Young Writers Society

Thank you ever so much for the reviews everyone. I clearly have some work to do but it's nice to know some people think I might have something here. I know I owe some people some reviews to and I promise I'll get to it.

Sorry it took me so long to get back to you with this review. I have a few nitpicks, but most everyone has already covered what I was going to say. And your story is very well-written, so there wasn't much that needed correcting in the first place.

I like how you open the story, with the walking-stick. One thing that really irked me however was how much you used "trusty walking stick". That got redundant very quickly.

The walking stick might tell you of a man called Stout, dressed in hardly more than rags and carrying nothing with him except for his trusty walking stick.

[s]Yet, if he did[/s] his grace towards others did not suffer.

companion might tell you of the help and aid offered to Stout, who declined most graciously on account of not wishing to be a burden on others. Having had his fortune for many years the man harbored no hard feelings towards those who now had far more than he.

How on a cold winter night he would give up his almost warm corner in an alley to a elder man to whom he surely owed nothing. How Stout might traverse miles of the city searching out one individual or another and offering the grateful recipient a few coins he had saved or a portion of his previous meal, knowing full well it could be some time before he ate again.

It was late autumn in the northerly climate it was already bitterly cold

The gang of homeless boys roamed the streets and alleys all around the city, stealing from and harassing most they met. Stout often tried to correct them of there ways.

His stride quickened as much as it could as he tried to make the shelter before the storm hit or it closed its doors for the evening.

Soon, in spite of the weather, [s]which was worsening all the time,[/s] the tapping of the stick was accompanied by a snapping of the fingers and melodic whistling. Not like the noise most would make with the meager array of instruments at his disposal but a truly riveting rendition of an old church hymn some would know to be called It Is Well.

The tune was heard coming up the street by those involved in a most unfortunate situation.

"Ma'am no excuses please, you knew the consequences for failing to pay when you signed the document.” the officer told her authoritatively “you'll have to be gone”.

As poor, and of late [s]usually[/s] ill, as he was the mere presence of Stout commanded respect and the officer and lender each turned to face him.

Stout nodded towards the two men. “Come over here a second, both of you”. The lender protested but followed the policeman down the front steps and a few feet away into the yard. Stout stood a moment glancing thoughtfully at the well kept building. “This is an atrocity”! He declared, his voice with a hard edge, enunciated each word quite clearly. “This woman’s husband gave his life in service to our country, in service to you” he stuck his walking stick in the banker’s chest. “And you think it alright to throw them out, during the holiday season no less! Atrocity this is and nothing less.”

“The situation resolved [s]as it was[/s], Stout took the opportunity to make a request.

By the time Stout had finally arrived at the shelter there was a long line of the less than fortunate [s]and no doubt a few just plain lazy[/s], in line to get to the warmth and safety it provided.

The building was large but Stout could [s]well[/s] judge that he might not get in before they ran out of space inside and closed their doors for the night.

Even as he stepped to the aid of a feeble looking woman [s]even[/s] resorting to the use of his walking stick.

Finally Stout inched around the corner of the building and came near the door.

one that if he did not get inside he knew it was [s]as[/s] likely he wouldn't wake up in the morning [s]as it was that he would, and with his health ailing of late, things were looking grim.[/s]

The sparkle gone from his eyes, he limped away, his arms would have hung limp at his sides had they not been nearly frozen in place.

I was very interested by this story. It was refreshing to find a piece of writing centered on hope. People need to hear that kind of thing, I think, since I see so many posts on this site about dark, gloomy despair. But it does sound a little scripted. This kind of story is hard to write because you walk a tightrope suspended over sappiness. Still, I felt you did a good job handling the material.

It had an unexpected conclusion, though, like he'd given up all hope at the very end. The transition from benevolent goodness to bitter sorrow was a bit abrupt, but that's nothing that can't be ammended.

If you're trying to display a principle through the piece, spend more time doing so.

I was impressed with this piece. It showed mature writing skills and it kept my attention to the very end. It's easy to loose focus during a long piece, but I was pleased with how refreshed I came away after reading this.

Thank you for the pleasure of reading and commenting on your writing.

Hey EmmVeePi,

This is pretty good. The intro was awesome; great job characterizing his walking stick and sending the reader into the direction you want them to be thinking while reading the story. It was well-written and the language you used was colorful and somewhat descriptive. Good job for your first post!

Vet

Wow, okay long story, pretty impressive for your first post. Here is the review you asked for!

EmmVeePi wrote:Oh, If a walking stick could talk. If a walking stick could talk [Comma] he might tell you of a


man, of a man who spent many an hour with no one but the trusty stick at his side,[This should be a full stop, not a comma in my opinion] the stick


might tell you of a man who was not great, but certainly was good. The walking stick might


tell you of a man called Stout, dressed in hardly more than rags and carrying nothing


with him except for his trusty walking stick.


If only the stick could speak, it might tell you of a man who was once wealthy


beyond most; who, through no fault of his, seemingly fell from grace. Yet, if he did [Comma] his


grace towards others did not suffer. Yes, if the walking stick might talk it might tell you of


the generosity of Stout, neither less before nor after his seeming demise. The trusty, inanimate


companion might tell you of the help and aid offered to Stout, who declined most graciously


on account of not wishing to be a burden on others, having had his fortune for many years


the man harbored no hard feelings towards those who now had far more than he.


If you kept listening to the man’s walking stick it might soon tell you of all the good


the man did, all with seemingly nothing but a good heart. How on a cold winter night he


would give up his almost warm corner in an alley to a elder man to whom he surely owed


nothing and how Stout might traverse miles of the city searching out one individual or


another and offering the grateful recipient a few coins he had saved or a portion of his


previous meal, knowing full well it could be some time before he ate again.


I suppose though if the trusty walking stick could converse with you it would


eventually tell you a story, a story of all things good and things of the most reprehensible


nature, the walking stick would tell you of right and wrong, and certainly of joy and sadness,


the stick would tell you this story.
[Hm, this is a very long introduction, and gets repetitive and dry after a while, you could try and shorten it, as I found it long and tedious. It was a good example of poetry though... Good work, you might just want to abbreviate :]

Stout walked down a quickly darkening city street, alone save for his trusty


walking stick. It was late autumn in the northerly climate it was already


bitterly cold . He sighted a movement just off into an alleyway, but the shadow quickly


disappeared . “Let him who stole [comma] steal no longer”.[The full stop should be at the end of the sentence, inside the quotation marks] Stout called into the alley, quoting scripture


as he often did. “You boys need to find more industrious ways of using your surely capable


minds and hands”. The gang of homeless boys roamed the streets and alleys all around the


city, stealing from and harassing most they met, Stout often tried to correct them of there


ways. The fruit of his labor would not become apparent for years, surely not in his lifetime,


but his compassionate heart and stern criticism would surely impact the troubled youths and


the city in which they lived.


He continued his walk, making his way towards a shelter across town, his walking


stick thumping the ground with every labored step he took. The wind was starting to gust


strongly now and Stout could sense a early winter storm was blowing in. His stride quickened


as much as it could as he tried to make the shelter before the storm hit or it closed its doors


for the evening. Along the way he spotted what he deemed to be a terrible sight.


In front of a rather large gift shop stood a young man, a charity volunteer, calling for


people to donate their change as they left the store. “For the poor and needy”. The young


man shouted, but it was to no avail, the customers simply walked by, some looking the other


way, some shaking their heads, a few tried to make excuses. The man kept calling [Comma] but no


one would give a so much as a dime.


Stout limped slowly up to the man, with a firm grip he shook the man’s hand. “Thank


you for your work sir”. [Again, full stop inside the quotes :]


“Get on your way old man, aren't I doing enough for your kind”? The man asked with bitter contempt.



Stout just shook his head and stood firm. Turning to the never ending stream of customers


exiting the shop he called. “The Bible says to find grace to help in time of need. Surely the


aid of the poor and beaten down is a need, please find in your hearts to give a little,


anything”. And then, never being one to ask others to do something he himself would not, the


shaky old man in tattered pieces of clothing pulled the last coin from his pocket and dropped


the nearly worthless piece of money into the donation can. A few onlookers took notice of


the poor man who had more generosity than they and before long there was a steady stream


of people dropping dollars and cents into the donation can.[Try not to use donation can here, it has already been used recently] Only a glimpse of Stout could be


seen down the darkening street, the steady tapping of his walking stick fading away,


surely not knowing the way he had just in that moment struck so many people’s hearts.


Down the cold windy streets Stout continued “click, clack” all the time his stick tapping


out a steady and upbeat rhythm. Soon, in spite of the weather, which was worsening all the


time, the tapping of the stick was accompanied by a snapping of the fingers and melodic


whistling. Not like the noise most would make with the meager array of instruments at his


disposal but a truly riveting rendition of an old church hymn some would know to be called


It Is Well.


The tune was heard coming up the street by those involved in a most unfortunate


situation. A city officer was at the door of a pleasant little home, an official from a local


bank by his side. The officer was in the process of telling the women, children at both her


sides and in her arms, that she was to be removed from the home immediately, as she was


months behind on payments and the house was being repossessed by the bank. She was to be


gone within minutes or be taken to jail and her children consequently taken away.


“But I have done the best I can, my husband was killed in the war and no


compensation of any kind has arrived from the government as we were promised!” [Capital for the "The" >>]the women


wailed.


“Ma'am no excuses please, you knew the consequences for failing to pay when you


signed the document.” the officer told her authoritatively “you'll have to be gone”.


“We are not a charity and not in the business of giving away houses. If you want a


charity there is a place across town for you.” The banker said scornfully.


“Or downtown”. The officer added with a sneer.


The tune now silent, Stout stopped near the door, just behind the two men. As poor,


and of late usually ill, as he was the mere presence of Stout commanded respect and the


officer and lender each turned to face him. “May I help you”? The short crooked looking


lender inquired disdainfully. “Otherwise feel free to move along, scum”.


Stout stared the man straight in the eyes until the other looked away. “No sir I think


you can help them. Now I think I heard everything, but please explain to me what is going


on here”.


The banker merely glared but the officer, a slightly less sinister looking man, explained.


“This lady has failed to make payments on her home loan in some time and is being thrown


out of the house”.


“Her home,” Stout put extra emphasis on the changing of the word house to home,


“being ["Being" should be a capital, or have "..." in front of it] thrown out of her home. Something you would know nothing about. The Bible says:


Cease to do evil, learn to do good, seek justice, rebuke the oppressor, defend the fatherless


and plead for the widow. I have every intention of obeying the Word and you would do well


to do the same”. Same problem here, Full stop, Quotation marks]


Stout nodded towards the two men. “Come over here a second, both of you”. The


lender protested but followed the policeman down the front steps and a few feet away into


the yard. Stout stood a moment glancing thoughtfully at the well kept building. “This is an


atrocity”! He declared, his voice with a hard edge, enunciated each word quite clearly. “This


woman’s husband gave his life in service to our country, in service to you” he stuck his


walking stick in the banker’s chest. “And you think it alright to throw them out, during the


holiday season no less! Atrocity this is [Comma] and nothing less.” He paused for another moment [Comma]


throwing his gaze back towards the house. “Now I understand you can’t afford to be giving


houses away, but I think we can come to some kind of agreement to keep them in their


home at least through the season”. Stout paused and the other two men looked uncomfortable


but remained at attention. “Take notice, fools, of the condition of the home - pristine. Now


surely if you removed them from the home the condition of the property would decline and


consequently the value. Leave them in the home to upkeep it, at least until it the property has


sold and everyone comes out better off than if you were to throw them out on the street this


night”.


The banker mumbled and stammered but finally after staring into the stern eyes of


Stout and the pleading eyes of the family he relinquished. “So be it, but the moment that


house is sold they will be on the street”. The unhappy banker stomped off down the street,


having been denied his prey.


“The situation resolved as it was, Stout took the opportunity to make a request. “Ma'am


If I may be so bold could I request a night in your home? Being homeless as I am and


being the cold night that it is and seeing how I just saved your home, maybe you could find


room for my in some corner”?


The woman looked a little taken back. “I am so grateful to you for what you've done


for us but really, I would rather not expose my children to…” She paused for a moment,


“You know, your kind. I am trying to teach them to be good and respectable citizen like their


father and would rather they didn't spend time with someone of your status and condition”. [WHAT!!! She will be homeless soon! How dare she? *Slaps women*]


Stout stood momentarily, if he was shocked by the reply he did not show it, he merely


nodded, said a polite “Good Evening”. And continued his journey. The walk was nearly


impossible now though, the wind blowing hard right into his face, tearing through his meager


clothing and chilling him to the bone. Snow was swirling everywhere and it was impossible to


see more than a few steps ahead, nevertheless he leaned into the elements and marched


onward, knowing his way perfectly to the shelter.


By the time Stout had finally arrived at the shelter there was a long line of the less


than fortunate and no doubt a few just plain lazy, in line to get to the warmth and safety it


provided. The first thought to cross Stout’s mind was that he had spent too much time caring


for others, but then he remembered something he had once heard: it is never wrong to do


right. Sounds simple enough but he had noticed far too often that people, including himself,


seemed to forget this principle.


The line of people in need wrapped around the corner of the building and snaked down


the street, only slowly inching forward. The building was large but Stout could well judge that


he might not get in before they ran out of space inside and closed their doors for the night.


Certainly most the people falling into line behind him wouldn't get inside.


As the line crawled forward people started to get more anxious, realizing they might be


spending the night outside. Tempers started to flair as people vied [Not sure what "vied" means, I think you might mean "lied" here ] for positions in line. Stout


did his best to keep things smooth around him, even losing a few spots as he stepped to the


aid of a feeble looking woman even resorting to the use of his walking stick.


Finally Stout inched around the corner of the building and came near the door. At the


same time he noticed a volunteer emerge from the building and begin to converse with the


young women who was monitoring the entrance. A lump formed in the throat of Stout, it was


a terribly bitter night, one that if he did not get inside he knew it was as likely he wouldn't


wake up in the morning as it was that he would, and with his health ailing of late, things


were looking grim. Glancing around he noticed a man behind him with young girl, presumably


his daughter, and Stout genuinely hoped they made it inside as they both looked to be in


ruins, as much emotionally as materially.


Glancing up he noticed it was nearly his turn to enter, as he stepped forward the


woman smiled and said. “Your [This should be "You're", as in you are.] fortunate you made it in tonight”. He nodded gratefully and


stepped forward. But he stopped cold when he heard the woman speak again. “I am sorry but


we are completely full, there is no more room, you and your daughter sir will have to try


and find someplace else to stay tonight.”


Stout slowly let out a breath of air, and with an air of determination about him turned.


“Missus if you would please let these good people in, surely they can find an open spot on


the floor or something”.


The women shook her head adamantly. “We have all we can fit. There will always be


more people than we have room for, we have to stop somewhere. Be happy you made it and


get inside or get outta here”.


A cloud of vapor from his breath surrounded Stouts head, nearly hiding his face. He


struggled to call a Bible verse to memory but to no avail. “And if I give up my place”?


The woman looked a bit taken back. “I suppose if you gave your spot up we could


probably make it work for both of them to stay”. Stout nodded gravely and started to walk


away but the man caught him by the sleeve.


“Thank you so much sir. This means more than you can know, we have been through


so much and oh, I will never be able to repay you but thank you so very much”.


Stout shook his head. “We have all been through much, who is to[s]o[/s] say you more so


than me, or me more than any of them”. He looked sorrowfully at the group of people who


had not made it inside as they dispersed into the night. “What has become of humanity and


hearts”? He asked bitterly. The sparkle gone from his eyes, he limped away, his arms would


have hung limp at his sides had they not been nearly frozen in place. He could not take it


anymore. For so long he had held out hope that there was an inborn goodness in people, his state of


being aside, but time and again his race had failed in proving themselves of any good trait.


A short walk away he sat down, gingerly, against the side of the building, closed his


eyes and slumped forward. A most uncomfortable position, but earthly comfort was no longer


a concern to the man most had once known as Stout. His walking stick lay across his lap, the


only witness to the end of the last good, though not great, man.


Yes [Comma] a sad story would be told indeed if a walking stick could talk. It would be no


doubt claimed by some passerby sooner rather than later and the man’s carcass removed and


discarded as nothing more than useless waste. But the story of Stout surely would live on. In


the lives of the boys who once roamed in gangs, but who had been forever changed by this


man. It would live on in the giving hands of those who had been so changed by the site of


the giving of his last coin. Surely his legacy continued in the futures of the children who


spent no less than one more night at home courtesy of Stout's stern justice and common


sense. And the story would certainly forever live in the many who heard his story, a part


only, from the young girl who always told of the man to whom she may have owed her life


had he not given up his place that cold winter night. His story lived on in many and the


world was forever changed, ever so slightly, by the last good man.

Thank you much for the review, about the trusty stick comment, I understand if I need to change it up a bit but it is very important to me to illustrate that the stick was his last companion and a most devoted(if an inanimate object could be) one at that. Also I think you are reading that part about her home wrong. The emphasis isn't supposed to be on her the emphasis is on the difference between house and home.

I really enjoyed reading this. It was sensitive and subtle. I'd prejudged it as angsty but it wasn't. Loved the introduction and the way you structured it--the tone was original and didn't grate on me. Though conversational, it wasn't too chatty. It was a cool idea to get into the story by relating it to the walking-stick. I've grown so tired of hearing of pencils telling a story, and this was different, not too focused on novelty. My only gripe there would be the use of 'trusty' before walking-stick. I found it a bit repetitive and, er, annoying.
The character of Stout was great. I liked the old man's perspective, and it definitely worked having him as an old man, because the old generally have something to say about how things have changed. I thought his speech/preaching at the end was effective, but maybe could have been better. The problem there, I believe, is that it sounded a bit stilted. It can be hard to make character's 'say' profound stuff, but I think it's possible for it to be profound and still sound like the sort of thing somebody would say without an autocue in front of him.
In that respect, I found most all of the dialogue here was a bit unrealistic. The lack of apostrophes in words (there's a name for it, I know) to make it sound more like real dialogue, I think, were the biggest aspect in that.
Otherwise, this was lovely. Okay, not lovely (it wasn't frilly, quite the opposite) but very good. The subject-matter could easily have bored, but it didn't.

Grammar/punctuation. This certainly does not need much work there. The only thing that stood out was how you put the period after the speech-marks, instead of just before.

All in all, an enjoyable read. Thanks.

P.S. Something that I thought you should alter:

“Her home,” Stout put extra emphasis on the changing of the word house to home,

“being thrown out of her home. Something you would know nothing about.