Young Writers Society

Entry VII – February 24th 1949

Edited Version:

A filthy shovel was slung at my feet. It thudded to the ground; sent a sharp clang echoing through the sodden earth.

A glimmer of sunshine peeped from behind a mass of indigo snow-clouds. I squinted below.

‘Beest rayeh!’ bawled a young Russian guard. Hurry up.

Ten minutes earlier, the throng of women had been separated into six groups of five. New officers had come on shift to keep a close eye on each unit. Assigned to our grouping was the young man stood before me. He possessed somewhat girlish features: a slight nose, rounded lips, and an oval face. He was most definitely younger than I; perceivably only seventeen or eighteen.
I scrambled for the handle of the shovel. It was chillingly cold; stung the calluses upon my palms. I shot a brief glance behind, watched as the strangers with whom I was working hauled their shovels and begun plunging them into the solid ground. I followed suit, summoning all the vigour my muscles had stored up, and began to dig.

Nausea seized my stomach. A moment later, I swallowed back down a gut-full of bile.

I could tell that the other women’s minds were troubled by the horrifying, sickening question plaguing my own.

Were we digging our own graves?
*
We ploughed the concrete soil until our hands blend and sweat was gushing off our bodies. It was so unnatural, considering that our extremities were numb and our faces stung stiff with the slaps of bitter wind.

We finished digging at about eleven o’ clock, I think. We had no way to keep time. The last hour, or maybe two, dragged on. I kept looking over for a nod or a signal from the Guard to indicate that we could finish. Desperation throbbed angrily at my heart. I felt tears welling up in my eyes. My thighs ached and my back was crippled and I was felling physically sick with hunger.
Then relief came. In a deep, sultry tone of voice, the Soviet Guard growled: ‘Trans.’ Go. Everything inside of me leapt.

My fellow team-mates and I separated, quietly wishing one-another goodnight. The night air was cold; the aura eerie, and so I ran back to the shack as fast as my blistered feet would take me.

When I arrived back, I found the door ajar. If Nikola and Hannah were home, they wouldn’t have wanted the cold drafting inside. My stomach sank with dread.

I inhaled deeply, trying to calm the thudding deep within my chest. I padded closer, and peered in through the crack of the doorway. It took my eyes a moment to adjust to the dim lighting.

I almost laughed when I realised what I was staring so intently at. It was a child: a boy, probably no older that six or seven.

I breathed a sigh of relief. Still a little hesitant, I pushed open the door. It gave way to a long, eerie creak.

The child panicked. As he scrambled to his feet, he whacked his leg against the wood of the empty bedside table. He cursed. Ashamed and embarrassed, nursing his shin, he stared up at me. His gaze was cold, piercing; epitomised a lack of innocence. His cheeks were sallow; cavernous. His eyes were deeply set, and his brow-bone protruded. He was skeletal; he was dying.

Horror burned throughout my body as realisation dawned. He’d been scavenging for food.

‘How old are you?’ I asked, my voice a hoarse whisper.

A squeak emerged from his mouth. ‘Thirteen.’

My knees gave way, and I slumped to the cold stone floor. My limbs were paralysed with shock. It hit me hard. He was a teenager, and had the physique like a little child. He was starving to death.

And so would we.

Hi Amelia!

Side note before I begin: you accidentally posted this chapter twice, so I deleted the unliked chapter for you. ^_^

A filthy shovel was slung at my feet.

I feel like this is passive voice. I’m not sure if it, but it feels passive. Maybe try adding in a person with the action? Like, They flung a filthy shovel at my feet, It feels more direct and powerful that way.

It thudded to the ground; sent a sharp clang rippling through the sodden earth.

The semi-colon’s wrong here. You could change it to a comma, but I think it would make you first sentence stronger to have this one run smooth without the caesura that the comma would give you. So, It thudded to the ground and sent a sharp clang rippling through the sodden earth.

‘Beest rayeh!’ balled a young Russian guard.

Should be bawled.

The irritatingly repetitive phrase allegedly meant “hurry up” in Russian. He seemingly lacked any sort of grasp of the German language.

“Irritating” sounds far too mild. I find a fly in the room irritating. A Russian guard yelling at me is more worrying than a fly in the room. I think you could show your character’s knowledge in a more subtle way as well—like, ‘Beest rayeh!’ bawled a young Russian guard. Hurry up. I don’t know, maybe it’s okay as it is.

I have decided that he shall be known as “Pretty-Boy”.

Tense change?

Assigned to our grouping was the young man stood before me.

Should either be the young man who stood before me or the young man standing before me.

It stung the calluses dressing my palms.

Not sure “dressing” is the right verb here. Maybe something simpler like “covering” would be better. This is a stark image, and covering it up with imagery weakens it.

I could tell that the other women’s minds were troubled by the horrifying, sickening question plaguing my own.

Were we digging our own graves?

With hindsight, this is a reasonable assumption, but I’m not sure it’s logical for one in that time. If there’s been previous hints about this, then ignore me.

We ploughed the concrete soil until our hands blend and sweat was gushing off our bodies. It was a rather unnatural occurrence, considering that our extremities were numb; frozen, and our faces stung stiff with the slaps of bitter wind.

It was terrifyingly black when we flung our shovels to the ground and trudged exhaustedly to our shacks. We finished digging at eleven o’ clock; an unearthly time.

The last few hours of our labour dragged. Fortunately, Pretty-Boy felt sound asleep by half-past ten, and so we were able to slow our pace a little. The triumphant, simultaneous clang of our metal shovels woke him with a start. We tittered silently as he sprung from his spot, surrounded by stubbed-out cigarettes and a half-drunk bottle of vodka.

‘Move!’ he screamed. The pride of fulfilling his duty to stay awake was clearly in tatters.
His tone was aggressive. Our crooked backs snapped straight, and we obeyed at once, slowly backing away. He scrambled for his gun, and clutched it fiercely; protectively. Pretty-boy thrust the barrel forward. Our tired feet sprung back into action, and we sprinted away.

There’s not a huge load of emotion here. Apart from the bolded sentence, which is very good indeed, showing and not telling, the rest feels kind of bland—and casual. You use words like “triumphant” and “rather”. I don’t want hedges like “rather” and “maybe” that soften the language, I want a definite image of how harsh and brutal these conditions are. I’ve italicised the main points in this extract where your prose feels weak.

In the same split second, a hostile clash of metal and stone echoed through the tiny shack.

You’ve done a lot of building up to this moment, and you don’t get to it quick enough. It feels like you’re tripping over your feet trying to get to it in a sudden way, but just get to it! The sentences before this were building up the tension; this sentence’s purpose is to fling the action in our faces. Either cut out the bolded bit, or tweak it smaller.

A petite, hooded figure was squatting – cowering – over our small, wooden table.

Same thing here. Just tell me, don’t hedge.

A puddle of rippling water had pooled in a dip in the concrete from where the tin cup had been knocked.

Ending’s a bit awkward. Try ...pooled in a dip in the concrete from the upturned tin cup. Something like that, anyway. Try and be direct.

The person bundled within the cloak was a youth, who had clearly just wet himself.

I sighed deeply. I was embarrassed for the little mite.

Earlier you described this new person as “petite” which is always used to describe small women, so I was expecting a woman. Similarly, “youth” means a young man, like a teenager, whereas “little mite” means child.

The youth slowly turned his head. It was a boy.

You say “he was a boy” like it’s something new, but I thought you’d already told us this?

His gaze was cold, piercing; epitomised a lack of innocence. His cheeks were sallow; cavernous.

I’m dodgy on semi-colons because everyone seems to use them differently, but I’m pretty sure these are wrong and should be commas.

The lad was, judging by the maturity of his features, clearly a teenager, and yet, going by his physique, appeared not a day older than seven or eight.

The cold fact-of-the-matter hit me hard, and alarm-bells began pounding in my skull. My empty stomach growled viciously.

The boy was starving to death. And so would we.

I’m not sure this follows. I guess it depends on how long he’s been in here, but if you look at pictures of POW prisoners, they’re skeletal, but they’re distorted as well. It’s not like they’ve shrunk. However, I don’t know much at all about this time period, so feel free to ignore me.

‘How old are you?’ I managed to spit out.

Spitting something out makes it sound like she’s angry. Venomous, you know?


---
Yo! You write well, and it would sound a bit weird to say that I enjoyed this, considering the subject matter, but—you know what I mean, right?

Most of the things I pointed out were wording issues, because I’m picky about those. I’ve always had books read out loud to me, so I’m guess I’m conscious of how words sound, not just how they look. Anyway, I think reading stuff aloud would help you avoid choppy wording. There was emotion in the ending—it was just that section in the beginning that it felt bland.

Perhaps an overall caveat would be about being direct. You’ve got serious subject matter here, so I feel like the language shouldn’t dance around that, it should come straight out and say it, and sometimes it was like you were tangling up the message and meaning with too many words.

I hope this makes sense. >_< If it doesn’t, then just Wall or PM me.

-twit

Heya,
This was really good... If that's the right word! I loved the title it drew me in. You need to work on you're grammar and punctuation before you post things it really takes away from the story but overall I thought it was pretty great. The amount of feeling that needs to go into a holocaust is a hell of a lot and you had some. I thought it was good!
Love,
Evenslilyx

Assigned to our grouping was the young man was stood before me. He possessed somewhat girlish features: a slight nose, rounded lips, and an oval face.

It was chillingly cold and stung the calluses upon my palms.

We ploughed the concrete-like soil until our hands bled and sweat was gushing off our bodies.

The last hour, or maybe two, dragged on. I kept looking over for a nod or a signal from the guard to indicate that we could finish.

In a deep, sultry tone of voice, the Soviet guard growled: ‘Trans.’

Everything inside of me leapt.

This sentence is a little weird if you don't pair it with emotion (i.e. 'Everything inside of me leapt with joy.').

My fellow team-mates and I separated, quietly wishing one another goodnight.

The night air was cold; the aura eerie, and so I ran back to the shack as fast as my blistered feet would take me.

I really like this sentence

"How old are you?" I asked, my voice a hoarse whisper.

A squeak emerged from his mouth, "Thirteen."

Wow! Another GREAT chapter!

I can't wait to read what's next! And, I'm SO sorry I couldn't get to this sooner, I know you must hate me... I've been really busy though, starting up school and cross country season...

Anyways, as usual all the things I felt needed to be pointed out are in purple and I think you did an amazing job with this chapter! I love, love, loved it!

Keep writing,
Just