Young Writers Society

First off, please forgive me if it's a mess. I don't have all my thoughts together, and I'm tired. 

I completely changed Chapter 1/prologue. This time it's told through Gunther's perspective. Please tell me your opinion on the tone of the piece (Gunther is a gentle, soft-spoken person, and I need to make sure that this piece reflects it). Also, please tell me if you would be drawn in by this.  If you have read my original Chapter 1, then please give your input on which you like better. Thank you! 

In the September of my last year of school, I met----

Please forgive the mistakes.

Just a few Septembers ago, I dropped a book

I'm a mess, I'm tired. My thoughts have been stolen by the story she just gave me.

One day in the early autumn, I came home and

It's not so simple to begin such a story.

When I was eighteen, I pricked my finger on a thorn. A curtain of moss was sweeping above my head, so I plucked a few of the grey threads and pressed them to the cut to ease the flow of blood. The wound still stung, and the blood was crying out. I sucked on my finger as I walked down East Hull. The houses ribboning about the road were crinkled and chipped and doused in aging splendor. In my loneliness, I thought about them, for people have lived and died in them, which makes them a great thing to think about.

I went past the playground into the Fountain of Youth to take a shortcut. Really, the Fountain of Youth is the Colonial Park Cemetery, but barely anybody buried in the patch of land has surpassed the age of forty, and all their bodies are trapped in their youth forever and ever and ever, so it makes more sense to call it the Fountain of Youth. I know somebody who doesn’t like to pass through the cemetery.

I checked my wound. The puncture marks had faded into my hands, and the blood was but a remnant of past pain.

I walked past the statue of Oglethorpe in Chippewa Square, and wove my way up Bull Street, saying hello to the Mrs.’s and Mr.’s smoking or sipping tea or coming home from Belford’s and all of the other occupations that people take up throughout the day on a Saturday, and found myself on Liberty, and turned left.

The front door to Asgard is the color of a thrasher’s plumage, and woven with woodwork of flowers and dragons and traditional Finnish designs. I remember asking her if our door was how she had always imagined the way to heaven. She had asked me what I meant, and I reminded her that Asgard is the Norse heaven. She blinked.

I pulled open the door to Asgard. A girl was standing with my mother at the very front, and she locked her eyes on me. And, with those eyes upon me, I knew that my scratch on my finger was nothing at all, for she would teach me the things about thorns.

(Insert fancy bullet point) Thorns hurt.

(Insert fancy bullet point) Thorns draw blood. Blood stains clothes.

(Insert fancy bullet point) Thorns grow scars. Scars linger.

(Insert fancy bullet point) Thorns let everybody know where you have been and what you have done.

(Insert fancy bullet point) Thorns never let you forget the briar patch.

And one very, very important thing about moss.

(Insert different fancy bullet point) Moss has no thorns, but it never lets you forget the tree.