“Now first before I tell you this you must promise me something, Okay?” The too plain too white clock tried cautiously to fill the long reign of silence, scared to tick too fast or tock too loud and shatter the room. The too plain too white clock hanging on the too plain too white wall incasing two terribly lost people. So close to finding each other yet too far to see it. The woman looked over at the empty young man. He was sitting in his too plain too white chair staring out the window. “Charlie? Do you hear me?” She had lost him again. The young woman wanted to be frustrated and scared, but she couldn’t, not around Charlie. She kept her demeanor calm and sincere. “Please Charlie, could you talk to me?”
Alas, her questions did not get through to Charlie. He continued to stare out into nothingness. He was not intentionally being rude to the young lady, he couldn’t. He didn’t even know she was there. There was a reason for the too plain too white room, which was part of a big too plain too white building, which was, ironically entitled Colorful Home Mental Facility. Nothing is wrong with the girl, well nothing that a mental hospital can fix. She is a very bright college student and is very healthy. Charlie on the other hand is not well at all. Somewhere in his old forgotten life, he was terribly injured and resulted in permanent brain damage. He had wandered to this building looking as though he had just walked through a tornado, every bone seemed to be broken or cracked and wore clothes so shredded and torn one would think he had meet up with a tiger as well. When he was taken in, he did not remember anything. Every time a nurse would come into his room to check on him, he would freak out and scream, begging them to tell him where he was, who he was. After he began to settle down they started to call him Charlie after the Charlie’s Chess set that he had taken from the rec center and never set down. After weeks of the screaming and yelling that came from him, the calmness his chess set gave him made the nurses decided to let it slide. The yelling got quieter and the kicking lessened until he eventually grew as tired of the whole daily routine as the nurses had and replaced the fear with silence. Though he has become comfortable at the too plain too white building, He still cannot hold a conversation with anyone or a coherent memory of it. That is, until Rebecca.
Suddenly the glazed over eyes of a broken man came to life. He took in a deep breath and let his eyes soften again, positioned toward the window. “Hello, Charlie? I’m Rebecca. Do you mind if I join you?” She sat in the chair across from him just as she had moments before and looked through the window that his eyes never left. “It’s so lovely in spring, don’t you think? And you get such a wonderful view of the park from here.” He did not respond, but he shifted his eyes to the park across the street. Rebecca smiled softly. “Do you see that old tree at the front of the park, the one with the twisted and swirled branches? I used to go there when I was a kid and tell stories to the other kids in the neighborhood every day. As soon as we left school, all of us would rush to that park, to that tree. I would sit at the base of the tree while the kids scattered among the branches, listening closely as each tale began. I would spin the warm comforting air into princesses and thieves, fairies and knights until the sun set and we made it home, dreaming of what would happen next. When I was younger I thought that the tree would be annoyed at the kids hanging all over its branches, but I now believe the tree enjoyed hearing a good story, for its leaves would gently sway, egging me to continue.” This time it was the woman whose eyes were glazed over.
There sat two dreamers, stuck in a world they had once for gotten, slowly and ever so slightly being opened up. All was silent but it was different from before. The air was not stiff and heavy, weighting the room down, it was light and open; peaceful. “Sorry, I just get lost in memories every time I see that tree. I get lost in the stories. Do you like stories? I have one that I really wish to tell you. But this story is special. It is dark and terrifying. It creeps behind you and traps you in its self. It is sweet and joyful. It feels like the hug of an old friend who you never want to leave the embrace of. It is tragic and sad. As soon as it warms you heart, it lashes out to shatter it. The most important thing about it, Charlie, is that it is absolutely true.” Rebecca turns and looks straight at Charlie. This is extremely risky because if he has already forgotten her, this will scare him and she would have to leave. She knows it is not the best way to approach Charlie, but last time he had forgotten too quickly, and she needed him to remember. “Now Charlie, you have got to promise me that you will try to remember okay? I know that you have trouble remembering stuff but you just have to remember this story. You don’t even have to remember me telling it to you but you have to remember. Please Charlie, say that you’ll try.”
Charlie shifted from the window, looking down at his hands intensely, as if waiting for them to tell him how to answer. For the first time, he looked 25, like a young gentleman pondering the risk and trial of this tale. She took his absence to take him fully in. His dark brown hair hung wild and tangled, small curls full of worry and loneliness seemed to jump out, begging someone to remind them they aren’t alone. His white pajamas hung loosely on his incredibly thin body, though he had a broad frame, as if his body was so conflicted and confused about who he was it just couldn’t decide between the two. His soft brown eyes kept there clouded, distant appearance, but somewhere, at the edge of his iris, there was something more. There was a spark, a light, a twinkle that threatened to obliterate the heavy, doubt-riddled clouds, wanting, craving to brake free and outshine the Sun, held back by timid fog. Rebecca wanted to clear open the fog, the haziness right now. That doubt and fear and haze did not belong there, those eyes were to be filled with wit and happiness, filled with so much spirit that it belonged among the stars, an angel that was falling from happiness and plummeting into the hard surface of despair. She wanted to be the wings to lift him back up, but she couldn’t. What would happen if he could fly back, the fog cleared, and would he want to see where he is, would he want to see her? The thought was too heavy, too hard, like a boulder crushing the hope Rebecca was hanging on to. He slowly looked up with brown eyes so deeply filled with sorrow it make your heart ache when you looked into them, but she stared back, green eyes lit with hope and desperateness. As if trying to dig past the sadness to see why it hurt him so much to see this woman he had never met before. In a hoarse, cracked “yes.” That escaped his mouth, you could see the hope smashing against the confusion in his eyes. “A story sounds nice.” Though his voice thick with loss and sorrow, Rebecca could hear the defiant, alive spark trapped in the never-ending darkness inside. “Then, I guess we had better begin.” Rebecca added filled with all the different emotions inside this tale. The chaos that insureds inside her was wreck less but, after a deep breath, she began to spin yet another story out of the cold, stale air of Colorful Homes. “It all began with an impossible promise and boy’s stolen dream.”
᠂°§°᠂
“It started with that meager promise. One so tiny, infinitely small that it didn’t even seem like anything but something to humor my brother with. An 8 year old boy and a stolen dream were not the type of thing anyone would care about. Any regular person would simply walk past, dismissing a child’s playful imagination. It’s reasonable enough to say that the man who had helped us was not the least bit regular, and most of all, incredibly proud of it. I guess the day we met him was the day my story turned into his. It all really is about him.
It started on a sunny, summer morning of my 18th year and I had taken Tony for a walk in the park. Tony was my little brother, and the victim of the memory theft. He was different from other kids. Most people think I mean the metal chair he is confined to, but they fail to see the real difference, the thing I had always loved about him; his brain. I guess him in whole is what I really love. He sees things that completely go over my head or things too wise for an 8 year old. Things that only those how have experienced so much in life could even begin to think such thoughts. I remember every moment of that day, the rhythmic clang of my car keys in my palm hitting Tony’s wheelchair as I pushed him. The smell of morning dew on the grass and the air and just the aliveness of it all. I remember the pats of angry mothers’ high heels and they pulled little boys aside for a stern talking while he would tap his shoes and fidget with his mudded clothes. Every little detail was so perfect, the atmosphere was as lovely as all of my happiest memories combined. I nearly ran Tony into a few giggling girls as I was caught in thought. “BECKY!”
“Oh!” I skidded fast enough to thank God or whoever is up there for not my having me run over a sweet girl’s foot. “Sorry!”
The girl got up and stomped away but not before giving me a crossed armed pout and a stuck out tongue. Way to go, by this rate your clumsiness might cost Tony any chance of making some friends. I had rolled him next to the old memorial bench and positioned him so he could see the playground. I had once him that it was too sad to watch kids play while he couldn’t. Of course, he proved my wrong. “I am able to imagine what it would be like, imagine I am right next to them on the swings or digging for fake treasure under the woodchips. It makes me sad, yet extremely happy. That’s the best I can say Becky.”
That day, his serene nature was flustered and panicked. “Tony,” I sat down “Are you okay? You look a little frantic.”
“Oh Becky! Someone’s stolen my dreams!” I will admit that I was a little happy. Should I feel bad for finding it great that he was this distraught? I was not being sadistic, I just thought he was using his imagination and just relaxing a bit, being a kid. “When I go to sleep, I keep a book of what I dream. I thought I could bring it with us and read some of it to you, but when I opened it, nothing! Everything was blank! I looked at the binding to see if it was ripped out, but I found no sign. I swear someone did! It doesn’t make sense, but it happened! I know it!”
“Maybe you grabbed the wrong journal, or you could have written them still sleepy from waking up and not have written them at all. I just don’t think someone would steal it, Tony” He slumped down in his steel home. “I know you wouldn’t believe me Becky, I swear it truly did happen like that. How could it be another journal when it’s my only one? Or how do I have blisters from sharping all those pencils, over and over if they were never used? Becky, you gotta help me!”
“Alright Tony, it’s okay. If you believe it happened, then it did. We should investigate.” I patted his shoulder. His eyes widened with joy and adventure every child should have. “Like Sherlock and Watson! Or Ellery Queen or Miss Marple! Oh, Poirot, or…” He droned on several other names P.I.’s and detectives, only a few I recognized. “…Or a classic like C. Auguste Dupin! Hey Becky? Did you hear me? I said I would love to do it but,” He folded his arms in a fake pout. “Only if I am Sherlock!”
“Well, then, I guess it’s settled then. Where shall we start our investigation, Holmes?”
“Well, my dear Watson, we shall start where it began of course!” He declared in a proud voice. I remember chucking and enjoying the happiness and bliss of the moment. I wish that those times would have lasted a little longer, but I don’t know if it would have made the bad times better or worse. Tony knocked on his head. “It started right here. But I think that memory has already stumbled out my mind, maybe it lays somewhere on the floor! Becky help me look! You look under the bench and I will go over to the fountain, maybe that man over there will know something about this.” He started to wheel away, practically burning the concrete with the strength he had got from this new adventure, you could see it like sparks flying off his wheels. “Tony, don’t bug strangers, okay?” I checked under all benches and giggled to myself when he constantly looked over his shoulder at me to see if I was really working. After checking the last bench, I walked toward the beautiful chiseled fountain and I fished in my bag for some pens and a notepad for Tony to write down his progress. “Now, is there any of the dreams you still remember or have you lost them all?”
“I can’t remember a single one, though I knew them all by heart yesterday, hey had to have been stolen mister! Oh hey Becky! This guy is helping me and he is a sleuth too!” Before I could even begin to get onto Tony for doing exactly what I said not to, I saw the man.
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140,094 Literary Works • 672,998 Reviews
hello hi
I like emotional stories that turn out to have relevant meaning to what's going on in the present. We all do. This is a fine emotional story. I would like to talk to you about two things now, which I feel could greatly improve the emotional impact of your fine story: character and dialogue. The two are inextricably linked, as we will find out.
Character. Character is, arguably, what drives any story. Why do we read? To make friends that do things we could never do, to cry at their troubles and exult at their success. Basically what should do in real life but without that tedious expenditure of energy. But to do all this, we have to care about this person first. This is important. I will not be emotionally invested in your character if I don't care about them first. So, how do you make me care about your character?
There's several ways to do that. The easiest is to humanize the character. Give them day-to-day troubles, a family, a dog, whatever. Now, in a novel, this is easier. You have plenty of time to set up your character, and we get to follow them in their daily lives. In a short story, this is more difficult. In a short story, you have a message, an idea you want to get across, and limited space to do so in. How then, to have the reader empathize with the character?
Similarly to in a novel, but condensing the information, I'd say. You might say differently. The important thing is that I need to establish a bond with your character immediately. Right now, you have a person I know nothing about walk into an asylum and tell the story of her brother to another person I know nothing about. Now, if these people were characterized just a bit more, I might care about them. I want to care about them. Make me shed a tear. You could touch upon their past, their present, there are many ways. Reveal to me a quirky detail or two, along the way, of their life. Once you have done that, you can launch into the dramatic exposition.
If you're really very skilled, you can do both at the same time: launch yourself immediately into the dramatic exposition, and at the same time give information on your character. This is somewhat more difficult, in my opinion, because you have to fuse story and backstory. If you succeed, however, everything appears much more organic.
Are you following me so far? The key to a good sad story is the reader creating strong bonds with the characters. Experiment in ways to achieve that.
Now, the second thing I'd like to talk about is dialogue. Your characters, to me, don't exactly sound real. It seems to me Rebecca is just saying too many things, too fast. It's as if the narrator is talking. There are two really fast, really easy ways to make dialogue more realistic. Number one is: remember the people talking are human beings, with defined personalities. Every human being talks differently. Once you establish Rebecca's personality, try reading your dialogue out loud. Think: would Rebecca say this? If yes, great. If no, delete. The second, fallback method, is to read the dialogue and ask yourself: would a human being say this? In many places, your dialogue seems unnatural. It's probably your punctuation -- lack of commas in the right places, use of them in the wrong -- and the fact Rebecca never uses abbreviations. I've never met a person that talks without using abbreviations.
It's little things, see, but they all count towards a solid character. This story has potential, and if you work on the two things I suggested, it'll definitely shine. Hope this helped
-Ita
WARNING: I might sound rude below. Please know that I don't mean it! I'm a very technically analytic person so I don't go so much into the story as the work itself (if that makes sense).
This story has some strong potential but there is quite a bit taking away from it. I love the premise and from what I was able to get through before I started to skim more than read, the characters have a good presence (that might not seem like much, but a lot of stories have great plot and cardboard characters and I prefer those like your where both are strong even if a bit smothering). I know that this is a rough draft, but I'm still looking at it as I would any other story because that's how you make it better. So let's look at some of the things I personally think need worked on.
Formatting is big issue. You have these humongous paragraphs that are, quite frankly, terrifying to look at and, even worse, to read. If you stop reading for a second there then it's really easy to lose your place and have to go back through and reread a lot just to continue the story. Also, it gets a bit difficult to keep track of which line your on anyways. It needs to be broken up more or else the story will begin to drag. New thought/idea/subject/speaker, new paragraph.
On the same front, dialogue is an issue. When a new character speaks, you create a new paragraph unless there is an important reason not to (Maybe paraphrasing or something but in quotes. That works.) so that the reader more clearly knows that, yes, someone different is speaking even without dialogue tags. Also, you lack dialogue tags like 'she said quietly/with a shaky voice/etc.' which add character to the dialogue and emotional depth to the character. I mean, actions are nice and all but there aren't the little fidgets ('he winced', 'his finger tapped quickly') to replace those he-said style tags. Help the reader to connect with them. The dialogue clearly presents itself nicely but at times it feels a bit stiff. Read it aloud to yourself and ask if, formal or informal it doesn't matter, the words sound like someone would say.
Be weary of wordiness (sorry, I'm a hypocrite). That entire paragraph that starts out with Charlie at the window is.. intense. Things like physical description can be spread out and described through action ('he flipped his dark brown hair from his eyes before he spoke...') instead of summary. To keep the story progressing, think of what needs to be described through summary. If it's not that important to the story, summarize or make a side-note of it (definitely not always, just as a general rule) because it doesn't push the story forward. Also, if that's the case, it doesn't need a lot of space dedicated in the story/chapter that would be better taken up by scene and interaction. Zoom in through that summary of Charlie and into the scene faster. Don't linger so much on the imagery of the wings as you do (despite how nice it might sound, that was the most unnecessary part of the story -- unless it means something in the long run, but still...). Also, some dialogue isn't needed. Look at it and ask yourself if it really matter that we know what exactly Becky said or if it can be summarized at all to move the story on.
Again, sorry if I sound rude, but I like to help people so that your writing as whole becomes stronger and long, arduous things like this review (of sorts). I'd like to highlight that you aren't really doing anything wrong other than a few grammar and technical error I mentioned earlier. This is a great story.
Hope this helps!
Thank you for all of the advice! I don't find it rude at all, it was very helpful and i will definitely work on it. I gave up separating it into paragraphs so I could get the ideas on the page. I will it more clear and less intense when i make it a bit more concise. I appreciate you reading this story and i hope I can make it better. Thank you so much!
I really like this! I think you should continue it!
Thank you! I will start on the next part.
This is as far as I have gotten with this idea. Let me know if it is something I should continue. Thanks!