Shady here with a review for you this fine evening! I see that you have quite a few chapters of this in the Green Room, and recently I have been on a reviewing mission in an attempt to get my next star and help clear out the Green Room, so, if my reviewing energy stays high, I'll try to leave you a few reviews tonight!
My style tends to be to go through and make comments as I'm reading on things that stand out to me (both positive and negative!) and then give my general opinions about the story at the end. Let's jump on in...
It always smelled like flour and corn, mixed with a dash of freshly ground pepper. Little Raphael, called Raffie by his two older brothers, sat cross-legged on the wooden floor of the living room. He never liked sitting directly on the wooden floorboards, though; he much preferred the warmth and softness of the woven mats his mother made. It was late in the evening - another one of those late nights where dinner would be served when the stars were out, and the nightlife well under way. These were the nights where Mami had to budget her funds and wait until around five in the evening to make a stop at the local convenient store that catered to Latinos. Prejudice was a thing you had to just take and understand; there was no sense to it, but fortunately there were ways to circumvent the unlawful restrictions on the Mexican immigrants. Raffie was just a baby when the Cortez family moved to London, seeking better opportunities for making money and raising a family. Little did they know how they would be treated when they got there.
A couple of things stood out to me in your first paragraph. The first is that I absolutely love, love, LOVE that you start with a description of smell. Most people focus on sight and a few branch out to talking about sounds, but it's so rare and Refreshing to see a chapter that talks about the smell of the scene and I am a huge fan.
The other thing is that this paragraph is massively huge. The point of paragraphs is to break up your text into nice, bite sized pieces that are easily digestible to your reader. This paragraph is long enough for at least 2 or 3 paragraphs. When you have super long paragraphs it strains both the brain and the eyes of your reader and is generally Not Great. Overall you did a pretty good job on paragraphing, but you do have quite a few massively huge paragraphs, and you should take another look at those sections and see what you can do about breaking those down a bit, okay?
It was always in the back room, she thought, but then sometimes there were people there, and he would move me to the storage cellar where no one ever ventured except him; it was filthy, covered in dirt and slime, it smelled like mold, and every now and then a rat would appear, and scuttle down the hallway…
Okay, so, as I'm reading, I see that the first part of your chapter is pretty info-dumpy. Do you know what I mean by that? If not feel free to shoot me a message or reply to this review and I can explain it, but I'm going to assume that you're familiar and not harp on it here.
Basically, the point of our prose is to "show" what's happening to our readers, not just "tell" them what's going on. And we have had a lot of information "told" to us here -- the reason why they moved, the circumstances they moved into, the struggles with poverty.
It's an interesting story, but there are more interesting ways that you could portray it to us than how you currently have it written. Like this part that I have quoted. It is italicized like Mami's thoughts... but it's not written like thoughts at all. Like think about how you think. Do you think in terms of "every now and then a rat would appear, and scuttle down the hallway"? Or is more like "And the rats! So disgusting! It seemed like they were everywhere, scuttling up and down the hallway! Blech."
You see what I mean? You wrote the thought very much like a description, not like inner dialogue, which is what thoughts are meant to be. People very rarely speak, much less think in full, grammatically correct sentences. If you made this read more like thoughts rather than an exposition I think it would be more believable -- and therefore more impactful.
They all replied affirmatively and stood up from the table, filing into the kitchen to throw away their empty plastic food containers.
Wait a second. If they are living in poverty, then why do they have plastic plates and napkins and all that jazz? I get that you said she wouldn't deny her kids the necessities... but disposable plates and such are a luxury, not a necessity. I also grew up in poverty and we used real plates because then we could wash them and use them over and over again. Paper plates were reserved for big get togethers and special occasions 'cause they're expensive.
I have no idea what your upbringing is, but you might want to think about little details like that, because that's something that people like me who also grew up impoverished are going to notice right away and go "hmm" on.
Rinaldo, being the older brother, began wanting more independence, and was allowed to sleep in his own bedroom, while the other two shared a bunkbed.
This is another thing that seems like a wee bit of a stretch. If they are THAT broke then how in the world do they have money for a 3 bedroom apartment/house? Those are expensive. I would definitely think that they'd only have a 2 bedroom apartment, and possibly even a 1 bedroom that all 5 of them shared, if they were off to THAT bad of shape. I'm getting progressively less convinced that they're really that bad off...
A round object rolled into view. It was a light brown, covered with liquid red and streaks of black. It was Rinaldo’s head.
O.o Dang. That escalated quickly.
The two boys nodded. They don’t like to talk, do they? she thought. But its probably because of what happened forty-five minutes ago.
See, here's another example of what I was talking about the thought. The first bit about "They don't like to talk, do they?" is good, fairly believable inner dialogue -- but the bit about what happened 45 minutes ago... isn't. Like that's not how people think. Something more like "Can't say that I blame them, seeing as what they've been through." Or something like that might be more believable -- but you need to think of thoughts in terms of "Is this something that someone would actually be likely to think?" and if not then to edit it until it is.
She had smiled when she saw the two of them sound asleep,
I'm also not sure entirely how believable this is. I mean, their parents and older brother were just brutally murdered -- they saw their own brother decapitated before their very eyes. And now they're in a peaceful slumber? I would think that they'd be too traumatized to sleep -- or, if they did manage to doze off, that it would be a fitful sleep filled with nightmares.
The young ones sitting beside Irene seemed to be restored of hope, yet had trepidation over being transferred to a new environment.
This definitely doesn't seem realistic. I have dealt with kids recently placed into foster care and it is absolutely traumatizing for them. They want their parents and they want them badly and they'll tell you that. They'll tell you how much they don't want to be in foster care. And even if they don't verbally tell you, you can still tell.
And this is for kids who have parents that are abusive or addicts or whatever. These kids just had their parents murdered -- so in addition to having all this foster care and such thrust upon them, they're also dealing with the trauma of having just lost their parents. There is no change that they'd just be calm and going along with things. This is probably the single most traumatic day of their lives and so far I'm not really seeing any trauma conveyed by your writing of their characters, honestly...
~ ~ ~
Okay! Wow! That was a lot. So, I think your story has a lot of potential. You have a lot of interesting plot points here and the overall concept is really fascinating! Super cool idea!
But there are several large areas where I can see that you could easily improve.
The first, and the biggest, is the length of your chapter. I almost didn't review this just for the sheer length of it intimidating me when I first clicked on this link, and I would bet just about anything that that's the reason that it's been sitting in the Green Room for so long, honestly.
Human brains can only focus for so long and this chapter is unfortunately longer than mine, at least, is capable of. I mean I made it through the whole chapter but it was difficult -- even though I was enjoying the story.
Personally I aim for my chapters to be about 1,800 - 2,100 words long, with me being happiest when they fall close to 1,900 words. And some people think that /my/ chapters are too long, at about 2K words. I ran this chapter through a word counter and it is 6,795 words long, which is just massive! That's over 3 times as long as my already-pretty-long chapters.
I would definitely recommend breaking this up into 2 chapters and even better 3 if you can find a way to do that. I think a general overview with their background + meal + going to bed being the first chapter and if you ended that with the oldest brother's panic then that would be a great cliffhanger that would keep us wanting to read on, which would be excellent. Have another chapter being the full carnage and the police investigation. And get a third out of the meeting with the social worker and the transportation to the foster agency.
Simply shortening this would make it a lot more readable and enjoyable.
Another major thing I noticed you should work on is the information that you contain in your story. Think about whether each paragraph you're writing contributes to the plot -- and, if not, think about cutting it out. There's no point in having a bunch of fluffy, useless text that does nothing to propel the plot along. All that's going to do is weigh the chapter down and make it feel like it's dragging on.
Example: The part with Mami having to sleep with the shopkeeper for their groceries. That is a tragic and good plot point... but... what's the point? Like, she's dead now, in a single chapter. So that entire long exposition about her sleeping with him, and then hiding it from her husband is... kinda pointless? Cause it's got absolutely no bearing on the story now.
I think you could mention her having to exchange her body for the groceries, but then not go super in depth with it. And there's a couple of things like that which you could significantly shorten in order to make the novel faster paced and only including relevant info.
I hope this wasn't too harsh! I do think you have a really good concept and I'm going to go on to your next chapter now to see what else you have in store for us. These are just tangible ways that you could improve and I want to see you do the best that you can!
If you have any questions about what I said feel free to hit me up for a chat or send me a private message or something!
Hi! I'm sorry for not reviewing this sooner, but it's just been a really busy week. I can do about 2-3 reviews per day, but today I started kind of late so I'll only do one. I'll do this paragraph by paragraph.
It always smelled like flour and corn, mixed with a dash of freshly ground pepper.
I like the fact that this captures the reader's attention, even if it is a bit abrupt.
Little Raphael, called Raffie by his two older brothers, sat cross-legged on the wooden floor of the living room. He never liked sitting directly on the wooden floorboards, though; he much preferred the warmth and softness of the woven mats his mother made. It was late in the evening - another one of those late nights where dinner would be served when the stars were out, and the nightlife well under way. These were the nights where Mami had to budget her funds and wait until around five in the evening to make a stop at the local convenient store that catered to Latinos. Prejudice was a thing you had to just take and understand; there was no sense to it, but fortunately there were ways to circumvent the unlawful restrictions on the Mexican immigrants. Raffie was just a baby when the Cortez family moved to London, seeking better opportunities for making money and raising a family. Little did they know how they would be treated when they got there.
Okay, great use of vocabulary, I like that a lot. I like the idea of a sort of 'unspecified' time line, but I think if you want to make London racially discriminative you've got to give it a bit more guidelines.
Mami had managed to purchase some microwaveable meals for them. They were single-serving boxes with pre-made chicken enchiladas from a virtually unknown brand from their native homeland. Raffie and his brothers didn’t care all that much; they were just glad to have food to fill their bellies, but they still felt the burden of impoverishment, the weight of life upon their parents’ shoulders, the misery of constantly being disappointed - that misery being held from view in order to preserve the joy of the young; it could not be hidden no matter how Mami and Papi tried. Their eldest son, Rinaldo, knew the most but never said a word.
Amazing portrayal of the way the kids see their poverty! I love it.
Mami came out of the kitchen with black, plastic casserole trays exuding hot steam that smelled like tomatoes and chicken. They were fortunate to find the food options available to them to be relatively of good flavor and nutrition, which satisfied the voracity of the children and the fatigued spirits of the parents.
I would remove the comma between black and plastic, but that's just a little nitpicky detail. And once again, great vocabulary- however, this opinion of mine does sound a little silly, but try to simplify a few words. You want to reach out to your readers, and 'exuding', 'voracity' and 'fatigued' sound a bit- high and mighty.
Raffie and his brothers devoured their meals in a matter of a few minutes. The young boy was delighted to be satiated after waiting all day for the big meal at night while pausing every now and then during the daylight hours to grab a Keebler snack. Mami found a smile to curl the corner of her mouth at the sight of her excited children. It was the kind of smile that proved to be the result of her inner struggle, one part being the joy of watching her children feed themselves, the other part being the brutally painful knowledge of how she acquired that food. The truth was, she had no money, only pretended she did. She could never bring herself to tell her husband; if she did, she would guarantee the destruction of their family. The truth was, she had made a deal with the store owner of the place she frequented for daily meals, that she would be given enough food for the week plus a small bit of money, in exchange for her body. She had recognized from the start the lust in the store owner’s eyes, and she knew he would jump at the chance if she gave it to him. Not a day went by where she didn’t hate herself for her actions. It was what she was thinking about at that moment; it was one of those memories that seemed to haunt every waking second for so long as it went unresolved. It was always in the back room, she thought, but then sometimes there were people there, and he would move me to the storage cellar where no one ever ventured except him; it was filthy, covered in dirt and slime, it smelled like mold, and every now and then a rat would appear, and scuttle down the hallway… She shuddered. Eduardo, her husband, glanced over at her briefly, and she produced a fake, close-lipped smile to alleviate any concerns he might’ve had.
Wow, angst! This story just got darker, but in an interesting way. Also, how is it possible that her husband never notices that she doesn't have much money? He must be either totally oblivious or she's just inhumanly amazing at deception.
Dinner concluded with jovial exclamations from the three brothers, as well as faithful uses of the red paper napkins Mami had bought. Poverty, to her, did by no means imply the acceptability of negating common necessities, and rightfully so. The children did not have the capability of understanding those kind of things; they just went along with whatever their parents said was how things were to be done.
One thing- you should check your use of commas and semicolons. It's all correct, but you use them very frequently. Try to 'clean' it up a little.
Raffie, especially, knew not of such matters. He was the youngest of them all, being only seven years of age. His older brothers were Jesús and Rinaldo, Rinaldo being the oldest at age fourteen. Jesús was in the middle, being an even ten; he would alternate between acting younger and then older than his true age, sometimes being more relatable to Raffie and on other moments to Rinaldo. At the dinner table, however, they all acted the same.
I really like how you describe Jesús as sometimes acting two different ages. I'm a middle child, and it's very relatable and understandable, the way he acts.
“Alright, my dears, you know the drill!” Mami said.
They all replied affirmatively and stood up from the table, filing into the kitchen to throw away their empty plastic food containers.
“And Raffie, don’t forget to brush your teeth!” Papi called as the children moved down the hallway toward the bathroom to freshen up before bedtime.
“I won’t, Papi!” Raffie called back. The bedtime procedure began, and one by one the three brothers got themselves ready.
My only problem is... well, it kind of sounds like they're in the army . I wouldn't put an exclamation point after 'my dears' I don't know why, but it somehow makes it less... soldier-ish.
Rinaldo, being the older brother, began wanting more independence, and was allowed to sleep in his own bedroom, while the other two shared a bunkbed. Mami and Papi made sure their children were in their beds and going to sleep, then retreated to their own room.
The lights were all off, even though Eduardo and Ana Maria would stay up later to recapitulate the day. The most important thing was saving on the electric bill that would come at the end of each month. The husband and wife now lay in bed, talking softly to each other. There titles as Mami and Papi were for the moment set aside, and for that moment they talked, not as parent to parent, but man to woman.
The only thing I see wrong is that you don't explain the fact that Eduardo and Ana Maria are their names. Other than that, I really love this paragraph and the way you talk about how they become almost different people with the kids out of the way.
“Tell me something, Ana. Earlier at dinner you seemed a bit upset about something, like something disturbed you. Is there something going on?” Eduardo asked.
“No, my sweet. Nothing is the matter. I am just tired, that’s all.”
“We have hardly done anything today. Correct me if I am wrong, but I think you are tired of the way life is going right now. You can talk to me, you know. It’s my life, too.”
“I know. Someday we’ll make our way, and no longer have to live like this.”
“Are you sure that’s all that’s bothering you, Ana?”
“I’m sure.”
Ana Maria turned over on her shoulder, Eduardo’s powerful arm encircled around her waist. Silence began to take its hold, but something else bothered Eduardo, something he had to address before the conversation died with the onset of slumber.
“Ana?”
“Yes, my love?”
“How come you were gone so long today when buying food for dinner?”
“I’ve already told you many times. The store owner gets to talking a lot, telling stories and such, and it just doesn’t feel ethical to interrupt him and leave without hearing him out.”
“Ethics be damned. The children get restless when you are away.”
“I’m sorry, Eduardo. I’ll try to get home earlier.”
“Alright, my love. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight.”
Ooh, the plot thickens! One thing that kind of seems a little 'off' to me is the fact that they sound kind of like robots or bad actors. Try to make them sound like a real, loving, slightly suspicious couple. A great example of a very realistically portrayed couple is Lanie and Peter from the book Everyone is Beautiful. Throughout the story, it tells the story of the couple in flashbacks: how they met, the way they live now, all their 'quirks'. I highly recommend it.
***
Raffie couldn’t sleep. He slept on the lower bed, and all he could see was the underside of Jesús’s mattress, its springs and wooden planks creaking from his brother’s movement. Laying quite still on the uncomfortable bed, with cheap cotton sheets of 200 threads; it wasn’t that warm, but his body heat compensated for it. He shuffled around for a little while, then lay still.
“Jesús?” he whispered.
“Yes, Raffie?” his brother said with a grunt.
I actually have a cousin named Rafael! However, we call him 'Rafa'. I think, actually that 'Rafa' is a more common nickname.
“Do you remember Mexico?”
“You ask me almost every night!” Jesús whispered, and then paused for a moment. “I don’t remember it; I was too young, but Rinaldo does. He said that it was like being wrapped in a warm wool fabric, woven by hand in loose, unsteady loops. He said that it was so because sometimes you felt safe, and others you didn’t. It all depended whether you sheltered under the woven sheep’s wool or the gaps in between. He said he loved the smell in the air, like freshly cut grains that are dried, processed and baked. He said that if it were possible, he would go back there, but if he were to return home he wouldn’t be sure how to survive.”
“It was a beautiful place, but filled with danger,” Raffie finished.
“Yes, he said that, too.” his brother affirmed the statement. It was a common ritual, to ask about home. It was something Raffie had always wondered about, but was never sure if he wanted to venture beyond his family’s home in London.
LND: (Little Nitpicky Detail) I would remove the comma between 'that' and 'too'
Raffie and Jesús fell asleep after that, there being no more conversation to be had. It was a quiet night, but something frightened Raffie, something he could not identify. That unknown fear seeped into his dreams, and made them terrifying.
***
A bloodcurdling scream awoke the brothers from their slumber. The screams seemed to come from every which direction, from several different voices, then at an abrupt moment devolving into one, solitary voice. Rinaldo suddenly came running into the room, running but tiptoeing soundlessly; fear was in his eyes and made them dance.
“You have to hide! Now!” he whispered frantically. Jesús scrambled down the metal ladder. Raffie froze, and didn’t know what to do.
“What’s going on?” Raffie asked fearfully.
“Just hide!” Rinaldo’s voice trembled with terror, but something else filled it, a different kind of emotion - horror and grief.
Raffie suddenly heard a sickening noise come from the next room. The sound was horrifying, like rabid dogs tearing into each other without the growling and yelping. He heard gasping, and then a deep rumble that became a monstrous growl from the throat of some large creature. Raffie’s eyes widened, and his brother pulled him under the bed.
“Rinaldo! Hide with us!” Raffie cried at a strained whisper.
“I can’t! It is too late! I must fight it off!”
“Where is Mami? Where is Papi?”
Rinaldo looked at him for a brief moment. The pause seemed to muffle all senses, all knowledge, except the unspoken realization between their looks.
“No! No! No!” he cried, and Jesús covered his brother’s mouth as well as his own. The growl became louder, more angry and pronounced, and the two brothers underneath the bed then saw something glint in Rinaldo’s hand. It was a fireplace poker.
Wow. Can I just say how well you built up the action? I have a lot of problems with too-abrupt action, but this was really well executed.
Their stifled breathing came in short, terrified gasps. Rinaldo looked at them, tears dripping down his face.
“I have to try!” he said.
Their older brother stepped out of sight. They heard him let out a ferocious yell, and the sound of something being penetrated with a sharp object. The growl they heard came in ragged gasps of pain, and then slowed down. They heard another noise, and the growling resurfaced. Suddenly a shriek sounded from the hallway where the hiding brothers could not see, and then a dull thud on the wooden floor. A round object rolled into view. It was a light brown, covered with liquid red and streaks of black. It was Rinaldo’s head.
Oh wow. I really wasn't expecting that. Sometimes a hint of gore and darkness in a story will make it that much more interesting. LND: remove 'a' from between 'was' and 'light'.
Into the doorway stepped a horrifying menace, taller than any man, skin dark and green, and inhuman, black eyes, clawed hands dripping with blood, and a wicked, fanged grin. The brothers squirmed in their hidden place, could barely stifle their screams, but the monster saw them, and simply walked away. The decapitated head of their older brother Rinaldo still lay there in a pool of dark blood, the eyes open and staring listlessly at the screaming youths underneath the bunkbed. Raffie could no longer contain himself; he screamed at the top of his lungs, let out an unnatural cry of grief and horror. The sight could not be unseen or taken away; it remained as horrifying as ever. The two brothers did not move. They were too afraid to leave the position where they were out of sight. Rinaldo’s head was a frozen image in their minds, and could not be pushed out. They also knew that another terrible thing had happened as well - the monster killed their parents. Raffie and Jesús were the only survivors.
Okay, amazing! I really love how much the plot has moved forward, but at the same time not so fast as to be considered ridiculously abrupt. Just a little thing: in this scenario, it would not be uncommon for one of them or both to vomit. They just saw their older brother decapitated, for hell's sake!
***
Somehow a wave of police officers came charging in at inhuman speed, their weapons out and ready to fire. It was about thirty minutes after the horrifying incident; maybe someone had heard screaming and called the police to investigate, the young brothers were not sure, but didn’t have the emotional means to comprehend anything clearly. Raffie and Jesús were still under the bed, hiding in fear. An officer came into the room, looked down and saw them huddled in the dark.
I try to avoid using the word 'Somehow' in sentences because it kind of makes it sound like I'm trying to pass off an impossible situation as a realistic one.
“We have two children in here. They’re alive,” the officer said to his fellows.
They’re alive, Raffie thought. He realized then that he and Jesús’ lives were spared, but why? The reason he could not conceive or understand; it was as if the monster wanted them to live.
Another officer came in and saw the children. The second officer was a woman; she had reddish hair, Raffie noticed, and it was very smooth and shimmery. She knelt down to meet eyes with the children, and spoke to them in a congenial voice.
“You’re safe now. No one is going to hurt you. Please, come out now.” She held out her hand. Raffie looked over at the doorframe and noticed someone had placed a plastic tarp over the head. He then looked to Jesús for answers, and his brother nodded to give Raffie permission to leave the dark recess under the bed along with him. They resurfaced; the officers escorted them into the hallway.
Another plastic covering lay on the floor, covering the fourteen-year-old body. The female cop with red hair paused for a moment.
“You two already know what happened, correct?” They nodded. “I must inform you that your father is still alive, but I don’t know if he will make it to the hospital. He requested to speak to both of you.”
The two brothers rushed into the bedroom. Another plastic covering lay over Mami’s body, still prone on the bed. Papi, however, was rushed onto a gurney to be taken in the ambulance, but by the downcast looks on the faces of the medics, he wasn’t going to last much longer.
“Papi!” they cried, and rushed over to him. The gurney was low enough so the children could see him.
“My sons!” he spluttered. Blood trickled from his mouth as he spoke. “Jesús, my second child, you will do great things in life, I know it. Take care of your little brother.” Jesús nodded with despair. “And Raffie… dear Raffie, I must give you something - something to remember me by.” He lifted a weary, blood-stained hand to his chest, and with a tug of his wrist pulled off of him a chain necklace. Papi took Raffie’s hand and placed the necklace in it, enclosing the childlike fingers around the palm. Raffie wept at his father’s side.
This is fine other than the fact that it sounds like a scene from a very overdone movie. Try to tone down the 'father on his deathbed' cliches.
“Raffie, do not cry for me. I will always be with you, watching over you from up above. In the hardest of times I will always be there to guide you and your brother into safety. I love you both.” With a weak, dying cough a stream of blood exuded from his mouth and stained the gurney red. Jesús stood right at Raffie’s side, held his hand and the hand of his father; watched along with his little brother as Papi took his last breath, and perished from their lives.
LND: You used 'perished' in the wrong way. To perish means to die, and Papi didn't just 'die from their lives'. I would use 'Vanish' instead.
They were steered away, moved outside where there was no deathly sight. As they were taken to the yard, Raffie and his brother passed through the open front door. It was not swung and propped open as it should have been; instead its remains lay on the ground, scattered in a heap of broken glass and jagged matchwood.
The open air seemed to somewhat soothe the terrified, grieving children as much as it was possible to do; grief could not so easily be checked by the onset of calm wind, in the minds of children especially, who had no way to shut it out. They winced at the ear-piercing sirens and the blinding police lights, as well, which only added to the overwhelming stimulus and emotion.
The red-haired woman came out a moment later, carrying blankets for the children, as well as a couple of rugged teddy bears for their comfort. The two young brothers had no faculty at that moment to comprehend any further the situation at hand; all they knew was that they only had each other and the authorities to rely upon, that their parents were killed by a monster - though the officers did not yet know that that was what the children saw destroy their family; and what was to happen next, the children had no idea. They sat with frozen expressions of shock; the woman came up to them, only to be paused by the approach of a male officer with a telephone.
“Call for you, Officer Harringsworth.”
“Thanks, Bill.”
She put the large, clunky contraption to her ear. “Hello?”
“This is Charles Dawson, calling on behalf of Chief Inspector Gherkin. He wants an update on the situation in the East End. Can you tell me why the old woman who called from next door heard screams?”
“It was a triple homicide, Charles. A mother and father, and the oldest of their three sons.”
“Oh my god, that’s awful! And what of the other two boys - are they all right?”
“They will be. Listen, I’ve gotta get back to you. I need to ask the boys what they saw, and see if we get any leads.”
“Fair enough. Call me in five minutes, the Chief’s getting impatient.”
“He always does. Five minutes is fine.”
She clicked the phone shut and handed the children the blankets and stuffed animals.
“Do you know who I am?” she asked.
“You’re a cop, miss,” one of the boys said in a small voice.
“That’s right. And that means that I need to ask you a few questions on what happened. Is that okay?”
The two boys nodded. They don’t like to talk, do they? she thought. But its probably because of what happened forty-five minutes ago.
“First, what are your names?”
“I’m Raphael,” the younger boy said. He had long wavy hair, and he was a few inches shorter than his brother.
“And you?”
“Jesús,” he said. “Jesús Cortez.” The boy named Jesús was a bit taller, and had thicker cheeks, rounder limbs. The youngest, Raphael, was scrawnier, but still appeared healthy.
“Did you see who did this?” Miss Harringsworth asked.
“It was the Devil,” Jesús breathed.
Officer Harringsworth felt a jump of terror in her chest. She was not expecting that response, especially from a child.
“What did you see?”
“It was a monster,” Raphael said. “It was taller and stronger than any living man, its hands had large, sharp claws, and its teeth were dripping with blood…” he paused abruptly, curtly cutting off his description, then said, “it killed my parents! It killed Rinaldo!” he suddenly screamed in her face, his face red with pain and agony. Why must a child go through this kind of horror and pain? she thought hopelessly. Why do they say that they saw a monster? Monsters aren’t real! They are the characters of nightmares and ghost stories - not real life! What am I to do? I don’t know what to believe!
I'm not really sure what to say for these few paragraphs, because there's really nothing to criticize, but I really love just the way you've been writing this. It's an excellent plot.
Officer Harringsworth resorted to the last statement she planned to make. “We will do whatever we can to find who did this, and we will make sure that both of you are kept safe.”
The two boys remained silent; they didn’t want to talk anymore. The red-haired woman left, and Raffie and Jesús sat for a few minutes without someone watching over them.
Raffie looked down at his clenched fist. Out from it came dangling small portions of the necklace his dying father gave to him. He brought up the courage to look at it again. Hung on the end of the looped chain was a silver cross.
“Papi always wore that thing, wherever he went,” Jesús reminisced, while watching his brother examine the piece. “It was his keepsake, his symbol of hope. I believe he intended that hope to travel with us, with you.”
Raffie began to feel something stirring in his breast, a rekindling of passionate youth, of effervescent frivolity, yet along with it came a new sensation of maturity, something he did not expect to have. The circumstances, it seemed, demanded for such a rise in strength and tenacity, courage and stability; the needed attributes for staying strong throughout any and all hardships. Raphael was scared, begrieved, emotionally wrecked, but he was strong, and began to know that for himself.
And Jesús - he was already a strong character, even in his youth. His brother’s increase in strength fed his own, thus the two brothers came to support each other for stability. They were always good friends, and upon that tragic night their bond became stronger.
The red-haired woman came back, her stride much quicker as if ready to spring into action.
“We are getting ready to leave now - for the night, anyway. There will be more investigating to be done tomorrow, but right now the priority is getting you two to a safe location and figuring out where we can put you temporarily. We need to go now,” she said to them.
The two children silently obeyed. Irene Harringsworth looked at her watch, and noticed the time to be 3:02 AM. There we have another reason why the children aren’t very communicative, she thought, flicking back behind her shoulder a red lock of hair.
Raffie followed Jesús and the woman to a police vehicle where he trusted they would be transported to a safe location. He looked down at the cross necklace again. And my father’s blood was stained on a few edges and chain-links - I don’t know if I should clean it or let the blood continue to dry, thought he. Raffie continued following his brother to the vehicle, and climbed inside the backseat right after him.
The Cortez family didn’t always live in the East End, Raffie remembered as the police squad left the scene. They came to London with barely any money to their name, but still managed to find a place to rent in Grimsby, though it didn’t last long, not that they were too terribly surprised based on the outcome of several other immigrant families; regardless of all that, it was still a painful blow to Ana Maria and Eduardo Cortez, who had worked so hard to build a life for their family. Not six months after their arrival, they were kicked out, then dragged into the East End with all the other poor, suffering families who couldn’t be bothered with. Ever since then, they had lived in a three-bedroom home that was rented out to them by a sympathetic owner who happened to have extended family in Guadalajara. There really wasn’t much choice in accepting the cheap rent deal, for only Eduardo had a part-time job, working as a cashier in a small-brand store for just above minimum wage. Ana Maria couldn’t find any acceptable work, however, quite frankly because no one wanted to hire her. It had nothing to do with her personality or financial disposition; it was all because of her gender and skin color. Raffie, though being young, had retained all of that information as told by his brothers, and as understood from his own observation.
The police squad continued on; it was moving west and northward, possibly toward a homicide precinct. Twenty minutes later it turned out to be as such - a building of immensity in all sense of the word, in height, dimension, strength; it was self-contained in its monstrous impregnability.
Irene escorted the two children inside the building, along with several other officers. She could tell that the orphaned sons were overwhelmed and terrified of the large mass of intense people working in the thick of high pressure and instability, crime and self-crime; she had always known that some of the policemen there were of very intense nature, not just when attempting to prevent or investigate murder and suicide, but in general, wherever they were. It was their mode of operation, their modus operandi. They had no off-switch, no modulating dial. They would always and forever be the way they were.
Raffie and Jesús were escorted to a drab-looking office. Irene knew that there were still several steps that had to be taken before the children could be anywhere near having a consistent family situation. The brothers didn’t know that, but they soon would. A man walked in; he was a representative that was called in from Social Services to help review their situation. He was tall, rather nondescript of character, but he had an amiable smile and a decent cut of greyish hair. He sat down at a desk after shaking Irene’s hand, then opened a file stuffed with unkempt papers.
“So here we have Raphael Eduardo Cortez, and Jesús Vallejo Cortez, ages seven and ten. I’ve reviewed the police file, and I don’t need to mention the circumstances. It looks like for now the best thing to do would be to send them to a protected youth shelter until we find a suitable foster family. It wouldn’t be that long, of course; they’d only be in the shelter for a couple of weeks. But, it is three in the morning, and as far as I know none of the offices are open. I think it’d be best to have them stay the night at the precinct itself, and I’ll leave a message at the youth shelter I have in mind, and we can reconvene in the morning. Does that sound good?”
“Yes, a good idea. I’ll make sure someone, maybe even me, will stand watch over the children while they get some rest for tomorrow,” Irene said.
“I’ll make the call. Tomorrow morning - how about eight-thirty?”
“A good time. We’ll see you then.”
The Social Services rep left the office and went to make a phone call. Irene escorted the children to a room in the back where there was a bunkbed. Raffie flashed upon the memory of witnessing his brother’s murder when hiding under the same kind of stacked bed - metal frame, plaid sheets, wooden planking. He winced but knew he had no choice but to accept the availability of the small room so that he and his brother could possibly get some sleep while under the protection of the authorities.
The young brothers entered the room, were wary of their surroundings.
“I’ll be standing right outside the entire time. Don’t worry, you’re safe now,” Irene said.
The children made no verbal response. She closed the door rather slowly, as if unsure of how the boys would handle being all alone in the enclosed room with her being outside. They would be all right, though. She knew that all of this would at some point fade away and become hard to grasp when recalling the past. She knew from her own experience how that worked; her parents weren’t killed, but still her home situation was at an early time in her life quite sketchy, due to filed complaints reviewed as having been made constantly between the parents, husband and wife, those complaints they made towards each other being their way of enforcing their arguments. Her father was a heavy coke addict, and was always out doing wild and unholy things; he was even purported to have been on several nights seen stumbling around the streets talking nonsense - the kind of fanatical rubbish that closely resembled conspiracy theorism. Her mother was a distraught woman, always angry at herself and her husband for the way her life was going downward. And Irene Harringsworth was forced to bear the burdens of it all. When she finally escaped the misery of being caught in the crossfire of her parents’ battles, she found herself having the desire to help others, and never let happen to anyone else what happened to her, or worse. She realised though, after being distanced from that colorful past for over two decades, the vividity of those memories became less and less clear; she found she could no longer touch them, and the reason why that was so was because she did not let herself be haunted by it as so many others did. The haunting of the past in the present was as real as the past being the present as the physical reality. All the same emotions were felt and experienced, the actions and dialogue replayed over. If a memory no longer haunted the present, it did not necessarily mean the emotions were gone; it only meant that the actual happening became less coherent, allowing some peace to be had in the present, no matter if it was true or not.
I really enjoy the way you portray your characters. Their emotions, their feelings, are a ll very real.
Irene closed the door and stood outside it for a moment, breathing deeply. Her job was hard, what with having to deal with gruesome crime scenes and terrorized survivors, psychotic killers and distraught family members. She had been working from six in the morning of the previous day, moving nonstop, never having the chance to take a break. Despite her fatigue, she felt obligated to stay and watch over the two children, and make sure they were taken care of as if they were her own. She had no children, but indeed she wanted to. She sighed, left her post for a minute to inform her superior what she was going to be doing, and returned with a chair to sit in.
The graveyard shift was rather slow. Hardly any calls came in, hardly any action took place. Once and awhile a few officers would leave to examine a scene, or otherwise a menial errand. Meanwhile the tired Irene sat lazily, sometimes wondering if she even needed to be there, or could go home and leave the children unattended; but to her the act of staying there was her way of ensuring their safety, even in a police station. A few times throughout the slow witching hours she would doze off, but quickly pulled herself back to focus until eight in the morning.
She checked her watch. 6:05, it said. She sighed, realized that she had been awake for twenty-four hours straight. Another two hours went by, and she struggled to stay awake. She even had a young rookie fetch her a cup of coffee, and when he brought it back to her, she found it boosted her blood sugar and sufficed to keep her going. Eight o’clock rolled around; it was time to wake up the children from their nap in the closed room with a bunkbed. Throughout her vigil she would occasionally peer through the checquered glass to see if they were sleeping. She had smiled when she saw the two of them sound asleep, and it was noticeable too, for their faces were hung in such unconscious expressions that it was unmistakable they were deep in slumber. Now she had to wake them, and she wondered how they would react to waking up in a police precinct with a strange woman standing close to their bed. She wondered this because she also wondered if the children would even remember last night’s events, or if their young brains would block out such horrifying memories.
LND: remove the extra c in 'chequered'.
She stepped inside, and lightly knocked on the wall to see if she could gently wake them up. One of the brothers began to stir, and she knocked louder, finally bringing them back to consciousness.
Raffie blinked groggily at the sound of sharp knocking, and found himself looking at the woman he’d met last night. “Jesús, wake up!” he said upwards. The upper bed began to creak and move, and his brother crawled down the ladder to meet him.
“It’s almost time to meet the Social Services man we met last night to coordinate where you two can be kept safe for a couple of weeks until we find a suitable foster family.”
“Okay, miss. We’re ready,” Jesús said.
Finally their talking again, thought Irene. She led them to the office where they met the tall, smartly dressed man from Social Services not five hours earlier. The man came promptly on schedule at eight-thirty AM, and began right away with reviewing what he found.
LND: 'their' should be 'they're', and there should be a comma after 'Finally'.
“So I made a call to one of the youth shelters I have worked with quite a bit, and they said they’d be happy to take you two. They even said they had a vacant room with a bunkbed that the children could use. This youth shelter is a very nice place - they have all the necessary amenities, good food, amiable staff, and most importantly, you two can stay there as long as you need to, no costs involved.” He waved a manicured hand at the two young boys. The young ones sitting beside Irene seemed to be restored of hope, yet had trepidation over being transferred to a new environment. Irene understood perfectly what they were going through, and even felt a bit of empathy for their situation.
“And have you found any possible candidates for a foster agreement?” she asked the man. When they had first met he had said his name was Joe; she looked at his visitor tag and read his full name for a brief moment, not letting him aware she was doing that. The name read, “Dr. Joseph Springfield, DSW”.
“Not as of yet. I do have a list of possible people, but so far I have not yet reviewed their files and determined whether they would be good for them,” Dr. Springfield said.
“Fair enough,” she said. It seemed that was the end of it for now, so she stood up, shook the man’s hand, and asked for the address of the youth shelter. Joseph handed her a slip of paper, and she silently made it her duty to drive the children to the facility. She knew, however, that it was not her choice to make. She turned around to talk to Raffie and Jesús.
“Before we go I need to check with my superior if I can take you to the youth shelter or not. You two just stay here and hang tight. I’ll be right back.”
Irene left them for a few minutes, walked down the hallway to an office with a turquoise door. Inside was the Chief Inspector of the precinct, shuffling through a stack of papers, reading through half-moon glasses.
“Can I help you, Officer?”
“I need to take two children to a youth shelter in Bethnal Green.”
“Why up there?”
“The social worker who was brought down to see the children recommended it. He said it was a nice place.”
“Well, the Bethnal Green area’s decent, but got itself a rough history. You sure they’ll do fine there?”
Always one to challenge the decency of things based on their history, that Chief, thought Irene.
“Sure as I can be without seeing it yet, sir,” she said instead.
“I suppose you’re the best one for the job.”
“Thank you, sir.”
She left the office and took the children outside to her car, then began to drive northward to where the youth shelter would be. Judging by the distance she figured anywhere from fifteen to twenty minutes of a drive. They traveled across several miles of semi-urban life, several shops and malls and miscellaneous things. When they crossed into the Bethnal Green area, however, things became a lot different in style. They saw a sudden change in color and diversity, with a wider variety of culture, as well as a strong element of eccentricity and artistic ability.
“Well, it looks like we should be there in about five or ten minutes,” Irene said to the boys.
“Okay,” they each said grimly.
Women and men alike walked past them in droves along the sidewalk that you couldn’t see, some darker-skinned, some light, some in strange garb, some dressed as casually as any average Londoner. Irene was glad she didn’t have to hear the Cockney drawl, let it irritate her ears like fingernails on a chalkboard.
LND: I would change 'let' to 'lest'.
It was about five or so minutes later when they found themselves pulling into a small parking lot that sat adjacent a small, tan building with lap siding and a brown composition roof. The windows had slight warps in them, causing a wavy, watery appearance. That was the youth shelter Dr. Springfield had recommended, and from the outside, at least, it seemed decent. Irene parked the car and led the boys inside. The children were startled by the dark interior, less of the place itself but more of the fact that they were to live in an unknown place for two weeks or more. The interior was rather cozy, a common theme of rustic red, green and brown pervading it; it was mainly lit with easy yellow lamps in various corners, making the feel of the shelter quite “sheltered”. Raffie looked around at the other children; they seemed lonely, depressed, scared, even, and the fear seemed to stem from something traumatic, like they had been hurt in some way. It must have been why they were there in the first place - because they were hurt, and by their own families.
The three of them entered an office where sat the woman who ran the place. She was laden with a drooping waterfall of straw-colored hair, and her face was aged, tired. She had had a long life of difficulties, but managed to deal with them by focusing her love on the children she cared for. On her desk was an old picture of a young boy with the same straw hair, presumably her son. With a sigh she tore her eyes away from that sorrowful memory, and greeted the visitors. She had been expecting them; Irene shook her hand and reminded the lady of Dr. Springfield’s phone call.
“Ah, yes, I remember now. My name’s Margaret… Margaret Chetty.”
“Irene Harringsworth,” the officer said, shaking the woman’s hand formally. “These two are Raphael and Jesús Cortez. They’ll need to stay here for at least two weeks. Is there anything I need to sign?”
“Just this paper right here; you sign at the bottom… it’s just a document stating that someone knows and agrees with the terms and conditions in this temporary custody of the children. It proves that at least one government official gives consent to the children’s residal at our facility. Just standard procedure.”
“Very well,” Irene said, and took up a pen to write her signature. Raffie noticed how she wrote; it was very fluid and graceful, like painting with a nimble brush.
“Thank you, ma’am,” the woman said.
Irene turned to the boys, a look of almost regret filled her face - regret of having to leave them. She knew she would most likely see them again, but they seemed to trust her, and she felt sad to appear as if she was abandoning them for two long weeks.
“Alright, you two. I need to leave now. This is going to be your new home for a couple of weeks, okay?”
They nodded. It was that same expression of pure dismay that again beheld their small faces. She knelt to meet them eye-to-eye, and held their hands for a brief moment. “Now, I know you will both be safe,” she said to them. They nodded again, and Irene silently sighed, and hoped they would at some point resurface from their nonverbal disposition as a result of the tragedy that shook their lives.
The woman stood up and led the children out into the main commons, and Irene, with a feeling of being separated, watched them go, and prepared to leave herself.
Before leaving she borrowed the youth shelter phone, and made the call, but no answer. It was going to be a call to the Chief Inspector, to tell him that she was heading back to the precinct, but since no one was there on the other side, she resolved to just showing up whenever she got there.
The phone was replaced, and she left the Bethnal Green area in her old police sedan.
So far this story is amazing! I can't wait until I get around to reading some more. I hope that this review helps. Keep writing!
Oh cool! As you have probably seen, I decided to post the second chapter as well, for funsies. Hopefully people won't get confused.
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Hey Amadeus,
Shady here with a review for you this fine evening! I see that you have quite a few chapters of this in the Green Room, and recently I have been on a reviewing mission in an attempt to get my next star and help clear out the Green Room, so, if my reviewing energy stays high, I'll try to leave you a few reviews tonight!
My style tends to be to go through and make comments as I'm reading on things that stand out to me (both positive and negative!) and then give my general opinions about the story at the end. Let's jump on in...
A couple of things stood out to me in your first paragraph. The first is that I absolutely love, love, LOVE that you start with a description of smell. Most people focus on sight and a few branch out to talking about sounds, but it's so rare and Refreshing to see a chapter that talks about the smell of the scene and I am a huge fan.
The other thing is that this paragraph is massively huge. The point of paragraphs is to break up your text into nice, bite sized pieces that are easily digestible to your reader. This paragraph is long enough for at least 2 or 3 paragraphs. When you have super long paragraphs it strains both the brain and the eyes of your reader and is generally Not Great. Overall you did a pretty good job on paragraphing, but you do have quite a few massively huge paragraphs, and you should take another look at those sections and see what you can do about breaking those down a bit, okay?
Okay, so, as I'm reading, I see that the first part of your chapter is pretty info-dumpy. Do you know what I mean by that? If not feel free to shoot me a message or reply to this review and I can explain it, but I'm going to assume that you're familiar and not harp on it here.
Basically, the point of our prose is to "show" what's happening to our readers, not just "tell" them what's going on. And we have had a lot of information "told" to us here -- the reason why they moved, the circumstances they moved into, the struggles with poverty.
It's an interesting story, but there are more interesting ways that you could portray it to us than how you currently have it written. Like this part that I have quoted. It is italicized like Mami's thoughts... but it's not written like thoughts at all. Like think about how you think. Do you think in terms of "every now and then a rat would appear, and scuttle down the hallway"? Or is more like "And the rats! So disgusting! It seemed like they were everywhere, scuttling up and down the hallway! Blech."
You see what I mean? You wrote the thought very much like a description, not like inner dialogue, which is what thoughts are meant to be. People very rarely speak, much less think in full, grammatically correct sentences. If you made this read more like thoughts rather than an exposition I think it would be more believable -- and therefore more impactful.
Wait a second. If they are living in poverty, then why do they have plastic plates and napkins and all that jazz? I get that you said she wouldn't deny her kids the necessities... but disposable plates and such are a luxury, not a necessity. I also grew up in poverty and we used real plates because then we could wash them and use them over and over again. Paper plates were reserved for big get togethers and special occasions 'cause they're expensive.
I have no idea what your upbringing is, but you might want to think about little details like that, because that's something that people like me who also grew up impoverished are going to notice right away and go "hmm" on.
This is another thing that seems like a wee bit of a stretch. If they are THAT broke then how in the world do they have money for a 3 bedroom apartment/house? Those are expensive. I would definitely think that they'd only have a 2 bedroom apartment, and possibly even a 1 bedroom that all 5 of them shared, if they were off to THAT bad of shape. I'm getting progressively less convinced that they're really that bad off...
O.o Dang. That escalated quickly.
See, here's another example of what I was talking about the thought. The first bit about "They don't like to talk, do they?" is good, fairly believable inner dialogue -- but the bit about what happened 45 minutes ago... isn't. Like that's not how people think. Something more like "Can't say that I blame them, seeing as what they've been through." Or something like that might be more believable -- but you need to think of thoughts in terms of "Is this something that someone would actually be likely to think?" and if not then to edit it until it is.
I'm also not sure entirely how believable this is. I mean, their parents and older brother were just brutally murdered -- they saw their own brother decapitated before their very eyes. And now they're in a peaceful slumber? I would think that they'd be too traumatized to sleep -- or, if they did manage to doze off, that it would be a fitful sleep filled with nightmares.
This definitely doesn't seem realistic. I have dealt with kids recently placed into foster care and it is absolutely traumatizing for them. They want their parents and they want them badly and they'll tell you that. They'll tell you how much they don't want to be in foster care. And even if they don't verbally tell you, you can still tell.
And this is for kids who have parents that are abusive or addicts or whatever. These kids just had their parents murdered -- so in addition to having all this foster care and such thrust upon them, they're also dealing with the trauma of having just lost their parents. There is no change that they'd just be calm and going along with things. This is probably the single most traumatic day of their lives and so far I'm not really seeing any trauma conveyed by your writing of their characters, honestly...
~ ~ ~
Okay! Wow! That was a lot. So, I think your story has a lot of potential. You have a lot of interesting plot points here and the overall concept is really fascinating! Super cool idea!
But there are several large areas where I can see that you could easily improve.
The first, and the biggest, is the length of your chapter. I almost didn't review this just for the sheer length of it intimidating me when I first clicked on this link, and I would bet just about anything that that's the reason that it's been sitting in the Green Room for so long, honestly.
Human brains can only focus for so long and this chapter is unfortunately longer than mine, at least, is capable of. I mean I made it through the whole chapter but it was difficult -- even though I was enjoying the story.
Personally I aim for my chapters to be about 1,800 - 2,100 words long, with me being happiest when they fall close to 1,900 words. And some people think that /my/ chapters are too long, at about 2K words. I ran this chapter through a word counter and it is 6,795 words long, which is just massive! That's over 3 times as long as my already-pretty-long chapters.
I would definitely recommend breaking this up into 2 chapters and even better 3 if you can find a way to do that. I think a general overview with their background + meal + going to bed being the first chapter and if you ended that with the oldest brother's panic then that would be a great cliffhanger that would keep us wanting to read on, which would be excellent. Have another chapter being the full carnage and the police investigation. And get a third out of the meeting with the social worker and the transportation to the foster agency.
Simply shortening this would make it a lot more readable and enjoyable.
Another major thing I noticed you should work on is the information that you contain in your story. Think about whether each paragraph you're writing contributes to the plot -- and, if not, think about cutting it out. There's no point in having a bunch of fluffy, useless text that does nothing to propel the plot along. All that's going to do is weigh the chapter down and make it feel like it's dragging on.
Example: The part with Mami having to sleep with the shopkeeper for their groceries. That is a tragic and good plot point... but... what's the point? Like, she's dead now, in a single chapter. So that entire long exposition about her sleeping with him, and then hiding it from her husband is... kinda pointless? Cause it's got absolutely no bearing on the story now.
I think you could mention her having to exchange her body for the groceries, but then not go super in depth with it. And there's a couple of things like that which you could significantly shorten in order to make the novel faster paced and only including relevant info.
I hope this wasn't too harsh! I do think you have a really good concept and I'm going to go on to your next chapter now to see what else you have in store for us. These are just tangible ways that you could improve and I want to see you do the best that you can!
If you have any questions about what I said feel free to hit me up for a chat or send me a private message or something!
Keep writing!
~Shady
Thank you very much for the review! I love the in-depth analysis and I will definitely take all points into consideration!
Hi! I'm sorry for not reviewing this sooner, but it's just been a really busy week. I can do about 2-3 reviews per day, but today I started kind of late so I'll only do one. I'll do this paragraph by paragraph.
. I wouldn't put an exclamation point after 'my dears' I don't know why, but it somehow makes it less... soldier-ish.
It always smelled like flour and corn, mixed with a dash of freshly ground pepper.
I like the fact that this captures the reader's attention, even if it is a bit abrupt.
Little Raphael, called Raffie by his two older brothers, sat cross-legged on the wooden floor of the living room. He never liked sitting directly on the wooden floorboards, though; he much preferred the warmth and softness of the woven mats his mother made. It was late in the evening - another one of those late nights where dinner would be served when the stars were out, and the nightlife well under way. These were the nights where Mami had to budget her funds and wait until around five in the evening to make a stop at the local convenient store that catered to Latinos. Prejudice was a thing you had to just take and understand; there was no sense to it, but fortunately there were ways to circumvent the unlawful restrictions on the Mexican immigrants. Raffie was just a baby when the Cortez family moved to London, seeking better opportunities for making money and raising a family. Little did they know how they would be treated when they got there.
Okay, great use of vocabulary, I like that a lot. I like the idea of a sort of 'unspecified' time line, but I think if you want to make London racially discriminative you've got to give it a bit more guidelines.
Mami had managed to purchase some microwaveable meals for them. They were single-serving boxes with pre-made chicken enchiladas from a virtually unknown brand from their native homeland. Raffie and his brothers didn’t care all that much; they were just glad to have food to fill their bellies, but they still felt the burden of impoverishment, the weight of life upon their parents’ shoulders, the misery of constantly being disappointed - that misery being held from view in order to preserve the joy of the young; it could not be hidden no matter how Mami and Papi tried. Their eldest son, Rinaldo, knew the most but never said a word.
Amazing portrayal of the way the kids see their poverty! I love it.
Mami came out of the kitchen with black, plastic casserole trays exuding hot steam that smelled like tomatoes and chicken. They were fortunate to find the food options available to them to be relatively of good flavor and nutrition, which satisfied the voracity of the children and the fatigued spirits of the parents.
I would remove the comma between black and plastic, but that's just a little nitpicky detail. And once again, great vocabulary- however, this opinion of mine does sound a little silly, but try to simplify a few words. You want to reach out to your readers, and 'exuding', 'voracity' and 'fatigued' sound a bit- high and mighty.
Raffie and his brothers devoured their meals in a matter of a few minutes. The young boy was delighted to be satiated after waiting all day for the big meal at night while pausing every now and then during the daylight hours to grab a Keebler snack. Mami found a smile to curl the corner of her mouth at the sight of her excited children. It was the kind of smile that proved to be the result of her inner struggle, one part being the joy of watching her children feed themselves, the other part being the brutally painful knowledge of how she acquired that food. The truth was, she had no money, only pretended she did. She could never bring herself to tell her husband; if she did, she would guarantee the destruction of their family. The truth was, she had made a deal with the store owner of the place she frequented for daily meals, that she would be given enough food for the week plus a small bit of money, in exchange for her body. She had recognized from the start the lust in the store owner’s eyes, and she knew he would jump at the chance if she gave it to him. Not a day went by where she didn’t hate herself for her actions. It was what she was thinking about at that moment; it was one of those memories that seemed to haunt every waking second for so long as it went unresolved. It was always in the back room, she thought, but then sometimes there were people there, and he would move me to the storage cellar where no one ever ventured except him; it was filthy, covered in dirt and slime, it smelled like mold, and every now and then a rat would appear, and scuttle down the hallway… She shuddered. Eduardo, her husband, glanced over at her briefly, and she produced a fake, close-lipped smile to alleviate any concerns he might’ve had.
Wow, angst! This story just got darker, but in an interesting way. Also, how is it possible that her husband never notices that she doesn't have much money? He must be either totally oblivious or she's just inhumanly amazing at deception.
Dinner concluded with jovial exclamations from the three brothers, as well as faithful uses of the red paper napkins Mami had bought. Poverty, to her, did by no means imply the acceptability of negating common necessities, and rightfully so. The children did not have the capability of understanding those kind of things; they just went along with whatever their parents said was how things were to be done.
One thing- you should check your use of commas and semicolons. It's all correct, but you use them very frequently. Try to 'clean' it up a little.
Raffie, especially, knew not of such matters. He was the youngest of them all, being only seven years of age. His older brothers were Jesús and Rinaldo, Rinaldo being the oldest at age fourteen. Jesús was in the middle, being an even ten; he would alternate between acting younger and then older than his true age, sometimes being more relatable to Raffie and on other moments to Rinaldo. At the dinner table, however, they all acted the same.
I really like how you describe Jesús as sometimes acting two different ages. I'm a middle child, and it's very relatable and understandable, the way he acts.
“Alright, my dears, you know the drill!” Mami said.
They all replied affirmatively and stood up from the table, filing into the kitchen to throw away their empty plastic food containers.
“And Raffie, don’t forget to brush your teeth!” Papi called as the children moved down the hallway toward the bathroom to freshen up before bedtime.
“I won’t, Papi!” Raffie called back. The bedtime procedure began, and one by one the three brothers got themselves ready.
My only problem is... well, it kind of sounds like they're in the army
Rinaldo, being the older brother, began wanting more independence, and was allowed to sleep in his own bedroom, while the other two shared a bunkbed. Mami and Papi made sure their children were in their beds and going to sleep, then retreated to their own room.
The lights were all off, even though Eduardo and Ana Maria would stay up later to recapitulate the day. The most important thing was saving on the electric bill that would come at the end of each month. The husband and wife now lay in bed, talking softly to each other. There titles as Mami and Papi were for the moment set aside, and for that moment they talked, not as parent to parent, but man to woman.
The only thing I see wrong is that you don't explain the fact that Eduardo and Ana Maria are their names. Other than that, I really love this paragraph and the way you talk about how they become almost different people with the kids out of the way.
“Tell me something, Ana. Earlier at dinner you seemed a bit upset about something, like something disturbed you. Is there something going on?” Eduardo asked.
“No, my sweet. Nothing is the matter. I am just tired, that’s all.”
“We have hardly done anything today. Correct me if I am wrong, but I think you are tired of the way life is going right now. You can talk to me, you know. It’s my life, too.”
“I know. Someday we’ll make our way, and no longer have to live like this.”
“Are you sure that’s all that’s bothering you, Ana?”
“I’m sure.”
Ana Maria turned over on her shoulder, Eduardo’s powerful arm encircled around her waist. Silence began to take its hold, but something else bothered Eduardo, something he had to address before the conversation died with the onset of slumber.
“Ana?”
“Yes, my love?”
“How come you were gone so long today when buying food for dinner?”
“I’ve already told you many times. The store owner gets to talking a lot, telling stories and such, and it just doesn’t feel ethical to interrupt him and leave without hearing him out.”
“Ethics be damned. The children get restless when you are away.”
“I’m sorry, Eduardo. I’ll try to get home earlier.”
“Alright, my love. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight.”
Ooh, the plot thickens! One thing that kind of seems a little 'off' to me is the fact that they sound kind of like robots or bad actors. Try to make them sound like a real, loving, slightly suspicious couple. A great example of a very realistically portrayed couple is Lanie and Peter from the book Everyone is Beautiful. Throughout the story, it tells the story of the couple in flashbacks: how they met, the way they live now, all their 'quirks'. I highly recommend it.
***
Raffie couldn’t sleep. He slept on the lower bed, and all he could see was the underside of Jesús’s mattress, its springs and wooden planks creaking from his brother’s movement. Laying quite still on the uncomfortable bed, with cheap cotton sheets of 200 threads; it wasn’t that warm, but his body heat compensated for it. He shuffled around for a little while, then lay still.
“Jesús?” he whispered.
“Yes, Raffie?” his brother said with a grunt.
I actually have a cousin named Rafael! However, we call him 'Rafa'. I think, actually that 'Rafa' is a more common nickname.
“Do you remember Mexico?”
“You ask me almost every night!” Jesús whispered, and then paused for a moment. “I don’t remember it; I was too young, but Rinaldo does. He said that it was like being wrapped in a warm wool fabric, woven by hand in loose, unsteady loops. He said that it was so because sometimes you felt safe, and others you didn’t. It all depended whether you sheltered under the woven sheep’s wool or the gaps in between. He said he loved the smell in the air, like freshly cut grains that are dried, processed and baked. He said that if it were possible, he would go back there, but if he were to return home he wouldn’t be sure how to survive.”
“It was a beautiful place, but filled with danger,” Raffie finished.
“Yes, he said that, too.” his brother affirmed the statement. It was a common ritual, to ask about home. It was something Raffie had always wondered about, but was never sure if he wanted to venture beyond his family’s home in London.
LND: (Little Nitpicky Detail) I would remove the comma between 'that' and 'too'
Raffie and Jesús fell asleep after that, there being no more conversation to be had. It was a quiet night, but something frightened Raffie, something he could not identify. That unknown fear seeped into his dreams, and made them terrifying.
***
A bloodcurdling scream awoke the brothers from their slumber. The screams seemed to come from every which direction, from several different voices, then at an abrupt moment devolving into one, solitary voice. Rinaldo suddenly came running into the room, running but tiptoeing soundlessly; fear was in his eyes and made them dance.
“You have to hide! Now!” he whispered frantically. Jesús scrambled down the metal ladder. Raffie froze, and didn’t know what to do.
“What’s going on?” Raffie asked fearfully.
“Just hide!” Rinaldo’s voice trembled with terror, but something else filled it, a different kind of emotion - horror and grief.
Raffie suddenly heard a sickening noise come from the next room. The sound was horrifying, like rabid dogs tearing into each other without the growling and yelping. He heard gasping, and then a deep rumble that became a monstrous growl from the throat of some large creature. Raffie’s eyes widened, and his brother pulled him under the bed.
“Rinaldo! Hide with us!” Raffie cried at a strained whisper.
“I can’t! It is too late! I must fight it off!”
“Where is Mami? Where is Papi?”
Rinaldo looked at him for a brief moment. The pause seemed to muffle all senses, all knowledge, except the unspoken realization between their looks.
“No! No! No!” he cried, and Jesús covered his brother’s mouth as well as his own. The growl became louder, more angry and pronounced, and the two brothers underneath the bed then saw something glint in Rinaldo’s hand. It was a fireplace poker.
Wow. Can I just say how well you built up the action? I have a lot of problems with too-abrupt action, but this was really well executed.
Their stifled breathing came in short, terrified gasps. Rinaldo looked at them, tears dripping down his face.
“I have to try!” he said.
Their older brother stepped out of sight. They heard him let out a ferocious yell, and the sound of something being penetrated with a sharp object. The growl they heard came in ragged gasps of pain, and then slowed down. They heard another noise, and the growling resurfaced. Suddenly a shriek sounded from the hallway where the hiding brothers could not see, and then a dull thud on the wooden floor. A round object rolled into view. It was a light brown, covered with liquid red and streaks of black. It was Rinaldo’s head.
Oh wow. I really wasn't expecting that. Sometimes a hint of gore and darkness in a story will make it that much more interesting. LND: remove 'a' from between 'was' and 'light'.
Into the doorway stepped a horrifying menace, taller than any man, skin dark and green, and inhuman, black eyes, clawed hands dripping with blood, and a wicked, fanged grin. The brothers squirmed in their hidden place, could barely stifle their screams, but the monster saw them, and simply walked away. The decapitated head of their older brother Rinaldo still lay there in a pool of dark blood, the eyes open and staring listlessly at the screaming youths underneath the bunkbed. Raffie could no longer contain himself; he screamed at the top of his lungs, let out an unnatural cry of grief and horror. The sight could not be unseen or taken away; it remained as horrifying as ever. The two brothers did not move. They were too afraid to leave the position where they were out of sight. Rinaldo’s head was a frozen image in their minds, and could not be pushed out. They also knew that another terrible thing had happened as well - the monster killed their parents. Raffie and Jesús were the only survivors.
Okay, amazing! I really love how much the plot has moved forward, but at the same time not so fast as to be considered ridiculously abrupt. Just a little thing: in this scenario, it would not be uncommon for one of them or both to vomit. They just saw their older brother decapitated, for hell's sake!
***
Somehow a wave of police officers came charging in at inhuman speed, their weapons out and ready to fire. It was about thirty minutes after the horrifying incident; maybe someone had heard screaming and called the police to investigate, the young brothers were not sure, but didn’t have the emotional means to comprehend anything clearly. Raffie and Jesús were still under the bed, hiding in fear. An officer came into the room, looked down and saw them huddled in the dark.
I try to avoid using the word 'Somehow' in sentences because it kind of makes it sound like I'm trying to pass off an impossible situation as a realistic one.
“We have two children in here. They’re alive,” the officer said to his fellows.
They’re alive, Raffie thought. He realized then that he and Jesús’ lives were spared, but why? The reason he could not conceive or understand; it was as if the monster wanted them to live.
Another officer came in and saw the children. The second officer was a woman; she had reddish hair, Raffie noticed, and it was very smooth and shimmery. She knelt down to meet eyes with the children, and spoke to them in a congenial voice.
“You’re safe now. No one is going to hurt you. Please, come out now.” She held out her hand. Raffie looked over at the doorframe and noticed someone had placed a plastic tarp over the head. He then looked to Jesús for answers, and his brother nodded to give Raffie permission to leave the dark recess under the bed along with him. They resurfaced; the officers escorted them into the hallway.
Another plastic covering lay on the floor, covering the fourteen-year-old body. The female cop with red hair paused for a moment.
“You two already know what happened, correct?” They nodded. “I must inform you that your father is still alive, but I don’t know if he will make it to the hospital. He requested to speak to both of you.”
The two brothers rushed into the bedroom. Another plastic covering lay over Mami’s body, still prone on the bed. Papi, however, was rushed onto a gurney to be taken in the ambulance, but by the downcast looks on the faces of the medics, he wasn’t going to last much longer.
“Papi!” they cried, and rushed over to him. The gurney was low enough so the children could see him.
“My sons!” he spluttered. Blood trickled from his mouth as he spoke. “Jesús, my second child, you will do great things in life, I know it. Take care of your little brother.” Jesús nodded with despair. “And Raffie… dear Raffie, I must give you something - something to remember me by.” He lifted a weary, blood-stained hand to his chest, and with a tug of his wrist pulled off of him a chain necklace. Papi took Raffie’s hand and placed the necklace in it, enclosing the childlike fingers around the palm. Raffie wept at his father’s side.
This is fine other than the fact that it sounds like a scene from a very overdone movie. Try to tone down the 'father on his deathbed' cliches.
“Raffie, do not cry for me. I will always be with you, watching over you from up above. In the hardest of times I will always be there to guide you and your brother into safety. I love you both.” With a weak, dying cough a stream of blood exuded from his mouth and stained the gurney red. Jesús stood right at Raffie’s side, held his hand and the hand of his father; watched along with his little brother as Papi took his last breath, and perished from their lives.
LND: You used 'perished' in the wrong way. To perish means to die, and Papi didn't just 'die from their lives'. I would use 'Vanish' instead.
They were steered away, moved outside where there was no deathly sight. As they were taken to the yard, Raffie and his brother passed through the open front door. It was not swung and propped open as it should have been; instead its remains lay on the ground, scattered in a heap of broken glass and jagged matchwood.
The open air seemed to somewhat soothe the terrified, grieving children as much as it was possible to do; grief could not so easily be checked by the onset of calm wind, in the minds of children especially, who had no way to shut it out. They winced at the ear-piercing sirens and the blinding police lights, as well, which only added to the overwhelming stimulus and emotion.
The red-haired woman came out a moment later, carrying blankets for the children, as well as a couple of rugged teddy bears for their comfort. The two young brothers had no faculty at that moment to comprehend any further the situation at hand; all they knew was that they only had each other and the authorities to rely upon, that their parents were killed by a monster - though the officers did not yet know that that was what the children saw destroy their family; and what was to happen next, the children had no idea. They sat with frozen expressions of shock; the woman came up to them, only to be paused by the approach of a male officer with a telephone.
“Call for you, Officer Harringsworth.”
“Thanks, Bill.”
She put the large, clunky contraption to her ear. “Hello?”
“This is Charles Dawson, calling on behalf of Chief Inspector Gherkin. He wants an update on the situation in the East End. Can you tell me why the old woman who called from next door heard screams?”
“It was a triple homicide, Charles. A mother and father, and the oldest of their three sons.”
“Oh my god, that’s awful! And what of the other two boys - are they all right?”
“They will be. Listen, I’ve gotta get back to you. I need to ask the boys what they saw, and see if we get any leads.”
“Fair enough. Call me in five minutes, the Chief’s getting impatient.”
“He always does. Five minutes is fine.”
She clicked the phone shut and handed the children the blankets and stuffed animals.
“Do you know who I am?” she asked.
“You’re a cop, miss,” one of the boys said in a small voice.
“That’s right. And that means that I need to ask you a few questions on what happened. Is that okay?”
The two boys nodded. They don’t like to talk, do they? she thought. But its probably because of what happened forty-five minutes ago.
“First, what are your names?”
“I’m Raphael,” the younger boy said. He had long wavy hair, and he was a few inches shorter than his brother.
“And you?”
“Jesús,” he said. “Jesús Cortez.” The boy named Jesús was a bit taller, and had thicker cheeks, rounder limbs. The youngest, Raphael, was scrawnier, but still appeared healthy.
“Did you see who did this?” Miss Harringsworth asked.
“It was the Devil,” Jesús breathed.
Officer Harringsworth felt a jump of terror in her chest. She was not expecting that response, especially from a child.
“What did you see?”
“It was a monster,” Raphael said. “It was taller and stronger than any living man, its hands had large, sharp claws, and its teeth were dripping with blood…” he paused abruptly, curtly cutting off his description, then said, “it killed my parents! It killed Rinaldo!” he suddenly screamed in her face, his face red with pain and agony. Why must a child go through this kind of horror and pain? she thought hopelessly. Why do they say that they saw a monster? Monsters aren’t real! They are the characters of nightmares and ghost stories - not real life! What am I to do? I don’t know what to believe!
I'm not really sure what to say for these few paragraphs, because there's really nothing to criticize, but I really love just the way you've been writing this. It's an excellent plot.
Officer Harringsworth resorted to the last statement she planned to make. “We will do whatever we can to find who did this, and we will make sure that both of you are kept safe.”
The two boys remained silent; they didn’t want to talk anymore. The red-haired woman left, and Raffie and Jesús sat for a few minutes without someone watching over them.
Raffie looked down at his clenched fist. Out from it came dangling small portions of the necklace his dying father gave to him. He brought up the courage to look at it again. Hung on the end of the looped chain was a silver cross.
“Papi always wore that thing, wherever he went,” Jesús reminisced, while watching his brother examine the piece. “It was his keepsake, his symbol of hope. I believe he intended that hope to travel with us, with you.”
Raffie began to feel something stirring in his breast, a rekindling of passionate youth, of effervescent frivolity, yet along with it came a new sensation of maturity, something he did not expect to have. The circumstances, it seemed, demanded for such a rise in strength and tenacity, courage and stability; the needed attributes for staying strong throughout any and all hardships. Raphael was scared, begrieved, emotionally wrecked, but he was strong, and began to know that for himself.
And Jesús - he was already a strong character, even in his youth. His brother’s increase in strength fed his own, thus the two brothers came to support each other for stability. They were always good friends, and upon that tragic night their bond became stronger.
The red-haired woman came back, her stride much quicker as if ready to spring into action.
“We are getting ready to leave now - for the night, anyway. There will be more investigating to be done tomorrow, but right now the priority is getting you two to a safe location and figuring out where we can put you temporarily. We need to go now,” she said to them.
The two children silently obeyed. Irene Harringsworth looked at her watch, and noticed the time to be 3:02 AM. There we have another reason why the children aren’t very communicative, she thought, flicking back behind her shoulder a red lock of hair.
Raffie followed Jesús and the woman to a police vehicle where he trusted they would be transported to a safe location. He looked down at the cross necklace again. And my father’s blood was stained on a few edges and chain-links - I don’t know if I should clean it or let the blood continue to dry, thought he. Raffie continued following his brother to the vehicle, and climbed inside the backseat right after him.
The Cortez family didn’t always live in the East End, Raffie remembered as the police squad left the scene. They came to London with barely any money to their name, but still managed to find a place to rent in Grimsby, though it didn’t last long, not that they were too terribly surprised based on the outcome of several other immigrant families; regardless of all that, it was still a painful blow to Ana Maria and Eduardo Cortez, who had worked so hard to build a life for their family. Not six months after their arrival, they were kicked out, then dragged into the East End with all the other poor, suffering families who couldn’t be bothered with. Ever since then, they had lived in a three-bedroom home that was rented out to them by a sympathetic owner who happened to have extended family in Guadalajara. There really wasn’t much choice in accepting the cheap rent deal, for only Eduardo had a part-time job, working as a cashier in a small-brand store for just above minimum wage. Ana Maria couldn’t find any acceptable work, however, quite frankly because no one wanted to hire her. It had nothing to do with her personality or financial disposition; it was all because of her gender and skin color. Raffie, though being young, had retained all of that information as told by his brothers, and as understood from his own observation.
The police squad continued on; it was moving west and northward, possibly toward a homicide precinct. Twenty minutes later it turned out to be as such - a building of immensity in all sense of the word, in height, dimension, strength; it was self-contained in its monstrous impregnability.
Irene escorted the two children inside the building, along with several other officers. She could tell that the orphaned sons were overwhelmed and terrified of the large mass of intense people working in the thick of high pressure and instability, crime and self-crime; she had always known that some of the policemen there were of very intense nature, not just when attempting to prevent or investigate murder and suicide, but in general, wherever they were. It was their mode of operation, their modus operandi. They had no off-switch, no modulating dial. They would always and forever be the way they were.
Raffie and Jesús were escorted to a drab-looking office. Irene knew that there were still several steps that had to be taken before the children could be anywhere near having a consistent family situation. The brothers didn’t know that, but they soon would. A man walked in; he was a representative that was called in from Social Services to help review their situation. He was tall, rather nondescript of character, but he had an amiable smile and a decent cut of greyish hair. He sat down at a desk after shaking Irene’s hand, then opened a file stuffed with unkempt papers.
“So here we have Raphael Eduardo Cortez, and Jesús Vallejo Cortez, ages seven and ten. I’ve reviewed the police file, and I don’t need to mention the circumstances. It looks like for now the best thing to do would be to send them to a protected youth shelter until we find a suitable foster family. It wouldn’t be that long, of course; they’d only be in the shelter for a couple of weeks. But, it is three in the morning, and as far as I know none of the offices are open. I think it’d be best to have them stay the night at the precinct itself, and I’ll leave a message at the youth shelter I have in mind, and we can reconvene in the morning. Does that sound good?”
“Yes, a good idea. I’ll make sure someone, maybe even me, will stand watch over the children while they get some rest for tomorrow,” Irene said.
“I’ll make the call. Tomorrow morning - how about eight-thirty?”
“A good time. We’ll see you then.”
The Social Services rep left the office and went to make a phone call. Irene escorted the children to a room in the back where there was a bunkbed. Raffie flashed upon the memory of witnessing his brother’s murder when hiding under the same kind of stacked bed - metal frame, plaid sheets, wooden planking. He winced but knew he had no choice but to accept the availability of the small room so that he and his brother could possibly get some sleep while under the protection of the authorities.
The young brothers entered the room, were wary of their surroundings.
“I’ll be standing right outside the entire time. Don’t worry, you’re safe now,” Irene said.
The children made no verbal response. She closed the door rather slowly, as if unsure of how the boys would handle being all alone in the enclosed room with her being outside. They would be all right, though. She knew that all of this would at some point fade away and become hard to grasp when recalling the past. She knew from her own experience how that worked; her parents weren’t killed, but still her home situation was at an early time in her life quite sketchy, due to filed complaints reviewed as having been made constantly between the parents, husband and wife, those complaints they made towards each other being their way of enforcing their arguments. Her father was a heavy coke addict, and was always out doing wild and unholy things; he was even purported to have been on several nights seen stumbling around the streets talking nonsense - the kind of fanatical rubbish that closely resembled conspiracy theorism. Her mother was a distraught woman, always angry at herself and her husband for the way her life was going downward. And Irene Harringsworth was forced to bear the burdens of it all. When she finally escaped the misery of being caught in the crossfire of her parents’ battles, she found herself having the desire to help others, and never let happen to anyone else what happened to her, or worse. She realised though, after being distanced from that colorful past for over two decades, the vividity of those memories became less and less clear; she found she could no longer touch them, and the reason why that was so was because she did not let herself be haunted by it as so many others did. The haunting of the past in the present was as real as the past being the present as the physical reality. All the same emotions were felt and experienced, the actions and dialogue replayed over. If a memory no longer haunted the present, it did not necessarily mean the emotions were gone; it only meant that the actual happening became less coherent, allowing some peace to be had in the present, no matter if it was true or not.
I really enjoy the way you portray your characters. Their emotions, their feelings, are a ll very real.
Irene closed the door and stood outside it for a moment, breathing deeply. Her job was hard, what with having to deal with gruesome crime scenes and terrorized survivors, psychotic killers and distraught family members. She had been working from six in the morning of the previous day, moving nonstop, never having the chance to take a break. Despite her fatigue, she felt obligated to stay and watch over the two children, and make sure they were taken care of as if they were her own. She had no children, but indeed she wanted to. She sighed, left her post for a minute to inform her superior what she was going to be doing, and returned with a chair to sit in.
The graveyard shift was rather slow. Hardly any calls came in, hardly any action took place. Once and awhile a few officers would leave to examine a scene, or otherwise a menial errand. Meanwhile the tired Irene sat lazily, sometimes wondering if she even needed to be there, or could go home and leave the children unattended; but to her the act of staying there was her way of ensuring their safety, even in a police station. A few times throughout the slow witching hours she would doze off, but quickly pulled herself back to focus until eight in the morning.
She checked her watch. 6:05, it said. She sighed, realized that she had been awake for twenty-four hours straight. Another two hours went by, and she struggled to stay awake. She even had a young rookie fetch her a cup of coffee, and when he brought it back to her, she found it boosted her blood sugar and sufficed to keep her going. Eight o’clock rolled around; it was time to wake up the children from their nap in the closed room with a bunkbed. Throughout her vigil she would occasionally peer through the checquered glass to see if they were sleeping. She had smiled when she saw the two of them sound asleep, and it was noticeable too, for their faces were hung in such unconscious expressions that it was unmistakable they were deep in slumber. Now she had to wake them, and she wondered how they would react to waking up in a police precinct with a strange woman standing close to their bed. She wondered this because she also wondered if the children would even remember last night’s events, or if their young brains would block out such horrifying memories.
LND: remove the extra c in 'chequered'.
She stepped inside, and lightly knocked on the wall to see if she could gently wake them up. One of the brothers began to stir, and she knocked louder, finally bringing them back to consciousness.
Raffie blinked groggily at the sound of sharp knocking, and found himself looking at the woman he’d met last night. “Jesús, wake up!” he said upwards. The upper bed began to creak and move, and his brother crawled down the ladder to meet him.
“It’s almost time to meet the Social Services man we met last night to coordinate where you two can be kept safe for a couple of weeks until we find a suitable foster family.”
“Okay, miss. We’re ready,” Jesús said.
Finally their talking again, thought Irene. She led them to the office where they met the tall, smartly dressed man from Social Services not five hours earlier. The man came promptly on schedule at eight-thirty AM, and began right away with reviewing what he found.
LND: 'their' should be 'they're', and there should be a comma after 'Finally'.
“So I made a call to one of the youth shelters I have worked with quite a bit, and they said they’d be happy to take you two. They even said they had a vacant room with a bunkbed that the children could use. This youth shelter is a very nice place - they have all the necessary amenities, good food, amiable staff, and most importantly, you two can stay there as long as you need to, no costs involved.” He waved a manicured hand at the two young boys. The young ones sitting beside Irene seemed to be restored of hope, yet had trepidation over being transferred to a new environment. Irene understood perfectly what they were going through, and even felt a bit of empathy for their situation.
“And have you found any possible candidates for a foster agreement?” she asked the man. When they had first met he had said his name was Joe; she looked at his visitor tag and read his full name for a brief moment, not letting him aware she was doing that. The name read, “Dr. Joseph Springfield, DSW”.
“Not as of yet. I do have a list of possible people, but so far I have not yet reviewed their files and determined whether they would be good for them,” Dr. Springfield said.
“Fair enough,” she said. It seemed that was the end of it for now, so she stood up, shook the man’s hand, and asked for the address of the youth shelter. Joseph handed her a slip of paper, and she silently made it her duty to drive the children to the facility. She knew, however, that it was not her choice to make. She turned around to talk to Raffie and Jesús.
“Before we go I need to check with my superior if I can take you to the youth shelter or not. You two just stay here and hang tight. I’ll be right back.”
Irene left them for a few minutes, walked down the hallway to an office with a turquoise door. Inside was the Chief Inspector of the precinct, shuffling through a stack of papers, reading through half-moon glasses.
“Can I help you, Officer?”
“I need to take two children to a youth shelter in Bethnal Green.”
“Why up there?”
“The social worker who was brought down to see the children recommended it. He said it was a nice place.”
“Well, the Bethnal Green area’s decent, but got itself a rough history. You sure they’ll do fine there?”
Always one to challenge the decency of things based on their history, that Chief, thought Irene.
“Sure as I can be without seeing it yet, sir,” she said instead.
“I suppose you’re the best one for the job.”
“Thank you, sir.”
She left the office and took the children outside to her car, then began to drive northward to where the youth shelter would be. Judging by the distance she figured anywhere from fifteen to twenty minutes of a drive. They traveled across several miles of semi-urban life, several shops and malls and miscellaneous things. When they crossed into the Bethnal Green area, however, things became a lot different in style. They saw a sudden change in color and diversity, with a wider variety of culture, as well as a strong element of eccentricity and artistic ability.
“Well, it looks like we should be there in about five or ten minutes,” Irene said to the boys.
“Okay,” they each said grimly.
Women and men alike walked past them in droves along the sidewalk that you couldn’t see, some darker-skinned, some light, some in strange garb, some dressed as casually as any average Londoner. Irene was glad she didn’t have to hear the Cockney drawl, let it irritate her ears like fingernails on a chalkboard.
LND: I would change 'let' to 'lest'.
It was about five or so minutes later when they found themselves pulling into a small parking lot that sat adjacent a small, tan building with lap siding and a brown composition roof. The windows had slight warps in them, causing a wavy, watery appearance. That was the youth shelter Dr. Springfield had recommended, and from the outside, at least, it seemed decent. Irene parked the car and led the boys inside. The children were startled by the dark interior, less of the place itself but more of the fact that they were to live in an unknown place for two weeks or more. The interior was rather cozy, a common theme of rustic red, green and brown pervading it; it was mainly lit with easy yellow lamps in various corners, making the feel of the shelter quite “sheltered”. Raffie looked around at the other children; they seemed lonely, depressed, scared, even, and the fear seemed to stem from something traumatic, like they had been hurt in some way. It must have been why they were there in the first place - because they were hurt, and by their own families.
The three of them entered an office where sat the woman who ran the place. She was laden with a drooping waterfall of straw-colored hair, and her face was aged, tired. She had had a long life of difficulties, but managed to deal with them by focusing her love on the children she cared for. On her desk was an old picture of a young boy with the same straw hair, presumably her son. With a sigh she tore her eyes away from that sorrowful memory, and greeted the visitors. She had been expecting them; Irene shook her hand and reminded the lady of Dr. Springfield’s phone call.
“Ah, yes, I remember now. My name’s Margaret… Margaret Chetty.”
“Irene Harringsworth,” the officer said, shaking the woman’s hand formally. “These two are Raphael and Jesús Cortez. They’ll need to stay here for at least two weeks. Is there anything I need to sign?”
“Just this paper right here; you sign at the bottom… it’s just a document stating that someone knows and agrees with the terms and conditions in this temporary custody of the children. It proves that at least one government official gives consent to the children’s residal at our facility. Just standard procedure.”
“Very well,” Irene said, and took up a pen to write her signature. Raffie noticed how she wrote; it was very fluid and graceful, like painting with a nimble brush.
“Thank you, ma’am,” the woman said.
Irene turned to the boys, a look of almost regret filled her face - regret of having to leave them. She knew she would most likely see them again, but they seemed to trust her, and she felt sad to appear as if she was abandoning them for two long weeks.
“Alright, you two. I need to leave now. This is going to be your new home for a couple of weeks, okay?”
They nodded. It was that same expression of pure dismay that again beheld their small faces. She knelt to meet them eye-to-eye, and held their hands for a brief moment. “Now, I know you will both be safe,” she said to them. They nodded again, and Irene silently sighed, and hoped they would at some point resurface from their nonverbal disposition as a result of the tragedy that shook their lives.
The woman stood up and led the children out into the main commons, and Irene, with a feeling of being separated, watched them go, and prepared to leave herself.
Before leaving she borrowed the youth shelter phone, and made the call, but no answer. It was going to be a call to the Chief Inspector, to tell him that she was heading back to the precinct, but since no one was there on the other side, she resolved to just showing up whenever she got there.
The phone was replaced, and she left the Bethnal Green area in her old police sedan.
So far this story is amazing! I can't wait until I get around to reading some more. I hope that this review helps. Keep writing!
-Juliet
Thank you so much! This is exactly what I need!
No problem!
Author's Note:
Don't be fooled by the slow beginning... things get more and more intense, bloody, and violent with each chapter. Get ready.
Also keep in mind that I am already quite far into writing the book. So far I have written 24 chapters, and there's still quite a bit more to write.
Enjoy! If you're a psychological horror fan, I bet you'll like this story.
Oof I'll try to review today or tomorrow
as a demon and psychological horror fans myself, I am always interested in things like this.
Oh cool! As you have probably seen, I decided to post the second chapter as well, for funsies. Hopefully people won't get confused.