This piece is from a novella I wrote when I was eleven. I called it: "The untold aftermaths." It was a series of short stories, five in all, and each of them focused on a different person. One dealt with growing up, the other dealt with succumbing to pain. There was one on happiness, one on darkness, and one on patriotism and difficult times. Of all of them, this was the first one I wrote and completed. It has now been revised for the Final Challenge of the Hunger Games. 2370 words.
~Pompadour
~*~
"We live in a land of stone and ice where people do not wish on stars," she sang, her voice barely above a whisper but as clear and cold as an iceberg. The frigid air snapped at her skin and the mist rose around her gradually, like a lisping hand that covered her throat and made it hard for her to breathe. She gasped, the lack of oxygen suffocating her; stars danced like jet-black fireworks before her eyes.
You're dying, Clare, she thought to herself. Dying.
"Good." She wrapped her arms around herself tightly. "There's nothing left to live for anyway."
The world around her was fading into a cloudy abyss and Clare could barely see the ground as she walked, tripping and sliding over her own two feet. She didn't know of her destination; she didn't know what she was doing, or why she was dragging her feet along the dead moorlands. It was a mindless, unconscious effort, and all she was aware of was the fact that she had to run away. There was nothing left for her save a broken home and a shattered future. She wondered, vaguely, how everything had changed so fast. A few months ago, she would never have accepted the thought of dying. Death frightened her, just as humanity is frightened of that which it has never experienced.
Humanity is cruel, Clare thought, eyes glinting with vehemence. Humanity is vicious. Humanity is rapacious and selfish and--
It was so cold.
It's never been this cold before.
Her limbs were so numb, she felt as if her body didn't belong to her anymore.
Clare's teeth chattered as she sank to the ground, rubbing at her sides in a futile effort to keep herself warm. The long, dead grass tickled at her knees and the mist laughed at her. Everything was mocking her, Clare felt. If she sighed, the moor would catch her laments and pin them to her hair; she could do no more than struggle against them. It was like the world was constantly reminding her of her helplessness. Clare gritted her teeth, biting down on her lower lip until she could taste the blood. She placed her hand against her breast. Her heart thrummed against her ribs like a gong, clattering and quaking, but her veins felt as if they had clogged up--erythrocytes jammed up against corpuscles, a constant battle of life and death.
Give in already! Clare's mind screamed at her. Do you really think anyone would care if you died?
Clare sobbed, tears bubbling down her skin like overflowing geysers. They burned against her flesh, tearing at her like knives.
"No one cares," Clare managed to say through her tears. "No one's ever given a damn." Her teeth clenched, stark white against her pale skin. The energy was draining out of her quickly, and though the flickering flame of life was dying out, she could feel a strange, eerie anger rising up past her lungs and her throat. Clare dug her nails into the dirt; pulling at a blade of yellowing grass, she yelled into the distance. She knew there was no one to hear her here, that no one could interfere with her in this void, and yelling was just a waste of energy that would reel her into the next world quicker. But she didn't care anymore. Hell, she just--didn't--care.
"I am not afraid to die!" she screamed into the distance, breathing heavily despite the mist. "The world doesn't mean anything to me anymore!"
It never has, the voices agreed.
Clare sucked in her breath--her throat felt so dry--and started counting down the time she had left. Half an hour at the most, she thought, as the cold sucked at the little strength her slight body possessed. Time was such a funny concept, she couldn't help thinking. It was strange how she had only supposed six months ago that she would have wads of it: time to throw around, to spin into the air, to curtsy to and laugh at.
Just goes to show that time isn't a game.
She had never felt so young before. These last few weeks had aged her in a way she had never thought was possible. She was thirteen, but she felt twice as old as that.
But now?
She smiled--insane it seemed just then, but she knew she needed that smile. So she smiled to herself, letting the deathly silence blow through her wisp of a body. She twisted a strand of hair around her fingers: hair streaked with grey. It was the same colour as the mist hanging around her and stood out boldly against her light hair. Hair that had once been the colour of hay.
"Just like your mother," her father had said. That was when he was alive.
Why did that seem so long ago? The questions pounded at Clare, and the pain streaked through her like a fork of lightning. A blaze of incomprehension and frustration, but she let it flow free.
Free, she thought.
Now I am free.
But she knew she wasn't. Not yet anyway. The memories pierced her soul, jabbing at her like a knife, tearing through her. She gasped again, drawing in sharp, harrowing breaths.
Don't come back, she thought, her desperation escalating to shaky heights, Let me go.
You've torn me enough already.
She wished the tears would come again--the hot, bubbling tears to combat the decay, to warm her up and remind her that she was still here. Death was her exodus andthe memories didn't matter any more.
The only problem was ... she couldn't fight the memories away.
"Memories are glass, ornate as crystal," her father had said to her, the night before he left forever.
"Don't fight memories," he used to say.
Don't fight, thought Clare, struggling with herself. She closed her eyes, letting her breath whisk past her lips. She could see everything so clearly: her father's smile, brown eyes warm and compassionate; the green room where they used to paint together, moulding reality and imagination into one; the easel perched against the wall, and the sound of paintbrushes scraping against canvas. A man was sitting on an old, battered stool, hair flopping over his eyes. He smiled at Clare, and took her pale hand in his. Together, they moved across the canvas, painting with delicate, swift strokes.
"Glass looks transparent, so fragile,' he said quietly, as they painted. 'The truth is, glass, when cut, can nip at you real hard. It can pierce you open and cause a great deal of pain. There's more beyond the surface, much more. And that," his eyes had sparkled, shining like they always did when he spoke to Clare, his only daughter, " is what makes a memory."
Clare smiled through her tears, her face no longer wearing the glazed plastic look it had become accustomed to when she had lived with her mother. It was the first time she had smiled in a long time, and today her cheek muscles ached, an ache unlike heartbreak; it was mellow and sweet. It was an ache she missed having. And as her body drained of life, she wished she could have one wish, one chance to change things. Ever since Father had died, her mother had started drinking. She drank so much she lost her mind. It was a life of straitjackets, medicine and blank walls. Hours of nothingness. Days of ruthless anger, and months of insanity.
Clare remembered a time when her mother had loved her, back when she hadn't fallen into a whirlpool of her own depression and grievances. Back when life had meaning.
Life without meaning is no life at all, whispered the voices.
Clare gulped down the sadness, and blinked away the tears. She remembered how once her own mind had harnessed the flowery wonder that dreams pose to the young and the new. It was wonder what she could do with her hands, how she could take a stick and a bit of ink and sketch the roosters on the fence, or take her father's old, dried-up water-colours and paint the sunsets in all their glory. Her father had told her she could be an artist when she grew up. The dream--the beautiful incense-filled desire thudded deep in her heart. She would sit at her window for hours at a time, dreaming of becoming A Name. Someone the world would know and respect. Not just a scrawny little girl who was "nifty with her fingers," but someone who really mattered--who was of significance in the world. She remembered her father's strong, proud gaze when she came home from school one day, beaming, a trophy clutched tightly in her hands.
Her first triumph.
"You'll be an artist someday, Clare," daddy had told her. "You'll be a Something all right. And when I'm old and withered, I'll always remember how proud I am. How proud I am of you."
But there was no "being proud" anymore, Clare thought, sadly. Everything she had once known and the dreams she had once cherished and dreamed about--they were gone. Nothing but a charred ruin of smouldering ash, mocking her about 'what could have been'. Her world was one of darkness, denial and decay. It was dead.
She was dead.
Once, just once, she had fooled herself quite well. She thought the world was a beautiful place, full of rhythm and song. It still was, in some places. It had been.
War changes everything. War changes people.
She remembered that terrible day when her father had been whisked off in that rusty, dumpy green army truck, telling Clare he'd be home soon, to take care of her mother ... not to worry.
"Whenever you feel like remembering me," he had said. "Just go up to our lake, and remember how we used to fish trout there, the talks we had. Words never fade, you know. They never die. They dissolve in the air, echoes of the past. But they're there." He lifted her chin as she tried not to cry, and buried her in a hug. As he waved goodbye, he yelled to her, "Remember! I'll be there too, Clare! I'll always be there!"
Three months later, the Mildew household had received a telegram. Clare's father was dead.
Clare was never the same. But through her grief and despair, she managed to stay strong. It was her mother who changed, both inside and out. The damage was irreversible. She was no longer Clare's mother.
She just ... was.
She remembered her mother's honey-blond hair, how she used to smile, her mouth curling upwards so inconspicuously and that tiny dimple reminding her of memories indented in steel. Steel. An element that was both strong and unbreakable.
Or at least, it had been once.
Just last night, her mother had one of her "fits." Clare always thought of those spurs of emotions, uncontrolled emotions as "fits," though she knew in her heart that they were much worse, matchless in agony and underived in suppressed pain. It was pain suppressed that dealt the hardest blows to Clare's heart. But she knew she couldn't deal with it anymore. The memory was so vivid, so real. She could still feel the stinging blows from when her mother had whipped her across the face, hit her again and again until the blood came.
"Who are you?!" her mother had yelled, a look of unexplained fury in her eyes, singed with utter lunacy as she stood, towering, over her daughter.
"Clare!" her daughter gasped, eyes and her heart filled with desperation, too tired to yell, too tired to resist the blows.
"I have no daughter!" her mother screamed. And the hand came down again, making contact with Clare's pallid cheek.
I can't do this anymore, Clare thought.
She reached for her mother's hand, as another slap plummeted towards her, stopping her in mid-action. Her mother was so shocked, her mouth fell open in surprise. She looked at Clare: a breathless, sweaty, panting Clare, slumped up against the wall. Her face was streaked with blood.
"Who are you?" she asked again, more confusedly this time.
That sealed it. Clare's heart broke faster than she had ever dreamed it could. She had always known her mother would drown in her insanity one day, but she had never realized that that "someday" would be so hard to deal with. So she didn't answer her mother's question. She didn't cry. She just heaved herself up and limped to the door. Leaning against it, Clare met her mother's eyes one last time.
"I don't know anymore," she whispered. Her eyes were filled with sadness and a single tear dripped to the ground before Clare wrenched the door open and disappeared into the gloom. The last thing she heard as she leaned her head against the oak were her mother's screams.
Now, slumped in the middle of the moorland mists, Clare fought the anger building up inside of her. She had tried to convince herself that everything would be okay and this was just another of her mother's "fits." She tried to convince herself that she would live and that everything would be alright. Yet deep down, in her bushel of sorrow, Clare knew that she was wrong. Her mother was past help. There was nothing worth living for anymore. She had no dreams, no ambitions, no one to care for, no one who cared for her. Maybe there had been dreams once, dreams of a home in the village and the laughter of children ... They hung around her, in streams of decay. The mist was haunting her, with those dreams that were never meant to be. Maybe if she reached out one more time--maybe ... maybe--
Her ghostly hand trembled as she lifted it up against the void; her entire figure shuddered. Her fair hair were cobwebby streams against her snowy face, and the last bit of life drained out of her as quickly as a candle being blown out. As she lay there, dying, she smiled, as though her dreams could come true in another life. It wasn't cold anymore. It would never be cold again. She remembered the warmth of her mother's smile, her mother who had died long ago and had been replaced by this ghost of who she had been. She remembered her father and held on to his hand ... tight ... tight ...
And Clare was no more.
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139,354 Literary Works • 672,540 Reviews
It's about time, isn't it?
Ready for my The Big Review review?
Uh, I'll just try to dive in to it, starting with some nitpick-y stuff.
Just a quick little thing, I noticed quite a few semicolons throughout the work, like this one. Some of them were alright, but I recommend against using a lot, because it seems like flaunting "what you can do" and sometimes it's incorrectly done. Like here. I don't see how stars dancing in her eyes and suffocating are closely related...?
Also, I feel like this particular spot is just restating the obvious -- it's unnecessary. Common sense tells us that lack of oxygen suffocates people, so you can slash that part out. (More on word slashing later) and it's over all feels dramatized. How did she suddenly start suffocating? Either it wasn't made clear enough what started 'suffocating her' (Which she quickly recovered from later, might I add >.>) or it was too dramatic here, making a big deal out of something unnecessary.
Speaking of irrelevant slashing, I'm going to try and help out with word slashing in general, and while in first drafts of anything, it's not that important, but in editing it really helps.
So, I pull this quote out because it is a little awkwardly worded the way it is now, especially because it's really wordy to say "she had to run away". The past participle used here didn't help much with it. Thus, condensing it and "slashing words" would really help in this sense to help making it clearer what you were trying to say. (And even stylistic things like the words "the fact that" or "she was only aware" etc. -- if that makes sense.)
Here is another good spot to point out word slashing. The big thing that feels like it has to go, because it's unnecessary, is vaguely. Mostly, because I don't really see how you can 'vaguely' wonder about something, because you either do or you don't and it's something else that takes away from the meaning. But aside from that, phrases like "she wondered" or "she noticed" or "she felt" (in the right circumstances, which you'll know) can often be slashed just for the phrase itself. For instance, here, instead of adding "She wondered..." just say the question itself and add it to match the rest of the inner dialogue.
I know I've talked a lot about extraneous descriptions and words and such, but similes are something that I feel like are harder to use effectively, so I'll point it out anyway. Use the advice how you wish. With similes, I feel like they're used to give another sense to answer the question "how?" from an image that isn't developed well enough already and it needs it. So the second simile "works" in that sense, as just saying "tearing at her" can feel unsatisfying. However, the first one feels like too much, especially because you've given us such a specific image already, the simile does not add anything and is thus left slightly irrelevant.
With that out of the way, I must note that the beginning felt rather slow for me. Perhaps it was my
fearstruggle to begin this review, but I didn't get anything out of the first part of it and felt really disconnected, like I was a random bystander watching Clare dying. It didn't feel like I was someone who was seeing her story and was supposed to crumble beside her and will her to pick herself up -- even if later I got that feeling. I wasn't instantly sucked in and had to push on to get into it.Does she know where she is in the beginning? It seems like she's exploring, but we don't know where she is and if she knows where she is, even though the way she talks, like "never being this cold". However, it's not where she normally is, right? I'm left to assumptions and I'm a little confused.
^ Those are my direct notes that I took while reading the story, so I recommend clearing up some of the questions associated with where she is at this exact moment. Has she been here before? Where is it relative to her home? Is it close/far? Can she not return even if she wanted to? These details to set the scene will help us understand how drastic it really is, even partner with her feelings of helplessness and how she is doomed, even if she decides to go back.
Halfway through, I feel like I'm reading a drama and I don't understand any of it. Everything is so vague, which is a nice things to help lead us along, but perhaps tease us with the information. Drop hints of what happened, not just that something happened. You start to do this as the story going on, but it feels too late. And even then, it's not really a 'hint' to entice us along. It's a warning before you drop the bomb so we're not startled. And while it's a nice transition, I feel it could be better played to lead us along with the treat of finding while keeping the interest with little crumbs. If that makes sense.
Sorry if that seemed scattered, but I just took notes. I have no ending critiques, because this was beautiful, Pomp.
I really loved the emotion that was so hard grained into the entire story to have us connect with her, and a life time of stories was exquisitely placed in there. I just felt heartbroken at the end when we finally saw the end of Clare, even after all she went through.
Anyway, hope I helped some~ Best of luck to you and Keep on Writing,
~Wolfe
Hey, Pomp! A teammate here to deliver a RD review from Rugido Sol!
I just have to say...wow. This is really good. Multiple lines gave me the chills (which I listed out below), and I had to stop reading for a moment to let it soak in, remind myself that I need to breathe, then continue on. It's been a while since I read a work that left me pretty darn impressed, and I actually don't have much to give for criticism!
Your writing style is phenomenal, and it's what really make this story stand out. You did a great job in balancing out the thoughts and emotions, and even used sensory details to accomplish this. Here are some of my favorite lines:
Very powerful! It make me cringe since I could feel a ghostly trace of the knife-slicing pain on my cheek.
Oh my gosh, this gave me the chills.
I loved the use of time personification.
Sucker-punched me a little. It's a short, sad, and powerful message.
Coming off with the quotation above, I've noticed that you've used that tactic a couple times. You know, the one where you say something short and meaningful, spread it out, then end it with an italicized punch. I've used this tactic myself, and reading your story, it is very successful if done right (which is was!). However, I think you may have used it one too many times. They're supposed to be silent creatures that sneak up on the reader, but since it was like bam, bam, bam, one after another, it became somewhat predictable. Instead, try using these sparingly. They'll deliver the message with more power, anyways.
If I had to think of a concept that you could imporve on, I suppose it would be organization. I made a quick five second outline of your story in my head, and it did seem all over the place. Try writing things chronologically (which is ironic since it is a flashback, but you know what I mean).
Moving on! Like I said before, this was a great story. But because it is a great story, I only have a few nitpicks (I know, groooaaann), so I thought it was worth mentioning. Besides, nitpicks can take the attention away from the reader (it did for me), so better to fix it up and keep the reader focused.
Although I understand the style you're trying to imitate, the colon is used incorrectly. Try using a—dash—instead.
This was one paragraph that took me away from the story...all because of the darn quotation symbol. I think you're trying to use these guys "" but instead there were some apostrophes. Just a whoopsie, I'm assuming.
Fragment. I know, I know, it's sometimes all about style, but I think this one was kinda iffy. There were a number of fragments, but most of them fit with the style. Solution? I think you should use these sparingly too.
The minor play on words here that I really loved, but there is "one day" and "someday." I actually didn't notice it until I was about to put it on the omg I love these phrases list, but then I was like, "Wait...the play of words are different. xD"
And that's it! Again, great job, and I'll keep tabs on your work since it's so fantabulous. Keep on writing!
~Carina
Hey there Pompadour!
It's about time I review some more things for you, seeing as you've written all these fabulous reviews for me ^.^ I am afraid this one is going to be a bit short. And that is simply because this was awesome. Really. Awesome. I've always known you write beautifully and have a great writing style. But through this short story you managed to gradually unlike her story and unravel it for us. You showed us her pain and sorrow in a way that made me want to go and comfort Clare myself. You showed us a father who died fighting, a mother who slowly went crazy and a daughter who broke in a short story alone. Now that is a lot of character development a couple novels I've read don't even reach
I could go on and on gushing but I am actually going to stop
building up your egogoing on and on and actually try and offer some feedback? It's very little though.One thing I wanted to be sure of, which I hoped to find and didn't, was why she was dying? I think she might've done this to herself, but then why would she need to confirm with herself she was dying when she does at the beginning by speaking to herself? Or did someone else do this to her? Or an accident? I just wanted to know why she was actually dying, seeing as this is what she is going through for the whole short story.
My last thing that I wanted to know more about was her surroundings. It's a minor thing, but I can clearly envision Clare walking along with only her memories to comfort her and the fact that she is dying, but I can't see where she is walking exactly. Maybe you should mention that she looks over her shoulder at her house behind her as she delves deeper into the woods or something. That way we know the problem with her mum not knowing her anymore happened recently and she is leaving, heading into the forest and away from her home. That makes it more clear to envision.
Aside from those two minor things, I really don't have anything more to say. This was too good. Keep up the awesome quality of writing ^.^
Deanie x
Thanks for the spiffing review! <3
Actually, there's a reason for the lack of description on setting. My chosen place was the Dartmoor moors and I read up on it quite a bit. Apparently, getting trapped on the moors in a mist is really dangerous, and people have even died from the cold. Sooo, that was why Clare died. XD Although I suppose I should have elaborated on it better.
Timmmy here for a review!
Tis kind of obvious that it's Timmy who is here, not some random person. Never random. That would be kind of strange. Anyway, before you interrupted, where was I? What was I doing?
Course my avatar says it all.
Oh yes, Duh. The review. *Peers over spectacles* Sadness. What can we do about that? *Reads to the end* Oh. Nothing.
This was a very neat story, really. Dory, each time your write a short story, no matter if its a revised story from when you were six or a new one you just came up with, you always have those special twists to them that just make them special.
You know how big of a fan I am of character development. Not just the development, but character thought. In this piece, you have it all in bounds. Lots of interior thought, not a lot of action--which I found to be really refreshing. Why have someone pound someone else on the head when they can be thinking? I mean, come on! Interior thought is just way cooler.
A few teeeensy nitpicks
You could really view this as more of a stylistic nitpick, but couldn't that be two sentences?
I understand what this first part is. Putting it in italics, and then telling the reader that its her thought.
And then you do it another time, using italics and saying "Clare thought". But.... if you look at the rest of the piece, all(most) of her interior thought that is in italics is separated from the piece. No description of her thought, just awesomeness by itself.
This was an excellent opportunity to use one of the five senses to describe the scene. What did the blood taste like? This part just zoomed! past, barely waiting for anything save to tell us some little bits.
Stylistic nitpick: Couldn't this sentence be the beginning of a new paragraph?
The two "was" installs slight redundancy. What about "had been" for the second "Was"?
Nitpick is pretty obvious there. "Andthe" should be "and the".
This sentence seemed really... bumpy? that word doesn't fit.
Am loving her father.
This is such a sad story. I almost don't know what to say, really. What can I say? That her mother needed help. That her father shouldn't have gone. That Clare shouldn't have given up. But what good would all those things be when Clare is gone. Given up. Her body and soul just gave up and decided to move on. That there wasn't any life worth living any longer.
And she was just. gone.
This is probably one of the best pieces you have ever written. You have this way of telling a story with info dumps all throughout, without making your reader feel like its an info-dump. Here, you had to tell your reader all this stuff. Without this information, I wouldn't have known anything. But you did it so well, molding the history into her father's speech and her past memories, that I didn't think of it as an info-dump until I was almost finished and thought about all I had learned about Clare. All that she had learned.
I wish I could be more helpful, but to be honest, it almost seems pointless reviewing your works when all I can find are the useless nitpicks that we all have. Nothing there of real consequence to help you out. But I still review, cuz that is what friends do, right?
Your writing is just too good. Best of luck in the challenge, even though it might already be over.
~Darth Timmyjake
Thanks for the review, Tim!
Welcome. Told you it would take a minute.