"Sheila, Sheila, Sheila," my uncle's raspy voice said, stroking my wisps of blonde hair.
"Sheila, Sheila, Sheila," my aunt repeated back.
I looked up at them, tears in my eyes. To think that I would never be able to see them again. I lay upon a bed of soft grass, blood trickling from my stomache.
"Sheila, Sheila, Sheila," my uncle smiled softly, pulling out a flower from the ground and putting it behind my ear.
The soft voices who spoke my name made me feel at ease. Dying wasn't so easy. Life hadn't been easier. No anger flashed in my eyes, it wasn't me to think of violence. I thought of the face of the poor boy who had been forced to throw the knife. He could've died for me, but he only thought of himself. Besides, he had a family.
"Shhh, Shh, Sheila, don't cry, you'll be fine," my aunt kissed my forehead, the crusted lips brushing against it.
I let out a sob. It was hard, and I knew it. This felt better knowing that I would meet Father and Mother and Richard and Suzanne soon. They were family. I thought with tears about running bare-footed across the rocky path to the screams. The vivid picture flashed before me. Father getting stabbed while Mother hurried Richard and Suzanne into the trapdoor. As the teenagers closed it, I had heard the piercing shriek. And then a shot. Mother had died.
I ran straight to the killer, furious with vengeance and grabbed his knife, poised to strike.
Father had reached out, "Sheila, Sheila, Sheila,"
I felt the burning tears trickle on my dirty face. I stabbed the man. His yell shocked me, and I stepped back, dazed. I looked down to see my Father still reaching out.
"I love you, Sha Sha, I do," he whispered. He breathed his last.
I had ran towards the trapdoor before hearing shrieks and screams. Opening it, I found Richard and Suzanne, climbing as fast as they could. Suzanne grabbed my hand, rushing me to Uncle and Aunt's, while Richard started fighting with one of the enemy. As we ran across into the forest, I heard him cry out.
"ARGHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!" and I heard a shot. I looked back in time to see the broad figure of my brother fall.
Suzanne pulled me up so I rode on her, and we soon entered into a log cabin.
"Sheila, Sheila, Sheila," I heard the heavens speak to me, singing my name, as if it was a blessing.
Another scene flashed by me, vivid as my Uncle's face.
"Sentenced for murdering," the judge said, slamming his hand down to use his other to point at me.
"Not murder, sir, she avenged her father and mother and brother!" Suzanne cried, her long, yellow braids swinging after her.
"You, too, for supporting her," the judge replied, as the two soldiers grabbed us.
I saw Susie struggle to free herself, and she kicked her guard, reaching for my hand.
"Sheila!" she cried, before feeling the cold metal against her head. Her eyes grew wide when the man shot. She dropped dead, reaching for me, "Sheila,"
"Auntie?" I spoke, forcing the energy out of me.
"Yes, yes, my dear Sheila?" she asked, stroking away my hair.
"W-What should be my last words? Father.. and Mother.. theirs was my name," I grunted, feeling the pain grow deeper and deeper. All of me ached.
"Sheila, Sheila, Sheila, I love you so, but that is only your choice," Auntie replied, squeezing my hand.
I felt myself give a last breath, and I spoke, "Sheila,"
Suddenly I saw myself shooting up, up, up! Light surrounded me at every side, and I felt myself twirling around. I heard voices. Many voices. All around me.
"She's dead, leave her be,"
"Sheila, NOT HER!"
"Live a life, Love a life"
"To let her live again..."
I felt something tug at my leg, and I used my energy to look down. A pale hand grasped my ankle, pulling me back into black nothingness. I heard one voice, unlike any other, and somehow, I knew whose voice it was.
"I would grant you a wish, and it shall be anything you want," it said.
I shuddered, it was cold, but it was hot. I wanted to give one answer, but there was the possibility of another.
"I wish to live again," I heard myself say.
"Very well," the voice replied, and I felt myself pushed upwards.
I saw bright lights, and I heard many more voices speaking. I felt sensational, but then I felt my body grow weaker and weaker. I had no more energy, the life had been sucked out of me. However, like a flame in the dark, a match was struck. I pushed more wood into the fire, and felt the energy grow inside me.
Back into the world, I heaved myself up.
"Wonderful," I heard someone say.
I looked up to see a doctor smiling down at me.
"I'll name her Sheila," I heard another voice say, except this one was more comforting.
I tried to speak, but all that came out was a cry.
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139,463 Literary Works • 672,569 Reviews
KLAJFL;AKSJDASIDJF OMG THIS IS SUCH AN AWESOME STORY! ummm what should I write???? I think you should make this into a novel then publish it and have the publisher peoplez fight over you then kill you in the process then you can revive and make this your auto bio thing. I dunno I am just bored, THIS IS KATNGO73'S FRIEND.
MUAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.
-CHICKENBOOGERS.
You broke character in plenty of places. First person requires that the writer doesn't use words that couldn't have possibly come from the character, and you violated this rule quite early in the story, particularly in this line -
Say I was dying. I certainly wouln't think about a ballet, and neither would I be aware I wasn't thinking of a ballet. Similarly, if it truly isn't in her nature to think of violence, then she shouldn't be aware of the absence of violence from her thoughts. It simply is - it's the status quo; is there anything that makes you aware of it?
There are also several inconsistencies in the story. If she hadn't been one for violence then why, pray tell, did she avenge her parents' killer? I thought violence never occurred to her?
Inconsistencies, no matter how small, will lead to the unraveling of the story. Be sure to check for them while you edit the story. I wish, though, that was the only inconsistency.
You first gave the impression she was dying on a field after a boy threw a knife at her. Interesting, but vague. However, you backtrack on this later on, when you say the judge sentenced her to death and had her sister shot at point blank range as well. Since the setting is vague, I won't argue about how unbelievable it is for an execution sentence to be carried out that quickly - instead, I'll ask why a boy threw a knife at her but her sister was shot in the courtroom.
Any explanations? Maybe you changed your mind halfway through the story and forgot to change the beginning?
Aside from that, there isn't enough emotion here to make me feel as if I'm really reading a first person POV story. The first person POV must make the reader feel connected to the main character - it's strength lies primarily in the way the reader will become heavily invested in the narrator. A short story like this, with little showing and a lot of telling, plus a distinct lack of thoughts from the main character, makes me feel indifferent towards the narrator.
So what if her parents died? I didn't particularly feel anything. You'll have to try harder.
The reason deaths are so tragic is because we know the person who died, or at least, feel as if we knew them. We see the effects rippling through the community, and so the death becomes a tragedy. But if I tell you a homeless man in India just died, would you particularly care enough to cry? No. You don't know him, what he was like, and neither does his death affect you because this doesn't affect your world at all. When any one of these three are missing, the impact of a character's death is much weaker than it could be.
Think of the world as one great story - the greatest story of all time. Billions of characters whose lives will intertwine with each other at one point or another. This would make it easier to make a character who seems truly alive. Right now, your narrator seems flat - her personality hardly shows throughout the narrative.
If you were talking about one of your experiences, wouldn't your biases color every word you say? As much as we'd all like to believe we're fair people, the truth is our memory is unreliable, often twisting events to make it seem as if we were the star of the event, the hero, if you will. Our memories will do all they can to distort what we remember so we aren't the villains in our life experiences.
Similarly, your characters' biases will show through her words, and the events that happened. She would probably attempt to justify leaving behind her brother and being unable to overpower her parents' assailants. This should help paint her as a more vivid character and allow the reader to know her better and thus be more invested in her when she dies.
Also, try to avoid the repetition of Sheila. It was interesting at first. Afterwards, it got annoying. Turn it down a notch. Repetition can be a good way of building expectations and taming the reader so he thinks the way you want him to, but as with most things, too much of it will kill a story.