Needles and Roses - Chap. 7

I really like this chapter. I enjoy how Rachel has come from this timid logical little mouse of a person and now suddenly she is impulsive and strong and emotional. But she still slips back into her previous self which makes it interesting. Your characters and plot are very well developed. Previously I had said that I didn't like the present tense you were using, but the more I read the less and less it bugs me, so bravo on that.

Your descriptions of settings and people seem to have gotten more vivid as Rachel's senses have improved, but something I have noticed is that you focus on foul smells and it seems the foulest smell you can come up with is urine. I would like for you to really explore this new keen sense. The acrid scent of sweat, sharp bitter smell of bile, rotten food, coppery blood, animal and human refuse. But if there are bad smells there are has to be good smells. You spoke of the heavy perfume of roses in an earlier chapter. What about the smell of meat roasting, fresh-baked bread, other flower scents, how it smells after a rain shower. You could even do nuetral like the earthy scent of dirt..Some people like that smell and some don't. I just want more smells than just urine, sweat, and roses.

One redundancy that I have noticed is the phrase "tears smarting in my eyes". I think you have used it several times in different chapters. Tears stung my eyes, tears burning my eyes, Tears pricking my eyes like little needles...just change it up a bit.

One other thing I noticed that I think someone else caught was the whole coat incident.
You wrote:

As I do so I spot the coat folded neatly in one of the corners of the shack.

I almost laugh when I notice that I’m still wearing Mrs. Nathanial’s coat.

My eyelashes are stuck together. [So what. My eyelashes are always stuck together but I have no trouble with that. I think you mean eyelids, dear. And even then, that doesn't quite make sense because the image you're looking for is that of your eyelids stuck to your upper cheeks...] Fighting to open them, I gradually realize that they are covered with crust. [Hmmm. A little awkward too. I know what you mean by this but even so, it's a little strange. Maybe 'I gradually realise they are crusted shut, layers of sticky discharge holding them closed.'] I lift my hand to wipe it away—and raise it from my side so fast I slap myself in the face. I whimper.

“What is it?” the voice asks. [Is this said in a gentle tone or an irritated, impatient tone?] I somehow know that voice. The memory teases and tugs at me.

“Where am I?” I croak. My throat aches, as if I’ve just recovered from an illness. It’s dry, and it hurts to talk.

He holds up a jug, and gives it to me. I [s]stuggle[/s] struggle to lift my head up, so I can drink the water correctly. [This sounds a little odd. I can see what you're saying but there isn't really a correct way to drink water and it's the last thing a thirsty person considers. When there's water and you're thirsty, more often than not you'd knock the cup over trying to get at it. That's why another person often has to hold it for you when you're ill.] He doesn’t offer assistance. The water spills onto my chin, and I blush. He takes the jug back.

Slightly refreshed, I’m becoming more alert now, and I don’t answer or acknowledge him. I keep blinking, sure there is something wrong with my eyes. The world is different. It is more vibrant. My senses seem unnaturally keen and vivid. The world is sharper, yet curiously unreal. I can see through absurdly tiny cracks in the walls of the shack to the empty street around it—but that can’t be right. I can sense every movement of every creature close to me. A mouse, I think, burrows underground. Its small claws work quickly. Through a tiny hole in the roof [Comma here.] I can see a bat at the top of the building that towers above us. [You've got some nice description here but at the same time, it's a little rushed. Describe her tilting her head to see these different things.]

“Who is that? Who’s your mother” I ask the man, feeling as if I should [s]rememeber[/s] remember but I can’t. He doesn’t answer. An old woman appears in front of me [Comma here.][color] seemingly out of nowhere. Startled, I recoil against the wall of the shack, and gasp again at the astute pain that shoots through me. Why am I so tender?

“Don’ you remember me?” the woman asks, her eyes [color=red][s]twinking[/s] twinkling in a way that is, again, familiar.

The memories, in bits and pieces, come back in a rush. The fortune. There are things in London. Racing through the streets. Laughter will die. Losing myself in those strange [Comma here.] dark eyes. Giving the old woman a strand of my hair.

“You!” I shout at her, trying not to bite my lip from the throbbing in my body. “Get away from me! You put a spell on me, I know it!” The old woman looks amused. I [s]glace[/s] glance at her beautiful son, and he appears simply stoic.

“An’ why would I pu’ a spell on you?” she asks calmly. I clutch my knees to myself, rocking back and forth. The sharp pains continue to shoot through me, and [s]forces[/s] force me to stop the swaying motions.

“Why am I here?” I try to demand, but moaning the words out instead. [A little awkward. Maybe '...but the words come out in a low, yet still alluring, moan.'] “Why do I feel so odd? I need to go to work!” As soon as the words leave my mouth I remember. I don’t have a job anymore. Everything comes back to [s]my memory[/s] me in slow, crushing waves. The theft of the coat. The creature and the red-haired girl. [This would be more dramatic as 'The theft of the coat; the creature; the red haired girl...' etc.] Giving my consent for that thing to feast on my blood. Someone—him—rescuing me. Him carrying me, the wind rushing through my hair, cutting me… I quickly glance at my right palm, where he [s]had[/s] sliced my skin with the knife. It has healed, and there is no trace of the wound. It’s completely unscarred. How is that possible? I faintly remember it being quite a deep cut. I turn to look at the silent figure beside me.

“Tell me,” I order desperately. “What has happened to me?” I no longer feel like Rachel Baldwin. I feel like a stranger to myself. It frightens me. There is darkness in my mind and heart. A horrible fear strikes me that it may be in my soul. Am I being punished for stealing the coat? Has God condemned me to spend the rest of eternity in Hell?

The old woman seats herself on the floor, distracting me from my despair. “Very well,” she says with a near-toothless smile. I think she means it to be calming, but I am only repulsed. I look away, not wanting to gaze at her ancient, withered face anymore. As I do so [Comma here.] I spot the coat folded neatly in one of the corners of the shack. The sight of it saddens and shames me.

“My son ’ere is one o’ the younges’ no’ includin’ you,” she begins. “He is [s]oonly[/s] only eigh’y.”

“I may have done some dim-witted things,” I say coldly, standing so quickly that I am up before I comprehend it. I feel oddly tall, and then the ache in my veins and the proximity of the ceiling [s]brings[/s] bring me back to myself. “But I am not a complete idiot,” I finish shakily, and go and pick up the coat. Decisively, I move to the door, my movements so fluid and swift that I am a blur to myself. I think that I may truly be going mad.

As I start to leave the shack, I feel his hand gripping my upper arm. How did he move from the floor to my side so fast [s]without me realizing it[/s]?

“Who are the Necaz?” [He's just referred to the Necaz as an it so she shouldn't presume there are more than one. I'd suggest changing this to 'Who is the Necaz?' I ask, not bothering to ask what he meant about my soul. I’m past trying to understand. I quickly close my eyes and open them again, wondering if this is a nightmare and if I will wake up soon.

I shut down my emotions and allow my strange other side to take over. It knows where to go. I can hear Sudeep’s even breathing behind me, getting closer with every step. We are flying at a speed I never thought possible. Miraculously up ahead, I spot the distant glow of the street. I draw breath to cry for help, scream, anything, but at the same moment his hands touch my arms, [s]grips[/s] grip them for an instant, then darts around me and seizes my throat with brutal strength.

Sudeep is seething. From the corner of my eye [Comma here.] I see him turning his back and diving into the alley. Fine, die. I hear him say. I hope you suffer.

I almost laugh when I notice that I’m still wearing Mrs. Nathanial’s coat. [But it was on the floor not so long ago? When did she put it on?] “It’s ruined,” I note dryly.

Ok I have a new favorite writer I read all your stories today.
When will there be more.

*EDITED*

Well, finally, after a very, very long delay, I wrote the critique. I mean, the chapter was read almost as soon as it was out, but finals were killing me, and then after that excuse was no longer able to function, it turned out Esme's a very, very lazy person ^_^

Did I ever say that I adore your writing? I probably did, a million times, even, but really, who cares?

*Glee*

I knew it was just the action you needed work on.

This was, once more, amazing. I was surprised when I found myself on the last page, and it’s late, so that’s even more amazing!

My only problem is the lack of description. Set us the scene, and then let the actions take place. When she walks into the bar, let us see it as she does. Then, when we have the fast paced dialogue, you can just inject tiny little notes on the setting.

Also, the road needs to be described more. It’s all about atmosphere – you gotta build it. Otherwise you use have pretty words. You won’t make my heart pound.

PM me for anything, as usual.

~JFW1415