Young Writers Society

It was a regular working day in the fields of southern Ceylonus.
The Woodsors were farmers, of course. They had been for as long as any of them could remember. And though there were a lot of them, there was also an enormous plot of land that they had to take care of daily. Particularly with the harvest coming up.
Most of the women and children were either in the barn feeding the animals or back at the ranch and cottage helping prepare the breakfast; a thin trail of smoke curled up from above the chimney of the communal house as evidence. There was one girl, however, who was at the stables with her uncle, helping him tend to the horses.
He said something good-naturedly to her, making her laugh. He rubbed her long braided brown hair affectionately, then they parted ways, he towards the river, she back towards the ranch, no doubt hungry from the mouth-watering aroma of bacon and eggs.
“Kill him,” a gruff voice whose owner was scornfully observing the farmers go about their routine tasks said from behind the trees at the front edge of the Woodsors' land.
“At once, sir,” five others replied. Quickly, silently, their owners slipped away, melting into the early morning shadows like they were trained to do.
“Marcifus.”
He looked behind him to see one of his most trusted comrades, Doltan Halberough, jerking his head towards the man walking towards the river, a bucket for fetching water in his hand.
“Was that the one?” his second-in-command continued.
The leader of the Sharpshooters nodded grimly. “The one the Queen's been looking for all this time. For over twenty years now.”
He paused to make sure that the farmers were heading back towards the cottage, looked around at those under his command, then nodded and said two words.
“It's time.”
With roars of anger and defiance, the men charged out from the trees bordering the Woodsors' land. Weapons gleamed in the bright sunlight as they were drawn out of their sheathes, shields shone with polished metal and displayed the black snake emblem of the Sharpshooters, while twenty razor-sharp arrow tips pointed towards the sky.
The three Woodsors that were still outside had cat-like reflexes, and two of them had already grabbed the weapons they'd just set down.
But then the shower of arrows descended on them, and after that the first wave of Sharpshooters was on top of them.
The girl who had come from the stables had already gone down— defenseless— with two arrow wounds, one in her right arm, one in her left leg. One of the men steered towards her, while the rest of them went for the other Woodsors, both inside and outside the cottage.
The man drew his sword, then looked down at her and hesitated. She was helpless right now. Should he really kill her? He knew that that was what Marcifus would want of him. But there was a nagging thought in his mind that he shouldn't just...
You have orders, fool! A voice in the back of his mind— one that he'd listened to so much by now— grated. Why not follow them?
But still he hesitated.
Hurry up! What's the matter with you?
And then he brought the sword down.

Marcifus surveyed the scene of destruction before him with satisfaction. The buildings were burning; the cattle, sheep, and other animals were slaughtered; every one of his men— including himself— had a full stomach after eating the breakfast meant for the farmers; all the Woodsors were dead; and at last the Queen's thirst for revenge would be satisfied...
“Lucas, Erik, Ultiel, Farrow, Xavier!” he shouted.
The five men who had been sent to kill the man headed towards the nearby river stood up, walked over to Marcifus, and bowed before him.
“Yes, sir?” five harsh, pitiless voices asked.
“Is the traitor dead? The one whom we have wasted more than twenty years searching for?”
“Yes, sir!” they all replied promptly.
Marcifus' mouth twisted into a satisfied smirk. “Well done, gentlemen. Excellent job. Now go back to your places.”
He waited until they had returned to their specific spots in the ranks before continuing.
“Alton Willinger!” he called.
A man who looked to be in his thirties with light brown hair and intense blue eyes got up from the ranks of the Sharpshooters and bowed before Marcifus. “Yes, sir?”
“I saw you hesitate, just before you struck down the girl that was still outside.”
“Er— yes, sir.”
“Make sure it does not happen again.”
Alton licked his lips. “It will not, sir.”
“Good.” Marcifus nodded, then smiled at his troops. “I've already posted the notice from Queen Morianna. Men, let's move out.”
He mounted his jet-black horse, then set it forward at a canter, his men following suit with their own horses until the only sign that they had ever been there was the scene of destruction that they had left behind.
Slowly, cautiously, a man with gray flecks in his black hair peeked out from behind the stables. For some reason, those bandits that had mercilessly attacked his family and wounded his soul, and the girl's as well, hadn't burned them. Probably so that they could return— after reporting back to whoever was commanding them— and steal the horses, he realized.
“Meralyn,” he whispered hoarsely. “It's all right. They're gone now.”
A pale girl stepped out from behind a nearby tree that had effectively concealed her. “Uncle— when that man— he sent his sword down— but—”
“I think I recognized him,” her uncle replied quietly. “Alton Willinger. We grew up together. Now, though...” His voice was tinged with regret as he gazed out over the horizon and the blood-red sun rising in the distance.
“Uncle,” the girl said once more. “Does— does that mean— are Mother and Father—”
Suddenly she burst into tears, huge, racking sobs that robbed her of the meager strength she had left after what had just happened.
Her uncle wrapped his arms around her. “Yes, Meralyn. I'm sorry,” he said quietly. Tears trickled slowly down his cheeks as he tried unsuccessfully to comfort her.
“They were—” Meralyn sniffled, then pulled herself out of her uncle's embrace. “They were the best parents anyone could ask for. And though my younger siblings were annoying, I still loved them.” She sniffed again. “How...how could anyone...” Her voice shook, and she could not go on for some time.
“How could anyone do this?” she finally managed to ask in an angry whisper.
Her uncle shook his head. “I only know of one person who could be responsible for ordering those— those vagrants— to do this.”
His niece looked worriedly up at him. The bitterness in his voice had not escaped her notice.
“Who, Uncle? Who would do such a thing?”
“Queen Morianna,” he replied grimly. “Safe and snug in her castle and as dictator in her country, Endorra. A country that she does not deserve.”
Slowly, as if in a dream, they walked around and all the way through the lands that their family had used to work so cheerfully and diligently. When they reached the dirt trail that led in two directions, either north towards Baldria, or south towards Agennionne and the Apennines, they saw the notice stuck to their favorite oak tree.
“How dare they—!” Meralyn shrieked. She stomped over and ripped the paper off their beloved tree. Before she could tear it to shreds, her uncle stopped her.
“Wait. I want to see what it says, what excuse those bandits gave for this unforgivable act,” he told her grimly.
She knew better than to refuse him from his tone of voice. Besides, she supposed that he would be her surrogate father from now on. So she handed the document, sealed with Queen Morianna's crest, to him.
He quickly read the words written there, muttering dark threats to himself all the way through, and finally slammed the paper onto the ground, accompanied by a just audible curse.
“May I see it?” Without waiting for her uncle's approval, Meralyn picked the notice off the ground and skimmed over what it said. When she was done, she shook her head in disgust. “This Queen Morianna...and her henchman Marcifus Drendiss...I cannot believe that they would do this!”
“They would do anything for revenge, as it says in their fancy little notice,” her uncle told her darkly.
Gone was her Uncle Nick, the cheerful, joking man almost identical to her father, yet not quite, at the same time. In his place was Nicolas Richard Woodsor, an angry man who was determined to pay Queen Morianna back for what she had decreed and what the Sharpshooters had done.
Meralyn realized that she had changed too. Just two hours ago, she had been one of the happiest children in the land. Now, though...how could she ever smile again?
“Do you think they fell for the trick? You know, with the log?” she asked him. She didn't want to elaborate further. Besides, she knew that her uncle would understand.
He nodded. “I'm sure of it. No one came to check to make sure that the log really was a body. Now do you see why I waited to help you until after they had finished their business?”
Meralyn nodded. “Yes. Thank you, Uncle.”
He sighed heavily. “It was nothing. Every uncle would have done it for his niece.”
For several moments, they stood there in silence, reminiscing about all the fun and good times they'd had together with the rest of their family on their land. There had been hoedown nights, festival days, merry holidays and celebrations....
“We need to avenge them,” Meralyn said quietly.
Nicolas nodded. “We do.”
Another moment of silence. Then, “We should get going, shouldn't we?”
Nicolas nodded again. “Yes. We should.”
They looked at each other for a long time, then nodded decisively together.
Nicolas sighed again, a deep, gusty sigh. “Well then, let's gather what few of our belongings that remain, and then get on the road.”
“Morianna and Marcifus will pay for what they have done to our family,” Meralyn whispered.

And there it is! Constructive criticism welcome. Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoyed!

I actually really like this. The voice was simple but effective, and it had a lot of clever little twists and turns through it that was pretty stellar. As far as plot goes, I have no complaints, and the same goes for grammar. Also (and this is really important for fantasy) the world was realistic but fascinating. Will you message me if you put up the next chapter?
Keep writing,
storyWeaver

So far, I really really like this. I think that you know exactly what you're doing, and you're in confident in doing it. There are a couple of things I will point out though:

1) Don't jump into the plot too soon. This just happened really quickly. Usually, it's a couple of chapters before a reader really knows what's going on. Sometimes, it's 200 pages in. Don't make it too obvious towards the beginning. Maybe the characters themselves don't know what they want to do at first. Maybe they just want to survive, but are drawn more and more to the thought of revenge, as their anger only seems to grow over time. The last bit of the prologue was a bit too "Here it is: this is what the book is about." You don't want the characters to state it. You want the readers to know it.


2) The dialog. Now, dialog can be really difficult- just remember that you're writing down what people would really say in those situations. To me, the dialog felt a bit stilted at times, and awkward at others, and sometimes just spelled things out a little too clearly. Sometimes, less is more, and sometimes you need to plump areas up where it counts. Maybe after everyone has died, there isn't any talking. Maybe there are just tears. Maybe towards the end, they don't talk about revenge, but about what they're going to do next, and one of the characters, out of a purely impulsive action, takes the notice from the queen, and that is what feeds their ire in the end.

3) Read this out loud. Sometimes, the wording is really awkward, and I think that if you just read it out loud to see how it tasted in your mouth, how it felt, how the cadence of your words could be smoothed out, it would really help this bloom. For example: "“Kill him,” a gruff voice whose owner was scornfully observing the farmers go about their routine tasks said from behind the trees at the front edge of the Woodsors' land."
When you read this out loud, it's kind of a mouthful. Sometimes in your writing, you can cut things that aren't really necessary, and elaborate on other parts. Put your words where they count.


4) Show vs. Telling. I know. I'm going for the Show, Don't Tell thing. How unoriginal.
But seriously I think that if you were to try "showing" versus "telling" this could really improve the quality of your writing. Just remember not to overshow. Which sounds weird- just don't get caught up in description. Make it concise, slip it in, and don't put a ton. Set the scene and let it unfold in the mind of the reader.




Overall: There was a little disturbance in your writing rhythm, but overall, this was really well done. The story is strong and interesting, and held me to the end.
Again, I really liked this. Feel free to let me know if and when you post the next chapter and I'll definitely take a look at it.


-Coral-

Hey Isebella

I like what you've got here, Isebella. I think that it has loads of potential and the plot itself seems to be a really interesting one. This isn't really my kind of novel, but I'll try my best not to be biased when I'm reviewing it. I'm not going to concentrate on nit-picks because I'd rather get into the deeper stuff because, if you ask me, that's more important.

One of the main issues with this for me at the moment is that this is clearly a very emotional scene, right? I'm not really feeling anything though. You seem to be telling us that your characters are angry and that they're sad, but we're not really seeing it. I'm not sure if that makes sense... Part of the reason I'm not feeling anything with this is because I think you're skipping through some details. I want more vivid blood scenes! Describe how as the arrow stuck into the girl, Meralyn felt her heart sinking to the bottom of her stomach. Try to be as vivid as possible.

Part of the reason I think the emotions in this are a little off right now is because of the fact that you have a tendency to tell and not show. Like Coral said, as unoriginal the showing and not telling thing is, it's true. By showing us readers your character's emotions and actions, it creates a much better effect. Here's an example of telling, not showing:

Gone was her Uncle Nick, the cheerful, joking man almost identical to her father, yet not quite, at the same time. In his place was Nicolas Richard Woodsor, an angry man who was determined to pay Queen Morianna back for what she had decreed and what the Sharpshooters had done.

You're telling us that Meralyn's uncle has changed, but you could have done that so much more effectively by simply showing us his actions and behaviour. You actually did a bit of this; it was clear that he was angry at what had happened. You need to embrace that more. One of the porblems in this situation is that we don't see the uncle before. Therefore, we can't just accept that he used to be a happy, go-lucky man. Because we've only just met him after the attack, we instantly think of him as a bitter, angry man. Do you see what I mean? Maybe you could show us the uncle before the attack...? I don't know.

The only other issue here is only a minor one. I did notice that sometimes, you misused grammar, mostly commas. I didn't nit-pick them because it wasn't a huge problem, and funnily enough, as the piece went on, your grammar appeared to be improving. Commas are hard things to work with, so try not to stress too much about it. I myself often have problems with using commas correctly. What I'd suggest is maybe Googling for an article, blog, or something that can give you advice on comma usage. I wouldn't worry too much about this though because it's not that much of an issue.

Keep writing,

xoxo Skins

Hey Isebella! I was happy to see that you posted something that I could review.

Okay, so overall I like the story -- but it has a familiar ring to it. Everything feels a little clichéd: evil men come and kill a peaceful farm family, there's a survivor (or two) who seek to get even with them...also, it reminded me of some Ranger's Apprentice scenes, which is no bad thing, but just something to keep an eye out for (I know I've been influenced more than I realized).

IsebellaLynnette wrote:“Kill him,” a gruff voice whose owner was scornfully observing the farmers go about their routine tasks said from behind the trees at the front edge of the Woodsors' land.

Whoo. This is long. Definitely needs to be broken up to give the reader a break.

For some reason, those bandits that had mercilessly attacked his family and wounded his soul, and the girl's as well, hadn't burned them. Probably so that they could return— after reporting back to whoever was commanding them— and steal the horses, he realized.

Eh, I don't know. Why wouldn't they just get the horses now and bring them along, burning everything and finishing altogether with the job? I know you need a place for him to hide, but still the logic doesn't quite add up.

He nodded. “I'm sure of it. No one came to check to make sure that the log really was a body. Now do you see why I waited to help you until after they had finished their business?”

Er...I don't see. I thought the other guy, Alton, decided not to kill her or something...are you saying that he worked to save her? Or did the uncle swap the log for the girl and then Alton brought his sword down? In which case, he would've known that she wasn't dead, because logs don't exactly feel like bodies...anyways, I'm confused and need a bit of clearing up.

Well, that's all I have to nitpick on. Good job, I look forward to reading more! Please PM me if you've got any questions or whatnot, and keep up the good work! (:

Hi I.L.! Sorry it took so long..... I have been really busy.. But I'm here now.


It was a regular working day in the fields of southern Ceylonus.

The Woodsors were farmers, of course. They had been for as long as any of them could remember. And though there were a lot of them, there was also an enormous plot of land that they had to take care of daily. Particularly with the harvest coming up.

Most of the women and children were either in the barn feeding the animals or

back at the ranch and cottage

shouldn't it be one or the other? back at the ranch OR back at the cottage?

helping prepare the breakfast; a thin trail of smoke curled up from above the chimney of the communal house as evidence. There was one girl, however, who was at the stables with her uncle, helping him tend to the horses.

He said something good-naturedly to her, making her laugh. He rubbed her long braided brown hair affectionately, then they parted ways, he towards the river, she back towards the ranch, no doubt hungry from the mouth-watering aroma of bacon and eggs.

“Kill him,” a gruff voice whose owner was scornfully observing the farmers go about their routine tasks said from behind the trees at the front edge of the Woodsors' land.

“At once, sir,” five others replied. Quickly, silently, their owners slipped away, melting into the early morning shadows like they were trained to do.

“Marcifus.”

He looked behind him to see one of his most trusted comrades, Doltan Halberough, jerking his head towards the man walking towards the river, a bucket for fetching water in his hand.

“Was that the one?” his second-in-command continued.

The leader of the Sharpshooters nodded grimly. “The one the Queen's been looking for all this time. For over twenty years now.”

He paused to make sure that the farmers were heading back towards the cottage, looked around at those under his command, then nodded and said two words.

“It's time.”

With roars of anger and defiance, the men charged out from the trees bordering the Woodsors' land. Weapons gleamed in the bright sunlight as they were drawn out of their sheathes, shields shone with polished metal and displayed the black snake emblem of the Sharpshooters, while twenty razor-sharp arrow tips pointed towards the sky.

The three Woodsors that were still outside had cat-like reflexes, and two of them had already grabbed the weapons they'd just set down.

But then the shower of arrows descended on them, and after that the first wave of Sharpshooters was on top of them

.
were? not was, were!

The girl who had come from the stables had already gone down— defenseless— with two arrow wounds, one in her right arm, one in her left leg. One of the men steered towards her, while the rest of them went for the other Woodsors, both inside and outside the cottage.

The man drew his sword, then looked down at her and hesitated. She was helpless right now. Should he really kill her? He knew that that was what Marcifus would want of him. But there was a nagging thought in his mind that he shouldn't just...

You have orders, fool! A voice in the back of his mind— one that he'd listened to so much by now— grated. Why not follow them?

But still he hesitated.

Hurry up! What's the matter with you?

And then he brought the sword down.


------------------------------------------------------


Marcifus surveyed the scene of destruction before him with satisfaction. The buildings were burning; the cattle, sheep, and other animals were slaughtered; every one of his men— including himself— had a full stomach after eating the breakfast meant for the farmers; all the Woodsors were dead; and at last the Queen's thirst for revenge would be satisfied...

“Lucas, Erik, Ultiel, Farrow, Xavier!” he shouted.

nice, time correct names

The five men who had been sent to kill the man headed towards the nearby river stood up, walked over to Marcifus, and bowed before him.

“Yes, sir?” five harsh, pitiless voices asked.

“Is the traitor dead? The one whom we have wasted more than twenty years searching for?”

“Yes, sir!” they all replied promptly.

Marcifus' mouth twisted into a satisfied smirk. “Well done, gentlemen. Excellent job. Now go back to your places.”

He waited until they had returned to their specific spots in the ranks before continuing.

“Alton Willinger!” he called.

A man who looked to be in his thirties with light brown hair and intense blue eyes got up from the ranks of the Sharpshooters and bowed before Marcifus. “Yes, sir?”

“I saw you hesitate, just before you struck down the girl that was still outside.”

“Er— yes, sir.”

“Make sure it does not happen again.”

Alton licked his lips. “It will not, sir.”

“Good.” Marcifus nodded, then smiled at his troops. “I've already posted the notice from Queen Morianna. Men, let's move out.”

He mounted his jet-black horse, then set it forward at a canter, his men following suit with their own horses until the only sign that they had ever been there was the scene of destruction that they had left behind.

Slowly, cautiously, a man with gray flecks in his black hair peeked out from behind the stables. For some reason, those bandits that had mercilessly attacked his family and wounded his soul, and the girl's as well, hadn't burned them. Probably so that they could return— after reporting back to whoever was commanding them— and steal the horses, he realized.

“Meralyn,” he whispered hoarsely. “It's all right. They're gone now.”

A pale girl stepped out from behind a nearby tree that had effectively concealed her. “Uncle— when that man— he sent his sword down— but—”

“I think I recognized him,” her uncle replied quietly. “Alton Willinger. We grew up together. Now, though...” His voice was tinged with regret as he gazed out over the horizon and the blood-red sun rising in the distance.

“Uncle,” the girl said once more. “Does— does that mean— are Mother and Father—”

Suddenly she burst into tears, huge, racking sobs that robbed her of the meager strength she had left after what had just happened.

Her uncle wrapped his arms around her. “Yes, Meralyn. I'm sorry,” he said quietly. Tears trickled slowly down his cheeks as he tried unsuccessfully to comfort her.

“They were—” Meralyn sniffled, then pulled herself out of her uncle's embrace. “They were the best parents anyone could ask for. And though my younger siblings were annoying, I still loved them.” She sniffed again. “How...how could anyone...” Her voice shook, and she could not go on for some time.

“How could anyone do this?” she finally managed to ask in an angry whisper.

Her uncle shook his head. “I only know of one person who could be responsible for ordering those— those vagrants— to do this.”

His niece looked worriedly up at him. The bitterness in his voice had not escaped her notice.

“Who, Uncle? Who would do such a thing?”

“Queen Morianna,” he replied grimly. “Safe and snug in her castle and as dictator in her country Endorra. A country that she does not deserve.”

Slowly, as if in a dream, they walked around and all the way through the lands that their family had used to work so cheerfully and diligently. When they reached the dirt trail that led in two directions, either north towards Baldria, or south towards Agennionne and the Apennines, they saw the notice stuck to their favorite oak tree.

“How dare they—!” Meralyn shrieked. She stomped over and ripped the paper off their beloved tree. Before she could tear it to shreds, her uncle stopped her.

“Wait. I want to see what it says, what excuse those bandits gave for this unforgivable act,” he told her grimly.

She knew better than to refuse him from his tone of voice. Besides, she supposed that he would be her surrogate father from now on. So she handed the document, sealed with Queen Morianna's crest, to him.

He quickly read the words written there, muttering dark threats to himself all the way through, and finally slammed the paper onto the ground, accompanied by an just audible curse.

“May I see it?” Without waiting for her uncle's approval, Meralyn picked the notice off the ground and skimmed over what it said. When she was done, she shook her head in disgust. “This Queen Morianna...and her henchman Marcifus Drendiss...I cannot believe that they would do this!”

“They would do anything for revenge, as it says in their fancy little notice,” her uncle told her darkly.

Gone was her Uncle Nick, the cheerful, joking man almost identical to her father, yet not quite, at the same time. In his place was Nicolas Richard Woodsor, an angry man who was determined to pay Queen Morianna back for what she had decreed and what the Sharpshooters had done.

Meralyn realized that she had changed too. Just two hours ago, she had been one of the happiest children in the land. Now, though...how could she ever smile again?

“Do you think they fell for the trick? You know, with the log?” she asked him. She didn't want to elaborate further. Besides, she knew that her uncle would understand.

He nodded. “I'm sure of it. No one came to check to make sure that the log really was a body. Now do you see why I waited to help you until after they had finished their business?”

Meralyn nodded. “Yes. Thank you, Uncle.”

He sighed heavily. “It was nothing. Every uncle would have done it for his niece.”

For several moments, they stood there in silence, reminiscing about all the fun and good times they'd had together with the rest of their family on their land. There had been hoedown nights, festival days, merry holidays and celebrations....

“We need to avenge them,” Meralyn said quietly.

Nicolas nodded. “We do.”

Another moment of silence. Then, “We should get going, shouldn't we?”

Nicolas nodded again. “Yes. We should.”

They looked at each other for a long time, then nodded decisively together.

Nicolas sighed again, a deep, gusty sigh. “Well then, let's gather what few of our belongings that remain, and then get on the road.”

“Morianna and Marcifus will pay for what they have done to our family,” Meralyn whispered.

Okay:

Grammar:
good, a few word mix-ups but no major stuff

Storyline:
Intearesting enough. Not late enough into the story for charecter devolpment

Sorry again for how long it took, Luvs and huggles, keep writing
~pointe