Young Writers Society

He was waiting for her in the study, the place of his birth. The last bit of this sentence doesn't flow right. Do I need to know it's where he was born? If you answered kind of or not really to that question, cut it out. I'm also debating if you should change "was waiting" to "waited", but I'm on the fence about it. He stood in front of her desk with his back to the doorway, running a gnarled finger back and forth across the five-toned scale of the miniature wind chimes. And here I was, thinking you'd say across the desk. oo I'm not sure where the wind chimes come from. Might want to mention something about it being on the desk or such. His left fingers twitched nervously about the side of his head, twisting and tugging on the dark hair above his ear. If they twist and tug, they're not really twitching as much as twisting and tugging. oo The sleeves of his ratty jacket rustled with each motion. He always wore that shredded piece of leather – it had become something of a signature. I think you can cut this last sentence out, but it's your call. oo

She wasn't surprised to see him, but nevertheless the sight of him made her tremble. She stood in the doorway, glued to the threshold like a child terrified to enter a dark room for fear of the monsters hidingwithin. She was certain he was aware of her presence; he always was. He was waiting for her, though, to speak. I officially got kind of bored by the end of this paragraph. o.e It's really slow.

“Get out of my head, Daemon,” she called with manufactured strength. He silenced the chimes with the back of his hand but did not turn to face her. His shoulders shook with inaudible laughter. She shifted uneasily in the doorway, her supply of the artificial confidence having run out.

“Come to try again, Charlotte?”

No response. What could she say? He was right. He was always right. She could almost feel his thin, knowing smile at her silence.

“Have a seat.” He stretched forward his right hand, his left still picking at his head, and indicated her desk chair. With a stilted gait, she walked across the room and took her seat, facing him. His face was gaunter than she remembered, his cheeks wide craters in the livid flesh. His eyes had lost their lonely, Double adjectives tend to be annoying and flow-crushing. melancholy expression long ago, replaced by cloudy-blue marbles. He met her gaze and she immediately lowered her head, shaking.

“Please, Daemon,” she whispered, “let me be.” So first I was bored, and then I was hooked. Now I'm feeling as if this is a wee bit overdramatic.

He laughed. It was a brittle, hollow sound as if you could snap it in half like a dead twig. This last part kind of killed the sentence for me. Try to cut it out, or rephrase it. I like the comparison, but it's just so awkward as it stands. He sensed her discomfort, which pulled out further laughter. This sentence I don't like. It's kind of weird. It seemed as if he already knew she was uncomfortable, so why would he sense it again now? o0" Maybe I just misinterpreted the earlier parts. /rambling oo"

“Quit making me laugh, dear. The word dear makes the dialog sound stilted. It gives me a headache,” he said, reaching for the glass of water on the desk.

She stared at the fidgeting left hand ...whose fidgeting left hand, exactly? At first I thought it was some disembodied hand. oo" as he raised the glass to his cracked lips and drained it gulp by gulp.

“What do you want?” she blurted. His lips hinted at a smile, but twisted suddenly in disgust. Suddenly is a difficult word to use, because the fact that you said suddenly already slows it down and makes it anything but sudden. Also, the hinted at a smile thing is weird and kind of out of place there. If you really want to say he was smiling, do so earlier, because if you put it there it seems as if he smiled at what she said, then changed his reaction.

“Your desk is a mess,” he commented, placing the empty glass backon her desk. Word repetition.

It was true, of course. A typewriter occupied the majority of the desktop, surrounded by worthless office toys and cups holding bouquets of pens and dirty dishes from last week’s meals. Only God knew what could have been hiding under the mass of crumpled papers. Keep your tense consistent. Past is past, present is present. I switched it to only God knew because God only knew sounds awkward.

“Fine,” she spat in a sudden wave of rage, rocketing out of her chair. ....This is out of nowhere. A while ago she was meek and terrified of the guy. “You want me to clean my desk? I’ll clean the stupid desk!” She swept her arms wildly across the desk, pushing a waterfall of balled papers over the edge. Let's hit pause. Earlier you said a typewriter occupied the majority of the desk. How could she sweep her arm across the desk if a typewriter was on it? She's smack her arm against it and give herself a bruise. She hit the glass, knocking it over and spilling water across the wooden surface. She threw herself backing into the chair and buried her face in her wet arms. First of all, these last two have very awkward flow. Might want to revise. Second, did she knock the glass on purpose, or while she was sweeping away the paper? I'd like to know. ^^ Lastly, I'm having a hard time imagining her burying her face in her wet arms. Maybe hands, but arms? o0"

He had been observing her calmly and now let out another transparent laugh, despite the pain in his head. I think you can afford to cut out this last bit too. The despite the pain part. It just kills the sentence, in my opinion.

“Why are you doing this to me, Daemon? I know you. This isn’t like you.”

He grinned and plopped himself down in the dusty grey chair by his side. He swung his legs up and planted his heel on the desk, ankles crossed. He overturned a cup of pens, causing them to spill out in the shape of a fan. How can he reach anything on the desk if he's sitting so far from it to rest his heels on it? o0" Anyway, your sentence patterns sound repetitive here. Revise.

“You only know what you wanted me to be. I would like to invite you to get to know me now; I’m much more interesting than I ever was under your pen.”

She clamped down on her lower lip to keep it from trembling, breaking the skin and drawing blood.

And through it all, his left hand still twisted, still pulled, still scratched the dark hair. ...I don't know why, but this sentence is insanely disturbing. oo It makes his left hand seem...I don't know. o.e

“Please stop,” she begged. Ellipses for drama = bad. Also, I'm generally against exclamation points because they tend to be abused. >>" Use them as rarely as you can, so they have maximum impact when you use them. Think maybe five times a novel, the majority of them concentrated in the climax.

He glared at her, not a trace of amusement leftto play on his lips. With tauntingly slow movements, he lowered his feet and stood, plucked a couple of strands of brown hair from his scalp Maybe head? Scalp sounds kind of medical. o0", and sprinkled them onto the typewriter, a mocking gesture. Ewww. >.o"

Avoiding his gaze, she concentrated on the cup, upright and untouched. What cup? She knocked over the glass of water, and he spilled the pencil/pen cup, didn't he?

“You’re here to kill me, aren’t you?” she muttered.

He smiled at her and loomed over the desk. She flinched as his shadow swallowed her.

“I’m not the one with the gun in my desk, Charlotte.”

She forced herself to meet his gaze. The corners of his pallid lips were curled slightly, and for a moment, the dead, milky blue eyes flashed. She understood the command and robotically obeyed.

She removed the gun from the drawer.

“Why, Daemon?” she cried under her breath. He needed no further clarification.

“I spent my life playing the part of the puppet. Now, Charlotte, I’m ready for us to switch roles.” He paused for a moment before adding, “Let’s be sure to make this your last try, shall we?”

She turned the gun over in her hands under his impatient eye.

“Go on,” he murmured.

She didn’t move.

“Just do it,” he hissed, irritation raising his voice.

“I don’t want to.”

“You don’t want to?” He was yelling now. “Did you ever think that maybe I didn’t want to either? You never gave me that option!”

He turned angrily to the side and lowered his hand for the first time, giving her the full impact of the small blossom of dark hair in a field of platinum blonde. ...I don't get it. o0 Why is there a bunch of dark hairs when the rest is platinum blonde? Also, I'd thought his hair was dark all the way through because you mentioned he was dark haired earlier. Might want to clarify that.

She burst into tears and looked away from the hole What hole?, from the foggy blue eyes that used to be such a beautiful shade of brown, from the pale cheeks that used to be so rosy.

“Do it!” he shouted over her head.

She screamed in horror and agony ...This is just kinda funny. It's like he's actually controlling her, but you made it obvious this is psychological bullying/coercion. It might work better if she doesn't scream in agony, IMO. as she positioned the gun to her temple. She gave him one last look through her tears, imploring him for mercy.

But he laughed.

She squeezed her eyes shut, spilling tears down her face. She alternated between sputtered apologies and pleas. Plea, not plead.

“Do it now!”

The crack of the gunshot was beautiful, he thought.

She slumped forward onto the desk. He breathed in the smell of the crimson liquid that spattered her expensive rug and chair. He dipped his fingers in the accumulating pool of blood under her head and painted his smiling lips with it.

His image began to flicker as he soaked his hands in the thick, warm substance. The chronology is weird. He'd already dipped his fingers and painted his lips ,but now he disappears while he was dipping his fingers? o0" Try to clear it up. Did he soak his hands in them again? Anyway, I don't think there'd be so much blood he could *soak* his hands in them. Besides, there's no basin or anything. The room was filled with the sound manic laughter until he vanished completely.

He was waiting for her in the study, the place of his birth. He stood in front of her desk with his back to the doorway, running a gnarled finger back and forth across the five-toned scale of the miniature wind chimes. His left fingers twitched nervously about the side of his head, twisting and tugging on the dark hair above his ear. The sleeves of his ratty jacket rustled with each motion. He always wore that shredded piece of leather – it had become something of a signature.
She was not surprised to see him, but the sight of him nevertheless made her tremble. She stood in the doorway, glued to the threshold like a child terrified to enter a dark room for fear of the monsters hiding within. She was certain he was aware of her presence; he always was. He was waiting for her, though, to speak.
“Get out of my head, Daemon,” she called with manufactured strength. He silenced the chimes with the back of his hand but did not turn to face her. His shoulders shook with inaudible laughter. She shifted uneasily in the doorway, her supply of the artificial confidence having run out.
“Come to try again, Charlotte?”
No response. What could she say? He was right. He was always right. She could almost feel his thin, knowing smile at her silence.
“Have a seat.” He stretched forward his right hand, his left still picking at his head, and indicated her desk chair. With a stilted gait, she walked across the room and took her seat, facing him. His face was gaunter than she remembered I think it would sound better like ‘his gaunt face was paler than she remembered‘ , his cheeks wide craters in the livid flesh. His eyes had lost their lonely, melancholy expression long ago, and were replaced by cloudy blue marbles. replaced by a cloudy-blue marbles. He met her gaze and she immediately lowered her head, shaking.
“Please, Daemon,” she whispered, “let me be.”
He laughed. It was a brittle, hollow sound as if it could be snapped in half just as easily as a dead twig Awesome description!. He sensed her discomfort, which pulled out further laughter.
“Quit making me laugh, dear. It gives me a headache,” he said, reaching for the glass of water on the desk.
She stared at the fidgeting left hand as he raised the glass to his cracked lips and drained it gulp by gulp.
“What do you want?” she blurted. His lips hinted at a smile, but twisted suddenly in disgust.
“Your desk is a mess,” he commented, placing the empty glass back on her desk.
It was true, of course. A typewriter occupied the majority of the desktop, surrounded by worthless office toys and cups holding bouquets of pens I love the ‘bouquets of pens’! I don’t think I’ve ever heard that description before and dirty dishes from last week’s meals. God only knows what could have been hiding under the mass of crumpled papers.
“Fine,” she spat in a sudden wave of rage, rocketing out of her chair. “You want me to clean my desk? I’ll clean the stupid desk!” She swept her arms wildly across the desk, pushing a waterfall of balled paper over the edge. She hit the glass, knocking it over and spilling water across the wooden surface. She threw herself backing into the chair and buried her face in her wet arms.
He had been observing her calmly and now let out another transparent laugh, despite the pain in his head.
“Why are you doing this to me, Daemon? I know you. This isn’t like you.”
He grinned and plopped himself down in the dusty grey chair by his side. He swung his legs up and planted his heel on the desk, ankles crossed. He overturned a cup of pens, causing them to spill out in the shape of a fan.
“You only know what you wanted me to be. I would like to invite you to get to know me now; I’m much more interesting than I ever was under your pen.”
She clamped down on her lower lip to keep it from trembling, breaking the skin and drawing blood.
And through it all, his left hand still twisted, still pulled, still scratched the dark hair.
“Please…stop!” she begged.
He glared at her, not a trace of amusement left to play on his lips. With tauntingly slow movements, he lowered his feet and stood, plucked a couple of strands of brown hair from his scalp, and sprinkled them onto the typewriter, a mocking gesture.
Avoiding his gaze, she concentrated on the cup, upright and untouched.
“You’re here to kill me, aren’t you?” she muttered.
He smiled at her and loomed over the desk. She flinched as his shadow swallowed her. Another awesome description
“I’m not the one with the gun in my desk, Charlotte.”
She forced herself to meet his gaze. The corners of his pallid lips were curled slightly, and for a moment, the dead, milky blue eyes flashed. She understood the command and robotically obeyed.
She removed the gun from the drawer.
“Why, Daemon?” she cried under her breath. He needed no further clarification.
“I spent my life playing the part of the puppet. Now, Charlotte, I’m ready for us to switch roles.” He paused for a moment before adding, “Let’s be sure to make this your last try, shall we?”
She turned the gun over in her hands under his impatient eye.
“Go on,” he murmured.
She didn’t move.
“Just do it,” he hissed, irritation raising his voice.
“I don’t want to.”
“You don’t want to?” He was yelling now. “Did you ever think that maybe I didn’t want to either? You never gave me that option!”
He turned angrily to the side and lowered his hand for the first time, giving her the full impact of the small blossom of dark hair in a field of platinum blonde.
She burst into tears and looked away from the hole, from the foggy blue eyes that used to be such a beautiful shade of brown, from the pale cheeks that used to be so rosy.
“Do it!” he shouted over her head.
She screamed in horror and agony as she positioned the gun to her temple. She gave him one last look through her tears, imploring him for mercy.
But he laughed.
She squeezed her eyes shut, spilling tears down her face. She alternated between sputtered apologies and pleads.
“Do it now!”
The crack of the gunshot was beautiful, he thought.
She slumped forward onto the desk. He breathed in the smell of the crimson liquid that spattered her expensive rug and chair. He dipped his fingers in the accumulating pool of blood under her head and painted his smiling lips with it.
His image began to flicker as he soaked his hands in the thick, warm substance. The room was filled with the sound manic laughter until he vanished completely.

He was waiting for her in the study, the place of his birth.

His left fingers twitched nervously about the side of his head,

her supply of the artificial confidence having run out.

and indicated her desk chair.

lonely, melancholy expression long ago,

God only knows what could have been hiding under the mass of crumpled papers.

he commented, placing the empty glass back on her desk.

She hit the glass, knocking it over and spilling water across the wooden surface.

She threw herself backing into the chair and buried her face in her wet arms.

He had been observing her calmly and now let out another transparent laugh

Avoiding his gaze, she concentrated on the cup, upright and untouched.

glued to the threshold like a child terrified to enter a dark room for fear of the monsters hiding within.

brittle, hollow sound as if you could snap it in half like a dead twig.