparison. He opens his mouth to shout at me, but before he can get a word out, the loud sirens coming from outside suddenly stop, replaced with even louder streams of, “Move, move, move!” and, “Yallah! Yallah!”

An instant later, American soldiers and Iraqi officers flood into the ruined space. Baba looks around at them frantically and crouches back down, holds on tightly to my mother and yells at me to leave. A soldier grabs him by the arms and tries to detach him from Mamma. He won’t let go. It takes three more men – two policemen and one soldier – to finally pull him away.

At the same time, another officer takes me and throws me over his shoulder. I yell, protest and bang my fist against his back, but it is no use. I wish I was big like my father so that I can have fight him off.

As I am being carried out, I look back and see the other soldiers trying to move Mamma. They are very slow, trying to be gentle with her. Her breaths are coming short and quick now and her lungs jitter. Her eyes narrow with the effort it takes her to breathe, but her gaze stays locked onto mine. I shriek her name and try to reach out to her, but I'm being carried further and further away from her until she disappears into the black smoke with the rest of the soldiers.

I see my father being dragged out by the soldier and the officers. They are having a difficult time trying to pull him away; he keeps fighting back. The soldier tells the policemen to take him away and runs back to the disaster to try to help my mother. I hear him shout something about another bomb.

The officers tighten their grips on Baba's arms and force him back. He shrieks a constant stream of profanities and kicks and protests, just like my sister had earlier. But they hook their arms over his shoulders and lug him away with his feet still digging into the ground.

I call out to him as I am being carried by the officer, but my cry is drowned out by the deafening clap of a second explosion. Another pillar of black smoke shoots into the air and blocks out the blazing sun with my mother and the soldiers at the heart.
* * *

Thanks for reading. Let me know what you think.

That's so sad! Put it back up! I'll read it!
((PM me if you do so I don't forget))

-Carly

Hi there! Always glad to read more of your writing. ^_^

Once again, I really liked the little details of description you used to show us your setting through the eyes of your character—I think this prologue does an excellent job of making us truly see the world through his eyes, and making us feel what he’s feeling. I think the final scene in the market was especially done well—heartbreaking and horrifying, really showing the terrible effects of violence on an innocent child who began the story so very like any other kid.

The character interactions, or what I saw of them, were also very good; I could really feel how much each and every member of the family cared for each other.

I think the bits of extra description and action you added at the beginning improve this piece a lot—although it was very good in the original, I think this little extra bit is what helped make it excellent. For the moment, I think you struck a perfect balance between description and more… movement and action-y prose (if that makes any sense. XD)

The only prose related critique I have is this:

The ground outside was steaming from the heat of the hanging sun. The sweltering heat never let up in this desert, but I still loved it.

The repetition of “heat” here sounds kind of redundant.

Otherwise, strongly written all around, with an interesting plot concept and excellent characters. (I can’t comment much on the overall plot yet, as it’s only the prologue). Looking forward to more—you’re an excellent writer, and I know you’ll do very well with this.

Hehe 'Nevermind...Carly wants to read it now.'

Dreamworx95 wrote:The ground outside was steaming from the heat of the hanging sun. The sweltering heat never let up in this desert, but I still loved it. Regardless, I dared not step out onto the blazing floor barefoot. I slipped on my father’s leather sandals - still too big on me - and walked out the door of my uncle’s house to play with the other boys.

I really liked this opening paragraph. You introduced the scene well and I liked the language you chose, especially the underlined line.

Dreamworx95 wrote:We were vacationing in Al Hilla, Baghdad, my mother and father’s home town.

Kind of a dangerous place to vacation to...

Dreamworx95 wrote:Noora, ((is this a typo or is it really Noora?)) my nine-year-old sister, was scraping out a layout of hopscotch on the cracked sidewalk and explaining the game to our younger cousins.

Dreamworx95 wrote:I crossed over to the sunlight and my foot barely touched the sidewalk before the world suddenly quivered beneath me, followed by a noise that clapped as loud as a thousand thunderstorms. My hands flew up to cover my ears and I tumbled onto the hot, shaking ground. The heat seared into my skin, but the convulsing ground wouldn’t allow me to stand back up.

Great description

Dreamworx95 wrote:My stomach lurched into my throat. Only one thought came to my mind. I turned my head to gaze across the street at the market my mother had gone to. The black smoke had thinned down some, but there was nothing left of the market except rubble and flames surrounded by the dark smog. It was completely destroyed.

Oh no!
You've built this up really well. I feel for Dean and his mother, I'm anxious, I'm excited to read on.

Dreamworx95 wrote:It was my mother. Her entire face was burned off. Her skin, once tan and beautiful, was now nothing more than burnt flesh. The shape of her skull was protruding from underneath the scorched canvas and her eyeballs stuck out and moved frantically from side to side because her eyelids were gone. Her clothes were singed through and I could see the extent of the damage. Splotchy, charred redness covered her arms and chest, but the worst part of it all was that her lungs were clearly visible. They expanded and contracted with each gasping breath she took. I was amazed she was still alive. Barely alive. She must have been standing at the heart of the explosion.

Ew!
Oh my gosh burn victims scare me
You described this so well!


Dang. This was really, really, really good. I'm so glad you put it back up.
You did a really good job with the setting and describing what Bagdad is like. I've never been there (and don't really intend to) but you made me feel like I was, which is not easy to do. You really know a lot about the culture and customs of this area.
I really did feel connected to your characters and it was really heartbreaking in the end.
If I could I would give you ten gold stars but I can only give you one :'(

Good job!

-Carly

Hey Worx,

Here is my promised review. I've been really busy, so I'm sorry I haven't had time to do this before now.

I'm going to do a more general review because this is a second draft, and the editing from here onwards is more a process of refining what you have, than reworking your story. We'll try to take a look at some minor changes that allow your character to shine through a little more. We'll also try to target specific points that might help to hold the reader's attention until the gripping pieces of your story.

My first comment upon reading this is that it is a far greater piece than the first draft of it was. You have successfully drawn emotion out of us, and made us feel some of the character's pain. I really feel this story is up to your usual brilliant standard, and it has proved to be a realistic portrayal that pulls our strings remarkably well.

What I would change:
Prejudices and feeling: While we see quite a bit of your character, I think that you do need to show us some of his prejudices and feelings. The most potent example of this in my opinion is the fact that we are told nothing about what he thinks of soldiers at the end of the chapter.

We are told this:

An instant later, American soldiers and Iraqi officers flooded into the ruined space.

What does he feel when he sees these soldiers? Is he disgusted? Does he think they planted the bomb? Does he think they're coming to save him? The answers here need to show us your MC's prejudices, as nothing can tell us more about him than this. Does he understand his father's response? This is the sort of thing that builds a character.

Dialogue: Long narratives are often hard on a reader's eyes. I often try to get around this problem by interspersing them with dialogue. Dialogue plays a large part in developing your character as well. Both in what he says and how he says it. It also creates a more intimate relationship between us and the characters. Perhaps give us some of the communication between him and Ali and the Mohammeds. Show us how he reacts to being the bullied one.

Less thoughts, More do's: I would suggest showing us what you did more than what you thought under many circumstances. Do make sure that you only tell us interesting things that you did, and more importantly things that will help us know more about your character. Show us emotive actions and emotive responses. The reason for this is to help you hold the readers attention as events are far more gripping to read than thoughts, unless the thoughts are remarkably potent.

My overall impression:
Characters: I do think that you've done a pretty good job building up your MC. We do care about him and we do care about what happens to him. Perhaps other characters would help us see his character a little stronger, though.

Atmosphere: I think that the angle which you take here is great. I like the detached feeling that you have with the events, but I do think that while trying to create this effect, you have neglected to mention one or two vital feelings that even your detached MC would remember.

Sentence building: This is great. I specifically liked this one paragraph:

My body became paralyzed. The ground burning into my hands and knees was nothing. My father was shouting my name. His bellows rang higher and louder than my uncles’ voices, but my mind was racing and he sounded very far away. I felt like I was hearing everything from inside of a suffocating, inescapable tunnel.

The delayed shock was a clever idea, and was carried through excellently.

My Impression: You have a marvelous piece here. You cannot even compare its quality to that of its predecessor. I do hope that I have helped.

Have a great one!

Zan - Thanks for the critique. You always encourage me.

Carly - I appreciate you taking the time to read this. Thank you for telling me to put this back up.

Yoda - Thank you for the helpful review. I'll be sure to take your advice.

Hellooo!

I'm so excited about this new story! I can tell it's going to be great!

The sweltering heat never let up in this desert, but I still loved it.

I love this bit of character here. I like this guy already.

You set the scene beautifully--the town is definitely believable.

I slowly opened my eyes, seeing the world from a vertical angle

Question: vertical is up and down, yes? So wouldn't we all see the world from a vertical angle while standing?

Your imagery is great. It's powerful, helping me feel what Dean is feeling as the bomb's exploding. Excellent job!

All in all, a very emotional piece. You're right, it's tons more serious than Clover's Curse. However, you did a bang up job in describing all the horrors and fears that come with a bombing. (Or i think, anyway, having never been part of one myself.)

I can't wait to read what comes next. I sure hope we get to learn more about Dean, since there wasn't much character building past the stubborness and the like. In fact, I'm disappointed that i couldnt find more to fix so i could help you like you helped me. Oh well.

Anywho, thanks for the great read! Will you PM me with the next chapter?

--Anna

Heya Worx!

Really, I couldn't find anything wrong so I think I'll comment on a few things. The first draft--though it was good--was nothing compared to this. This is a wonderful second draft I must say

I love the emotion you protrayed through your MC. Especially near the ending and after the bomb. It's always wonderful to know how the characters are feeling--and it is rather hard to accomplish. It was heartbreaking to read about but you didn't make to sentimental. Congrats!

The imagery is beautiful. Everything was so vividly detailed I could see it all. Especially the bombing part. I enjoyed how you described everything through your MC. The way he saw it. The setting is so believable and alive!

When the boys were playing together, you only mention that they teased him for wearing the large sandals. It is only a prologue but perhaps if you had some words exchanged between them it would help

Enjoy the way you showed the love between the family members, the way they were looking out for one another.

Even though I read the first draft, I still had that little shock factor when we found out about his mother.

I really enjoy this so please keep it up. And I know, totally not a helpful review but it's so good!

Meadow

I loved reading this and it was so sad. Here is just a few thoughts I had:

The ground outside was steaming from the heat of the hanging sun. The sweltering heat never let up in this desert, but I still loved it. Regardless, I dared not step out onto the blazing floor barefoot. I slipped on my father’s leather sandals - still too big on me - and walked out the door of my uncle’s house to play with the other boys.

maybe blazing ground???

The neighbors were conversing with each other in a way that would have made anyone who didn’t speak Arabic think they were having a fight.

I love that line

The market across the street was as big as a shopping mall, but made up of many booths and tents to shield everyone from the hot sun. Merchants sold a variety of things on each stand; jewelry, carpets, prayer rugs, beads, stones and produce. They spoke rapidly and persuasively to unwilling customers.

It was difficult to play in my father’s big sandals. I kept tripping over the soles every time I tried to kick the ball into the goal.

I liked this, his wearing his father's sandals is like a metaphor for him trying to fill his father's shoes as it were later on, making sure his sister's safe and trying to find his mother. I thought it was good.

The earth joggled for only a few moments and the blaring thunder lasted a split second before I felt hot gritty sand and bits of shrapnel land all over me, burning holes into my clothes and cutting my face. I squeezed my eyes shut and suffered through the throbbing, blistering pain, biting my lower lip to force myself not to scream.

I don't like the word joggled here, I'm not exactly sure why but it doesn't sound violent enough as it were to describe what you are describing.

I began to hear other noises through the loud ringing in my ears. Screaming. The rhythm of feet trampling on the ground. The echo of car alarms howling in the air. My eardrums were still pulsating and it sounded as though I was hearing everything from underwater.

I think the last sentance is redundant. You have already stated that he has ringing in his ears so the fact that he can't hear properly is already established.

My body became paralyzed. The ground burning into my hands and knees was nothing. My father was shouting my name. His bellows rang higher and louder than my uncles’ voices, but my mind was racing and he sounded very far away. I felt like I was hearing everything from inside of a suffocating, inescapable tunnel.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him finally notice me groveling on the sidewalk. He rushed over to me, swore and took his sandals off my feet and put them on his own. He picked me up and threw me over his shoulder, ran through the smoke and back to the house.

He set me down next to the door and told me to stay while he went to see if everything was okay. But I knew the true meaning beneath his words. He wanted to see if my mother was still alive.

Ok he must be quite a sight by this stage, you mentioned earlier that he had been his by shrapnel and his face was all cut up, yet no one seems to notice this. I know the most important thing in their minds is his mother who may or may not be alive but surely someone will remark on his condition maybe even his younger sister. Maybe.

I didn’t intend on listening to him,

He already listened to him, but he didn't intend to obey him.

I made my way along the demolished market, not entirely sure where I was going because of the fog, but positive that I would find my father and my mother, if she had survived. The thought tugged painfully at the invisible strings tied to my core, but I pushed the idea aside quickly and continued.

He seems way too together and with it and not grief striken or scared. A bomb has just exploded, his mother might be dead, he is going into a gory bombsite isn't he going to be a little more emotional, frantically trying to search through the wreakage or something other than this staunch calmness.

It was my mother. Her entire face was burned off. Her skin, once tan and beautiful, was now nothing more than burnt flesh. The shape of her skull was protruding from underneath the scorched canvas and her eyeballs stuck out and moved frantically from side to side because her eyelids were gone. Her clothes were singed through and I could see the extent of the damage. Splotchy, charred redness covered her arms and chest, but the worst part of it all was that her lungs were clearly visible. They expanded and contracted with each gasping breath she took. I was amazed she was still alive. Barely alive. She must have been standing at the heart of the explosion.

I was suddenly bound to the spot I was standing in, unable to take my eyes off her. She would have looked horrific to anyone else, but the only thing I saw was my mother, mangled and burned. I knew there was no way she would survive this, and it shattered my heart.

Once again, he seems way too coldly observant as it were, maybe thats just the way it is, or maybe he has been bought up seeing horrible sights but personally, if I saw my mother like that I wouldn't be able to comment on the shape of her skull and note that she wasn't going to live for much longer, I would be hysterical.

A soldier grabbed him by the arms and tried to detach him from my mother futilely.

And futilely tried to wrench him from my mother?
I just don't particularly like the sentence ending with futilely.

At the same time, another officer took me and threw me over his shoulder. I yelled, protested and banged my fist against his back, but it was no use. I wished I was big like my father so that I could have fought him off.

I think protested is rendundant.

I think banged is not violent enoguh as it were, he would be trying much harder to get away so maybe he would be hammering his fists or something similar.

Overall I thought this was very well written and I enjoyed reading it very much.

Alright guys, thanks for the reviews. Greatly appreciated. Here is the first chapter. I decided to post them all in the same thread:

Chapter One

Noora
(Everett, Washington, 2009)

Green. Brown. Grey.

The colors intermingled with each other in the woods all around me. The brown branches were so sodden from the constant rain they were almost black, and they webbed together in complicated patterns like an elaborate tapestry. The dew that clung to the leaves glowed dully in the grey morning light, embroidering the tapestry with hundreds of tiny diamonds. The silvery clouds in the white, sunless sky drifted and swirled gracefully above the canopy of trees. The air was cold and crisp and smelled of the after wash of last night’s rainstorm.

I’d lived here almost my entire life, but the beauty of this forest land never failed to mesmerize me. Even the rarely sunny grey skies were interesting. Better than the endless pale blue heavens above Iraq, the sky here was always doing something. The clouds moved, broke apart, made shapes, poured, sprinkled, hailed, snowed, shined. Unlike the golden buildings spread across Baghdad, the glistening mountains and bright green trees here were much prettier to look at. The serenity of Washington State soothed me, allowed me to feel and think freely without the constant hubbub of the busy streets and the chattiness of the people in the Middle East.

I walked along the dirt trail, looking at the tall trees surrounding me. The earth felt soft beneath my feet, sank underneath my boots. A little stream made its way around the trees in a craggy pattern, feeding a small creek nearby. I stopped at the edge of the pond, crouched down on my feet and stared at my reflection in the tranquil green waters.

I looked so much like my mother it was hard to believe it wasn’t her staring back at me. A burgundy scarf – a hijab – wrapped elegantly around her oval face. Her wide, dark brown eyes gazed out at me from the murky depths. The eyebrows were long, thick and slightly curved. There was a small cleft in her chin and her lips were full and rosy.

My mother wasn’t so different from me on the inside, either. She loved this woodland just as much as I did. From my memories of her, she was always quiet, thoughtful and serene; a nice balance for my stern father. She always wore a small smile on her lips, even in her sleep, and her eyes were always euphoric. It wasn’t hard to see that she was content with her life.

Six years had passed since the bombing in Baghdad took her from us. Two suicide bombers had blown up the market across the street from my uncle’s house. The first bomb killed twelve civilians, and left my mother barely alive. The second bomb finished the job, taking her and a handful of soldiers and policemen with it.

My heart tightened painfully at the memory. I remember the day of the bombing more clearly than any other day of my life. The loss of my mother had torn a big piece out of the heart of our family, leaving the rest shattered. None of us were the same.

I crossed my arms over my knees and kept staring at the reflection in the water. Yes, this was the face of my mother, merged with the face of my father; the dark eyes were set above low, jagged cheekbones. The jaw line was longer, more defined. The smooth canvas of skin was a tawny bronze, whereas my mother’s was a lighter shade of gold, and there was a tiny dark speck on the left side of the slightly hooked nose. The most noticeable difference was that this face wore no smile, and there was certainly no happiness in her eyes.

I sighed a heavy, misty breath through my nose, tilted my head back to stare up at the grey morning sky. I’d developed the habit of taking walks in the woods just after dawn prayers, making sure to get back to the house before the family woke up. The sky was getting lighter now, so I knew it was time to start walking back home.

I stood up and looked back down at the water. The face was now obscured by a lily pad floating on the surface. I didn’t know how long I watched it drift before I finally turned around and walked out of the woods, leaving my mother in the creek behind me. The wet leaves made no sound underneath my boots.

* * *

(Baghdad, Iraq, 2003)

Jasmine scented incense fills the air of my aunt and uncle’s bedroom. The incense sticks sit on the windowsill and the tiny streams of smoke mix with the silver moonlight, casting swirling, iridescent shapes in the air. The smoky shapes dance off each other, and then evaporate as they gracefully rise up to the ceiling.

This is the first night I sleep away from my father since my mother’s funeral. Her death is hard on everyone, but it is exceptionally difficult for me, Dean and Baba. My father was driven into a deranged state of mind that first week without her. His eyes were crazed and he mumbled Mama’s name over and over again. I was too terrified to go anywhere near him. But ever since the funeral, he hasn’t cried, he hasn’t spoken a word to anyone. He is lifeless. This frightened me even more.

He has finally spoken today. Usually Dean and I spent the night with him along with one or two other family members, but tonight, Baba requested to be alone. Now Dean and I are sleeping with Aunt Rokaya and Uncle Rahman

Rokaya’s arms wind tightly around me. On my other side, Rahman holds us both and my head is borrowed into his neck. We sleep without blankets; Iraq is at it’s hottest during the summer. Though the atmosphere is quiet and the sound of my aunt and uncles’ breathing is rhythmic, I know that no one in the house is really asleep.

Dean is sitting on the windowsill next to the incense sticks, the only one who doesn’t pretend to be asleep. Moonlight spills over his face and he stares at the starlit sky with a grave expression. For a boy of only eleven years, he looks very old now. That haunted look hasn’t left his eyes since the day of the bombing, and I have the feeling that it won’t for a long time.

My throat suddenly feels very dry. I’m thirsty. I cautiously pull myself away from my aunt and uncle. Rahman continues to pretend to sleep, Rokaya opens her green eyes and looks at me.

“What is it, habibti?” she says.

“I’m thirsty,” I reply.

She nods. “You come right back here when you’re finished.”

I nod too. Then I walk over to the windowsill, pick up a lantern sitting next to Dean. He watches me, expressionless, and then returns to staring out the window. I light the lantern and quietly leave, closing the door behind me.

The moonlight that falls from the windows at the top of the right side of the hallway illuminates the left half of the corridor, the doors on either side of which my family members are supposedly sleeping behind. The floor creaks beneath my bare feet as I walk.

My father’s room is on the end of the right side of the hallway, cloaked in darkness. I slow down as I come near it; the door is not completely closed. I see now that a small beam of silver light seeps through the crack between the door and the door frame.

I halt in front of it, sensing that something is wrong. Whenever my father ever has the chance to be alone, he keeps the doors closed and locked at all times. I stand there and stare for a long time. Then I see something. The light from the lantern I hold reveals a strange shadow on the ground through the crack of the door. Hesitantly, I push the door aside. I look down and I am horrified by what I see.

My father, my baba, is lying face down on the thickly carpeted ground. There is a bottle of pills in his left hand. They are the pills the doctor gave him to help him sleep.

A cold wave rips through my body. I now understand why he wanted to be alone tonight.

The silence in the air is shattered by my blood curdling scream.

***

Thanks for taking the time to read. Please give me all the comments/criticisms you can.

Hey there! I’m back, and somewhat punctual this time! Who would have thought!

I really like the change in perspective in this chapter, it helps to develop Noora’s character which in turn helps expand the circle of developed characters in the story. I also like the fact that this chapter steps back from the original event in the marketplace and gives us a look at how it has affected your characters over time.

I think the description in this chapter was really well done, it set both scenes perfectly. I think the forest scene very much captures Noora’s emotions as she walks, and the description of the silent house and the hall at the end was just chilling enough to let us know that something bad is about to happen, but not so much that it feels overdone.

Unlike the golden buildings spread across Baghdad, the glistening mountains and bright green trees here were much prettier to look at.

I found this sentence a little awkward, though. I think “The glistening mountains and bright green trees here were much prettier to look at than the golden buildings spread across Baghdad.” Might read more clearly.

I did have kind of a question about the ending, though—I don’t think most nine-year-olds would realize and understand immediately what had happened. A moment of confusion before her scream might seem a little more realistic. *shrug* I dunno.

Anyway, this is an excellent continuation, and I look forward to reading more, as always. ^_^

Hello Worx,

Before I actually start the review, I want to just say that after this chapter, I am even more amazed at your capacity as a writer. There is little I can do to critique this as it is so great. We'll take a look at the one or two things that I can still tell you, but this review is not going to be up to my usual standard as I don't believe there is that much that can be done to improve this.

Dialogue: Once again, I would advocate the use of more dialogue. This is not essential in the first part of the narrative as she is alone, and therefore her talking to anyone would be unnatural. In the second part, I would try to add a little more. Not much: just enough to break the long narrative. The little dialogue that you have is superbly crafted and I would really like to see a little more of that.

Sentence Constructions: You want to try to vary sentence constructions as much as possible to avoid repetition. For instance, take the first paragraph of this chapter:

The colors intermingled with each other in the woods all around me. The brown branches were so sodden from the constant rain they were almost black, and they webbed together in complicated patterns like an elaborate tapestry. The dew that clung to the leaves glowed dully in the grey morning light, embroidering the tapestry with hundreds of tiny diamonds. The silvery clouds in the white, sunless sky drifted and swirled gracefully above the canopy of trees. The air was cold and crisp and smelled of the after wash of last night’s rainstorm.

Each of these sentences begins with the word "The". It reads pretty repetitively, so try do what you can to avoid this.

Description: I don't think you're quite there yet, but especially towards the beginning of the chapter some of the description seems a little forced. Try not to go all purple prosed on us. Remember, you can afford to leave out description if it might seem a little over the top. Rather do this than over-describe. Some guidelines as to what can be left out if some description needs to be omitted: Keep the description that is most important for your reader to know. Also keep the description that your reader would be interested in knowing.

Characters: I just had to comment on how effective the switch in perspective was in building Noora's character. You did a great job with describing from her perspective, and we can relate to her as a person. Great job!

My overall impression: I'm sorry my review had to be so brief, but there truly was nothing more to say. You've done a superb job on this piece, and as a result I have given you a star.

Sorry it took kind of long, but here's my review.

Dreamworx95 wrote:The colors intermingled with each other in the woods all around me. The brown branches were so sodden from the constant rain they were almost black, and they webbed together in complicated patterns like an elaborate tapestry. The dew that clung to the leaves glowed dully in the grey morning light, embroidering the tapestry with hundreds of tiny diamonds. The silvery clouds in the white, sunless sky drifted and swirled gracefully above the canopy of trees. The air was cold and crisp and smelled of the after wash of last night’s rainstorm.

Terrif description.

Dreamworx95 wrote:I looked so much like my mother it was hard to believe it wasn’t her staring back at me. A burgundy scarf – a hijab – wrapped elegantly around her oval face. Her wide, dark brown eyes gazed out at me from the murky depths. The eyebrows were long, thick and slightly curved. There was a small cleft in her chin and her lips were full and rosy.

I can picture this person perfectly. Awesome job.

Dreamworx95 wrote:Six years had passed since the bombing in Baghdad took her from us. Two suicide bombers had blown up the market across the street from my uncle’s house. The first bomb killed twelve civilians, and left my mother barely alive. The second bomb finished the job, taking her and a handful of soldiers and policemen with it.

I don't think you need to re-describe the bombing. We just read a chapter about it.

Oh my gosh! This story is so sad! But I love it so much
Seriously, I'm still thinking about that first chapter. The description of the burned up mother with no eyelids, *shudders*. Maybe it's cause burn victims freak me out... Anyway, this story is sticking with me and that's awesome. It's like it's an actual published story it's so good and keeping my attention so much.
I really have nothing bad to say about it. I still feel connected to your characters and I love your descriptions and use of language.
PM me if you put more up!
If I could give you another gold star I would.

((Oh and I love your avatar. It's so cool and pretty ))

-Carly

Hey there, Worx!

What a great chapter! Your descriptions and imagery in this portion of the story are amazing! You have a style all your own. Your voice comes through brilliantly and artistically, flowling us right through the story.

I also enjoyed the insight into the characters. Even using the 'mirror' trick, you still twisted it to make it your own.

But ever since the funeral, he hasn't cried, he hasn't spoken a word to anyone. He is lifeless. This frightened me even more.

Here you change tenses from present to past.

The end of the flashback was way intense! You pulled it off beautifully.

Thanks for such a great read! I'm sorry i didn't have any more criticisms for you.
--Anna

Zan: Thanks for the critique. I can always count on you for helpful advice.

Master Yoda: Coming from you, that is a very high compliment. You've seriously just boosted my self esteem. I thank you.

Carly: Thank you for being so loyal. I am so flattered. I have a fan! ^_^

Anna: That's okay. Your encouragement is also - if not, more - welcome. Thank you.

I'm trying to write the second chapter right now, but finals have been dragging me away from my writing time, so it may be a while. Most likely this weekend I'll have it up. Thank you all so much for the encouragement.

Dream.