Young Writers Society

Good job this is a pretty well written piece. I found myself intrigued by it. However you either need to write more on this to explain it or need to say the point mystery or whatever. Overall this piece is pretty well done.

Breathe. Step back. Breathe. Step back. Heart pounding. Chest heaving. Head spinning. What had I done?

Ten years ago there was an accident. A terrible tragedy that took place right here on this very street corner. It was winter and the night was cold. Still. Christmas Eve. Not many lingered out on the streets. Many were asleep in this neighborhood by the time Chris Redfield’s red Camry sped around this block, much too fast to stop in time. Much too intoxicated to react when he saw the bridge a mere ten feet ahead. He didn’t stand a chance. He never knew what hit him. Dead at the scene.

Dead.

Dead to me too.

I received the call early the next morning from his frantic mother who told me he didn’t come home the night before. I stumbled out of bed, slipped on my slippers and mumbled in agreement. “He’s probably staying over at Brian’s, Ms. Redfield. I saw Chris leave the game with him last night.” Truth was, I wasn’t at the game. I was busy babysitting for a neighbor who had to do some last minute Christmas shopping. But Ms. O’Conner took the false witness, Thank God.

I blindly made my way into the kitchen and made up a bowl of cereal. Cocoa Puffs. Then turned on the TV and flipped through the channels absently. Past the children’s cartoons, past the holiday parade. Until I heard the breaking story headline. The news station’s big story. LOCAL YOUNG MAN. KILLED. CAR CRASH. And I dropped my spoon.

Not Chris, I thought. Couldn’t happen. But my head suddenly ached and my stomach rolled with queasiness. I was convinced I was ill. And I called in to work sick.

Rebecca, you have to calm down. Get a hold of yourself. I had to convince myself that this wasn’t really happening. I laid on the couch for around twenty minutes with the TV on mute and I couldn’t have looked at it even if I wanted to. Suddenly the phone jolted me out of my non-existence.

“Hello?” I said to the stranger on the receiving end. It was a dead sort of silence that makes you wonder if time has just stopped.

“Ms. Dawson?”

I cleared my throat. “Yes?”

“Is this Rebecca Dawson?”

“It is.”

“Ms. Dawson, we would like you to come down to the station and answer a few questions. Would you like directions on how to reach us?”

This wasn’t happening. “Is something wrong?” My mom worked as a correctional officer at the station. She worked the graveyard shift so she wasn’t home yet.

I waited on that end of the phone and I heard a click and then the dial tone. Disconnected.


I didn’t waste time before driving down to the police station. I scaled the wide concrete steps of the building. What is this about? It’s Christmas. Why do they want to talk to me? An officer met me at the door. I shook off my boots and hurried inside.

I was immediately escorted to the interrogation room and directed toward a seat at the end of the table. There I was instructed to wait. Wait.

Breathe.

Two uniformed officers came into the room and took the two seats that remained. I was surrounded. What had I done to deserve-

“Ms. Dawson?” The man spoke to me first, scanning the papers in front of him.

I could only nod.

“Do you know why we called you in here?”

I opened my mouth and croaked, “No, officer. Is there a problem?”

He took a quick glance at his partner, a blonde woman who looked to be in her late twenties.

“Do you have an ID or a driver’s license with you at this time?” The woman asked gently.

I grabbed for my purse and found my ID card. Slid it across the table.

She checked it and then set it down in front of her.

Then the man pulled a photocopy page out of one of the files he kept in front of him and slid it toward me.

At first I saw only colors and patterns; no texture, no life.

“Ms. Dawson, do you know this man?” The male officer asked patiently.

Chris.

A lump formed in my throat as I choked on my own response. “Chris Redfield.” I said softly. It was all I could do to keep from sobbing.

“What was your relationship with Mr. Redfield like?” The woman asked next. But I couldn’t hear her. Either that or I simply didn’t want to.

“Ms. Dawson?” The man prompted again.

“Sorry.” My voice trembled. “Chris and I were just friends. Schoolmates.”

Just friends?

“When was the last time you saw Chris Redfield alive?” The woman asked.

I tried to recall it.

“We’d gone Christmas shopping. He gave me a ride home. That was just last night. Maybe seven?” I answered.

“Did he attempt to contact you anytime after he dropped you off?”

“No.” I answered. “Not that I know of.” Had he?

“Do you know where he was going after he dropped you off? Did he say anything in that nature?”

“I assumed he’d be heading home. I didn’t ask.” I looked again at the picture before me. “Please tell me how this happened.” The words spilled out of me with tears to follow. Silent tears that I thought maybe if I ignored them, they’d go away.

“There was an accident.” The man said bluntly, showing no hint of recognition. “His car sped off the bridge down at Dudley’s Pass.”

I wasn’t quite satisfied with his ratification of the situation but I had to let it go. Let it go. Let it go.

Let him go?

“We have some evidence telling us that Chris Redfield was intoxicated when the accident took place.” The woman added, more to herself than to me.

“That’s right,” The man concurred. Then he directed his eyes toward me. Hard. “You said you and Chris Redfield were friends. How close were you?”

My chest tightened. “We were very close officer. We’ve been friends since the fourth grade.”

He didn’t take his attention off me fully even as he scribbled in his notepad. “Did Mr. Redfield ever frighten you?”

“Excuse me?” I could scarcely breathe.

“Were you aware he was under the influence of potentially lethal, illegal drugs and other substances?”

I started to speak but couldn’t find the words. My heart was hollow.

The man looked again at his partner as if silently exchanging information.

“Did Chris Redfield ever talk about harming himself? Harming himself or those around him? Did he ever talk about suicide?”

“What?” Never. “Never. He just wasn’t that kind of guy.” I frantically looked at her and then him, waiting for some sort of explanation.

“We have reason to believe that Chris Redfield intentionally drove off the bridge last night.” The man elaborated. “Ms. Dawson, it is crucial that you tell us all you know about Chris Redfield’s personal life. Did he have anyone who had a grudge against him? Perhaps would try to harm him?”

“Did he talk about his home life at all? Did you feel any tension when you visited the Redfield’s home?”

“I-No, Chris wasn’t-He wasn’t like that! He was a good guy!”

“We’re not saying he wasn’t, Ms. Dawson. We just want you to tell us what you know.” The woman stated.

Suicide? Tension? Grudge? “Chris wouldn’t have killed himself.” I said evenly but was that what I believed? I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t ready to answer their questions.

I don’t know Chris Redfield.

“I don’t know who you are referring to. That is not the Chris I knew.”


I was trembling so severely that the only thing I could do was exit the station, my head aching and my legs weak and head directly up the street. Past my car. Up the block. As far as my own legs would carry me. As far away from the station as possible. Until I got to Brigg’s Café.

The only place I would know to be open on Christmas Day. I took my usual table by the window, trying to keep my hands from shaking. Trying to keep from choking on my own heart.

A menu was slapped down in front of me and I couldn’t help but flinch hard at the sound as if someone had struck me.

“Just coffee, please.” I struggled to keep my voice at an audible level. I would have liked nothing more than to just sit in this café and just think for a moment or two. But I had to order something. They only accepted paying customers and I knew that all too well.

Time seemed to pass in long intervals now and I had no way of stopping it or even recognizing it. Eventually I was brought my coffee and I stirred the cream into it, watching as the clouds formed.

Advice from another person: "The story was OK, not much emotion, not much excitement. Sort of drab, I have to admit. Try to spice it up."

I completely disagree, this story section is totally loaded with emotion and excitement. However, it would come out better if it were condensed and organized better.

I don't know how seriously you should take the stylistic advice of someone who says that your sentences are jarring and then complains that there's not enough emotion in the writing.

However, it might be good to right out this story in a traditional, non-dramatic style first. Try to achieve the same impact with word choice and pacing, rather than atypical formatting and sentence structure.

Then, go back, and in each thing you changed, determine which way you like it better. I like this style but it is most effective if used sparingly.


Oh, and this is just wrong:

You said: I grabbled for my purse and found my ID card. Slid it across the table.
Claudette Edit: "I grabbed (grabbled....what?) for my purse, found my IF, and slit it across the table.

it is indeed slid and not slit. I don't know if that was a typo on her part, although she is definitely correct about grabbed/grabbled! If it's a typo, no big deal. if it's a blend between grab and grapple, that's hilarious but a serious story like this is probably not its best home.

First thoughts:

Why is she remembering an accident ten years ago now? I didn't really understand why it was ten years ago and not in the present.

Otherwise your narration is quite good; you can hear the voice of the girl, and her feelings are quite apparent.

There are a couple of typo's within your dialogue, some question marks and that, but nothing serious.

I didn't really understand why she kept saying "let it go" in her mind, and then "Let him go" when she's only just found he died. Seems a bit quick to let go of someone. Usually the truth wouldn't even have sunk in yet realistically. You don't usually realise how much you miss someone until you do things you did with them together, etc. It doesn't seem very realistic to have that thought in here head already.

Another thing -- is this all happenning on Christmas Day? It seems that way. Since there's no mention of her family, or presents, or anything like that, it doesn't make sense that it's Christmas Day. I'm not really sure but I doubt police officers would interview someone on Christmas Day; perhaps they could just put the investigation off to Boxing Day instead. I think we need more evidence, through your description/actions etc. that this in fact is Christmas Day. That stuck out as unrealistic as well. Unless there's a real need in your story for it to be on Christmas Day, I suggest perhaps just pick a day leading up to Christmas itself.

Otherwise, this start made me interested in the relationship between the narrator and Chris, because it seems like there's something deeper at work here. What has she done? Why is she remembering the accident now? What's happening in the present? etc.

Good work!

I don't really like the first line (all of it) It just sounds strange. And so does much of the rest of it. All the periods make everything jump out at you, I'm not sure its needed.

It was winter and the night was cold. Still. Christmas Eve. Not many lingered out on the streets.

I blindly made my way into the kitchen and made up a bowl of cereal. Cocoa Puffs. Then turned on the TV and flipped through the channels absently. Until I heard the breaking story headline. The local news station’s big story. LOCAL YOUNG MAN. KILLED. CAR CRASH. And I dropped my spoon.

Not Chris, I thought. Couldn’t happen. But my head suddenly ached and my stomach rolled with queasiness. So bad that I was convinced I was ill. And I called in to work sick.

I tried to tell myself, Rebecca, you have to calm down. Get a hold of yourself. I had to convince myself that this wasn’t really happening.

It was a dead sort of silence that makes you wonder if time has just stopped.

An officer met me at the door. Opened it for me. Allowed me to pass him. I shook off my boots and hurried inside.

I was almost immediately escorted to the interrogation room and directed toward a seat at the end of the table. There I was instructed to wait. Wait.

I grabbled for my purse and found my ID card. Slid it across the table.

At first I saw only colors and patterns. No texture. No life.

“Ms. Dawson, do you know this man?” The man asked patiently.

Either that[comma] or I simply didn’t want to.

Did he say anything in that nature?”

The words spilled out of me as if they were the tears that followed. Silent tears that I thought maybe if I ignored them, they’d go away.

“There was an accident [comma] ” [lower case: T]he man said bluntly, showing no hint of recognition. “His car sped off the bridge down at Dudley’s Pass.”

I wasn’t quite satisfied with his ratification of the situation but I had to let it go. Let it go. Let it go.

Let him go.

“We have some evidence telling us that Chris Redfield was intoxicated when the accident took place[comma]” The woman added, more to herself than to me.

Then he directed his eyes toward me. Hard.

We’d been friends since the fourth grade.

I could hardly breathe in here.

“Were you aware he was under the influence of potentially lethal illegal drugs and other substances.”

“What?” Never. “Never. He just wasn’t that kind of guy.”

I-No, Chris wasn’t-He wasn’t like that! He was a good guy!

“We’re not saying he wasn’t, Ms. Dawson. We just want you to tell us what you know [comma]” [lower case: T]he woman stated.

“Chris wouldn’t have killed himself [comma]” I said [period and remove: evenly] [capitalize: b]ut was that what I believed? [remove: I wasn’t ready.] I wasn’t ready to answer their questions.

I was trembling so severely that the only thing I could do was exit the station [semi colon] my head was aching and my legs were weak and I was headed directly up the street.

The only place I would know to be open on Christmas Day.

I would have liked nothing more than to just sit in this café and just think for a moment or two.