Young Writers Society

[pre]1

I couldn’t help but be excited about what I’d recently discovered. I can transfer my pain to other people.

About a month ago I was shopping at the mall, and I tripped. My leg crashed into a table, and the pain almost made me fall down. A few minutes later I walked past a woman who was complaining about how her leg hurt, and she didn’t know why. I realized that my leg didn’t hurt anymore.

No one knows about it, except for me, of course. I’ve learned to control it better now; I can choose who I want to transfer it to. But here’s the strange thing, well, stranger than the rest; I have to transfer it. If I don’t it will just go away on its own, to some random unsuspecting person.

I feel kind of bad about the people around me. I’m a senior in high school, and my school is full of sharp edges and things to trip over. People think it’s odd when they’re sitting in class, and their arm suddenly starts to hurt.

Only one person suspects me. His name is Pogo Tarems, and we’ve known each other since Kindergarten. Nobody listens to much of what he says though, so I think I’m pretty safe.


“Ava!” I stopped dead in my tracks at the sound of Pogo calling my name. But the problem with stopping dead in your tracks in the middle of a crowded high school hallway is that everyone around you keeps moving.
I felt a backpack hit me in the shoulder blade right before I tumbled to the ground. My arm hit a trophy case on the way down. I rolled onto my back to find Pogo standing over me. His eyes flickered down to a cut on my arm. I glanced at the cut, then back up to Pogo, just as blood started running down his arm.
“We need to talk,” he whispered as he helped me to my feet.




2

“Are you sure no one can hear us down here?” I asked, starting to feel a little panicky.

“I’m sure. My brother moved out last year, and my parents are up on the second floor.” Pogo smiled at me reassuringly. We sat down on the cold cement steps of his basement.

“How long has this been happening?” he asked me.

“Around a month and a half.” I could hear my voice shake a little bit as I tried not to cry. “It’s usually just the pain, not the injury.”

“It’ll be okay.” He wrapped a cool arm around my shoulders. And I believed him.

“Let me see the cut.” I leaned across him and examined the wound that was completely my fault.

“Oh, Pogo. You’re gonna need stitches,” I noted shakily.

“I’ll be fine,” he promised. I leaned into him, realizing how much I’d missed him. We’d been friends in elementary school, but had grown apart when we’d reached middle school. His chest rose and fell steadily against my cheek.


“So, are you going to the dance?” I asked Pogo as we walked down the hall. It had been a couple of weeks since my accident in the hallway; his arm was beginning to heal, although he would probably always have a scar.

“I don’t do dances. Are you going with anyone special?” He looked at me with a strange mixture of confusion and hope.

“No. Just my friend Cloe.” A loud ringing went through the school, the late bell. I was late for class, again. I’d been late a lot lately; I couldn’t really focus on what I was doing, and I was trying to be extra careful while walking in the halls.

Pogo looked at me for what felt like a long time. He smiled, then he turned and walked to his next class. I stood in the hallway for a while, finally grabbing my car keys and ditching class.

I got into my car and drove out of the crowded parking lot. I didn’t even go anywhere at first; I just drove around for a couple of hours. Eventually I ended up in some random park a few miles away from my house. I got into the backseat of my car and just laid there.


I woke up to a loud knock on my window. I’d fallen asleep in my car. I looked up to see Pogo staring at me, concern and fear in his hazel eyes.

I opened the door, and he got into the car as I slowly brought myself into a sitting position.

“What the hell are you doing out here?” Pogo asked me.

“I didn’t mean to fall asleep. How long has it been?”

“A couple of hours. Your parents are gonna start wondering where you are.”

“How did you know where to find me?” I wondered aloud.

“This seemed like someplace you’d go.” He smiled at me.

“You know me way too well.”





3

“Ava, your hair is a mess,” Cloe fussed.

“It’s fine. Let’s just go.” We climbed into the car and drove to the dance. The first thing that happened when we got there was me tripping over my dress, not a good sign. I hated the stupid yard or two of purple silk. I prayed for the dance to go by quickly, and it did.

It was pretty uneventful, except for one thing. Mason Laramore. He was basically the hottest guy in school, and he wanted to dance with me! I could feel his warm hands on my waist as we circled to the music.

“So, are you having fun?” Mason had asked me, his blonde hair falling into his eyes.

“Yeah, I guess,” I’d mumbled.


“How was the dance?” Pogo asked me the next day, a little bit too anxiously.

“It was fine,” I muttered. He shrugged and walked away, leaving me standing alone in the hallway.

I felt a strangely familiar warm hand on my arm, and started to turn around. Something pinched my neck, then everything went limp. I saw Pogo turn around farther up the hallway before I was plunged into total darkness.





4

It was cold. I forced my eyes open and propped myself onto my elbows. I was in a big, white room. It looked like some sort of hospital room, other than the fact that it was completely empty. There was nothing, no windows or doors or chairs. I was lying on the floor.

There was a clicking noise and someone walked in. A door was completely concealed in the wall, no handle or anything. When the figure turned around I heard myself gasp in shock and horror. It was Mason Laramore.

“Oh, Ava. This could have been so much easier.” He grabbed my arms and pulled me to my feet. I was too groggy to scream or fight back.

Mason pulled me through the door into a long, white hallway. There was another door at the end of the hall, this one with a visible handle. Mason twisted the doorknob and flung the door open, pushing me ahead of him into the room.

The main focus of the room was a large, rectangular piece of glass, on either side stood a guard. Behind the glass lay Pogo. He was laying on the floor in a puddle of blood, which presumably came from the long, thick lacerations on his arms and neck. I felt a tear slide down my cheek.

I whipped around to face Mason, who was standing a little too close for comfort. “What did you do to him?” I screamed.

“I didn’t do anything. You did.” He smiled cruelly. For the first time I noticed the dried blood on my arms, neck, and shirt.

Mason couldn’t stop himself from gloating further. “We just cut you up and left you two alone. I could’ve used you. We could’ve been great together. But not now.

“You could’ve left your lover out of this. I was going to take you with me after the dance, but you just didn’t seem interested. Now you both have to die.”





5

I lashed out and punched Mason in the face. He fell instantly, not expecting the blow.

A bullet tore through my leg. Barely a second passed before a guard, the shooter, cried out in pain and fell down. The other guard ran out through the door.

I took the injured guard’s gun and shot the glass. It shattered, and I climbed into Pogo’s holding cell. He’d woken up at the sound of the gunshot and was trying to stand up. I helped him up and went to run, but he stopped me. He held onto my shoulders, leaned down, and kissed me. Really awkward time and place for a kiss, I know, but we might not get another chance. We broke apart and turned to face the door. Mason was gone.


I supported most of Pogo’s weight as we walked down the white hallway, searching for any sign of Mason, but finding none. I suddenly had an idea.

“Pogo, you have to do something. Something you won’t want to do.”

He stared at me skeptically for a moment before hesitantly asking, “What?”

I handed him the gun I’d snatched from the guard. “You have to shoot me. I’ll transfer it to Mason.”

“No!” Pogo yelled.

“I’ll do it myself if you don’t.” I held out my hand for the gun.

“No, I’ll do it. Where do you want it?” He muttered something under his breath that sounded a lot like ‘you’ve gotta be kidding me.’

“Right in the stomach.”

Pogo stared at me like I was crazy, hey, I probably was.

“It’ll be okay. Just-,” I was cut off as the bullet hit me in the stomach. I fell to the ground; Pogo rushed to my side.

I tried to transfer it, but it wasn’t working. Blood quickly soaked my shirt.

“Ava, stay with me. Stay with me,” Pogo muttered, on the verge of tears. I’d crossed over the verge the instant the bullet had hit me. He held my hand in one of his, and held the other over the bullet hole. Tears began to stream freely down his face, then everything went black.





6

It was bright, not heavenly bright, fluorescent bulbs bright. I forced my eyes open to see a hospital room. A dull throbbing came from somewhere below my neck; I couldn’t quite tell where. The door opened, and in came Pogo, bandages on his arms and neck.

“You’re awake. Thank God.” He pulled up a chair next to my bed. His eyes were red, like he’d been crying recently.

“What happened to Mason?” I asked with a strangely scraping voice, probably from a breathing tube. “How long have I been out?”

“Mason’s dead. Apparently there was a big disaster with the guards and he ended up getting shot. Such a shame.” He smiled a tiny bit before becoming serious again. “You’ve been out for almost seven hours. You almost didn’t make it; they had to use the electricy shocky thing on you. It was horrible.”

For a brief moment he looked like he was about to start crying. He put his face in his hands and mumbled, “I shouldn’t have shot you. I’m so sorry.”

I reached out a hand and touched his arm. “It’s okay. I told you to. We didn’t know.”

He abruptly stood up. “Your parents are somewhere downstairs. I’ll go find them.”

“Wait a second,” I murmured. “I have two more questions. First of all, what do you think happened to my powers?”

“They could have shorted out, or maybe you tried to transfer to Mason after he was already dead and that screwed it up. I don’t know. And your second question?”

“Pogo, what’s your real name?” I blushed a little at the stupid question.

He grinned. “That is my real name. My brother’s name is Quasar, so I guess it could always get worse.”





Epilogue
The rest of my year went by without too much incident. Pogo and I became an “item,” I graduated from high school, just normal teenager stuff. The story went around that Mason had moved to Germany, or some such nonsense similar to that. And, unfortunately, Pogo’s arms and neck were permanently covered with thin, light scars.

So, there you have it. I know this is really cliché, but my “ability” ended up being a gift and a curse. Let that be a lesson to you, you should be glad you’re not some sort of freak, although you probably are anyway. Just kidding.[/pre]

Try not to post too much of your stuff in one day. Keep it down to two. And remember to crit more than you post your own works. And type your story up on here like other people have done - have a look around and see how other people have done it. Putting it up as a document is too tricky, and doesn't get you any readers.

With all that in mind, welcome to YWS! I hope you have a great time on here; it's a wonderful site, and [WARNING] very addictive. PM me or any other green or purple ones if you have any questions!

This was very good! But can you change the font? It's difficult to read like this. Once you got into the action, it went really nicely, but it was how you got there that's the problem.

I couldn’t help but be excited about what I’d recently discovered. I can transfer my pain to other people. About a month ago I was shopping at the mall, and I tripped. My leg crashed into a table, and the pain almost made me fall down. A few minutes later I walked past a woman who was complaining about how her leg hurt, and she didn’t know why. I realized that my leg didn’t hurt anymore. No one knows about it, except for me, of course. I’ve learned to control it better now; I can choose who I want to transfer it to. But here’s the strange thing, well, stranger than the rest; I have to transfer it. If I don’t it will just go away on its own, to some random unsuspecting person.

This is called telling. This is baaaaaad. What you need to do to make us nitpicky, deleting happy thugs happy, is to show us all this instead. Write the scene when Ava's at the mall properally, not just mention it in passing. Make a whole chapter out of the bit when she realises what she can do. Put emotion into it. Don't just say, "I felt shock/horror/serious angst at my ability", show how she feels, by her speech, her actions. What would she say when she was scared and freaked out? What would she do?

Only one person suspects me. His name is Pogo Tarems, and we’ve known each other since Kindergarten. Nobody listens to much of what he says though, so I think I’m pretty safe. “Ava!” I stopped dead in my tracks at the sound of Pogo calling my name. But the problem with stopping dead in your tracks in the middle of a crowded high school hallway is that everyone around you keeps moving.

Here, you need to add in what's known as a time break. Add in some asterisks (***) to show that you're starting the actual story, and not just carrying on with laying down the background story.

Space out your paragraphs more as well. Leave a line between each paragraph, and between each line of dialogue.


Hope this helps! It was a very good story, and it really kept me reading. All you need to do is edit, to make a good story even better.