Young Writers Society

Previously explained in the story - Tommy is a prisoner of war from Reading, England, which is invaded by Lachonton and Naracima forces, who spark the more foul moraled side of a worldwide war

TOMMY GREENE: PRISONER 89067

The jail door slammed shut with a bang that resounded around the colossal prison. A couple of bodies stirred and a few eyes flickered open, but the boys mainly continued to sleep. Far below, about nine levels down, a boy was screeching; his voice had become distant and hoarse, though, and he was paid just as much attention as faint static or a distant hum. The living conditions were atrocious – boys slept on the cold, dirt floor, grouped together in the corner. Actually, only the lower levels bore such accommodations – up above the dirt turned to steel and many cells bore cold breezes from some corner that ran sharp winter chills through the air.

Tommy Greene was on the tenth floor – the highest floor in the Lachonton Boy War Prison. A drip fell onto the floor in his cell, in which was formed a puddle and sounded a chiming echo, without rhythm or tune. The annoyance at the leak buzzed within the ten-year-old’s mind. His eyes were squeezed shut – dripping down his face was a dirty and used bathwater. They had washed him of the chemicals he had obtained in his skin from the attack in Reading, but that, they claimed, would be his last bath.

Ever.

Dressing in the ragged and ripped shirt and pants from someone former boy, he looked a far cry from the average well-fed English boy. His middle still did not bear his ribcage, but hunger scraped at the edges of his stomach. He had not eaten in the three days it had taken for him to travel, hands chained together and bound in the back of a truck, and then to the airport where he flew to Lachonton and it’s prisons. He had spoken only once, and it was to ask for food. He bore a black eye that responded to that request.

Cautiously, timorously, Tommy began to move forward to the small lump in the corner. He saw that there was a collection of five boys – none of them had been on the truck with him and he was sure that none were from his country. Freezing and desperate, he seated himself next to the boys, edging over every few seconds. When his cold hands brushed the cold cheek of a tall, gangly boy, his eyes flickered open.

“S-sorry,” Tommy muttered, edging away. The boy’s hand reached out and firmly grasped his wrist for a few seconds. He gazed into Tommy’s eyes, his face concentrated and strict, darkened in the shadows. For a second Tommy thought he saw a flicker of emotion, but it was false. The boy had reddened whiplashes across his wrists and was tight-lipped.

“Shut up,” the boy said in perfect English. His accent was different, though – he spoke as fast as he could, running his words together and sharpening his vowels to the point of harshness. “You don’t want to be heard.”

“The soldiers?” Tommy whispered, still throwing occasional glances at his wrist, where the boy tightened his grip.

“No,” the boy spat. He was chewing on his tongue. Looking around and finally removing his hand from Tommy’s wrist, he gestured around them. “The boys. The boys’ll kill you if they hear you talking. Ruins their sleep, you see? Scream boy down there,” the boy pointed down, “ain’t screaming because he’s sad no more. They brought him in a week ago and he started crying for his momma the first day. And the second day. Halfway through the third day, some hardcore gang ‘bout here decided to rip his god-forsaken eyes out. I reckon they shoulda ripped his vocal cords out, but nothin’ turns out right if you don’t do it yourself.”

Tommy gulped and nodded. “You won’t…uh…”

“Do anything to you? Nah, nah. I never get any sleep anyway.”

An awkward silence filled the air between them.

“You don’t…uh…snore, do you?” Tommy asked, his voice soft and clipped. The boy shook his head and smiled. The smile was cold and heartless, and Tommy knew exactly what it implied. Thanking the heavens for the fact that he, himself, did not snore when he was sleeping, Tommy edged forward to the ground of boys.

He laid down and closed his eyes, but every time the guards stomped by or the boy down on the first level relapsed into screaming, his eyes flickered open and he twitched against the English-speaking boy’s back. Eventually he kept his eyes open to the stinging air and watched the guard’s feet patrol the level. When the guard’s foot dropped, Tommy blinked back the dryness and slipped farther into exhaustion, which was haunted by the mind’s insistence on remaining awake.

Just as he was finally slipping off to sleep, the English-speaking boy spoke to him again.

“My name’s Jon. I’m from Naracima. I saw you come in with the English bus – don’t hate me for what my country’s done, though…it’s not my fault…I don’t agree with them at all…”

Tommy, barely listening to the words Jon has spoken, muttered “okay” and faded into restless and distorted sleep.

Theres a lot of good work in this. You make good usage of descriptions and such. But I can't grasp the idea behind it. Why is this 10 year old a prisoner of war? Was he a solder? I don't quite understand that.

"A drip fell onto the floor in his cell, in which was formed a puddle" The puddle formed in the drip? I think you want that the other way around.

"from someone former boy"
I think you mean 'from some farmer boy"

This story doesn't do much to pul me in from the start. It just kind of starts going with no real introduction as to what we're heading into.

Other than that Its all well and good.

It is spelled "excerpt", not "excert".

Overall, it's okay. Not terribly remarkable. My largest concern (if I were you) would be developing sympathy for the boy. Right now, as a reader, I simply do not care about him. I just don't.