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Post by James on Jun 9, 2010 2:26:10 GMT -5
The Beginning Jack Michaels, naval extraordinaire, sat in a deserted dark corner of the pub clutching a beer in his hand. After all, being rejected from basic training when it was revealed he suffered from sea sickness seemed extraordinary to Jack. All he had wanted to do was followed in the footsteps of his father and grandfather, but the rocking of the boat, the churning of his stomach, he couldn’t handle it. He was a disgrace to his family, a disgrace to the Michaels name. He didn’t even want to contemplate what he would tell his dad on their next phone call.
His bad mood wasn’t helped by the fact that he was sitting in one of the old naval pubs, the establishment having existed as long as the port has. It was just another bitter taste to match the beer upon his tongue. With a final swig of his pint, Jack swung his glass onto the table with a deafening thud, his eyes running across the rough woodened surface. Every few inches was a different name, a different sailor who wanted to make his mark upon the world. All of them probably achieving far more than he ever would. Deciding not to punish himself any further, Jack went to stand, when one name caught his attention. Carved in the middle of the table were the words Jack Michaels, 1805, just glancing up at him, as if to mock him. Unable to help himself, Jack ran a calloused finger along the letters, once more thinking of his crushed dreams. |
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Post by James on Jun 9, 2010 2:28:42 GMT -5
Entry One Jack Michaels, naval extraordinaire, sat in a deserted dark corner of the pub clutching a beer in his hand. After all, being rejected from basic training when it was revealed he suffered from sea sickness seemed extraordinary to Jack. All he had wanted to do was follow in the footsteps of his father and grandfather, but the rocking of the boat, the churning of his stomach, he couldn’t handle it. He was a disgrace to his family, a disgrace to the Michaels name. He didn’t even want to contemplate what he would tell his dad on their next phone call.
His bad mood wasn’t helped by the fact that he was sitting in one of the old naval pubs, the establishment having existed as long as the port has. It was just another bitter taste to match the beer upon his tongue. With a final swig of his pint, Jack swung his glass onto the table with a deafening thud, his eyes running across the rough woodened surface. Every few inches was a different name, a different sailor who wanted to make his mark upon the world. All of them probably achieving far more than he ever would.
Deciding not to punish himself any further, Jack went to stand, when one name caught his attention. Carved in the middle of the table were the words Jack Michaels, 1805, just glancing up at him, as if to mock him. Unable to help himself, Jack ran a calloused finger along the letters, once more thinking of his crushed dreams. His father, his grandfather, and back for eight full generations, had all been proud members of the Royal Navy. Over the decades they had been divinized and revered in the stories of his family. Would it be him, the only child of Admiral Lawrence Michaels, to break the tradition? Would he be the one left out of the scrapbooks; the generation skipped over in the stories?
With the full force of both of his arms, he shoved himself away from the counter as the stool screeched along the ancient floor. Carefully placing one foot in front of the other, the alcohol finally catching up to him, he slowly and carefully made his way across the bar and to the door. He swung it opened and swaggered outside into the warm and humid Bermudan air. The beach was some hundred yards from the line of rundown bars and motels but its crisp waters could still be heard, slowly wading in and away from the shore.
Jack made a few glances in either direction of the street, his unsteady vision watching as keenly as it could for headlights. He wandered across the road and down, over the hillside, passed a children’s playground and an old drunk hollering gibberish at him: he took no notice of any of them. His mind was empty. His thoughts were gone. What was there left to think about? Sure, he could try to remind himself of any good traits he possessed, of anything more he had to do in life, but did he deserve it? Did he really deserve to feel good about himself?
Michaels.
Jack Michaels. That was who he was, nothing more, nothing less.
The grass grew less dense and began to mix with the sand of the beach, the roar of the ocean’s waves growing louder. Jack’s shoes compressed into the sand, pressing deep into the grains that collapsed under his weight. He remembered when he was younger, and how his father would take him to the beaches in the south. How he would insist upon running through the grass. He’d strip down to his shorts and get a good, clean shot at the beach, timing the movement of people walking across to ensure a clear sprint. And he would run. Run with everything he had, with every muscle in his legs shoving against the hard dirt, his arms pumping at his sides. He would run until the grass dropped into sand, and all of the weight that fell down onto his feet in his stride disappeared, the granules pressed up between his toes. To him, it felt like being a jet taking off on a runway, suddenly moving through air.
And then, at the end of the sand, he would just keep running, his feet kicking and stomping through the tide until it pushed him down or picked up. It was an incredible sensation to his younger self, the transformation into weightlessness. He would laugh and climb back out of the water just to do it all again, his family nearby, watching with smiles. Eventually, exhausted, he’d return to them: the smell of his mother’s picnic lunch in his nose and the taste on his tongue. He could feel it now. Jack adored the water then as he did now. He would cry for hours if it rained and they couldn’t go to the beach and now… now, this.
He stood there, lost in thought. Drunken, stubble painted across his face, nothing but contempt left for himself. The moon reflected off of the ocean like a thin, pearlescent glaze. Leaning down, he ripped off one shoe, and then the next. His socks came after, the cool grass and small rocks beneath his feet. He pulled his shirt over his head and got down to just his shorts, like he remembered. Now, of course, he felt foolish. Some grown man stood nearly naked at the edge of some second-class beach. But with a snarl, he fought the idea.
No, no. Fuck it.
Fuck.
It.
Something in him welled up to cry, but that just would have made it worse. He had no time for that. No time for distractions. Making a first, slow step he walked across more grass as it grew less and less dense and each successive movement was faster than the last. His lungs pulled and pushed air from his chest and his heartbeat couldn’t keep up with the speed of his feet.
There it was. Sand.
The beach absorbed all of his weight as he ran faster still, barreling straight for the water. The air grew colder and rushed past him, leaving a low, ‘wuuuuuuuuush’ in his ears. The angle grew steeper and the sand slowly declined into the water, his steps soon making the loud, slapping ‘splash’ of his distant memories. His muscles burned and stepping deeper and deeper required more energy each time until, in up to his knees, his legs felt as though they were weighed down by anchors of their own. Still, he trudged.
He shifted now, the whole left of his body moving up one step and then the right, his legs not rising above the water. When the ocean shoved, it shoved hard and he dug in to the submerged sand to keep stable. The water submerged his waste and with his arms he shoved at it, pushing it away from him. He moved with strides, swimming above water, until eventually, the waterline rising to his chest, he dipped his shoulders in and pushed, his feet lifting and kicking. Water splashing at his face, he let the tears roll down his cheeks and dissolve away into the water, a contorted, sobbing grin on his face as he spat out something caught between a laugh and a cry.
The water that surrounded him was more chaotic out here, its rising waves blinding his vision temporarily with each crest. One came upon him straight on and his head ducked beneath it, his eyes tightly closed, the empty hum of submersion filling his senses. Up again, gasping. Arm up, arm in. Right leg, left leg. He swam with a force, with giving every ounce of his energy into slicing through the water, into exhausting himself.
The thought came to Jack then. That was what he was doing, wasn’t it? He was completely depleting himself of any energy, of any will. Adrenaline filling him, every inch felt like the last of a long race, requiring the last ounce of force he could muster. His calves stung so terribly, he thought they might clench up and give out entirely. The thought was gruesomely welcomed.
Still he trudged on until he barely could keep himself afloat, his body slowly sinking. With a long inhalation he ducked under the water again, the muffled pressure the only sound above his own throbbing heart. With his arms aching, his shoulders so tight, his legs entirely wasted, he opened his eyes: what more pain could be had? The blackness behind his eyelids barely faded, giving in to only a subtle shade of a deep, heavy blue.
This was it. This was when it would all come tumbling after.
Water. Everywhere, in every direction, covering every inch of his body. When it pushed, he pushed. When it swayed, he swayed. His limbs fell down to his sides and he let everything go, his body moving about in the water in whichever direction it moved him. He felt his head tip, in one direction or the other, and he imagined he was far from upright, but sense of direction was fading fast. There was no signpost up ahead. There was only the blue.
Facing any direction, he was moving – he was falling. He felt the water as it rushed passed him in no discernable direction. He just knew that he was moving through three dimensions, and that was enough. His limbs were cold, and soon numbed. His body felt empty and hollow, like a shell inflated with air. He lost sensations in his fingers and hands… or perhaps he didn’t? Everything seemed to blend together into one. He felt the water, he felt the cold, but where did he feel it? He just felt it. Everywhere. Anywhere.
It grew more difficult to discern between moving and not moving, and soon the difference was negligible. Up or down, facing left or right, accelerating or stationary: these terms lost their meanings. He felt not with his arms, nor his chest. He simply recognized the rising and falling of those things that came upon him, and even that, eventually, disintegrated. Jack was alone beneath the hectic Atlantic, neither moving nor still, neither feeling nor not feeling. Was he whole? Was he Jack?
His location became unspecific. He wasn’t here, he wasn’t there. Jack blended into the saltwater until anything was subjective. He was, and he wasn’t. The deep, dark blue he had seen wasn’t replaced by anything at all. Not blackness, not light. Sight was gone. The dull hum of the ocean did not collapse into silence, but hearing itself escaped him. His consciousness embraced him until all he had left was a deep content – a calm stability of not being anything at all.
The body of Jack Michaels drifted limply through the water as its lungs filled up with the sweet brine. And he was gone. |
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Post by James on Jun 9, 2010 2:30:29 GMT -5
Entry Two Jack Michaels, naval extraordinaire, sat in a deserted dark corner of the pub clutching a beer in his hand. After all, being rejected from basic training when it was revealed he suffered from sea sickness seemed extraordinary to Jack. All he had wanted to do was followed in the footsteps of his father and grandfather, but the rocking of the boat, the churning of his stomach, he couldn’t handle it. He was a disgrace to his family, a disgrace to the Michaels name. He didn’t even want to contemplate what he would tell his dad on their next phone call.
His bad mood wasn’t helped by the fact that he was sitting in one of the old naval pubs, the establishment having existed as long as the port has. It was just another bitter taste to match the beer upon his tongue. With a final swig of his pint, Jack swung his glass onto the table with a deafening thud, his eyes running across the rough woodened surface. Every few inches was a different name, a different sailor who wanted to make his mark upon the world. All of them probably achieving far more than he ever would.
Deciding not to punish himself any further, Jack went to stand, when one name caught his attention. Carved in the middle of the table were the words Jack Michaels, 1805, just glancing up at him, as if to mock him. Unable to help himself, Jack ran a calloused finger along the letters, once more thinking of his crushed dreams.
Hours later, Jack awoke to a splitting headache, grabbing at his head as he pulled himself from the wooden chair, staggering to his feet. The dangerous combination of depression and alcohol had knocked him clean out, and he now stared blankly at the floorboards, trying to recall where he was. In a flash, it came back to him, the events of the night before and his rejection. The depression set in once again.
Jack stumbled outside, headed for the nearest phonebooth. He had to talk to his father. Dad had always been a source of wisdom, but at the same time Jack feared his father's inevitable disappointment. Stepping inside, he fished a few quarters out of his pocket and entered them into the slot. Lifting the phone to his ear, he could hear the sound of the dial tone, ready for the dreaded long distance call.
"Hello?" The voice of Jack's father was still strong and youthful as it had been during his naval years. Jack's heart plummeted as his lips struggled to form words.
"Dad, it's me, Jack." He could hear the depression creeping into his own voice.
"Morning son, something wrong?" his father asked nonchalantly. Jack pictured him on the other end, twirling that great white mustache of his as he sat in his leather chair, legs crossed. The same position he always took when he thought there was trouble and he needed to think.
"They failed me out of basic training. Sea sickness." The two sentences seemed to blend into a single syllable as he spat them out. He awaited his father's crushing disappointment.
"...Oh. Well, that's a shame son." His father kept a level tone, but Jack knew that deep down inside he was just hiding his seething anger at him.
Jack leaned against one of the glass walls of the telephone booth. He could almost feel them closing in around him. "I'm sorry Dad. I really am."
"Don't go soft on me boy," came the gruff no-nonsense voice of his father. "Now, just come back home. We'll talk it out. I'll pay for the train." The phone clicked on the other end, and Jack put the phone down. His father was disappointed in him. He knew it. Generations of Michaels going to sea ending with him because he couldn't hold his grub down. The least he could do now is to return to his father to receive his mark of dishonor.
Jack pulled himself off of the floor, before flipping the phonebook in the booth open and looking up a taxi company. He punched a number in. "I need a ride from the Old Brine to the train station." he muttered into the phone, his lips dry enough to stick together with glue.
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Jack rolled over again for the fifth time in his seat, trying to find a spot comfortable enough for mind-blanking sleep. But the crushing thought of never being able to join the Navy, his life's dream, kept him wide awake with anxiety. He would never be able to do anything else. His life was over, might as well jump out of the train and let his body crunch against the tracks. At least he'd make a name for himself, in the second page of a local newspaper. Maybe that's a good idea -
"Hi there. Mind if I sit?"
Jack turns his head, momentarily snapped out of his self-loathing. A pretty young woman stood in the aisle, looking expectantly at him, a touch of concern in her brown eyes. "Yeah, sure. Sorry." he adds hastily, moving over so that she can take a seat beside him.
The woman half-laughs at his awkwardness before taking a seat. She crosses her legs, that same look in her eye. "Look, whatever is going on in your life right now, just, don't do anything drastic, there are people out there that love and care for you."
Jack looked at the woman with awe, his mouth hanging open slightly, completely stunned. It was as if she had read his mind, and known exactly what to say to ease his pain. But it didn't solve his problem. He was still a complete loser that couldn't even pass simple basic training, but her words were enlightening enough. "Thank you." Jack said quietly.
"Think nothing of it." the woman said brightly. Jack tried to look away, but he could feel her staring idly at him, taking note of all of his facial features. The furrowed brow, tired eyes, and pursed lips he wore, all clear signs of Jack's depression.
"So, what's your name?" asked the woman. An innocent question enough, Jack mused. "Jack Michael." he responded, trying to not seem interested. The woman was a distraction, plain and simple. He would never be able to get out of this mess if he paid attention to her.
"My name's Diana, a pleasure to meet you." She put her hand forward. Jack hesitated, the gesture hadn't been expected. He clasped her hand, shaking it once before releasing his hand. "Likewise."
Diana looked him over once again, still interested in him. "You have a strong grip Jack." That irritated him. Only friends called each other by first names. Mr. Michael would have been more appropriate. "Yes, ma'am, I do." Jack says, trying to bring an end to the conversation.
It works, the woman reluctantly lies back against her seat, no further questions to ask.
Jack leans his own head back against the plastic seat, a stray eye gazing out the window. The train was passing over a bridge now, a large river right below them. A small patrol boat skimmed the waters far below. The pain returned, slightly less this time, but Jack still had only one thought on his mind, and the self-loathing set in once again as the vibrations of the train lulled him to a fitful sleep.
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"Newport Station!" called the black box at the end of the car, jarring Jack awake. He blinked, before grabbing his backpack and walking off the train. Diana was nowhere in sight. She must have gotten off at an earlier stop. The train blew its horn, and pulled away from the station, as did Jack, headed for his father's house.
Captain Jack "Steelarm" Michael lived in a simple two bedroom brick house on the edge of town. He had never married, always telling Jack that "the wench who gave birth to you wanted to toss you in the garbage, and as your father, I wasn't about to let that stand." Jack raised the brass knocker on the door, rapping twice before his father opened it. His father was an old man, only slightly shorter than Jack, since "All the damn food wasn't filled to the brim with extra vitamins in my day." His face is bright red, not from anger, but because he always volunteered to pull extra shifts in the Navy, and was frequently sunburned. His arms are still as thick as they were in his Navy days, but not quite as thick as the white mustache he had. He also wears a worn blue bandage on his thumb, always claiming that it warded away heart problems.
No one has ever asked how exactly that works, and Jack's father has never had a heart problem.
Normally he wears a sailor's cap to cover his thinning hair, today though was an exception as he beckoned Jack inside. "Come on in." he said, a smile on his face. "Always nice to see ya."
Jack stepped inside the hallway, which was covered with heirlooms of Michael naval exploits. There was a grainy black-and-white photo of his great-grandfather, Jack Michael, aboard an ironclad, a carved wood totem from the South Pacific sat on a table, an old map of the Americas, with only the eastern coast accurately depicted. The house spoke of the great legacy of the Michael family; one that Jack would not be able to join. His father took a seat in the living room, the fireplace already roaring, as he raised a pipe to his lips. Jack took the seat across from him.
"What's new boy?" his father asked, brimming with levity. Jack was shocked. This was a serious situation, and his father was treating it as if he were a child on a playground that scraped his knee.
"Dad, I got kicked out of basic training, remember?" Jack worried for a moment that his father's old age had caught up to him and he was starting to forget things.
"Course you did boy, but that's old news. What's your next step? Or have you finally met a girl?" His father chuckled, Jack felt the rage build up inside of him, the frustrations of the past few days finally coming to a head as his old man laughed at his misfortune.
"Can't you see? I'm ruined! I had no other plans, the Navy was going to be my life! I'm a Michael you blind old fool! We're the Michael family, conquerors of the sea! I was going to be an admiral, and add to the family name! Instead, I have failed the family name!" he shouts at the top of his lungs, red in the face, letting his anger out on his father's easygoing nature. His father takes all of this with a level face as he lets the anger in his son's face subside. "No, I failed the family name, long ago." his father says quietly, casting his gaze into the fire.
"What do you mean?" Jack asks, surprised, his anger quelled.
Jack's father runs a hand through his thinning hair, sighing. "I was always focused on my career. I never took a wife because I was always out to sea, so I figure no woman would be interested in a long-term relationship with me. Which is why...I adopted a son of my own."
The room falls deathly silent, with only the sound of the crackling flame filling in the background noise. The color has drained from Jack's face. "...What?" Jack asked, stunned more than a deer caught in headlights. "I adopted a son of my own, to continue out the family name." his father says quietly, "Only now in my old age am I wise enough to see that that is not what is important in life. Look at me. Forced retirement from the Navy as a captain and with more medals than I can count. And what are they in the end? Nothing but useless metal trinkets is what." He takes a deep breath before continuing, "What's important in life is not to be so damn focused on your career that you lose sight of what's truly real and what matters in life. All I'm saying boy, is meet a nice girl, get married, get a house, and raise some grandkids for me, will you? Now go, get on with your life. What you experienced is just a little bump. Get over yourself and start fresh. And make sure to have a little fun with whatever you do." He placed his pipe in his mouth.
Jack slowly rose from his chair. His father was right, on all accounts. Living a career life like his father had was no way to live...well life. He began to walk out, eying all of the Michael artifacts, of a lineage he no longer belonged to. It was both comforting and saddening at the same time. From his chair, his father called to him, "Boy, do you remember what I told you what my greatest accomplishment in life was?"
Jack quietly replies, "You've told me a million times. Your ship was sinking. A Japanese kamikaze pilot plowed into the bow in a surprise attack, detonating the ammo storage. Out of everyone in your quarters, you were the only one still conscious. You managed to pull five crewmen to their lifeboats, and received a medal and a commendation."
His father quietly puffed out another cloud of smoke. "I always lied about that. Truth was, it was raising you. I'm proud of you, son." Jack stood there silently in the hallway, taking that in. His father had never told him once in his eighteen years that he was proud of him. He mumbled a thanks, before exiting out the door.
Jack took a deep breath, walking to a nearby phonebooth. It was time to start a new life, he'd go to college, find a girl - he paused in his walk. "Damnit." he muttered, thinking about the woman on the train. She would have been perfect, kind, caring, but he'd been too focused on his loss at the time to care. Opening the booth's glass door, he reaches into his pocket to pluck a couple of quarters, only to find a scrap of paper. His heart soared, the woman must have tucked her phone number into his pocket while he was asleep! Jack pulled it out of his pocket, fumbling the folded piece of paper open. It was a business card, reading:
Diana Redfield
Psychiatrist
1-594-687-5309
Specializing in Depression
Jack crumpled up the card and swore like only a Michael could. It had been a hell of a day. |
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Post by James on Jun 12, 2010 5:58:38 GMT -5
Entry's One Reviews Noted that you changed the starter a little, moving a sentence to one of your paragraphs. Intrigued as to why but it works so whatever! I was very pulled into the story. I felt connected to the character; I felt bad for the poor guy! Thank you! The descriptions and vocabulary range were excellent. The scenes were very clear in my mind as he walked. I loved the little back-story about the beach trips with the family. The up, with the child’s fun, and then, down back to the drunken depressed man. One little note: I would have liked some notes about him struggling with removing his clothes – he is after all drunk! A little bit of realism, yes please. (“The water submerged his waste” < homonym! Waste=/=Waist) Shocking end. I think a little realism might have help too. Drowning is said to be the most peaceful way to go but you would still have a slight panic as your lungs filled up. A twitch or sudden “struggle and brace” would have made this ending! *** A very nice piece of writing. It was very good at bringing the reader into the story with almost no effort. Though I'll admit that it was also pretty depressing. You got the hopelessness part down to a tee and the flashback was a nice touch. There really isn't much criticism I can offer. *** Fantastic entry, a few grammar issues and a couple of word choice problems but other than that, it was both engaging and poetic. I actually felt for Jack and, to a certain level understood both the pain he was in and the release he was seeking. My only complaint is the last sentence. The whole piece was so poetic and full of such briliant imagery, and then, "He was gone." It was almost like you were saying, "Ok dummy, in case the rest of this was to figurative for you; Jack died." *** This was a compelling read, very well written and a joy to pick up. The one thing I will say: it’s “past,” not “passed.” Twice. Noteworthy, simply because the grammar and punctuation was, in the main, otherwise flawless. The only other thing that struck a strange cord with me, was
his dying. Drowning is usually a very difficult death – breathing in water, the body automatically convulses, fights breathing anything but air. But Jack’s passing seemed almost, well, peaceful? Still, that could just as easily be my over thinking of a really good story.
*** Well, that was certainly...depressing. Technically, it was flawless. It was very easy to follow, spelling wise it was very good, grammar was good... Story wise was pretty good too. For a competition like this, a simple plot works very nicely. For someone who wants to review them all, it's nice to read a story that's short and doesn't leave me flabbergasted when all is said and done. It was rather dark and depressing, but hey, life's not always about bunnies and polka-dotted rainbows with lolipops raining from the sky. Nice job. *** “He swung it opened and swaggered outside into the warm and humid Bermudan air.” “opened” should be “open”. “He wandered across the road and down, over the hillside, passed a children’s playground and an old drunk hollering gibberish at him:” If you’re going to list something, you should have a comma after playground. “He would cry for hours if it rained and they couldn’t go to the beach and now… now, this.” This sentence seems a little rushed. Perhaps take out the second ‘and’ and put a period? Mmm, powerful story. A few grammatical errors, but a strong start in the competition. Great job, whoever ye be. |
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Post by James on Jun 12, 2010 6:01:19 GMT -5
Entry Two's Reviews There was one really distracting problem which persisted through this whole piece (and frankly, gave away your identity); that was the use of present tense in place of past and a tendency to jump back and forth between them. It looked good through the first part, then the train scene really threw a wrench in the gears. "Jack turns his head. . . A pretty young woman stood in the aisle. . . " Present to past. Tragicly, this error manifested itself first in the train scene and then persisted throughout the rest of the piece. What I kept thinking to myself was, "Why a train scene?" It didn't seem to matter really to the story; it's whole purpose seemed to be to set up the unnessecary coincedence at the end. I'd have been more interested in a story about Jack, revealing his failure, finding out about his adoption, and dealing with his conflicted feelings of relief and shock resulting from that information. Instead I got half a page of non-essential train scene, and a brief blurb about what was really the most important aspect of the story. *** Certain portions/phrases of this piece seemed a bit repetitive, and at times unsure of itself. There were also whole sections that moved from past tense to present tense, but this was still definitely a solid story. I was confused, though – why would Jack’s father think it was somehow better for Jack to believe his own mother abandoned him, rather than just tell him from the very beginning he was adopted? Seems a bit cruel – and Jack’s father did not come off as a cruel character in the least. But the very ending there? Honestly? Loved it – laughed right out loud, and it really made me wish the rest of the piece had been written in that same dry, almost-cynical voice. *** It feels like you were in a rush to tell the story – so you missed out of giving the reader the immersion! Slow down. Tell us the scenery, the kind of day, the sick feeling that is probably rising in his stomach. Did he grab food? Did he not? If he did, what was it? Immersion. Don’t just tell the story – pull the reader into it. There was a very nice range of vocabulary. The dialogue flowed pretty easily too, so compliments on that! I wanted some of the dad’s anger to show on the phone, and if it wasn’t anger I wanted the other emotion! I wanted to feel the emotion from both sources. (There was a comma where I felt a semi-colon would have been better! There were a few punctuation errors. A careful spot-check would catch these. Two different people speaking in one paragraph is confusing.) I loved the paragraph where you introduced the father; the bits in speech brackets about vitamins and the wrench. That bit really stuck out as enjoyable. A little back-story or cheap-character-development goes a long way! *** A nice story with a good message. The writing wavered at times, confusing the reader a little bit but overall it was pretty clear. There were a few grammatical errors that a quick read through could have caught. The setting was nice, you could tell it was older times without having to say so. *** “The woman half-laughs at his awkwardness before taking a seat” “It works, the woman reluctantly lies back against her seat, no further questions to ask.” “His face is bright red, not from anger, but because he always volunteered to pull extra shifts in the Navy, and was frequently sunburned.” “No one has ever asked how exactly that works, and Jack's father has never had a heart problem.” “Normally he wears a sailor's cap to cover his thinning hair, today though was an exception as he beckoned Jack inside.” There’s more scattered throughout, but these seem more like first person. They don’t belong, unless you put the –entire- story in that tense, which you didn’t. Pick a tense and stay there, because you’re switching and it’s confusing :[ *** Right, first problem. You changed from present to past tense a lot. That's not good, watch out for that. Also, why did Jack's attitude towards Diana change in five seconds? He goes from thinking “Well, thanks for that help, I do feel a little better” to “Can't this woman take a hint? GO! SHOO!” Is he bipolar as well as depressed? The story was...meh...you could have done better with it. The dad was kind of cool, but even he was ruined by lack of proper grammar, proper spelling, proper punctuation...I just wasn't hooked, and the fact that the flow was broken up every five seconds didn't help either. It could have been a far better piece, if you hadn't made those few glaring mistakes. |
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