Thankyou for reading Rosey.
I understand what you mean about it feeling detached. The reason for that is probably because this is the chapter before the action in this story begins.
Thanks again.
III - Carnival
This is such a big mistake.
She cannot believe her mother has brought them here.
A blur of coloured Christmas lights arc between the happy faces of people laughing, talking, enjoying themselves. She walks with Esther and her mother in a rigid line, counterfeit smiles sewn across their cheeks.
They don't belong here.
A carnival worker accosts them, shoving vouchers and leaflets into their cold hands. He ushers them along the curving gravel path, pointing at the rides zooming around on either side of them. She cannot help thinking, Is it so obvious that we are lost?
"Thank you," her mother says, her face a tense mask of forced gratitude. "We'll be fine."
The worker frowns slightly and then pastes his kind, helpful grin back on his wrinkled face.
As she watches him walk away, she wonders whether anything is real and if everyone is playing the same Let's Pretend game.
What is real?
"I'm hungry," Esther moans, a pout blooming over her rosy lips.
"Okay," her mother says, running a finger agitatedly through her brittle hair. "Let's get lunch."
They stumble through the carnival as the first snow begins to fall. They squint through the white flakes, their shoes crunching on frozen gravel.
She cups her hand and lets the snow collect there, lingering for a second before melting away into the delicate lines of her palm.
They find the cafe and sit at a small green table sheltered by the overbiting roof. They sit upright on their flimsy chairs, icy clouds drifting out of their mouths each time they breathe. A bored looking waiter approaches and distributes laminated menus to each of them.
“Jasmine tea, please," she says. As always.
Her mother sighs heavily. "Are you sure you don't want anything else, Sarah?" she says with a voice ridged with forced composure. "You always ask for this Chinese tealeaf crap."
She shakes her head and the tangled brown web of hair falls over her thin face. A curtain to hide from the world behind. She blushes as her mother glares at her, willing her to speak.
Does the waiter know they're not normal? Does he know who he's serving? Does he care?
Between gritted teeth, her mother orders the rest of the food. The waiter gathers up the menus and stalks back into the kitchen. The three of them sit in silence and she can hear the sound of her mother’s watch ticking.
She wriggles her toes and realises that the snow has melted through her shoes. Her feet are soaked and freezing in their skimpy socks.
The waiter returns and serves the meal. Her mother and Esther hastily heap food onto their plates and bring spoons to their mouths. They are desperate for something, anything to fill the terrifying silence.
She lifts the delicate teapot and the steaming brown liquid pours down the ridged spout. She brings the tiny white cup to her lips, musing on its fragility. If she squeezed her bony fingers tighter around its skeletal frame, it would surely snap and shatter into pieces. Its life is in her hands.
She takes a sip of the jasmine tea and basks in its fragrance, enveloping her and seeping through her pores.
She notices a man sitting at the adjacent table. He is red-haired; nervous and rumpled-looking. He is holding a tattered book and turning its pages but he is not reading; she can tell. He suddenly looks up from the book and meets her gaze.
She tears her eyes away; her nerves are on edge.
Why is he looking at her? Can he tell she’s an outsider? Can he tell she has no right to be here, amongst the normal, happy, laughing people? Does he hate that she was watching him?
Her hand trembles violently and she quickly puts down her teacup on the saucer. Her grip on the handle jerks and the cup topples over, rolling onto the floor. The liquid gushes out, seeping into the cracks of the gravel and tinting the snow brown. Jagged pieces of white china are strewn beneath her chair.
She picks up a remnant and brushes her finger against it. The sharp edge bites through the skin and she drops it as if it were a hot coal. She squeezes her eyes shut and braces herself as the shaking starts.
“No,” she whispers, her face contorting with frustration. “Please, no.”
“Why, Sarah?” her mother is asking, holding her shoulder across the table.
She shrugs her off and the shaking becomes more violent, more frenzied. Her mother leaps out of the chair and faces her. “Stop it,” she says in a low, urgent tone.
She cannot stop. She can’t make herself. She cannot help the poison leaking into her mind and overpowering her brain. She cannot help the thoughts lying in wait for her, coiled like an evil snake ready to spring out.
“Stop it,” her mother repeats, louder. “Listen, Sarah. You can make yourself stop. You don’t have to have another panic attack. Stop it. Stop it NOW.”
Everyone can hear. Everyone is looking at them. Everyone can see they don’t belong in this world.
“Stop it, godammit!” her mother shrieks. Words spill out of her mouth, broken and bitter. They tear a rent through the soft, serene harmony of the snowfall. The cafe is hushed, shocked.
Her mother grabs her by the shoulders as if she weighs nothing and shakes her and shakes her and shakes her. Sarah gasps for breath, empty tears spilling over her frozen lashes.
The smell of buttery popcorn, sweet candyfloss, salty sweat and icy fear fill her sinuses as the metal taste of embarrassment closes up her throat. Heightened but fragmented senses of smell, sight and taste vie for attention against a dull backdrop of humiliation and sorrow.
Her mother releases her and hugs Esther, sobbing into her hair.
Protecting her from the monster.
Everyone is staring at them, the freaks, the lunatics, the problem family.
Sarah turns around, her legs almost buckling, and runs off into the snowfall.
Thankyou for reading Rosey.
I understand what you mean about it feeling detached. The reason for that is probably because this is the chapter before the action in this story begins.
Thanks again.
Okay, well, here are my thoughts on this chapter. Don't kill me after reading this:
You've lost me. The description at the beginning didn't really match up with the flow of the chapters before, nor does it have much to do with the end. The Carnival is only a setting, not a rich as the chapters before.
Overall, I found this rather detached from everything. I might review it again in two months (circumstances in my life will be better for critiquing a more real-life piece like this) but for now, I can't see how this fits in with everything, other then as an event to give a snippet or two of info.
Hey, Sarah!
This was generally a very good chapter!
They don't belong here.
What is real?
She cups her hand and lets the snow collect there, lingering for a second before melting away into the delicate lines of her palm.
"You always ask for this Chinese tealeaf crap."
Heya Sarah,
You have yet another intriguing and absorbing part here.
A blur of coloured Christmas lights arc between the happy faces of people laughing, talking, enjoying themselves
Its life is in her hands.
She takes a sip of the jasmine tea and basks in its fragrance, enveloping her and seeping through her pores.
Ashleylee - Thankyou so much. No-one's ever told me something like that before. I don't mind your review being short. You are too kind. Thankyou.
Merry Haven - Thankyou very, very much. I promise to write the next part, I just need to get my writing cap on as school tends to crush all my inspiration. Thankyou again. Your comments are lovely and make my day.
PraiseJoe - Thankyou so much for reading. I'm glad you enjoyed it. Thanks for reading it all up to here.
Sapphire - As always, your reviewing was outstanding and helped me in both the technical and literary sense of my story. Thanks so much for all your detailed reviewing. You're a star.
XDox - Your document downloads, are, as ever, a joy to read. You really motivate me and encourage me. You are really helping to improve my writing. Thanks so much.
Thanks all for persevering with Broken!
--Sarah
Sarah-
Wow. That's all I can say. It was strangely captivating.
I've all up to this chapter and where's part 4?
You have to write the next part. Don't just leave us hanging.
I want more. Need more of this story.
How can Sarah's mom act like that when she has panic attacks? And how does her sister feel about this?
Overall, this hit me and I need to talk to you.
-Merry
How can her mother expect her to get better when she is approaching the issue like that? Jeesh…but as you can see, I am really growing quite attached to this story. It is such a powerful impact on who ever reads it. You have a gift. No lie.
I’m sorry. This will be the shortest of all of your reviews. I noticed nothing wrong with this one, nor is their a favorite line because I liked them all again
Keep up the good work!
Please PM me when you write more.
i have been following up
your story broken.
it has been intresting all the way.
i am glad the story is now gaining more and more momentum
probably from your
new discoveries or so.
keep writing
thanks
CastlesInTheSky wrote:
The worker frowns slightly and then pastes his kind, helpful grin back on his wrinkled face.
As she watches him walk away, she wonders whether anything is real and if everyone is playing the same Let's Pretend game. I like that observation.
"Okay," her mother says, running her fingers agitatedly through her brittle hair. Sounded odd before. "Let's get lunch."
They find the cafe and sit at a small green table sheltered by the overbiting roof. 'Overbiting roof' sounds strange but maybe it's just a phrase I've never heard before. They sit upright on their flimsy chairs, icy clouds drifting out of their mouths each time they breathe. A bored looking waiter approaches and distributes laminated menus to each of them.
She shakes her head and the tangled brown web of hair falls over her thin face. A curtain to hide from the world behind. She blushes as her mother glares at her, willing her to speak.
She lifts the delicate teapot and the steaming brown liquid pours down the [s]ridged[/s] spout. She brings the tiny white cup to her lips, musing on its fragility. If she squeezed her bony fingers tighter around its skeletal frame, it would surely snap and shatter into pieces. Its life is in her hands.
She notices a man sitting at the adjacent table. He is red-haired; nervous and rumpled-looking. He is holding a tattered book and turning its pages but he is not reading; she can tell. He suddenly looks up from the book and meets her gaze.
She tears her eyes away; her nerves are on edge.
She picks up a remnant and brushes her finger against it. The sharp edge bites through the skin and she drops it as if it were a hot coal. She squeezes her eyes shut and braces herself as the shaking starts.
She cannot stop. [s]She can’t make herself.[/s] She cannot help the poison leaking into her mind and overpowering her brain. She cannot help the thoughts lying in wait for her, coiled like an evil snake ready to spring out.
“Stop it, godammit!” her mother shrieks. [s]Words spill out of her mouth, broken and bitter.[/s] Her broken, bitter words [s]They tear a[/s] rent [s]through[/s] the soft, serene harmony of the snowfall. The cafe is hushed, shocked.
The smell of buttery popcorn, sweet candyfloss, salty sweat and icy fear fill her sinuses as the metal taste of embarrassment closes up her throat. Heightened but fragmented senses of smell, sight and taste vie for attention against a dull backdrop of humiliation and sorrow.
HEY, YOU 
I said I was gonna be back to review this part, so here I am !! *OMG*
So, yea.
I enjoy reading the whole series of Broken, and think they’re well-written and generally of good quality. Naturally there is room for improvement, but then again, there always is. The emotions you convey in the story come across as very real, and very vivid, and we as readers can really begin to feel what the character is going through. You’ve really got description down, and use some amazing phrases in the stories, but you need to work on atmosphere, details, and making proper paragraphs. One-lined paragraphs are too small, so fatten them up a bit, show us more, show us what it feels like to walk there. Does the cold bite her skin? Does her breath cloud before her face? Does her little sister shiver? Does she wish she’d worn gloves? That kind of stuff.
Let me know if you post more.
XxxDo
Ps. You know you're supposed to open the attachment, right?
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