monodeamon 3

I am a bit confused. This is your third edit? Usually people post one chapter at a time, but you didn't seem to do that. As the work gets longer edit it so its one chapter at a time and make edits to the chapter pieces instead of reuploading the entirety as a new piece.

Anyway... let's start. It's going to be harsh, but I'll point out the major errors and give you help to go by at the end.

Edit: Your previous reviewers didn't exactly help you, all spouting 'its awesome' makes me feel like they were captivated by the metaphors and descriptions. Though they are quite good, they do nothing, but hide the many problems in the piece. This review may stun you...


Prologue

As far as I know, I am the only one of my kind left on this planet. All alone, and unwillingly compelled to a curse that nearly sucked the life out of me. I am bound to darkness. Because of this curse, I don’t see in color, only black and white. everything about me is black, my eyes, my lips, my hair, my wings, my clothing. Even my blood, black as night, everything except my skin. my skin is like a white stone, flawless, but cold and lifeless. I am such a disturbed creature, yet somehow, I have to love one of my own kind to break this awful curse. And not just any love, true love, where you want to spend the rest of your life with that one special someone.


(Cliched, short and doesn't give much of anything that can't be discussed in the first chapter. Don't use a prologue unless it is something that the reader must know and won't understand without knowing the backstory of something so complex that it won't be revealed well in the work itself or for a very long time.)

Chapter 1

It was a cold winter morning, and I was feeling especially lonely. I stepped out of my once beautiful, but now age crumbled home, onto the cold, frost dusted ground with my bare feet. the cold didn’t have much effect on me. I walked out into the emptiness, and scanned the white land. there was nothing in sight, just the flake sprinkled hills, and the small frozen pond beyond a clutter of bare trees. I looked up into the snow filled sky, bent me knees and pushed off with all force in my body. I pressed my black wings against the cold air, pushing myself higher and higher.


("age crumbled home" is too wordy. I'd use 'hovel.'
Too much is going on in this paragraph, you have the setting, I repetition and action all crammed into a space too small for it. Expand, fix the I issues and bring action to a separate paragraph.)


I love that nervous excitement of flying, feeling each air molecule glide against my skin as I forge on into the gray sky. I looked down at the fading world below me. the pond behind my house slowly dwindles behind the heavy snowfall. I faced the ground head first, twisting my body and tucking my wings close to my back as I fell into a nose dive.

(Air molecule, science and nitpicky types will hammer you for this. If you do not know what you are saying, don't say it. Air is a combination of mostly nitrogen, part oxygen and a lot of other gases. The molecular structure of breathable oxygen is two molecules, ozone is three (and it is toxic to the body). You also cannot typically feel that bombardment of individual molecules... just use 'wind'.

I repetition and still I don't know what is going on...)


My eyes watered as the air sliced across their soft, wet surface. I could barely see through the snowflakes falling into my face. soon I raised my wings, pulling me back, slowing me down. My sudden change in direction flung my hair into my face like a whip. it was such a familiar feeling. It felt like the sharp pain of my mothers words striking my ears. It stung but left no mark. she had been so cruel to me.

(Description is good, but you mess up tense with 'My eyes watered.' in a sentence that means nothing. Its just wordy and you overuse senses and poorly. Way too many metapohors in this paragraph. Remove all, but one and do something besides emotion and senses.)

My kind, the winged immortals, are proned to glitches. If during a mothers pregnancy, the child's body has difficulty with cell division, or growth, it will not effect them in the way it effects humans, It curses them. The child will be born with a curse that can only be broken, when and if that winged immortal finds true love. these cursed creatures among us are know as monodaemons, and I am one of them. At first, my parents suspected nothing, even though my wings were black. But when I was around two years old, my lips turned black, and a close family friend brought up the possibility of me being a monodeamon. My parents looked into it right away. they had me see a winged immortal doctor who did a monodeamon test on me, and I came out positive. when my mother found out, she nearly fainted. she rejected me for it. she verbally abused me for it. though my father tried he couldn’t stop her from saying such devilish things to me. she hated me for who I was. She disappeared when I was only 27 years old. My father said she was just stressed out and needed a break, but she never came back. Even though she's gone now, the scars she left in my mind are still firmly planted. She had never physically hurt me, but she told me that I should die. She said I was useless, and that she hated me. My father, however, loved me and stayed with me as long as he could.

(INFO DUMP)

It was 30 years ago when I was 399, that my father died. he wanted to make me a fur coat for my fourth centennial that was coming up in a few weeks. He was out hunting when i heard his cries coming from the woods. immediately i flew to his side. His blood was spilled out on the new fresh sprouts of grass. His face was clawed up, covered in deep gashes. His arms were bruised and punctured also. The sight of him tore me apart.

(INFO DUMP)

”What...?” I began to say but found myself speechless. he hushed my dry sobs, and smiled. I hadn’t noticed before, the white wolf hairs embedded in his blood flooded cuts. A single tear trickled down my face and landed with a cold splash against his clothing. I gave him a proper burial, and though i hoped to someday kill the wolf that so abruptly ended my fathers life, the idea was forgotten in my depression and despair.

(Wolves attacking... rarity. Hunters falling prey to wolves... never heard of a case. Immortals dying to wolves... isn't that a contradiction? Fix the plot hole somehow.)

It is a death that puzzles me still. It was impossible. You see, there are rules about winged immortals deaths. There are only two ways for a winged immortal to die, one is for them to starve to death, and the other is for them to be murdered by another winged immortal. A mere wolf clearly doesn’t bear the power, He just can’t.

(Now you are just messing with the definition of immortal. This part also breaks form by introducing narration (3rd) when everything was in first person.)

But it is over now, and there is nothing I can do to change the past. I Haven’t heard from my relatives since then, or really any other immortal. I assume they all killed each other for food, and the others starved to death. I believe I am alone in this world besides the savage humans.

(Wordy, back to I perspective, 'Haven't' should be lower cased. Reader is still lost in a sea of 'what'.)

I landed from my morning flight, and realized my feet had gone black. though over the centuries I had grown used to the cold, I was nearly immune to it, but I had to be careful not to let my blood freeze. So I went inside my once beautiful house. though it was depressing an old, it was very warm. I added a log to the fire, and sat down on my mothers favorite wing back chair. my father says it’s green like the smell of spring, I try to picture, but all I see is a light gray. Chairs are a difficult thing when you have wings on your back, it’s also very difficult to sleep. There are myths about immortals that would sleep upside-down like a bat, but when I tried, all my blood rushed into my head.

(Too many adjectives, too much too much going on in this paragraph. Seperate and trim the fat. Watch the narration slip ups.)

I sat there thinking. I do it a lot. I just think of what I’ll do for the rest of forever. being immortal.. or almost immortal anyway, has it’s disadvantages. I need to find something to do other than just getting by. I decided to go to bed... that was the only thing i had left to do. I wasn’t hungry, and it was getting dark. I walked into my room and striped off my black dress, and slipped into my gray nightgown. it felt warm against my cool skin. then I slid under my white covers and shut my eyes.

(I, I, I, I....fix please. Play by play also is boring. Just cause Nikolai can get away with it doesn't mean I will let you, not even any anecdotes to make it easier on us readers.

My mind was completely blank. I thought about my father and his big warm arms that hugged me when I couldn’t fly yet, and his laugh that would ring through the whole house. Then I thought about my mother. she was like me. she was always pale with cold skin. it fit her personality. when I was young I would pretend that inside she was a really great person, and she was only mean to me because she was stressed about my curse, but eventually I just gave in to reality, she’s cruel. I tried thinking about what she was like when she was younger. But I must have fallen asleep.

(Same issues as before.)

I was dreaming that I was walking through the cold air, each step sinking my feet deeper and deeper into the snow. but I was wearing boots. they were warm, and tied up the front. they were beautiful. they were covered in beads. With a pattern flowing like a spring river. I kept walking through the snow. I realized I was also wearing a think warm shawl, beaded just like the boots. I felt so warm, and hugged myself, enjoying the feeling while it lasted. Then, I saw two black eyes staring at me through the snow. though I told myself to stop, my feet kept walking towards the mysterious creature. then I felt my heart stop mid-beat, as the thick white fur came into view. The dream was so real. I wanted to turn around and go home, but I couldn’t move. my limbs wouldn’t budge. I opened my mouth to scream, but no sound came out. my arm moved up uncontrollably, and my body filled with panic, as my possessed hand stroked the wolfs fur. it was surpassingly smooth, compared to it rough shaggy appearance. the wolf looked at me with an odd expression. before I could really interpret it, I woke up, cold sweat coating my back. I sat up.. half shocked, and just half glad I had finally woken up. I got out of bed and took a shower. I wasn’t tired any more, and I didn’t want to sleep any ways, in fear I might have the same dream.

(Surpassingly is odd and an unnecessary adjective. As are so many of your metaphors and observations. Edit or remove them. I'd rather see such detail given to his past and forming a bond with the reader so we can at least try to understand him emotionally.)

the hot water soothed me as it slid across my cold skin. my stomach was knotted with loneliness, I hated being so far away from any other civilization. i sat down in the shower, as the water sputtered overhead, and I cried. It was the first time i had cried since my father died. I let the tears our down my face, in rivers of salt. I cried for my mother, I cried for myself, i cried for my father, i even cried for the stupid white wolf that somehow killed my father. I cried for the hopeless world, and the humans that didn’t even know I existed. I cried for everything, and every one. until I ran out of hot water, and the blistering cold water brought me out of my moment. I leapt up and shut the water off. then stopped and just stood there.. why had I been effected by the cold? I pushed the thought aside, grabbed a towel and dried myself off. I slipped my gown back on and went back to bed. I finally fell asleep, but I had the same dream again. this time more detailed, and more horrifying.

(I spam again. First sentence 'The'. Leapt is not a word. More needless metaphors. Brought is another problem word. )

Chapter 2

The same reoccurring dream had haunted me every night for the past few weeks, getting more vivid, each time. I had been avoiding sleep since then. I hadn’t slept in 3 days and I could have passed out standing up. i gave into my natural necessity, and decided to sleep. I lay on my side and closed my eyes. I thought I felt sleep come over me. I opened my eyes moments later, finding that I was most definitely dreaming. This time it was a little different. In my other dreams I would start in the snow.. this time I was in my bed. I got up and found myself feeling extremely tired. i walked to the front door. there was a beaded shawl hanging on the otherwise bare coat rack, with a pair of matching boots just below. I threw on the warm shawl and slipped into the boots. I opened my door and felt the odd sensation of the cold wind against my exposed face. I stepped out, and the dream continued as it had in the past, but this time there was a voice in my head talking to me.

(Cliche. I spam. Same problems as before)

“where are you? are you coming? hurry im waiting.” it was a mans voice. perhaps my fathers; I couldn’t tell. I kept walking reliving this same thing for the hundredth time, dreading each moment. Though something about this was different than my past dreams, but I couldn’t figure out what. I herd the voice again.

(Dialogue spread out, same issues as before. Heard not 'herd.)

“your getting closer... I can smell you” this sent sparks of fear through my veins. i knew who the voice belonged to. I tried to stop walking, but like in my past dreams, my legs just kept moving. I struggled trying to stop them, but it was of little use. My body walked on, into the snow filled air; My eyelashes catching snowflakes on the way. I saw them again, this time more heart stopping, and terrifying than ever before. Those big black eyes looking at me. No not just at me, they were looking inside of my mind, searching for some sign of feeling... anything.

(Cliche, I spam and dialogue issues as before.)

I'm going to be harsh with you on this. You have talent for words and observations, but you have no idea what you are doing and this is just being spewed out without a care. In the beginning you had proper form and you paid attention to details too much. Then you got better and fixed up most of them. Then it just went downhill in a trainwreck from which I could not believe my eyes. It is like two different people wrote this!

It is dreck. There I said it. Dreck! Little attention is given to the setting, everything is poured into the senses with nothing to balance it. You are so far beyond overkill that so many obvious mistakes are ignored in the pursuit of placing more pretty words into paragraphs overloaded with them.

The problem lies in your understanding of what makes a good book, and I wouldn't be far off in saying that you probably don't read for fun very often. I won't give you a list of works to read or prattle on about each and every single thing you did wrong. We could be here all night if that was the case. Simplest way to correct it? Read, figure out what makes a good book and what does not. Do book report styled analysis of each and every book you like and you hated. Figure out WHY, and WHAT made it a bad book.

After about a month or two of this (a week if you hit this full throttle) take some time to review your work. Go through and figure out what is wrong with it, and what is right. Do not destroy your work as you probably will have the sudden urge to, saving maybe a small paragraph here or there. (Trust me, I do this VERY frequently. I've spiked entire chapters and works probably a dozen or more times since I started writing. Pieces of other chapters, countless times.

You need to do five things to make this pop out of the 'dreck bin'.

No info dumps.
Character introduction. Get inside of his head. Don't have the reader be an observer!
Remove all adjectives unless they mean something important to the story.
Internal conflict must be presented fresh and set a mood so the reader can empathize.
Be wary of plot holes and contradictions.

That's a lot of work to do, keep at it. Consult your writing/English teacher for help. Things you could ask, "What are the characteristics of a good book for you?" "What reading perspective is your favorite form?" "What makes a good book a great one?"

English teachers usually love to read and they dumb down their favorites to make sense for the kids, but if you get them started they probably won't stop. They are more mature and picky since most of read most of the classics and probably a good portion of whatever genre they like. You might be surprised by all the similarities your teacher likes that you do as well, those similarities should be what you try to emulate and eventually master.