Young Writers Society

Prologue
“But, are you sure that there is absolutely nothing you can do for him?”
“Positive, ma’am. I am deeply sorry, but the fever is incredibly high an’ won’t come down, an’ it’s impossible for him to stay conscious for longer than an hour with his conditions. I’ve done everything I can for him. He’s in God’s hands now.”
“How long do you think he has?”
“If he can’t pull himself out of this illness, he has three months at the most.”
A soft sob was the only answer as a troubled middle-aged woman turned to her husband and buried her face into his broad chest. He wrapped his arms around her as her sorrow pulsed through her body in heavy waves of cries.
The husband gave a curt nod to the doctor. “Thank you.”
The man bowed slightly, his white coat breezing about his body like a careless, oblivious animal. He tightened the grip on his black medical bag in his right hand and turned away, showing himself to the door.
“So, he’s not going to—” the mother broke off, another sob capturing her before she could finish her sentence. Her husband held her close to his body, swaying her gently in his arms like a mother to a fussing child. His eyes flowed up to rest on the seventeen year old boy that was their concern. His face was streaked with sweat, but his teeth chattered as if he were freezing. Three heavy blankets were placed over his frail body, but they weren’t helping.
“He said that that was only true if he didn’t pull himself out of this,” the husband tried to assure his weeping wife. “We just need to have hope. Are you going to stay at his side again tonight?”
“I can’t leave my baby!” the woman snapped incredulously. “What if he wakes and is in need? I can’t risk him being alone.”
The adult male looked down at his lover. Oh, how she had lost her vibrant glow. The stress of their boy’s illness had brought her down to a mere shell of her former beauty. Her brunette hair had become close to straw, with deep violet scores beneath her pale blue eyes from neglecting her sleep. She looked almost as bad as the ill boy himself!
“You sleep in the bedroom tonight, dear,” he told her gently. “I will stay with our son.” She seemed to want to object to the matter, but she was soon being ushered down the hallway by her husband.
After she was put in the bedroom, the tall male turned and slowly brought himself back to the doorway of his son’s bedroom.
And as his gaze fell upon the boy’s body, his heavy lids opened slowly as he regained consciousness. Without moving in the slightest, his young sight hit his father’s, and it was surprisingly startling to the older man.
“Father…”
The boy’s guardian quickly brought himself to the bedside, kneeling down to be closer to the ill one. “I’m here, Jacoby.”
“Mother?” Jacoby questioned, his gaze filtering through the room in search of the stressed woman.
“She is in bed, my son,” Jacoby’s father assured him. He gently stroked one of his exposed hands, feeling the sweat now as a natural presence. “I will be here for you tonight. Can I get you anything?”
The boy cleared his throat, causing a painfully wet sound to bubble from below his collarbone. “Water would be nice,” he managed, still attempting to clear the mucus from his throat. His father instantly got up, making a break for the kitchen. His hand trailed over the smooth surface of the walls, having so much practice going up and down the stairs for this type of issue. Entering the tile-floored room, he yanked a glass from one of the cupboards and held it beneath the faucet. Extending his free hand, he touched his index finger to the tap, and it sprang to life, filling the cup with frigid water until the finger was removed.
Returning to his son’s side once more, he watched silently as the boy downed the water like an animal once known as a fish before they were wiped clean from the planet. They swam in the water and drank it, as if there wasn’t a care in the world. The father figure had always wanted to see one, but they were forever to be gone now.
“Time o’ death yet?” the teenager suddenly asked.
“No, sir. Not today.” He had heard this question for the past two weeks of his son’s illness. Jacoby was so confident that he was going to perish that he had already set the year date of his death: 3073; this year.
“Oh, not today. What did the doctor say?”
The father started. Neither guardian had told the sick boy about the doctor, nor was he awake during the visit. “What do you mean?” he asked stupidly.
Jacoby rolled his eyes, which were bloodshot from his fretful nights. “The doctor that was in here poking at me, Father; I could feel his hands under my shirt with that stethoscope. What did he tell you and Mother about my illness?” His patience seemed to be thinning rather quickly.
His father frowned. Jacoby had been unconscious throughout the whole visit. He couldn’t have known that the medic had been here. “He said very little, my boy. But, he can do nothing for you. You’re fever will not come down and you’re getting weaker.”
Jacoby looked down at the glass in his hands. “Oh,” he murmured quietly. “So, I am really going to die?” He looked up at his father hopefully, his eyes filling up with liquid.
“No!” his father exclaimed quietly. “You are not going to die. Not while I’m here. Those doctors-” he gestured out to where there was a hospital a few miles out with a huge sweep of his mighty arms “-they don’t know anything! You can pull through this.”
Jacoby sniffled. “But, Father, what do I do?”
The burly man placed his hands on his son’s shoulders. “You hold on for dear life, and never let go. Do you understand me, boy?”
Jacoby nodded his head slowly.
“Words, my son; use words.”
Jacoby swallowed. “Yes, sir. I understand.”
His father smiled through his neatly trimmed facial hair. “Good to hear,” he said. “Alright, I want you to use the bathroom before you pass out again.”
With very little effort, the man lifted his grown son’s thinned body from the confines of his blankets and sheets. Jacoby laced his hands around his father’s neck for security, relaxing against the large man’s chest.
After bathroom tasks were finished, Jacoby’s father placed him back into his bed, covering him with the still-warm covers.
“Alright, you get some sleep, my son. I will be here when you awake.” The muscular man placed a gentle kiss to the ill boy’s forehead.
“Goodnight, Father,” Jacoby responded, his words already slurring as his hour drew to a close. His eyelids closed over his dull gray eyes, and he plummeted down into the deathly-tight hold of sleep like a rock thrown into a river.
Splash.

Prologue
“But, are you sure that there is absolutely nothing you can do for him?”
“Positive, ma’am. I am deeply sorry, but the fever is incredibly high an’ won’t come down, an’ it’s impossible for him to stay conscious for longer than an hour with his conditions. I’ve done everything I can for him. He’s in God’s hands now.”
“How long do you think he has?”
“If he can’t pull himself out of this illness, he has three months at the most.”
A soft sob was the only answer as a troubled middle-aged woman turned to her husband and buried her face into his broad chest. He wrapped his arms around her as her sorrow pulsed through her body in heavy waves of cries.
The husband gave a curt nod to the doctor. “Thank you.”
The man bowed slightly, his white coat breezing about his body like a careless, oblivious animal. He tightened the grip on his black medical bag in his right hand and turned away, showing himself to the door.
“So, he’s not going to—” the mother broke off, another sob capturing her before she could finish her sentence. Her husband held her close to his body, swaying her gently in his arms like a mother to a fussing child. His eyes flowed up to rest on the seventeen year old boy that was their concern. His face was streaked with sweat, but his teeth chattered as if he were freezing. Three heavy blankets were placed over his frail body, but they weren’t helping.
“He said that that was only true if he didn’t pull himself out of this,” the husband tried to assure his weeping wife. “We just need to have hope. Are you going to stay at his side again tonight?”
“I can’t leave my baby!” the woman snapped incredulously. “What if he wakes and is in need? I can’t risk him being alone.” OK, dialogue. I've never heard any overwhelmed woman speak like that. Actually, I've never heard anyone speak like that. Dialogue has to be believable and reflect the character's personality, and sound like speech in the decade.
The adult male looked down at his lover. Oh, how she had lost her vibrant glow. The stress of their boy’s illness had brought her down to a mere shell of her former beauty. Her brunette hair had become close to straw, with deep violet scores beneath her pale blue eyes from neglecting her sleep. She looked almost as bad as the ill boy himself!
“You sleep in the bedroom tonight, dear,” he told her gently. “I will stay with our son.” She seemed to want to object to the matter, but she was soon being ushered down the hallway by her husband.
After she was put in the bedroom, the tall male turned and slowly brought himself back to the doorway of his son’s bedroom. The 'male' is now getting a little repetitive.
And as his gaze fell upon the boy’s body, his heavy lids opened slowly as he regained consciousness. Without moving in the slightest, his young sight hit his father’s, and it was surprisingly startling to the older man.
“Father…”
The boy’s guardian quickly brought himself to the bedside, kneeling down to be closer to the ill one. “I’m here, Jacoby.”
“Mother?” Jacoby questioned, his gaze filtering through the room in search of the stressed woman.
“She is in bed, my son,” Jacoby’s father assured him. He gently stroked one of his exposed hands, feeling the sweat now as a natural presence. “I will be here for you tonight. Can I get you anything?”
The boy cleared his throat, causing a painfully wet sound to bubble from below his collarbone. “Water would be nice,” he managed, still attempting to clear the mucus from his throat. His father instantly got up, making a break for the kitchen. His hand trailed over the smooth surface of the walls, having so much practice going up and down the stairs for this type of issue. Entering the tile-floored room, he yanked a glass from one of the cupboards and held it beneath the faucet. Extending his free hand, he touched his index finger to the tap, and it sprang to life, filling the cup with frigid water until the finger was removed.
Returning to his son’s side once more, he watched silently as the boy downed the water like an animal once known as a fish before they were wiped clean from the planet. They swam in the water and drank it, as if there wasn’t a care in the world. The father figure had always wanted to see one, but they were forever to be gone now.
“Time o’ death yet?” the teenager suddenly asked.
“No, sir. Not today.” He had heard this question for the past two weeks of his son’s illness. Jacoby was so confident that he was going to perish that he had already set the year date of his death: 3073; this year.
“Oh, not today. What did the doctor say?”
The father started. Neither guardian had told the sick boy about the doctor, nor was he awake during the visit. “What do you mean?” he asked stupidly.
Jacoby rolled his eyes, which were bloodshot from his fretful nights. “The doctor that was in here poking at me, Father; I could feel his hands under my shirt with that stethoscope. What did he tell you and Mother about my illness?” His patience seemed to be thinning rather quickly.
His father frowned. Jacoby had been unconscious throughout the whole visit. He couldn’t have known that the medic had been here. “He said very little, my boy. But, he can do nothing for you. You’re fever will not come down and you’re getting weaker.”
Jacoby looked down at the glass in his hands. “Oh,” he murmured quietly. “So, I am really going to die?” He looked up at his father hopefully, his eyes filling up with liquid.
“No!” his father exclaimed quietly. “You are not going to die. Not while I’m here. Those doctors-” he gestured out to where there was a hospital a few miles out with a huge sweep of his mighty arms “-they don’t know anything! You can pull through this.”
Jacoby sniffled. “But, Father, what do I do?”
The burly man placed his hands on his son’s shoulders. “You hold on for dear life, and never let go. Do you understand me, boy?”
Jacoby nodded his head slowly.
“Words, my son; use words.”
Jacoby swallowed. “Yes, sir. I understand.”
His father smiled through his neatly trimmed facial hair. “Good to hear,” he said. “Alright, I want you to use the bathroom before you pass out again.”
With very little effort, the man lifted his grown son’s thinned body from the confines of his blankets and sheets. Jacoby laced his hands around his father’s neck for security, relaxing against the large man’s chest.
After bathroom tasks were finished, Jacoby’s father placed him back into his bed, covering him with the still-warm covers.
“Alright, you get some sleep, my son. I will be here when you awake.” The muscular man placed a gentle kiss to the ill boy’s forehead.
“Goodnight, Father,” Jacoby responded, his words already slurring as his hour drew to a close. His eyelids closed over his dull gray eyes, and he plummeted down into the deathly-tight hold of sleep like a rock thrown into a river.
Splash.

Okay, I shall be your reviewer today. (Even if you're better than me!) Anyway, obviously, I don't have many nitpicks, considering I only wrote one thing in your quote. But I'm not too sure if that was even needed, considering I don't know much about the setting, except the year. There were some things about the way people acted that doesn't seem to fit in my logical thinking. If we talk like we do now, in 2000, wouldn't in 3000 our talking become more modern instead of becoming more formal? And wouldn't they have a cure for a simple fever in a few hundred years? Or is it more than a fever? If it is, try making sure we learn more about his illness in the story.

Your grammar and word choice is excellent, really not much to critique there. Though you seem to refuse using people's names almost.

Overall, great story, I want to know what the actual plot is now, if he lives, et cetera. I can't stop reading this. Very good! Keep writing!

(Oh, and normally we use two enters for paragraphs, just to organize better:
blah

blah)

Hi there,

Oh my goodness! This is so sad and I read through, hoping that we would find out whether he lives at the end, but you didn't say, so you better make another chapter to this story, if you value your life. >:(

There isn't much to say. It was gripping from the beginning, full of emotion, and so on and so on. I agree with the previous reviewer about word choice during conversations. How the people were talking seemed formal and kind of old fashioned, and I thought at the beginning that it was a story from the past, not far into the future.

I must say that I really like the name Jacoby. I mostly like it because it's the name of one of my favorite singers, but I still love it. XD

Anyway, PM me with any questions, or to let me know when (and not if) the next part comes out~~

Put spaces in between paragraphs. It makes it much easier to read.

The adult male looked down at his lover.

This is kind of over doing it.

the tall male turned and slowly brought himself back to the doorway of his son’s bedroom.

We know the person's gender, don't need to keep saying it.

“No, sir. Not today.” He had heard this question for the past two weeks of his son’s illness. Jacoby was so confident that he was going to perish that he had already set the year date of his death: 3073; this year.
“Oh, not today. What did the doctor say?”
The father started. Neither guardian had told the sick boy about the doctor, nor was he awake during the visit. “What do you mean?” he asked stupidly.
Jacoby rolled his eyes, which were bloodshot from his fretful nights. “The doctor that was in here poking at me, Father; I could feel his hands under my shirt with that stethoscope.

Unless we never advanced, I doubt in the year 3073 that the doctor would use a stethoscope. I'm sure he would have something more advanced than that.

His father smiled through his neatly trimmed facial hair. “Good to hear,” he said. “Alright, I want you to use the bathroom before you pass out again.”

If he is unconscious as long as he is, the doctors would use catheters. Catheters are tubes they stick up the urethra to bypass the muscle that lets everything out, and the tube drains away the urine into a bag. It's much easier to do than having him get up when he's conscious to go to the bathroom. Plus, he will have no control over his bladder while unconscious.

Overall: It's actually decent. Better than most of the stuff I find on here. Though I would suggest maybe describing the scenery a little bit. Are they in a hospital room or are they at their home? I wasn't really sure on this. Also, it's good that you're trying to avoid using words over and over, but you are kind of over doing it, especially when you were using "male" and "adult male". Anways, if you need any help or would like a review, feel free to PM me here on YWS.

Signed,
Lethero the Werewolf