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Fri Jan 20, 2012 8:11 pm
AmeliaCogin says...



Spoiler! :
Hi all, I want to enter a competition with the theme of 'hope'. Would you please give me a critique of my grammar and general english and tell me if it fits the theme...Thank you so much! The deadline is next Fri, so reviews please ASAP would be great...I need to know if I'm going to have to go back to the drawing board...! Thanks all (And help with a title would be great) Btw, it's set in the 1800's and the narrator is a Cherokee American Indian. Thanks


I won’t die say Ash’s fierce, dark eyes. They smoulder deep within their sockets; glisten with salty tears. He will not let a single one fall. A coarse chocking noise emerges from his throat. I place my finger to his lips. “Try not to talk. It will only make hurt worse.”

His eyes are filling up with fresh tears, this time from the pain. I lift the hem of my cloak and gently wipe them away. “Don’t give up, not yet. Promise me.”

He gives me an endearing, sympathetic stare, riddled with agony.

I can’t manage words anymore. Taking his hand, I give it a light squeeze. His fingers curl weakly around mine. Pulling away, I bind my cloak closer to my body, and rest myself down beside him. I lay awake, staring intently at the canopy of the stars above, until I hear Ash’s breathing become slow and gentle. My blood is freezing, my limbs numb and purplish. I huddle in close to him, just like old times. My stomach feels flimsy, weightless; as though it is about to drop from my body. I clutch it tightly, my breathing shallow. It is now our third week without food. I keep waiting for a miracle from the Lord; Manna to fall from the heavens. It is in my nature to be optimistic, or, as Ash would say, fanciful. I often find myself caught up in the whirl of a fool’s paradise, but living inside my head is the only way I survive.

I am headstrong and determined, just like my people. As a nation, the Tsalagi do not go out without a fight. We both stand and fall with our dignity about us. We march in solemn, noble silence. It is the people who wail: those who stand by the wayside – outsiders, who pity our plight; those who are utterly moved by our stance.

I have been thinking for over an hour now: endless thoughts, just whirling around my brain. Sleep, if it ever comes, is often light; filled with fearful, meaningless dreams. Ash is stirring. He coughs heavily. I prop myself up on one hand and stroke his greasy black hair away from his forehead. It’s burning hot: he’s running a fever. Ash wretches, hacks up vomit laced with swirls of red. My eyes widen in horror. Frantically, I claw the earth around me for my water skin. Lifting Ash’s head onto my lap, I push it to his lips, tipping fluid down his throat. He jerks out of my arms, chocking vehemently, the water spurting from his throat. I smack him between the shoulder blades: it seems to calm the demon inside of him. He falls back limply into my arms, shivering violently. I wrap his gauzy blanket tighter around his shoulders and start to rock gently; hum a soothing tune. I glance at his thigh; the mere sight – let alone the smell – is nauseating. It’s seeping again, the bandages used to bind the wound damp with puss. The surrounding flesh is black and fetid and very much rotten.

I look back to his face. Ash’s eyes, thick with crusty yellow, flutter slightly. His ensuing stare stabs me through the middle, causes my heart to lurch inside my rib-cage. He clutches my wrist, his icy grasp getting tighter and tighter. I feel as though all circulation is being cut off to my extremities. I meet his urgent, piercing gaze. He is ruined. He cannot get well, even if I wish it so. Ash, my beautiful husband, the man that I was joined to by the holy knot, is dying. He continues to fight, true to his Cherokee blood. It is how we were raised; as warriors, trained to combat emotions, people, and ailments. But now it is time to stop.

“Ash,” I whisper, my words chocked with tears. I let them run freely now. His dark, glassy eyes glower in the dim light. “You don’t have to do it anymore.”

He frowns. I shake my head, say: “Don’t suffer, just for me; for your dignity. You can let go.” He swallows, is able only to emanate one, muffled word: “You.” “No, don’t think about me. I’ve been so selfish, forcing you to keep going, battle the pain and push through: you are in agony every day…and this winter is so harsh. Don’t try to keep living, not for me…I -” my voice breaks, and my lips began to quiver. Nothing will come out now. I bend low and kiss his dry, cracked lips. Perhaps this will mean more than words. His neck relaxes, and his eyes close. He breathes in short, sharp gasps, sucking pockets-full of air into his dirty black lungs. Carefully, I lay his head back down onto the ground. I lie down beside him, but do not wait for sleep. I wait for Ash’s heart to become still; to stop to a silence. It does not take long. I reach into my woollen bag, and pull out his funeral clothes. They bear no pattern; are sombre and dark in design. They were carefully crafted by his mother when he was a child, as were mine by my own aluli. I swaddle Ash in the leggings, shroud and sash. Pulling the gauze over his face, I leave his body to rest for the night. I reach a blunt, dull-handled knife from my bag, and begin to cut my hair. Thick glossy locks – as black as the blackest Onyx – fall from my head, encircle my shrivelled form. Some watch me as I do so, realise, and bow their heads respectfully. They know. I remove my cloak, and lay it over my husband, then strip myself of my outer layers and my snow boots, leaving me standing with only a simple dress of cotton. Already my blood has slowed; seized within my veins.

I trod carefully around the maze of sleeping tribes-people, trying not to wake them. It is Liseli I want to see. I know that she will be awake. She is often so during the hours of the stars. When finally I reach her she mending a garment, her eyes keenly adjusted to the moonlit night. I tap her. She twists, gives me a faint, gap-toothed smile. I say nothing, merely return the smile, and thrust toward her the bulk of my clothes.

Liseli catches the bundle; gives my hand a grateful squeeze. Extra layers may just get her through the winter. “Sister, I wish you peace on your journey.”

I leave, pad silently back to where Ash’s lifeless carcass is laid, cold and still. Slipping on a shroud of black wool, a gauzy sash of the same colour, and thick, dusky blue leggings, I recline out on my back. My heart feels calm. I close my eyes for the last time. Gently, the cold kills me.

Hope is like a barricade. It fortifies the heart; puts up a sterling defence.

But it is not invincible.

It doesn't rule us. We all have a choice. Each of us, at some point in our lives, will ask: should I stay? And sometimes, the noblest thing to say is no.
  





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Reviews: 56
Sat Jan 21, 2012 6:08 pm
Cole says...



Here you go, Amelia. : )

Here are my nitpicks, and then I'll make an overall review. By the way, I hope nothing I say or comment on offends you, or I hope I’m not being too harsh. I just want you to do really well in your competition!

I won’t die say Ash’s fierce, dark eyes. They smoulder [misspelling: smolder, unless you’re using European English, then you’re fine] deep within their sockets; glisten with salty tears. He will not let a single one fall. A coarse chocking [misspelling: choking] noise emerges from his throat. I place my finger to his lips. “Try not to talk. It will only make hurt worse.”


-I felt like I stumbled over "say Ash's fierce, dark eyes". It is a bit awkwardly worded. Maybe it should be more like: "I won't die... I can see the words in Ash's fierce, dark eyes."
-Also, I feel that the way you describe Ash most of the time makes me feel like he isn't so human. I think you should perhaps say this: "Though deeply set and shadowed with sickness, they smolder and glisten with tears."
-Furthermore, I think that "coarse chocking noise" is a little odd. I would reword it.

His eyes are filling up with fresh tears, this time from the pain. I lift the hem of my cloak and gently wipe them away. “Don’t give up, not yet. Promise me.”


-"His eyes are filling up with fresh tears". Weren't they just filled with tears?
-Also, we get great descriptions of Ash's agony. But what about his wife? We never really get to feel her agony in watching him, even though it is from her perspective. I want you to get inside her head a little more.
-And, what happened to him anyway? Either I missed it somewhere or you never mentioned it. Give me a background, give me a time period, give me a setting.

He gives me an endearing, sympathetic stare, riddled with agony.


-I love, love, love this sentence. Very great image it gives me, very powerful.

I can’t manage words anymore. Taking his hand, I give it a light squeeze. His fingers curl weakly around mine. Pulling away, I bind my cloak closer to my body, and rest myself down beside him. I lay awake, staring intently at the canopy of the stars above, until I hear Ash’s breathing become slow and gentle. My blood is freezing, my limbs numb and purplish. I huddle in close to him, just like old times. My stomach feels flimsy, weightless; as though it is about to drop from my body. I clutch it tightly, my breathing shallow. It is now our third week without food. I keep waiting for a miracle from the Lord; Manna to fall from the heavens. It is in my nature to be optimistic, or, as Ash would say, fanciful. I often find myself caught up in the whirl of a fool’s paradise, but living inside my head is the only way I survive.


-“I can’t manage words anymore.” I like the idea, but reword it, maybe.
-“My blood is freezing, my limbs numb, and purplish.” I don’t like the image “purplish” gives me. Also, maybe you should change “My blood is freezing” to “My blood is like ice...”
-“My stomach feels flimsy, weightless; as though it is about to drop from my body”. I love the first part of this sentence. Very great feeling, great description. But the second half is very strange. I might say, maybe: “as though it is about to crumble into dust.” That gives me better imagery.
-I would also make this change: “I clutch my gut tightly…”
-The last part of the paragraph, about God, manna, faith, and miracles, I really, really enjoy. It gives me a great look into her mind, into the husband and wives relationship. I love it.

I am headstrong and determined, just like my people. As a nation, the Tsalagi do not go out without a fight. We both stand and fall with our dignity about us. We march in solemn, noble silence. It is the people who wail: those who stand by the wayside – outsiders, who pity our plight; those who are utterly moved by our stance.


-Again, I’m still a little confused. Where is this taking place, when is this happening? And I also feel like you’re jumping around too much between events, the past and the present. It’s a bit confusing. I think you should be vigilant in distinguishing between the past and the present.
-I think you should make this change: “It is the onlookers who wail: those who stand by the wayside—outsiders who pity our plight…”

I have been thinking for over an hour now: endless thoughts, just whirling around my brain. Sleep, if it ever comes, is often light; filled with fearful, meaningless dreams. Ash is stirring. He coughs heavily. I prop myself up on one hand and stroke his greasy black hair away from his forehead. It’s burning hot: he’s running a fever. Ash wretches, hacks up vomit laced with swirls of red. My eyes widen in horror. Frantically, I claw the earth around me for my water skin. Lifting Ash’s head onto my lap, I push it to his lips, tipping fluid down his throat. He jerks out of my arms, chocking vehemently, the water spurting from his throat. I smack him between the shoulder blades: it seems to calm the demon inside of him. He falls back limply into my arms, shivering violently. I wrap his gauzy blanket tighter around his shoulders and start to rock gently; hum a soothing tune. I glance at his thigh; the mere sight – let alone the smell – is nauseating. It’s seeping again, the bandages used to bind the wound damp with puss. The surrounding flesh is black and fetid and very much rotten.


-I never like using “brain” in exchange for “mind”, but that’s just me.
-I feel like you should have a little bit of separation of paragraphs here. I feel like it is one long run-on paragraph. I feel like separation would make this part of the story a little more dynamic.
-Some changes (you don’t have to change anything, but I’m just making some suggestions):
“Frantically I claw the ground...”
“water spurting from his mouth...”
“...start to rock gently, humming...”
-The last part of this paragraph where it is describing his injury (how did he get it) is very sickening and shocking. I’m not sure if that’s bad or not, but it takes away from the beauty of the story. Maybe you should just suggest that he is severely injured instead of blatantly describing his decaying leg. With your disturbing description of his condition, I feel like you’re taking away from Ash’s humanity, almost making him an object.

I look back to his face. Ash’s eyes, thick with crusty yellow, flutter slightly. His ensuing stare stabs me through the middle, causes my heart to lurch inside my rib-cage. He clutches my wrist, his icy grasp getting tighter and tighter. I feel as though all circulation is being cut off to my extremities. I meet his urgent, piercing gaze. He is ruined. He cannot get well, even if I wish it so. Ash, my beautiful husband, the man that I was joined to by the holy knot, is dying. He continues to fight, true to his Cherokee blood. It is how we were raised; as warriors, trained to combat emotions, people, and ailments. But now it is time to stop.


-“Thick with crusty yellow” ...again with the descriptions. Ew... It takes away from your beautiful story. I like how you describe his eyes as “thick”, but I would use different adjectives after that.
-Also, “ribcage” is one word.
-“I feel as though circulation is being cut off to my extremities...” I feel like this is worded oddly. I get what you’re saying, but I would change it. Maybe to: I feel as though my limbs are being deprived of blood” or something along those lines.
-“He is ruined. He cannot get well, even if I wish it so.” I like what you’re getting at here, but I might see if I can reword it.
-“Ash, my beautiful husband, the man that I was joined to by the holy knot...” I feel it would make more sense and be less awkward if you said: “the man that I am bound to by holy marriage.” Also, I was a little bothered that it took this long to reveal that Ash was her husband. I thought they were brother and sister.
-“But now it is time to stop.” I think it would sound better if you said: “But the battle cannot be won and it is time to see it end.” Or something like that.

“Ash,” I whisper, my words chocked with tears. I let them run freely now. His dark, glassy eyes glower in the dim light. “You don’t have to do it anymore.”


I like this part, as we get to really see more of the wife’s emotion. But I think she should say: “You don’t have to fight anymore.”

He frowns. I shake my head, say: “Don’t suffer, just for me; for your dignity. You can let go.” He swallows, is able only to emanate one, muffled word: “You.” “No, don’t think about me. I’ve been so selfish, forcing you to keep going, battle the pain and push through: you are in agony every day…and this winter is so harsh. Don’t try to keep living, not for me…I -” my voice breaks, and my lips began to quiver. Nothing will come out now. I bend low and kiss his dry, cracked lips. Perhaps this will mean more than words. His neck relaxes, and his eyes close. He breathes in short, sharp gasps, sucking pockets-full of air into his dirty black lungs. Carefully, I lay his head back down onto the ground. I lie down beside him, but do not wait for sleep. I wait for Ash’s heart to become still; to stop to a silence. It does not take long. I reach into my woollen [misspelling: woolen] bag, and pull out his funeral clothes. They bear no pattern; are sombre [misspelling: somber] and dark in design. They were carefully crafted by his mother when he was a child, as were mine by my own aluli. I swaddle Ash in the leggings, shroud and sash. Pulling the gauze over his face, I leave his body to rest for the night. I reach a blunt, dull-handled knife from my bag, and begin to cut my hair. Thick glossy locks – as black as the blackest Onyx [I don’t think you have to capitalize onyx] – fall from my head, encircle my shrivelled [misspelling: shriveled] form. Some watch me as I do so, realise, and bow their heads respectfully. They know. I remove my cloak, and lay it over my husband, then strip myself of my outer layers and my snow boots, leaving me standing with only a simple dress of cotton. Already my blood has slowed; seized within my veins.


-Again, I think there needs to be more separation to make this part of the story more lively. I added stars. Be sure to have separate paragraphs every time a new person begins to speak.
-I also think her explanation of why he should let go is a little distorted... clear it up a bit, make it simple, make it powerful.
-“Pockets-full...” This is a strange description. I would change it.
-“Black, dirty lungs.” This doesn’t make much sense to me. Why are they described like this?
-I think you should make this change: “Darker than the blackest onyx.”
-“They know.” I think this is implied. I don’t think you need to say this.
-I think you should make this change, too: “Already my pulse has slowed: my blood seized within my veins.” (I love that last half of the sentence by the way.)
-Also, you need more emotion. Get inside the wives head.

I trod carefully around the maze of sleeping tribes-people, trying not to wake them. It is Liseli I want to see. I know that she will be awake. She is often so during the hours of the stars. When finally I reach her she mending a garment, her eyes keenly adjusted to the moonlit night. I tap her. She twists, gives me a faint, gap-toothed smile. I say nothing, merely return the smile, and thrust toward her the bulk of my clothes.


-Again, I want emotion!
-Change: “When finally I reach her, she is mending...”
-Also, what is the wife doing with her sister? Why is she giving her clothes? What does it mean?

Liseli catches the bundle; gives my hand a grateful squeeze. Extra layers may just get her through the winter. “Sister, I wish you peace on your journey.”


-Why does Liseli say this? What does it mean?

I leave, pad silently back to where Ash’s lifeless carcass is laid, cold and still. Slipping on a shroud of black wool, a gauzy sash of the same colour, and thick, dusky blue leggings, I recline out on my back. My heart feels calm. I close my eyes for the last time. Gently, the cold kills me.


-I think the word “carcass” is much too harsh and cold to describe a dead husband.
-Also, I don’t really like how quickly and unemotionally you handle the wife’s death. What is she feeling as she dies? I also think much more powerful prose is required: “As the cold sinks into my bones” or “as death steals my last breath” or something like that.
-Furthermore, I think because you didn’t get into her head throughout the story, her death is really meaningless. If we were more emotionally attached, then I think it would be much more powerful.

Hope is like a barricade. It fortifies the heart; puts up a sterling defence [misspelling: defense]

But it is not invincible.


-I really like this, but I think if, throughout the story, you add more emotion, the sense of hope would be stronger.

It doesn't rule us. We all have a choice. Each of us, at some point in our lives, will ask: should I stay? And sometimes, the noblest thing to say is no.


-I would italicize: “Should I stay?” Also, I think you should tie this into hope more. The story and the theme of hope seem very separate. I would try to go back and see if you can strengthen the ties of hope and your story.

OVERALL:

I really enjoyed this. You had some awkward choices of prose here and there, but as usual, your writing is captivating and beautiful. Tell me after you’ve done some editing, because I’d love to see the finished product.

Another suggestion: Why doesn’t your character have a name? I feel like if she had a name, the reader would be more emotionally attached to her.

Again, I apologize if any of this came out harshly. You have outstanding potential and I hope you win the competition. You already have a strong, beautiful, cultured piece. Just make it a little stronger and I bet you’ll make it.

Good luck and ask me if you ever need anything else! (And keep up the amazing work. I love your stuff.)

--H.
  








I'll actually turning 100 soon
— Ari11