Young Writers Society

Cages line the edges of the clearing behind the auction house. The brutish man leads the crowd of docile families into the center. Lines of the emaciated adoptees file into their own subjected prison cells.

What if I was wrong and this isn’t her? Did I just force dad to allow a criminal into our home? No, no, no! It must be her; right?

The soldier fires his gun into the air, startling the masses into silence. “Follow the signs around the edge to collect your purchase! Level fives will be in the raised cages to your left! Wait for assistance to release your child! I will go in order by level!” he shouts.

It takes a moment for us to register what he says, but through our fearful daze, we move on. Somewhere through my torrent of nerves, I find the strength to shift my weight to mimic a stepping motion.

We’re last. If it’s not Beth, I won’t know until it’s too late. Oh, who am I kidding; it’s already too late. We might as well be roasting over an open fire. Beth must be long dead or far away. The girl I ‘chose’ is just some street-rat cut-throat that will kill us all in our sleep.

My dad has us stand a good ten yards from her cell. The cement ground is stained red from the constant drip up above.

What have they done to her? I don’t care who she really is; what did they do? What could this “Sparrow” have done to deserve this? Even from down on the ground, I can hear her moans; but the saddest part is everyone can hear it too. A few people have wet cheeks, but most look away. What is going on! How can this be happening? Why isn’t anyone doing anything? There is one guard, and what, four hundred people? Why don’t they do something?

The guard has brutally unlocked at least twenty kids; eighty-some to go. The sobbing adults take their new child with welcome arms. The stony-faced heartless folk bully theirs out to the cars.

This is insanity. How long can he drag this out for? I just want to go home and pretend like this isn’t happening. He’s on group three now.

Sparrow’s arm dangles out of the cage and her fingers move with the breeze. Hair completely covers her face and her legs lay splayed about in every direction. But her opposite hand still clutches the bars with a white knuckle grip.

Every other prisoner still in their cage watches her with, is that, hope? Even the other two level fives, in all their tortures look to her. Who is she?

I can’t stand this anymore, I look away. For such a horrible event, the building that houses it is truly exotic. Stained glass windows cover the outside of the stone building. They show pictures of people with gold rings over their heads. Along the edges of the back yard are destroyed remains of statues. On the top of the building is a wooden cross. What it is supposed to be?

May I start with..Oh My Gosh. I had to take a minute to breathe before writing this review. It's a very, very interesting story line and very well written. I feel like I'm acctually in the auction house. When I was reading part two I gasped out loud a couple of times. Alright, on the the review as requested.

Cages line the edges of the clearing behind the auction house. The brutish man leads the crowd of docile families into the center. Lines of the emaciated adoptees file into their own subjected prison cells.

What if I was wrong and this isn’t her? Did I just force dad to allow a criminal into our home? No, no, no! It must be her; right?

The soldier fires his gun into the air, startling the masses into silence. “Follow the signs around the edge to collect your purchase! Level fives will be in the raised cages to your left! Wait for assistance to release your child! I will go in order by level!” he shouts.

It takes a moment for us to register what he says, but through our fearful daze, we move on. Somewhere through my torrent of nerves, I find the strength to shift my weight to mimic a stepping motion. Does this mean she doesn't move? I'm slightly confused here.

We’re last. If it’s not Beth, I won’t know until it’s too late. Oh, who am I kidding; it’s already too late. We might as well be roasting over an open fire. Beth must be long dead or far away. The girl I ‘chose’ is just some street-rat cut-throat that will kill us all in our sleep. She changes moods very fast, in a few minutes she has no clue what the poor girl could have done to deserve it (honestly, I'm wondering too) but here she thinks she's going to get murdered.

My dad has us stand a good ten yards from her cell. The cement ground is stained red from the constant drip up above. This is one of the parts where I gasped.
What have they done to her? I don’t care who she really is; what did they do? What could this “Sparrow” have done to deserve this? Even from down on the ground, I can hear her moans; but the saddest part is everyone can hear it too. A few people have wet cheeks, but most look away. What is going on! How can this be happening? Why isn’t anyone doing anything? There is one guard, and what, four hundred people? Why don’t they do something? Only one guard? Really? Not very believable, sorry.

The guard has brutally unlocked at least twenty kids; eighty-some to go. The sobbing adults take their new child with welcome arms. The stony-faced heartless folk bully theirs out to the cars. Maybe say something more like "Some adults were sobbing and welcoming their new children with open arms, while other were bullying them out to their cars with stony faces."

This is insanity. How long can he drag this out for? I just want to go home and pretend like this isn’t happening. He’s on group three now. How can she go home and pretend it's not happening when going home includes bringing the girl in pain? Maybe rephrase it, like she wished they had never gotten that letter.

Sparrow’s arm dangles out of the cage and her fingers move with the breeze. Hair completely covers her face and her legs lay splayed about in every direction. But her opposite hand still clutches the bars with a white knuckle grip.

Every other prisoner still in their cage watches her with, is that, hope? Even the other two level fives, in all their tortures look to her. Who is she?

I can’t stand this anymore, I look away. For such a horrible event, the building that houses it is truly exotic. Stained glass windows cover the outside of the stone building. They show pictures of people with gold rings over their heads. Along the edges of the back yard are destroyed remains of statues. On the top of the building is a wooden cross. What it is supposed to be?

I had trouble finding those things, honestly. This is amazing. If you keep writing, I'll keep reading.

Rawr! Back again!

The brutish man leads the crowd of docile families into the center.

This might be me, but the adjectives in this sentence kind of choke away any of the suspense for me.

Lines of the emaciated adoptees file into their own subjected prison cells.

Okay... this kind of annoys me. They are described as emaciated and are obviously victims and very weak and vulnerable. Yet, at the same time they're also described as this:

The girl I ‘chose’ is just some street-rat cut-throat that will kill us all in our sleep.

It's kind of inconsistent. You should probably explain this away by saying that there have been stories of these things happening. Maybe when the dad is like, "Heck no!" in the chapter before.

The soldier fires his gun into the air, startling the masses into silence.

Waste of ammunition. Loud speaker would be better. Or, better yet, a mass of guards coming in and surrounding everyone. That might be creepier too.

The guard has brutally unlocked at least twenty kids; eighty-some to go.

Adverb sounds silly.

I can’t stand this anymore, I look away. For such a horrible event, the building that houses it is truly exotic. Stained glass windows cover the outside of the stone building. They show pictures of people with gold rings over their heads. Along the edges of the back yard are destroyed remains of statues. On the top of the building is a wooden cross. What it is supposed to be?

Church!

Onward to part 2... the last part you have posted.

...so far.