Young Writers Society

Raggedy Andy, Raggedy Anne

2. Ezra Aim

The Beginning

I. Home, Son

Ezra came home from the war smelling of smelter and soot, clutching his sister’s doll to his chest like some kind of medal. He was wearing a lady’s dress and Sunday bonnet, and his father stared for a long time, and blinked twice, thinking somehow he had magically gained another daughter.

Millie Might

I. The Stranger in a Blue Dress

It was a morbid day Millie thought. With an opaque, slate sky overhead filled with darker glints of cloud.

Balancing a wash basket on one hip, she winded her away from mud puddles towards the clothesline that was leaning slightly to the left: a poor mutilated something, two sticks and a thin extension of string, that bowed low in the middle.

Pieces of the over-laden basket stuck into her, jabbing into the skin of her hip and thigh. At some point between breakfast and lunch it had lost its handles, which left spikes of frayed wood poking out of the edges.

When Millie turned from hanging things on the wash line, she saw this figure, in blue and white muslin, on the porch. She was jealous—the blue flowers on the bonnet were so bright and precise, she would give her left arm for that kind of fabric, both of her arms if that meant that dress. She was always wearing those dusty trousers her older brother Ezra had grown out of, and left when he went to war—farm work was beastly in petticoats and skirts.

Millie left the wash and headed from the house, curious about this stranger in the beautiful dress. She looked to her father who was standing in the doorway; on his face was a crooked frown.

What could have her Pa looking so confused?

“Pa!” she called as she neared the house. “Is everything alright?”

She watched her father swallow, and shake his head. It was unconvincing.

“Hey, if you’re from Coalition you’ve no business here.”

She was at the house now, looking straight at the back of the stranger in the beautiful dress, her father towering over both of them

“Naw, Millie, don’t make trouble.”

The stranger turned then and faced Millie.

Millie mouth froze in mid censure, and stared into the stranger’s face.

Ezra?

Millie stumbled backwards a bit. It was like looking in a mirror.

“Ezra? Is that you?”

She squinted, but the face: the eyes, nose, cheekbones, all the same, and she knew them as well as her own.

Millie knew without a doubt that she was staring at her brother. Thought were jumbled and racing through her head. How did he get home? Was the war over? Had he been discharged? Was he hurt?

The silence stretched out into the gray afternoon until the stranger, no Ezra, spoke.

“I suh…suh... suppose you don’t play with dolls no more.” He shifted the doll in his hands from one to the other, fidgeting with the torn, bloody, muddy doll.

Finally, he stuck out his arm, pushing the doll towards Millie.

“But, it’s yours, here.”

It was only then Millie put things together—her brother was wearing a dress.


II. Weather Signs

The first night Ezra was home, after both her pa and brother had gone to bed, Millie heard this tremendous shrieking and clamor. At first, she was stiff, grasped by the fear of the unknown. But, it didn’t take her long to splinter the hold that the fear had on her and rush into the bedroom she shared with her brother. Fearing an attack, she snagged a stray piece of wood before turning toward the sound. But, there was no one there; Millie could see that much as glinting shards of the moon extended through a window.

It was just her brother, curled up, and shivering violently.

She watched, rooted, for a few moments, before finding her way to his side.

She stretched out a suntanned hand and pressed it to his forehead. It was sticky with sweat, but not scorching, so he didn’t have a fever.

Millie breathed a sigh of relief, and sat down on the bed beside her brother. Slowly, she extracted one of his hands from where it was twisted against his own body.

She looked down at the hand, warm and soft. There were dark lines of dirt under his uneven fingernails, and angry, jagged, red marks on the back of his hands, like some animal clawed at them. When she turned her brother’s hand over there were bright, fevered half-moons that looked to be the imprinted leavings of nails, in his fleshy palm.

Millie grasped his hand in hers and then snail-like edged her body parallel to his, so their heads shared the same pillow.

She turned on her side and let her free hand calm her brother’s shivering. What had happened to Ezra? Once, they had shared everything, talked about everything. Now all she could see was the way the her sunburned hand and his marred palm seemed to compliment each other in their silence.

She hummed badly a song that her father sang while working, but it seemed to quiet his restlessness.

Millie fell asleep clutching her brother’s hand that night.

Hey, Cal. ^_^

You have no idea how much I love this story--Ezra, especially, is really sweet. You have this way of using poetry even in your third-person that makes me salivate with jealousy. I really do enjoy it.

Trust me, I had to look long and hard to figure out just what to comment on.

THE ART OF THE SPOILER:

The problem with having storylines that overlap is that they...overlap. You get a little of the same in each part, which can be really good for enforcing confusing parts. However, it's also rather anticlimactic. It's like when my grandmother watches football. She's really good with the plays, so she'll shout at the TV screen and tell the players just how to move--and they get clobbered, anyway.

A little of this grandmother action is all right, and can get your readers involved in the story. After awhile, though, it's a little much. And when you've already got a vague sense in your head of what is going on, it's difficult to put the pieces together if they differ.

She watched her father swallow, and shake his head. It was unconvincing.

“Hey, if you’re from Coalition you’ve no business here.”

She was at the house now, looking straight at the back of the stranger in the beautiful dress, her father towering over both of them

“Naw, Millie, don’t make trouble.”

The stranger turned then and faced Millie.

You can get rid of some of the overlap by instead describing Millie's father as he is after he sees Ezra--that is, a little guarded, a little taken aback, trying to figure out just what to say. He's understood that Ezra is back, but his emotions are a little bit haywire.

"Naw, Millie..." was a rather confusing line, mainly because the reader expects that you did what I just described--that is, doing things chronologically. Millie's father already knows what's going on. Why is he being guarded and not running about yelling, "It's Ezra, dear!" I know you've got a reason; let us know.

THE ROUGH AND TUMBLE:

Millie is a really beautifully characterized girl, but at the moment she's a little bit lacking in speech. Why? You are good about not weighing down dialogue with tags and the like, but for Millie initially, you're going to want some, especially when she first accosts Ezra for being part of the "coalition". How does she approach him? What does she want him to think she is like?

You need the same thing when she thinks there is an intruder in the house. She's a girl--why doesn't she just let her father deal with it? Always remember: if you've got it, flaunt it. Make Millie's take-chargeness even more apparent, and we'll love her even more.

It was a morbid day Millie thought. With an opaque, slate sky overhead filled with darker glints of cloud.

The second sentence isn't much of a sentence, considering it contains to phrases that begin with "with". The "with" that begins it makes me want to say that the first sentence and the second should be together, but I know full well that the first sentence should and must be on its own. You could say "The slate sky overhead was opaque, filled with darker flints of cloud." or something--I was trying to avoid the word "it".

When Millie turned from hanging things on the wash line

I don't like the use of the word "turn" here.

she would give her left arm for that kind of fabric, both of her arms if that meant that dress.

"Both her her arms, if it meant that dress" sounds awkward. "Both her arms, even, if she could have that dress." I don't like the use of "that meant that", mostly, but then "but her arms if" also feels like it needs more than just that, which is why I added, "even".

Thoughts were jumbled and racing through her head.

This is a good phrase, but so general. You're a poetic person, Cal--but for some reason this line, and a bit of this section over all, seems to be lacking your usual poetic beauty. It's just happening. I don't doubt you are an amazing writer, but this some how feels unsatisfying in relation to what I know you are capable of.

the torn, bloody, muddy doll.

Can I see the doll in more than adjectives?

I think it would be more realistic if it didn't take Millie a few moments or more to realize her brother was in a dress. Generally, when you first see someone, their physical appearance stands out, and even more so if it is different, or incredebly different, from what is usually there.

But, it didn’t take her long to splinter the hold

I adore your use of the word splinter.

Millie could see that much as glinting shards of the moon extended through a window.

This sounds weird. Using "that much" for "no one there" makes this so odd to read. I know what it is saying--though it took me a few reads. I love how you're going for original sentence structure, but if the sentence doesn't make sense, it isn't worth it. I'm not sure how to reword it. Perhaps you could find a way to just fix this part, and not the first part as well. Either way, it needs to be fixed, somewhere, so that this part makes sense.

Millie grasped his hand in hers and then [comma] snail-like [comma] edged her body parallel to his

Now all she could see was the way [s]the[/s] her sunburned hand

She hummed badly

I don't like the word badly. Perhaps this calls for a cute metaphor referring to farm animals?

Millie fell asleep clutching her brother’s hand [s]that night[/s].

The line reads stronger if you take that out.

Sorry to be so terribly critical! Though, this is a critique, isn't it? On the bright side, Weather Signs read 1,000 times better than The Stranger in a Blue Dress, IMHO. The Stranger wasn't bad--but I know it could be so much better. You're an amazing writer--don't forget that. Can you paint a picture for me? What was missing was imagery, I think, more than anything. It's all things, or thoughts, or happenings. I want to see the landscape, and see more, and hear things, and smell things. I suppose I want a fleshed out setting, is what I am saying.

Of course I love the story; I can't say I don't. You had already told me about it and I knew I would love it, so I do look forward to more. If you have any questions about what I've said, you know where to find me!

Also, I agree and second everything Sam said.

Hiya, Cal!

I'm afraid I might not have much to say, considering that Suz and Sam have already gotten here before me. I shall do my best to give a helpful review.

It was a morbid day Millie thought.

There should be a comm after "day." I also agree with Suzanne in that you should change the sentence that comes after this one.

Balancing a wash basket on one hip, she winded her away from mud puddles towards the clothesline that was leaning slightly to the left: a poor mutilated something, two sticks and a thin extension of string, that bowed low in the middle.

1. Should "winded" be "wound" or am I a dufus?
2. I don't think the comma after "string" is absolutely needed.
3. that should be "...wound/winded her WAY away"
4. This whole sentence is awkward. The flow seems a bit messed up to me. I'm not sure how you can fix it... hmm. Maybe something like: "Balancing a wash basket on one hip, she winded/wound her way away from the mud puddles and towards the mutilated clothesline. Two leaning sticks supported a tattered [I don't like the word "thin" here] extension of string that bowed low in the middle." I don't know, that's a little lame, but I was trying to only use what you already have and rearrange it. Try to work something out. ^_~

She was jealous—the blue flowers on the bonnet were so bright and precise, she would give her left arm for that kind of fabric, both of her arms if that meant that dress.

I don't like the fact that you start out by TELLING us that she's jealous--even though you go on to show it. I think it would be better to tell after showing... in this example, anyway.

Millie left the wash and headed from the house, curious about this stranger in the beautiful dress.

Shouldn't that be "...headed TOWARDS the house..."?

He shifted the doll in his hands from one to the other, fidgeting with the torn, bloody, muddy doll.

1. I don't like the rhyme of "muddy" and "bloody."
2. I don't like the repetition of "doll." Maybe if you did something like this, it would also fix the problem of not describing the doll: "He shifted the doll in his hands from one to the other, fidgeting with the torn, bloody, soiled baby girl. She had once been so beautiful." You know what I mean?

It was only then Millie put things together—her brother was wearing a dress.

I don't understand--she already knew that Ezra was the "stranger" in the blue dress... didn't she?
---------------

...Overall Opinions...

...Millie could see that much as glinting shards of the moon extended through a window.

This imagery is so beautiful! I agree with Suzanne that we need more of it. The odd thing is that you go into a lot of detail on one thing, then not any about others. For example: I don't know anything about the outdoors, except the clothesline--which I can imagine so well that I think I could almost paint it. I'm not saying that you need to do in-depth description of everything, but I would like a vague overall picture. Of course, I also want dome description of the air--what it smells like and feels like.

I really like this, overall. *hands you a gold star to pin to your manuscript*

Your characters are really believable, and I think you have a good sense of where this is going. I want to read more!

PM me if I was unclear about anything!

Hope this helps.
~Azila~

Thank you all for the loverly critiques et al.

I promised more, now here's the delivery.


III. Things That Died in the War

Millie always woke before the sun—one day, after her brother had left for the war, she had woken up when it was still dark outside and started to work. Her father had not complained. And, even now that Ezra was home, she felt no need to change her habit. Someone had to do the chores: someone had to cook breakfast, milk the cow, feed the chickens, weed what was left of the garden…

Millie had dressed, finished her breakfast, and was shrugging into an old coat, when Ezra stumbled out of the bedroom into the main room of the farmhouse.

“Mornin’, Millie.”

Millie was buttoning her gray, wool coat and glanced up at her brother still in his shirtsleeves.

“Mornin’. Breakfast’s on the table.”

Ezra raised his eyebrow. “Already? Where’s Pa?”

“Went to town, took Pony and Toby with him. Iffen you can get dressed, I’d appreciate some help.”

Millie was out the door before Ezra could even reply.


It was almost lunch-time and Millie was repairing the fence that the cow had crashed into a few days since. Her muscles strained and pouted as she bent over to nail a board in place.

When she had finished, she righted herself slowly and had to adjust her wide-brimmed hat, so it hat back, and didn’t fall in her eyes.

She shaded her eyes and looked towards the house. There was Ezra dressed in some of her things, (which were really his old things), making his way towards her.

He was limping, and moved stiffly as if sleep was the only task his body ever remembered. To Millie, each movement he made seemed deliberate and slow.

She stood hands on her hips and waited. Millie noticed that Ezra was carrying something in his left hand. As he got closer, she could see that what ever he was carrying was wrapped in a dark cloth, that had probably been a deep, burgundy at some time, but had faded to a swampy brown.

Ezra finally made his way to where Millie was beside the fence. He grinned at Millie and raised the makeshift bag in his hand. “I made lunch.”

Millie forced herself not to smile. “Bout time.”

Strides matching, Millie and Ezra ambled up to the highest part of the farm’s property. It was grass hump that rose behind the farmhouse, and makeshift stone bench, carved by their father, was half-buried in the earth there.

When they reached the spot, Millie stretched her arms upwards before plopping down on the bench, which was so compacted into the earth that it was really a glorified stone mat.

From where Ezra was standing above her, he dropped the bundle into Millie’s lap. She untwisted the knot at the top and peeled away the pieces of the ruddy cloth to reveal fat and corn-yellow, oblong pieces of what Millie thought must be griddlecakes. They were browned and crispy on the edges. To Millie, it was the most appetizing thing she had ever seen.

Ezra flopped down beside his sister and sat cross-legged, looking out at the fields. For leagues in his view, Ezra saw, burned or dilapidated, forgotten farms and homesteads. It seemed that the family farm was now a gateway to a wasteland: things the war had left behind to die.

Just like himself.

When he had left for war, Doves Hollow had been a beautiful, thriving community of farms and people. Now, he didn’t even know if there was any connection: this place he left, this person he left behind and what he had come home to.

He was not the same Ezra; this was not the same Doves Hollow. And, he was conflicted whether this change was good or not.

But, he was here with Millie, eating the corn pone griddlecakes he had made, and that was all that mattered.


IV. Sisters & Brothers

Millie watched her brother for a while as his mind wandered off into unexpected places. When he did not seem to return from his mental expedition, Millie poked him with her index finger hard, her nail prodding into his flesh.

Ezra flinched and jerked away. “Ouch!”

Millie stuck her tongue out and chucked a griddlecake at his face.


V. Chickweed

Pa had not returned, so Millie had bedded down the animals herself. Saying goodnight to each as finished her chores.

The sun was setting and Millie looked up from what where she was bent over the bag full of chicken feed. It was so beautiful at this time of day, the rays of the sun expanding out into splotches off vibrant color: orange and red; violet near the rim of the world.

She only wasted a moment though before hefting the bucket she had just filled with feed, expelling a forceful sigh as she did so. She turned away from the sunset and ambled around in zigs and zags dropping feed here, flinging feed there. Chickens scattered as she moved forward but rushed to the relinquished grub in her wake.

Millie had emptied the bucket by the time she reached the house. She left the chickens to reconquer the land they had lost to her machinations.



*More to come*

Millie had dressed, finished her breakfast, and was shrugging into an old coat, when Ezra stumbled out of the bedroom into the main room of the farmhouse.

I don't think you need the comma after "coat."

Her muscles strained and pouted as she bent over to nail a board in place.

Ooh! I like that. ^^ I've never thought of muscles pouting before, but it's perfect!

When she had finished, she righted herself slowly and had to adjust her wide-brimmed hat, so it hat back, and didn’t fall in her eyes.

Do you mean "so it sat back?"

It was grass hump that rose behind the farmhouse, and makeshift stone bench, carved by their father, was half-buried in the earth there.

Do you mean "It was A grass hump" or maybe "It was THE grass hump?"

And, he was conflicted whether this change was good or not.

I don't think the comma after "and" is needed. Also, I'm not crazy about your choice of using "conflicted..."
--------------
I Still think you could use more description--what do the griddlecakes taste like? Is it hot out or cool? I want to know. But I won't go into it more here; I already did that in my last crit.

I hope this helps!
~Azila~

Oh, Cal!

Ezra + Millie = Awesome Sauce. I really don't think I need to dwell on that any longer. In this one, you did a lot of cool things with language (the last line, especially) that were really cool--things that one doesn't often see in straight third person.

The one thing I'm going to pick on you today about is paragraph length. I have a problem with this, too--my thoughts are usually pretty concise, so I feel like I can do one sentence of description, and move on. My sense of where paragraphs go is kind of out of whack. The problem with this? There's something really psychological about paragraphs, for readers. It's a cue that a thought has ended, and a new one has begun.

What to do? When you're writing (especially description) try to find a thought and stick with it until you get paragraphs of at least three sentences. You can have a few one-liners in there for spice, but make sure that not all of them are that way. This'll help out with what Azila and Suz picked up on about description--if you take a thought and follow through, you can fit in a lot more lovely stuff about Ezra and his world.

I LOVE THIS STORY! I normally think that historical fiction is kind of boring but this is great. I don't get why he's wearing a dress but i love the characters its great. What happened to his hand? I think this stories great. PLEASE...PRETTY PLEASE POST MORE! I love it.

Thank you all for you wunderbar comments.

_____

VI. Star Light, Star Bright…

Millie left the bucket, so it sat half under the porch of the farmhouse. Slowly, she climbed the three steps up onto the porch.

Her nose was accosted by the most delicious smells; so pungent were they that Millie was salivating at just the thought of what they might be. She could hear the sound of Ezra in the kitchen, the banging and the clanking, over the incessant chatter and cluck of the chickens.

Millie shrugged and sat down on the edge of the porch, so her legs swung free. As she pitched her legs forward and back, she watched the sky turn dark.

By then, the noise from the kitchen has ceased and she could hear approaching footfalls. When they stopped, though she did not turn around she knew that there was the warmth of her brother behind her.

She patted the space on the uneven boards to her right. “Sit.”

When Ezra did sit, she spoke again. “You made dinner?”

“Yeah. Caught a rabbit near the woodpile.”

She turned to look at her brother; he had a gleaming, triumphant look in his eye.

“Smells real nice. Thanks. Lunch was real good too, what were those cakes made of?”

Millie saw her brother smile.

“Knew you would like them,” he said. “It’s corn pone, one of the boys taught me. I like them better fried, we didn’t have much time when we could start up much more than a cold camp, frying them is a real luxury.”

Millie stayed quiet and let Ezra speak. They were the first words he had said about his life as a soldier, and she was afraid she’d spoil the moment and he’d never speak of it again.

“Thanks, Millie.”

She turned her neck sharply, so she could stare at her brother. She imagined that he could see her confused face. “For what?”

Even in the dark, he wouldn’t look at her. Millie was concerned. There was no reason for him not to. What was so terrible, he couldn’t look at her for it.

When he spoke again, he voice seemed so small. “There is so much I cannot remember. And, what I do is so horrible, I…” Millie saw her brother shiver in the darkness, the glow from the porch lamp outlining his slender features. “There was Walt, big rock of a man, he’d say ‘the real war will never get in the books’, I suppose he’ll be right…”

He stopped talking then—and, when no more words, bleating and rough on the tongue, came forth from her brother, Millie opened her mouth.

“Ezra, you’re home now.”

Ezra didn’t respond. Millie shivered.

But, after some time sitting in the darkness on the porch of the farmhouse, Millie heard the beginnings of sound whisper and insinuate themselves.

Focusing on those wisps of sound, Millie finally discerned them for what they were: “Star Light; star bright, the first star I see tonight. I wish I may, I wish I might, have the wish I wish tonight.”

Millie ran over her teeth with her tongue as her brother’s words repeated in her head.

Star Light; Star bright,
The first star I see tonight.
I wish I may, I wish I might,
Have the wish I wish tonight.

She stared up at the stars, and, for the first time in her life, thought there might be something to this phenom called prayer.


*More to come*

VII. Dirt and Dust

Millie was taking a respite from her morning chores when she sighted her Pa driving up the road in the most valuable piece of machinery that they owned—an open top, buckboard wagon.

Toby, their large dog, was lounging in the seat next to her father, darkly pointed, sable ears perked and deep brown eyes focused on the road ahead. Her father brought Pony to a walk as the wagon neared the farmhouse. She could see Toby’s long, pink tongue lolling out of his open mouth, the curl of his lips almost a smile.

It was a chilly morning and Millie had her hands wrapped around a molten cup of coffee to keep them warm.

When her Pa had come to a halt near the barn, she set down her mug, got to her feet, and went to help unload the wagon.

The two shared no words, only silence, as they hefted and heaved goods and bags from the wagon into the barn; some smaller sacks were left on the ground to be carried into the house.

Millie grunted and bowed under the weight of one of the large feed bags. She stumbled, but caught herself before toppling over.

Her father’s gruff voice extended into the cold morning and puffs of air echoed, “You getting enough sleep there, Mills.”

Millie stopped and settled most of the weight of the bag against her hip and thigh. She cast a look at her father whose gray eyes, the color of slate, peered over the bay of hay he had just hoisted.

“Yeah, why?”

Millie felt the tingling of her father’s focus, but shook it off. He grunted in response.

The gray morning was shifting into an even darker day, and Millie kept her eye of the sky while she worked. When everything was put in its place, Millie started to untack Pony.

She unhitched him from the wagon and lead him into his stall in the barn. She unbuckled and untied this piece of leather and that, slipped the bridle and bit from his head, and gave the large bay a pat. He sighed and turned a large brown eye on her as she shifted hitch off of his back.

Millie was drawing circles with the currycomb into Pony’s sepia hide, her senses comforted by being so close to the horse—saddle soap and liniment always had calmed and steadied her no matter what. She rested her free hand against the horse’s neck, and absently patted him every few circles or so.

Pony huffed, and she reached up to scratch behind his ear. “I know, boy.”

Millie heard the heralding of her father’s footsteps, but did not turn to face him; she continued on rubbing coarse circles in Pony’s coat.

"Ezra not awake yet?"

She sighed and stopped grooming Pony. Then twisted around to face her father. Millie scratched her nose, and dust and dirt on her hands left a smear down the side of her skin.

"Nope."

Her father looked at her straight in the eye. “We need to talk."

Mille knew exactly what her father wanted to talk about; she hoped though that she was wrong.


VIII. Whiskers on Kittens

She and her Pa sat at the worn table in the house’s common room and waited for Ezra to bumble out of the room he and Millie shared.

He did, not long after they had returned from chores, and Millie smiled when Ezra looked her way, hoping he didn’t feel about this united silent front.

“Ezra, son; sit.”

Their father’s voice echoed in the silence; it was a command, not a suggestion.

Ezra sat.

“This is nothing against you son, but you know about the Home Guard?”

Ezra shook his head. Millie looked to the window and fixed her gaze on the bird that was trying to land on the fence. It could not seem to grasp the post top it was amazing for without toppling over.

“They think they are law ‘round here, they’ve been arresting and hanging deserters.”

A sound came out of Millie’s mouth that resembled: “Pfft.” That is the understatement of the war…

Ezra nodded, understanding showed in his gray-blue eyes. “So, I will stay in the house.”

“No, son. You know Doves Hollow, you’ll have to show face, or people will start being suspicious.”

“I don’t understand.”

Millie turned back to look at her brother, now. His nose was scrunched and he looked thoroughly confused.

Millie spoke then, “That means, brother dear, you are going back into that dress.”

Hi, there! Since you have so many of these, I'll just give my general opinion. Okay?

Part One -

She hummed badly a song that her father sang while working, but it seemed to quiet his restlessness.

I just finished. It was quite a delight to read! You're a very talented author! Ok, that sentence above me really threw me off. At first, your writing is so delicate, like a flower blooming. And then there came this sentence. I think it's the 'badly' part. I would just delete the word. It just isn't working.

Part Two-

This part was a lot better. I'm afraid I have to go to school but I just wanted to tell you that this is quite a lovely story! I can't see anything wrong with it at the moment. But praise is always good!

Good luck!

:Sythe:

Thank you, Sythe.

That sentence is pretty bad.



So, I've posted all that is part of the first two sections of RA.

You can read the third, here, at this thread: Raggedy Andy, Raggedy Anne: Ezra Aim.

Ta,
Cal.

I love this story. Poor Ezra just can't get a break. You're awesome for writing this. ^.^

I'm only critiquing Chapters/Part VI-VII because all the others have been done.

Caligula's Launderette wrote:By then, the noise from the kitchen has ceased and she could hear approaching footfalls. When they stopped, though she did not turn around[comma] she knew that there was the warmth of her brother behind her.

*had

Caligula's Launderette wrote:What was so terrible, he couldn’t look at her for it.

I think you should replace the comma with "that". You also need a question mark at the end of the sentence.

Caligula's Launderette wrote:When he spoke again, he voice seemed so small.

*his

Caligula's Launderette wrote:When he spoke again, he voice seemed so small. “There is so much I cannot remember. And, what I do is so horrible, I…” Millie saw her brother shiver in the darkness, the glow from the porch lamp outlining his slender features. “There was Walt, big rock of a man, he’d say ‘the real war will never get in the books’, I suppose he’ll be right…”

He stopped talking then—and, when no more words, bleating and rough on the tongue, came forth from her brother, Millie opened her mouth.

“Ezra, you’re home now.”

I want to hug him!

Caligula's Launderette wrote:She cast a look at her father whose gray eyes, the color of slate, peered over the bay of hay he had just hoisted.

Do you mean a bale of hay or is "bay of hay" an actual term? Google wont give me an answer...

Caligula's Launderette wrote:He sighed and turned a large brown eye on her as she shifted hitch off of his back.

I think you need a "the" between "shifted" and "hitch".

Caligula's Launderette wrote:It could not seem to grasp the post top it was amazing for without toppling over.

Do you mean "aiming"?

I think that's all that bothered me.
If you missed it earlier, I'm loving this. <3

Perra,

Thank you, dear for catching all those typos.

You are awesome for reading this.



Ta,
Cal.