Young Writers Society

Here's a little piece I wrote. I got the idea when I read a word in some story. I want to write more. Lots of Southern accents in this story.

-

There was a fire in the sky.
Big.
Bright.
It swallowed up the stars and heaven like a fat, white man.

-

Daddy never believed in Jesus. I wonder why he’s huddlin in the corner, whispering to himself, “Jesus, Mary’n’Joseph! God, save our souls!”
Momma’s out into the garden with Jackson watchin the sky, holding onto his hand like the fire was gonna eat her up too. No one never pays attention to me. Maybe it’s just ‘cause I sink into the shadows. Maybe it’s ‘cause if I get noticed, the fire’ll eat me right up.
It glows pretty bright, like Momma when she fixes her pies.

-

It appeared out of nowhere two days ago. People all ‘round town was worried. At least, that’s what Daddy says. He says there was a big meeting with lots of white men and black men like himself. They all made some sort of agreement that said all of us in Savannah should git out.
They’re makin us git out like a couple of the mice Momma finds in the cupboards.
Except we’re too late now. Daddy missed the deathline or somethin like that. Deadline? I don’t ‘member.
Momma is comin inside the house now. The look on her face is undescrib’ble. It looks like pain but knowin her, it’s somethin different.
“What’s is it, Nora?” Daddy asks.
“It’s—” Momma pauses for a moment. “Nothin. It’s nothin. Don’t worry.”
But Daddy and Jackson and I can all see that it’s not nothin.
“We need to git outta here,” Daddy says, all loud. Jackson looks up at Momma and grips her hand tighter.
“I don’t wanna leave!” he exclaims. Momma ignores him.
“We can’t stay here any longer. We gotta get out. They says—” Daddy ends abruptly. He eyes Jackson and I. Then he whispers into Momma’s ear all quiet like.
“You don’t believe that, do you?” Momma whispers back.
“I don’t know what to believe anymore.” Daddy sits down on the kitchen table and puts his hands into his eyes and rubs them. They are swollen and red.
Momma takes another glance at the fire in the sky.
“What’re we gonna do?” I ask very quiet. My tiny voice can barely be heard, even in the silence. I guess it’s ‘cause of all the fear in the air.
“Git out a’here,” Daddy whispers. “Now. Nora, take the children. We can’t stay here no longer. They’ll git us.”
“Who’ll git us, Daddy?” Jackson asks. He’s older than me by two years and two months. Maybe that’s why Mommy’s holdin onto his hand. She loves him more than me, ‘cause he’s older. She’s spent more time with him.
Feelin all rejected, I rub my eyes like Daddy.
“Take them to the towns. There’s no one there anymore. Git some food and supplies for the walk. If there’re any cars, we’ll take one, but don’t count on it. All the white men are gone with their vehicles and money.”
Daddy always refers to white people as rich people, even if they aren’t rich. Heck, Samuel down the road ain’t getting a dime a week and he’s as white as you get. Sometimes, I think Daddy secretly wants to be white. He thinks it’s a curse to be black or somethin. I’m not sure what runs through that smart head of his.
“I’ll come later,” Daddy promises, holding onto Momma’s hand. It was like they were shakin hands for the last time. I glanced over at Jackson, who had tears in his eyes.
“Daddy!” Jackson says, breaking the fear in the air. He runs and hugs Daddy. “Please come with us! We ain’t go no clue what’s out there!”
“You’ll be just fine with your momma, Jackie. I promise,” says Daddy, placing his worn arm on his ten-year old son’s shoulder.
“But I want you!”
“No. I have to stay here. Important white men’s business has been left un’tended. I’ll git that done first, then I’ll meet with your momma and you and Danny.”
“But!”
“What’s in the sky?” I says all sudden like. Momma, Daddy and Jackson all turn to me.
“No one knows,” Daddy replies, and kisses Momma goodbye. He kisses Jackson. He rubs his cheek.
“Take care of your momma and brother for me, okay? Promise me you’ll do that.”
“I—I promise, Daddy.”
Daddy turns to me.
“Danny,” he whispers into my ear. “Stay close to your momma.”
I can smell whiskey on his breath. He never drinks whiskey.
I nod and look into his eyes. I hug him for the last time. Daddy gives Momma some things:
Four, whole, shiny dollars.
A basket.
And a knife, sharp and glinting all over the place in the moonlight. I give Jackson another confused look.
Daddy holds the knife a second longer, watching it gleam. He looks out through the house window and stares at the fire in the sky.
“Be careful,” he says into Momma’s ear. “Keep the children safe. I’ll be with you tomorrow evening.”
“I can’t do this, Paul,” Momma stutters, trying to lower her voice. “I need you to come with—”
“No. Not now. Take the kids. Walk to the towns. Find the inn where white people sleep. Git some food and all of the medicine you can. Break windows. Have Jackson and Danny help you. Stay alive.”
“Paul,” Momma says, shaking her head. “No. I can’t do this.”
“Yes, you can,” Daddy mutters, looking over at me and Jackson. I frown and feel Jackson’s shadow crawling along the floor like a spider.
“I’ll be with you as soon as I can. If there are any troubles, hide as quick as you can, you hear?”
“Paul, please!”
“Go. Now. Run! You know what happens when it’s daytime! Go! Danny and Jackson, gather everything you can carry and help your momma out. I’ll be with you tomorrow night.”
I start to cry.
“Daddy!”
The fire in the sky glows brighter every second as daytime approaches. Momma and Daddy, every day from 6 in the mornin to 8 in the ev’nun close and lock all the doors. They shut the windows.
We have to hide and not make a sound, or else they’ll catch us.
I don’t know what they are.
But they ain’t friendly and they like to hurt people.

-

I glance at Daddy once more, later, after I’d packed all my bags. He stood at the door, shooing us off into the distance. There are tears down Momma’s face.
“Don’t cry,” Jackson whispers, taking Momma’s frail arm. She tries hard not to.
Daddy calls out, “Be safe!” once more.
No one replies. Not even me. I know I should’ve. I wanted to go hug Daddy once more, but Momma wouldn’t let me.
“No one is to go anywhere alone, you understand?”
“Yes’m,” Jackson and I reply.
“We’re all going to stick together until your father is done with the white men’s business. And then we’re going to walk a long ways. That’s the plan, alright?”
“Yes’m,” Jackson and I reply.
The fire in the sky cackles overhead.

I feel so sorry for the poor little ebonic boy and I don't even know his name. *checks* Danny. Poor Danny.

I'm certainly intrigued. I want to know what the big scary fire is and what it's doing up in the sky.

Is it an alien ship? Is it a nuclear bomb going off in the atmosphere? Is it a solar flare freaking out in the atmosphere? Is it fireworks?

It would serve as a stupendous intro to some kind of disaster story/massive-monster story/cool story.

So keep writing. I want to know what happens to Brar' Danny, Jacksin, Mammy, and Diddy too.

I will also make the request that you refrain from using the accursed apostrophe to accent the accents. By use of poignant vocabulary and thought processes as well as certain grammatical effects, you can convey as sense of race and accent. So keep the phrases like "Swallowed up the stars and the sky like a bigole fat, white man." and ditch the endless apostrophes.

I think endless apostrophes are why it's so hard for me to get into fantasy novels. They disrupt my flow.

Dur'Gra'Krakkonkk threw his spear, Dzgur'loth'Onn at Sytt'G'r'w'y's'lykkl'. You know?

I don't know... maybe I'm just incompetent...

So, I’m just going to get to the point of things right now. I was really confused…but only at first because of the writing style. It’s unlikely that something like this would hold up in a full length novel but in the case of a short story being told through the eyes of a young narrator, it’s effective. It just takes some adjusting to get used to.

“Who’ll git us, Daddy?” Jackson asks. He’s older than me by two years and two months. Maybe that’s why Mommy’s holdin’ onto his hand. She loves him more than me, ‘cause he’s older. She’s spent more time with him.

I’ve got to say, I adore this chunk. It reveals a lot of those childish insecurities that we hold when we’re kids. Or if you’re me up until you’re fifteen.

I’m not sure what runs through his smart head of his.

I know that the style of writing is…well…funny but I think that the first “his” should probably be changed to “that.”

But to be honest, I couldn’t find anything else that was wrong with it. Yeah, sure, the apostrophes can be a little distracting, but once you become accustomed to it, its not so bad. Honestly, the only big problem I saw was that it sort of tapered out at the end. If you’re going to start with it, finish it.

Anyway, I would love to read more so please update soon.

Well, BigBadBear, here is my review.

I have to say that I did like this story. While I usually don't like things written in dialect, there was enough of a story behind this to make that a negligible factor. You had very well developed characters for so short of a story, which is often hard to do. Very good.

The only thing I didn't like in this story seemed to be the vagueness concerning the fire in the sky. Does it have form? Does it obscure the sun? And, what does it bring that is so deadly? Of course, that latter part might have to remain vague for the story's sake, but you know what I mean.

All in all, a good story, and one I would read again.

Momma’s out in[s]to[/s] the garden with Jackson watchi' the sky

out in the garden with Jackson, watchin' the sky. As far as dialects go, I've always known the words to be bitten off after the 'n' - and with an apostrophe to boot, never before it at the 'i' like above.

I’m not sure what runs through his smart head of his.

that smart head of his

Then he kisses Jackson. He rubs his cheek.
“Take care of your momma and brother for me, okay? Promise me you’ll do that.”
“I—I promise, Daddy.”
Then he turns to me.

Don't use 'then!' Urgh. I'm so sick of saying this to people. It has absolutely no use in the sentence! It's absolutely pointless

I then hug him for the last time.

and again

He then looks out through the house window and stares at the fire in the sky

.

That's three times and you're outta here! [I've said six times in six days you know. Ugh] And don't even think of saying it's part of the dialect or the character or whatever. There is never a justification for it unless its satirising bad storytelling.

**

Otherwise, this is very well done. Nice tension and dialogue - characters seem a little cliche I think, a little safe - and what's actually happening is never really dealt with; there isn't action, so much as reaction. Which in itself isn't bad, I guess, but it does feel a bit incomplete.

Good job though.

Cheers

Hey there Jared.

There was a fire in the sky.

Big.

Bright.

It swallowed up the stars and heaven like a fat, white man.

Haha, this made my night.

“What’re we gonna do?” I ask very quiet.

Can you find a verb that shows the idea that the narrator spoke very quietly?

Overall impressions:

I'm not entirely sure if I had truly enjoyed this. The piece itself doesn't exactly have much insight to it. It was just basically them gathering everything they need, talking about their plan of action and actually running away from the danger. It's just bare in my opinion.

Is your narrator a young child? If it is, then I think you would be better off writing off in third person. When you are writing in first person, you are effectively locking the reader into the mind of the character and telling the narrative from his/her point of view. If you are telling from a child's point of view, you have to consider the mental capacity of a child. A child normally doesn't have much insight on the world around them so their perspective will be limited.

Now onto the crunch. Your other characters are pretty bland to me in my opinion. There wasn't much characterisation in this piece. All they did was talk about what to do, how to evacuate and where to meet up again. In fact, a good majority of the piece was filled with this dialogue. But as much dialogue there is, it ultimately still portrays the same idea over and over again. Just because you have a lot of dialogue doesn't mean that it's characterisation. You have to use your dialogue for a really specific and insightful purpose. And not even the way that they talk can save you. I was hoping the character's actions would at least help flesh them out a bit, but no, the actions are too tailored to the whole "evacuation" process.

Now you may be wondering as to what is effective characterisation. Personally, I think effective characterisation comes from being able to tailor one convention of characterisation (eg: action, dialogue, thoughts, feelings etc) to an example where 1) The target audience is able to associate with that example due to real life experience 2) It has relevance with one of the themes/ideas that the author is trying to portray in his/her novel and 3) it is insightful and portrays the target group in society fairly, creatively and open for interpretation. Characterisation here was weak because your use of characterisation conventions was all tailored to the evacuation of the family. But is it open for interpretation? Not in this piece, as there is little for the audience to search for in this evacuation process.

Descriptions can also help with characterisation as they give the audience an idea of the character's social status in society, how they behave, what conflicts that they have to confront and their background. I noticed that there was quite a lack of this, so I wasn't able to interpret as to what this family is like. The lack of description also hinders the tension of the piece. It seemed as though the families are the only ones that are evacuating. But what about the others? Aren't they evacuating too? If they are, then you have to show it. You have to consider the effects of society itself when its faced with conflict, not just the narrator and his/her family. It's called having insight on what's happening. You also mentioned something about them being white and so that should go to that particular place. I assume there is some sort of racism in your society, but you never really show that. Also, it seemed as though they didn't really care much about where they live. If I was to evacuate from a place, I know I would be upset because I would no longer have a sense of what home is. This also reduces tension because it seemed as though they don't have an idea of where and what home is. It's like they think they can move into another place after the ordeal is over and continue to live life happily. It isn't as easy as that I'm afraid.

I really want you to read the following piece, not only because the fact that I love this piece, but because it also deals with the main theme of an unnatural event that threatens to destroy society. It's written by a student for an NCEA lv3 (equivalent to AP English) creative writing assessment and it was awarded an excellence level grade (the highest possible grade that can be earned under the educational system in New Zealand. By reading it and studying it carefully, then you will fully understand as to what I've covered in this critique. Enjoy Jared.

[spoiler]Exemplar A: Excellence

One

Nan reckons rain. “Smell it in the air,” she says pulling me close. “See, watch the clouds piling up over there.” She points towards the hills. “Those clouds are full of it.” The air aches around us. It's been four weeks, two days and counting since the skies last opened.

The land is so still and slopes away from us. We're just sitting on the verandah, Nan and I, enjoying the prospect of rain. Across the paddocks the barren land loses itself to the sky. Cattle doze and sheep pull gently at the yellow grass. The heat has induced the growth of gorse thickets and they are now everywhere. From here, my place next to Nan, you can see the road shimmying in the ten a.m. heat. Big, sticky clouds begin to move their way across the plains. I can hardly wait to feel my pores open, receptive to their weight.

From somewhere inside the house the radio plays softly. Emmy must have finally awakened. Two years younger than me, she still lives with Nan and still yearns to get out, to be allowed to thumb her way to Kaikohe for a Saturday night's wandering, or at least to the beach for a day's worth of sunbaking. I see her silhouette drifting aimlessly in the house through the fly screen door. “We're out here,” calls Nan. There's no answer. Nan explains that Emmy's been sulking for days. Something about a boy. But then, everything's about a boy when you're seventeen.

I rest my head on Nan's shoulder. This is as much my place now as it is hers. We sit and reminisce on my childhood here. What she remembers and what I remember is much the same. We bask in the sun, chatting about things. It is only now that I realise just how much I missed being here with her. We eat a late lunch. We chat some more.

I remember cuddling up in this chair with Nan on Sunday mornings. She'd read to me and plait my hair, her fingers dredging it, unplugging any secrets that I may have accumulated over that week. I remember walking to school on bleak mornings, running my hands over and through the gorse thickets that grew along the sides of the roads, all the way to the edge of town, the sting of the nettles on my palms. I remember practising the piano every night for hours the sound reverberating through the house, making the windows rattle.

I stand up after a while and make my way into the kitchen. It's just how it used to be. The lino's coming away from the floor in places and the paint on the walls that we applied four summers ago has begun to peel. I pour myself a glass of lemon and barley from the fridge and stand at the kitchen window to drink it. The clouds have begun to dissipate. I'll be disappointed if it doesn't rain. The land needs it and so do. I wander around, breathing in the familiar aromas. I lean against the radiator. I close my eyes and let my mind drift.

I hear Nan coming in from the verandah. She crosses the hall, her feet dragging on the bare floorboards. I hear her making her way down the passage, close the door to her bedroom and then quiet. I drain the rest of my lemon and barley, tilting my head back to catch the last few drops onto my tongue. I watch the shadows grow longer and thinner as they move their way across the room. The room begins to change colour as the sun begins to recede beneath the hills. White becomes a radiant orange. I remember peeling potatoes in this room in a similar light, Nan humming at the stove.

From somewhere outside a car's horn sounds. I don't move, don't speak, and just let the time move across my shoulders. From somewhere in the shadows Emmy rushes across the doorway. I hear the front door slam as she leaves the house, on her way to god knows where.

Sometime later, the dark drawn close around me. I find myself alone on the verandah. Nan's asleep in bed, Emmy's nowhere to be found. I watch the black clouds pass us by; their hulking shapes ominous on the January sky. Not one drop is spilt. The air is so intense, so heavy, that it is almost unbearable. And so the drought continues. Four weeks, three days now and still counting. I cannot do anything but wait, wait and hope. Hope that the heat will kill us before we kill each other.[/spoiler]

And here is the link: http://www.tki.org.nz/r/ncea/eng3_1Bv2_25jan06.doc

Scroll down to see the comments that are made on each piece. You will also see other pieces for the assessment, but they've gotten lower grades because of the flaws identified in the comment boxes.

Anyways, I believe that you are one of the better writers on the site Jared, which is the reason why I made such an effort in writing up this critique. I hope that it has helped you out and I wish you good luck.

Andy.

P.S: You are also the lucky person to be getting my 666th post lol.

hmmm i enjoy many parts and expressions in this story...

except

It swallowed up the stars and heaven like a fat, white man.

now i love the fat white man bit, we all know most if not all white guys ArE fat, but the first bit...im not sure if you meant it this way... that is, the heaven where god and jesus and their army of dinasours live... which is heaven, without the 's'... but otherwise.. if you ment it like the sky and space in general... thats the heavenS... and personally, i think it sounds better with, ate up the stars and heavens like... agree? good.

Let me say this first: I hate works of science fiction... usually.
Except for this, which is, in my opinion super in an epicly awesome sort of way.

Basically the only thing that bothered me was the fact that, in a few places, you slipped up on time tenses, switching from present tense to past tense.
fix em?

I did enjoy it though. You should most definitely expand upon this and write a real ending so I know what goes on, yeah?
yeah.