Young Writers Society

All critiques welcomed! Though, WARNING: Since this is my first draft, I'm taking a bit of a NaNoWriMo mind set to it. So, all critiques are welcomed, but keep that in mind. Major things like character development, settings, plot, er. big stuff like that. Point those out to me please! the minor things, sure, if you want to and all(they'll help anyway) but in the long run, i just want to finish the whole thing, then rewrite it.

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Prologue

Reader, can I ask you what a crime is to you? Is it the rape of an innocent little girl who put herself out on the street in the first place? Is it making a scam to receive money from the government? And, without said government, would there be no laws? We are told there are rules of nature: life, liberty, the pursuit of happiness.

I have a dictionary close at hand right now.

Crime:
1. An action or an instance of negligence that is deemed injurious to the public welfare or morals or to the interests of the state and that is legally prohibited.
2. Any offense, serious wrongdoing, or sin.
3. a foolish, senseless, or shameful act

Dear Reader, don’t you see? It is obvious that I, Lev Kosovich, have committed no crime. Despite what is written, I have never so much as swerved from the “right path”. My only hope is that I can convince you of this truth.

Chapter One

“Don’t worry; I bought it under the name Alfred Douglas. They won’t know it’s me and they won’t be able to find us. They don’t even know I’m married.” I shut the car engine off and pulled the keys from the ignition.

I had chosen a cottage on the outskirts of a German city by running my fingers over a map until I decided to stop. I spoke no German but my wife did well: French, German, the occasional English—but never, under any occasion, Spanish.

While parked in the drive way, I managed to slip my hand onto her knee and squeeze between palm and finger.

“How do they not know we are married?” Her lips quivered.

“I married you under the name Parker Hesse.”

Fleur was a mix of sick genetics. She looked Irish (red hair, blue eyes, freckles), spoke French from birth, and her parents were American. She grew up in England (not learning English until she was seventeen) then moved to France. Not a year later, she met me.

“I guess we should go inside,” She looked like she was going to vomit, but made no effort to open the door. “Lev, I’m worried.”

“Just get out of the car and we can talk about it later.”

“But I have this feeling that if we get out of the car, we will die because they’ll be able to find us. The car can protect us.”

“Forget your feelings; just get out of the damn car!”

Once inside, I persuaded her to think that the only reason I yelled was because of the stress I was under. It makes me laugh; I am a terrible liar, yet no matter how foolish the things I say are she will believe me to the end.

The house smelled like dust, and I was beginning to regret not having taken the tour before buying it.

“It’s so bare. Where is the furniture?” said the incompetent house maid who also played wife.

“I just bought the place, should it really have furniture? They’re shipping the fridge, stove, dishwasher, mattress, etcetera today.”

Those were bought under the name Alfred Douglas as well, but Fleur would be the one answering the door. She had a fear of strangers, so I didn’t let her in on this small detail. If I could answer the door for her, I would, but I cannot risk being seen.

“Did you get a coffee maker? I’d hope you did.”

“In fact, no, I didn’t. Will that be a problem?”

“No, I suppose not,” she wandered into where the kitchen was supposed to be, “Mon Dieu! You should see the stain on this wall!”

“Is it glowing?”

“What? No, but it’s huge. It looks like someone vomited on the wall and just left it there for a few days.” Her voice sounded far away and it made the house feel hollower than I knew it was.

“Then I don’t care.”

“You never care. Do you think I should clean before the furniture comes?”

“Clean with what?” I walked through the different rooms and tried to imagine what it would be like if we lived here for more than a year. I would have to shoot myself if that happened.

“Well you know…We do have water.”

“Just leave the place alone, this isn’t our home it’s our hideout.”

“Can’t I make it comfortable?”

“What for?”

“Oh fine, you win…”

I heard her slump against the wall like a toy being dropped by a distracted youngster. I stepped out into the front room to stare down at her, maybe even sit beside her. I wasn’t completely sure.

“You look really pretty when you are trying to be cross.”

“But I really am cross!”

As I sat down, I kissed her lukewarm temple and rubbed the dimple on her chin. Fleur was soft, her face rested easily in my palm. She was as soft as the petals of her name. Fleur is flower in French, for my readers who are not as lingual as my darling. Her delicate cheeks turned rosy and a giggle escaped her lips.

There was a heavy knock on the door before our lips could finally come together in their own form of intercourse. We were so ready to act as newlyweds would in an unfurnished house, but my rose jumped and her head hit mine. I found later in the spot a quarter shaped bruise.

“Fleur, darling, go answer the door,” I whispered. I pressed another kiss to her forehead and went into another room to hide.

She followed behind me, “You know I’m scared talking to strangers!

“Just let them in…”

“But I don’t—“

“Let them in!”

From the other room, I thought I could hear the stupid pigs talk to my flower with her nervous voice. Hello, mattress delivery. He-hello, could you bring it in for me? What, no one to help you? No, I’m…home alone. Well then, we’ll have to bring it in, won’t we Jeb? Yes sir we will! I could see the creepy smiles those pigs might have on their faces as they glared at my wife’s ass.

Fleur stayed quiet while they brought it in; I’m sure she stood in a corner, arms crossed, trying hard not to scream. After I heard the mattress drop, there was no discussion, no question, not even a flirt or proposition with my wife as I assumed might occur. Door close, tire squeals, and I was out of my hiding.

They had laid the mattress in an unsuitable place: where I had planned the kitchen to go. It made me wonder if they had seen the vomit stain, and thought we might like to sleep near such a vulgar thing. I didn’t give it much thought; instead I came back to what I had been doing before anyone had interrupted.

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” I asked as I sat down on the mattress. Fleur had already been seated, as if she knew we were to continue our game.

“You know I don’t like talking to strangers.” She stared down at her feet.

“Come on…You’ll get over it soon, right?” I kissed her temple as a way to cheer her back up

“Maybe.” She giggled and pulled at the buttons of my shirt.

Never would she unbutton my shirts but instead pull at the buttons as if her efforts to undress me were futile and I would have to help her. I guided her fingers through the task, and soon we acting just like the newlyweds pictured in my mind earlier.

For the quick answer? yeah, you got me hooked.

On the grammar side, you forgot a period somewhere, but it's not that hard to find.

She was such a cute child, never would she unbutton my shirts but instead pull at the buttons as if her efforts to undress me were futile and I would have to help her. I guided her fingers through the charming task, and soon we acting just like the newlyweds pictured in my mind earlier.

That didn't fit with the rest. Your style just went *POOF!* and changed. I think it was the use of "cute" that did it. I mean, the rest of this, the narrator is slightly sarcastic, with haughty undertones, and then, cute?? Plus, that makes it appear you can't make up your mind about Fleur. Is she suave or not? Playful isn't child-like, and someone who can speak what, three languages (speaking of, may I caution you with the use of "francophone"? I had to double check, as I couldn't figure it out in context right off, I had to sit and think for a bit, and that's a turn off for an early chapter) doesn't normally act like a child after fending off the mattress guys. And then "charming"... gah. It just didn't work for me. My gag reflex went off, and I wasn't prepared for it. It ins't some really odd character quirk, is it? She doesn't act helpless anywhere else, really. A bit bratty ("Oh, my god, look at these walls! They're digusting! Get the lysol, quick!") but not helpless.

Also, if you keep that part, up the rating, ok? It's not bad, but... you know.

First up I think that Chapter 1 should be the prologue. There were a few typos, which I'll ignore, I'm sure you'll pick 'em up. Just a note on the character Lev; he seems awfully self-aware, especailly of his character deficiencies, such as being a possessive, jealous husband. I think, perhaps this is you the writer being a little too liberal. Or, was it an intentional thing? Whatever the case, it is unusual.

I am referring to this passage:

But I must admit I am suspicious of any man, which is derived from my possessive nature. I am stuck in the rut that she is mine and that no one else should even be allowed to speak to her other than me; though, I would have to be some cruel bastard to do that, wouldn’t I? Well, I can try.

And even were he so aware, I doubt a man (and I know these types of guys, have experiecned/witnessed this behavious) like that would ever admit that he was in the wrong/ always find a way to justify their actions, no matter how twisted the logic.

Apart from that, it was well written, although the only real hook right now is this mysterious crime that was allegedly committed. Hopefully, more things develop. Good work.

Uhm, yeah, you got me hooked- from the front page, actually. Good job, Claude!

It's very rambly (in a good way); very Nabokov- especially in the confession at the beginning. However, it's original enough to pass under the radar. I might not even have remarked upon it if I didn't know you were such a fan.

The only thing I was confused about (and what would help get a much more constructive critique out of me) would be time period. It seems very World War Two/ fifties- ish, not quite sure why, but it seems to flip-flop from that to something much more modern.

If you've got a moment, just describe what you're going for, and I'll be happy to come back and re-critique.

This is a very good beginning, though...if nothing else, post the next chapter.

Im hooked like a fish out of water.

I found this a fresh read from my dwellings in the fantasy well, I rarely explore the Other forum but when I did I read this and felt blown away.

I love your narrative and characters and I think the way you have constructed speech is awesome.

Chapter 1 in this case should be a Prologue instead of a chapter. Its a rarity I suggest this but I think it fits better as a prologue UNLESS you have those types of talky chapters throughout the novel.

Well done and post the next installment.

The above critiques have been taken into consideration and I've just changed it to the edited version

I upped the rating to PG-13 which may not be needed now, but realizing something I might have in the story later, I should have it like that...

I'm glad it hooked so strongly! I'm not sure when Chapter 2 will be coming out...

First of all, like I said -- I really like this. It does have a very Russian flavour, actually (not that I would know), and I liked Lev as a character; he has a very unusual voice.

Did it hook me? Well, kind of. I felt the intro to the prologue was a little bit awkward --- it just didnt flow for me. Something about being directly addressed in a book makes me uncomfortable, but that's probably just me being prejudiced, LOL. By the time I was into the actual chapter, though, I was definitely hooked. So no worries there

There are parts in the main body which made me itch for an editing pen, LOL. Nothing major -- a few sentences which could be smoother:

I spoke no German but my wife did well: French, German, the occasional English, but never, under any occasion, Spanish.

I think this goes better as: I spoke no German, but my wife spoke several languages: French, German and sometimes English - although never, on any occasion, would she speak Spanish.

While parked in the drive way, I managed to slip my hand onto her knee and squeeze between palm and finger.

Is the parked in the driveway part necessary? Or rather - is there a better way that their location could be introduced? This seems a bit abrupt.

She was a mix of sick genetics. She looked Irish (red hair, blue eyes, freckles), spoke French from birth, and her parents were American. She grew up in England (not learning English until she was seventeen) then moved to France. Not a year later, she met me.

You know what I think about this bit

“I guess we should go inside,” She looked like she was going to puke, but made no effort to open the door. “Lev,” she called to me, “I’m worried.”

“Just get out of the car and we can talk about it later.”

“But I have this feeling that if we get out of the car, we will die because they’ll be able to find us. The car is a shell from them.”

The word that makes this seem modern-day is....PUKE! Somehow, it just carries this whole modern THING. Like, an aura or something, LOL. Also, why is Fleur calling to Lev, when there is no indication that they've gotten out of the car? Why call him if he's just a foot away? Also, "the car is a shell from them" is kind of awkward. Maybe, "the car will protect us from them" or something.

The house smelled like dust, and I was beginning to regret not having taken the tour [s]of the house[/s] before buying it.

my good looks were one thing I was not willing to mar because of this stupidity.

Mar seems...awkward. Perhaps, "risk"? Because answering the door doesnt necessarily scar one for life, LOL.

"Should that be a problem?”

Perhaps, "Is that a problem?"

I could see the creepy smiles those pigs might have on their faces as they glared at my wife’s ass.

I could just imagine their creepy smiles as they eyed my wife's ass.

(this is also very modern, BTW)

Door close, tire squeals, and I was out of my hiding.

The door closed, tires squealed, and I was out of hiding.

They had laid the mattress in an unsuitable place: where I had planned the kitchen to go. It made me wonder if they had seen the puke stain on the wall, and thought we might like to sleep near such a nasty thing. I didn’t let myself have the time to think, though, I came back to what I was doing before anyone had interrupted.

This could use some smoothing out. Lots of unnecessary words, LOL.

Never would she unbutton my shirts but instead pull at the buttons as if her efforts to undress me were futile and I would have to help her. I guided her fingers through the task, and soon we acting just like the newlyweds pictured in my mind earlier.

Same with this. "Never" is a bit of a weird way to start a sentence!

Overall, a nice beginning. I like Lev as a character; he comes across very strongly through dialogue and action and he seems quite unusual so far. I will enjoy reading how he develops! Fleur is also well-done - kudos!

I do think some parts of the writing itself need smoothing out, but I'm OCD about things like that, so feel free to ignore at your leisure! The plot is nice and moves forward very easily - I never get the sense you're just filling in time; it seems relevant and interesting, which is good hehe. With regards the prologue -- I was uncertain about the questions you used (i.e. about rape and scams and so on). How do they connect? How are they relevant to each other, and the story, aside from the fact that they're all crimes? I thought you could perhaps draw this out a little more, and make the lead-up to the idea of government and natural law a little less abrupt.

Otherwise, I like this! Let me know when you post some more, pretty please

Cheers,
~bubbles

This is sounding pretty polished already, so I don't have enough material to comprise a full critique, but there are two things that I think might help you out with the forties/fifties feel:

1. Pad your dialogue with lots of description- the scenery should be very prominent. Most historical fiction writers have this problem in reverse (i.e., they describe to much and their characters sound like Jesus when they speak) but I'd say try to copy them...you're a good enough writer to know when to stop describing because it's boring.

2. Some of the language is pretty abrupt. I'd totally scratch the use of 'damn', 'puke', 'rape', etc...you know how in Lolita, if it were written like a gritty detective novel it would be disgusting and no one would read it? Really censor yourself, and find prettier ways to describe things. And if you're not 'down with the man', think of it this way: it's not censorship, actually- it's more of a style thing.

Ooh...a chapter two would be very nice!

I did minor edits mentioned by bubble and Sam finally!

Sam: I loved your advice, but I think I'm going to take it up and embrace it when I get to doing (Oh gosh, pray for me!) a second draft.

I'm going to work very hard on editing chapter two to my own satisfaction tomorrow or this weekend. I have it written, it just needs to be hacked to pieces.

Attention: Everyone, you need to hound me about writing. Otherwise, it will never happen. And I love this story, I'm just a procrastinator with other things on my mind.

Chapter Two

The intruding delivery men had stopped coming and our hideout was beginning to look more like a household. I feared Fleur was becoming too attached; she had already scrubbed away the stain in the kitchen, and was now cooking with some recipe she had torn out of an issue of Good Housekeeping, an American magazine for women.

“What if we run out of money?” she asked.

“Don’t worry, we won’t.” I leaned in my chair to try and show that I was reading, and didn’t want to talk.

“But if neither of us is working, how are we not going to run out of money?”

“You had no money in France. Your brother paid for your living and you never complained then. Can’t you live off someone else’s money again?”

She was silent.

“What’s the matter?” I laid my book down and hoped she would keep this short.

“You know I don’t like thinking about France. Felicion tried as hard as he could to help me become a model.” She set a pot of water on the burner, and waited for it to boil.

“He must not have tried hard enough because you’re here with me, playing house wife, aren’t you?”

Fleur paused for a moment; she never liked me attacking her brother like I so often did.

She whispered, “I don’t like you keeping secrets.”

“You know what I think of secretes!”

Fleur stayed silent, as was her submissive nature.

“I love you, I trust you. But you know how I feel—that secrets are kept for protect. If I told you everything, I would be vulnerable, wouldn’t I?”

“Is this about secrets or about our source of income?” Her words were cold.

“I was a painter before you knew me,” I whispered, “A friend is going to help sell some of my art in the city. It won’t be worth as much, but it will still give us enough of an income to not work for a few months.”

“Are we only going to be here for a few months?”

“We will stay here as long as we need to, until they can clear my name.”

She bit her lip and held her hands together. We had both forgotten about the boiling water on the stove, as it rose over and splashed onto the floor. I got up and shut the stove off; Fleur was too concerned to do it herself.

“You should pay more attention to what you’re doing, you know.”

“I’m so scared! You know that, don’t you?” she blurted out, “I take longer to fall asleep at night because I worry about you. Is it true what they said on the radio?”

I didn’t answer. These kinds of cries were ones I had not heard from my wife before.

“I’m trying to pretend we’re on vacation,” she whispered. Fleur came closer and wrapped herself around me. Her fingers traveled over my body like bugs crawling on a corpse. “But I know we’re not. I miss living. It’s only been a week but I already miss living!”

I pushed her off and held her by the shoulders. “Don’t think about it, will you?” When I realized I had held her too tightly (a tear fell down her cheek) she had already pushed me off and turned back to the pot of water. She started putting pasta into the water and acted like I wasn’t there.

“Did I hurt you?”

She nodded. I came near to hug her and show my apologies, but she turned away from me.

“You…you’re just as scared as mme, aren’t you?” She held her fingers to her lips; she must have thought that it would keep her from stuttering.

“I’m not sure what’s going to happen. I wake up every day thinking that there is someone waiting outside to kill me, to kill you, too.”

Fleur looked worried about my last comment. “But you said they didn’t know you were married.”

“I know that, but even if they don’t know I’m married they’ll find you with me. They’re horrible people.”

“Are the police really horrible people?”

I never answered that question either.

We ate her out-of-magazine dinner (it looked prettier than it tasted), waltzed around the room, and then played cards until the sun went down. The night was beginning to get dull.

To fend off boredom, fleur rummaged through the fridge in search of alcohol. “By chance, did you bring any wine with you before we left?”

“I haven’t a clue, why don’t you look around.” I lay on our bed and flipped through one of her women’s magazines. Seeing a picture of a young lady holding a pie and smiling with pride, I wondered if my darling would ever turn into such a mechanical house keeper.

“But I am looking. I just can’t find any…” Obviously she wouldn’t, if she couldn’t even find wine in a fridge.

“Well I can’t remember if I brought any or not.” I laughed to myself; on the next page, there was an article titled, “Ten Ways to Make a Happy Husband.” Husbands are to be made happy? They don’t come that way?

“Oh, but we were planning to get drunk together like we said we would when we were old!”

“We have other drinks we could get drunk on.”

“But I want wine!” Fleur would never hold a pie out proudly, unless she was already drunk.

“Well don’t complain to me, because you could have grabbed the wine yourself.”

Enter: my darling, nonexistent wine not in hand, and a blank face.

“There is someone on the phone who says he wants to speak to a Pierce Aldernine.”

“Tell him I’m drunk and that I’m lying in a pool of my own vomit.” I laughed at my comment and hoped she really would tell that to the bastard.

“I can’t tell him that!”

“Then tell him I’ve died.”

She shuffled away, but came back a few moments later with the same blank face.

“He says he’s going to kill you himself if you don’t come to the phone and speak with him, he knows you’re kidding.”

“Damn it, Fleur, can’t you get him to hang up?”

“I’m sorry! You know I’m bad on the phone…”

I meandered into the kitchen (where the only phone was) and held it to my ear in an uncaring fashion.

“What do you want, Alexei?” I whispered, hoping that Fleur was far enough away not to hear me speaking.

“I was hoping you would come to the phone.”

“Alexei I told you not to call me unless it was important.”

“But it is! I want my money.”

I looked around to be sure Fleur wasn’t near. I covered the mouth piece with my hand, “I can’t get you the money right now.”

“Then when? You can’t expect me to drop everything to help you go into hiding; I’m just as poor as you.”

“I’m not poor!” I shouted. “Look, when you sell my paintings, you can take some of the money from the first few. I only owe you a little; it won’t be that hard to make up with the paintings, right?”

“When can I get some?”

“I’m not sure,” I saw Fleur walking into the room. She leaned up against a wall with a posture that said I’m going to find out what’s going on. “Go away. I’ll be there in a minute.”

“I need to know when, Lev, I can’t wait around for you to paint when you get the ‘feeling’ and when the ‘atmosphere is right’. I need the money.”

“I’ll finish them tomorrow.”

I hung up the phone. Fleur still stood against the wall staring at me; I could see the questions in her eyes.

“Who was that?”

“The man who makes us a secret.”

Chapter Three

I chewed the end of my paint brush in a suggestive manner. Before me was the bare body of my wife and a canvas. Rather than painting for Alexei, I painted for myself. Nothing could get me to sell my wife’s nude body on a canvas.

“How long do I have to sit still for?” she whispered. Fleur strained not to move, taking too seriously what I had said about not “moving a muscle”.

“Until I have a painting.”

“You take forever to paint, why didn’t you tell me this before?” I saw her arms shake, her muscles were weakening. She couldn’t hold such a pretty head for long, her arms would snap.

So I stood longer, I chewed longer, I could not think of what colors to use or how to capture the light just the way I wanted it. Alexei was right, I would wait around for the ‘feeling’ or otherwise nothing would come. At least, that was when the artwork mattered to me.

“Your brush isn’t even touching the canvas. You know I can’t stay like this forever.”

I smiled at her. I could see that her abdominal muscles were tight but quivering; she strained so much for me to paint this picture. Her body struggled to hold her weight up, and I wanted to keep her in this pose for as long as I could. I flushed like a boy who had seen his first peek of skin—though every peek was as good as the first.

“Please, don’t move. I’ll let you take a break in a minute.” I said this more for my own pleasure of staring than for the gain of my artwork. What did it matter if I took longer to paint? I may never get another chance to look at Fleur in such a way.

Finally, her sturdy body collapsed and she fell over onto the bed.

“You make me pose, cruel man, but you haven’t painted a spot!” She laughed and pulled the blanket around her nude figure in a shy way, as if I was not to see her like that.

I set my brush down and walked towards her. Her crimson hair covered her face, but I could see that she was smiling at me.

“Are you going to paint me, or not?”

“Only if you take away that sheet,” I whispered as I curled up next to her, “If not then you might as well get dressed and go to the city. We need more food.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t eat so much? I don’t want to go to the city…”

I kissed her neck lightly, “But you have to, if I die of hunger it will be your fault.”

“But I don’t want to leave you in this lonely house!”

“It’s only lonesome when you are not around.”

“Then will you come with me?”

I lifted myself off of her, and sat up. A question such as that shouldn’t be asked. Fleur pulled on my hand and tried to get me to lay back down with her, but I refused.

“I know you can’t come with me, but I hate it! I hate being there alone!”

She rolled away from me and crossed her arms. “You know I’m uncomfortable with strangers yet you force me to do these things! I’m scared of them! What if I was kidnapped?”

“Don’t say that! I know you are scared, but we agreed that you would go to town because I cannot. For me, you are going to have to be strong.”

“But I don’t like being alone…” She turned towards me and sat up, forcing me to look her in the eye, “I hate that you can’t leave this house.”

“This house protects me.”

“Why are you hiding?”

“You know why I am hiding!”

I lost her gaze and we kept silent for a few moments.

“Really, what they say on the radio isn’t true. I know it isn’t. But you know what the truth is. Why doesn’t the radio tell the truth, and why won’t you tell me!”

“Because I can’t! Why do you always have to ask?”

“Because you always have to keep things from me!”

She stood and walked out, granting me a gaze at her bare behind. Her spine curved in such a pleasing manner that I couldn’t help but follow in hopes of another glimpse of perfection.

But instead of her bare perfection, I found her already dressed and in the kitchen, writing up a list of things we needed from the store.

“You dress too quickly.” I came up behind her and wrapped my arms around her thin waist. She pushed me off and slid away from me.

She stayed quiet, even when I followed her to the living room.

“You have such mood swings. You can be so cheery sometimes, wanting to drink wine and waltz with no music. Why do you have to get like this?”

She stared at me, as if I had done something wrong. I must have, to be stared at in such a way.

“I don’t like you keeping things from me,” she whispered as she gathered her purse from the table in the hall. “Why can’t you tell me?”

“I can’t tell you because you wouldn’t like to hear it.”

“But you can’t even tell me that what the radio always says, that you killed that woman, you can’t even tell me it’s a lie!”

It’s marvelous how the media constantly misinforms the public.

“It’s not true! There, is that what you want?”

“No, I want you to tell me why the police—”

The ringing of a phone interrupted her.

I casually walked into the kitchen to answer it, confident in who would be on the other line.

I lifted the receiver, but said nothing.

“Pierce Aldernine?” said the talk box.

“Speaking.” I could see Fleur lingering in the background of my vision, still preparing to leave for town.

“Can I come by today and pick them up?”

“Give it a few hours. Right now, I have nothing.”

“And you will be able to paint beautiful art work in ‘a few hours’?”

“It will take longer for them to dry than it will to paint them.”

“Fine, a few hours?”

“Yes, and could you bring some money with you? I’m not sure we have enough to get by until the paintings start to sell.”

“Maybe, I’m not sure I have enough to live, since I did help you buy all that new junk for your house!”

The sound of Alexei hanging up, and that of the door closing, overlapped. Fleur had left without finishing her question and I had been given another escape from answering.

ZOMGAZ! THIZ STOEIRY WAZ SO FRIGGIN' AWSUM!




I'll give you a better critique soon... honest.

That was nice and descriptive.

I am bad at critiqiuing.And also it didn't have anything to point out I suppose.

I thought it was good. I like how you added the French and definition at the beginning. It really makes the story come alive more. I didn't really see anything wrong. I thought that it was a good story. Sorry, I wish I could be more help. Writergirl

OK I really like this story! I am a bit confused though I find it really hard to determine what kind of man Lev is and what kind of relationship they have. Sometimes he is aggressive towards her
“Go away. I’ll be there in a minute,” I said in the most uncaring voice I could find.
and others he is loving and caring
"I came up behind her and wrapped my arms around her thin waist."
It is clear that they are in a strange and dangerous location but I still find their relationship hard to follow. Why does she remain so devout when he refuses to tell her so many important things? I think the plot is moving along really nicely and I like the way you are beginning to introduce the meaning behind the title and other characters. The suspense is really good and I can't wait for the next installment, just try and work on their relationship so that it is a bit clearer and easier to understand otherwise it is brilliant!