Young Writers Society

Who knows, this might go somewhere...


The vultures are flocking. I was always told that vultures flocked after a battle. My father told me they fed off the dead carcasses, and were attracted by the smell of blood and the scent of death. I didn’t believe him at first, but before me were hundreds of the birds spinning and diving to eat the deceased. Their bald heads always used to make me laugh, but now it gave them a sinister look and I didn’t dare open my mouth. They were swarming, like messengers of destruction warning us of the horrors that had occurred.

We had first seen them as we rode over a sand dune, my father and I and our bodyguard, all mounted on armoured horses. At first my father could scarce believe the sight, assuming it must have been just a murder, but there were hundreds of the birds and it signalled only one thing. We had galloped along the cracked ground and saw hundreds of the bodies. Amongst them were ours and some of the dark-skins. It was the first time I had seen some many dead bodies in one place; mauled faces, rotting flesh, dried blood, discarded weapons and shields. And I would never forget the smell – the horrible, relentless stench of decomposing bodies.

We counted the bodies and found that over a hundred of ours had died for just a score of theirs. It was outrageous – almost a massacre. My father had some skilled trackers with him and they went and searched, coming back later to report they believed it had been an ambush, from the pattern of bodies and spent arrows. My father was angry. He was angry a lot of this time, but I had never seen him this mad. Never before had the dark-skins attacked our men this severely.

“They will pay for this,” my father growled, “They will pay with blood.”

I believed him. My father never spoke flippantly; he was always assured and confident. And didn’t go back on his word.

This is very, very good. The only suggestion I have for you is that I think "We first saw them as we rode over a sand dune" sounds better than "We had first seen them as we rode over a sand dune." Also, "signaled one thing" sounds better than "signaled only one thing." And I think signaled only has one "l." Your grammar is very good, and I love the line "almost a massacre." I don't know why, it just kind of strikes me. I also love the title: "Birds of War." I hope you do go somewhere with this. You are a very talented writer.

-Sarah

I hope this goes somewhere!

now.. nitpick time (since I'm famous for it, apparently )

The vultures are eh, were, unless you wanted that in present tense, and the rest in past... flocking. I was always told that vultures flocked after a battle. My father told me they fed off the dead carcasses, and were attracted by the smell of blood and the scent of death. I didn’t believe him at first, but before me were hundreds of the birds spinning and diving to eat the deceased. Their bald heads always used to make me laugh, but now it gave them a sinister look and I didn’t dare open my mouth. They were swarming, like messengers of destruction warning us of the horrors that had occurred.

We had first seen them as we rode over a sand dune, my father and I and our bodyguard, all mounted on armoured horses. At first my father could scarce believe the sight, assuming it must have been just a murder, but there were hundreds of the birds and it signalled only one thing. We had galloped along the cracked ground and saw hundreds Not sure of the repeating hundreds again.. of the bodies. Amongst them were ours and some of the dark-skins. It was the first time I had seen some many dead bodies in one place; mauled faces, rotting flesh, dried blood, discarded weapons and shields. And I would never forget the smell – the horrible, relentless stench of decomposing bodies.

We counted the bodies and found that over a hundred of ours had died for just a score of theirs. It was outrageous – almost a massacre. My father had some skilled trackers with him and they went and searched, coming back later to report they believed it had been an ambush, from the pattern of bodies and spent arrows. My father was angry. He was angry a lot of this time, but I had never seen him this mad. Never before had the dark-skins attacked our men this severely.

“They will pay for this,” my father growled, “They will pay with blood.”

I believed him. My father never spoke flippantly much as I like the word, it seems out of place; he was always assured and confident. And didn’t go back on his word.

Okay, I updated a little. Thanks you too by the way, I'll do the suggested changes.

He was the Baron of Grevonshire, which wasn’t a very important region, except for the fact that it contained the largest number of dark-skins in the country. In fact, they outnumbered us. Most of the potential rebellions would have begun in Grevonshire, so it was my father’s job to keep them in check. And he was failing.

I was the third eldest son, so my place wasn’t particularly useful. My eldest brother, George, would inherit my father’s title when he died, and if George died, the second eldest son, my older brother William would be the heir. If George and William and my father all died, the title would go to Arthur, me. That was an entirely unlikely situation, and the event never really entered my 12-year-old mind. No, I was more obsessed with the idea of becoming a soldier. Stories of heroic fighters and grand battles were my favourite stories. But now I had seen the reality of a battle, seen the dead bodies, smelt the dead bodies, and for a while I thought perhaps it was not as glorious as the fireplace stories had always suggested. But the thought left my as quickly as it had appeared.

Something glimmered on the sand and caught my eyes, I was already off my horse and so I walked and led it over to where the object was shining. I glanced down and saw a beautifully shaped sword, a curved blade with a decorated hilt. It had a crimson ruby at the tip, and I fell in love instantly with the weapon. The only sword I carried was a rusty short sword that was barely sharp enough to slice bread. But this sword looked like an absolute killer. However, strangely, no blood had touched its hilt. Had its owner be so unworthy and unskilled? But then I saw the dark-skin lying still on the floor with an arrow lodged oddly in his neck, so cleanly that it stood perfectly vertical. I gazed into his lifeless eyes for a little why, but it scared me and I had to turn my head. Instead I knelt down and fingered the edge of the beautiful hilt, which was a cream colour.

“Arthur!” my father called from somewhere else, but I wasn’t interested in his voice and pretended not to notice. Instead I gripped the sword and tried to lift it off the ground. But for all it’s appearances of grace it was incredibly heavy and I only managed to balance it, the tip digging into the sand. But the power of the sword was still at my fingertips and I felt mighty for a moment.

“Arthur! Get over here!” my father called now, but this time it was not in a friendly manner. It was an order and a hastily ripped the scabbard off the dead man and slotted the sword in on the floor, and clumsily connected it to my belt. I mounted my horse and trotted over to where my father was.

My father was a tall, powerfully built man. He had bull shoulders and gigantic arms, and looked as if he would be able to wrestle with a wild boar. His face was that of an old veteran, scarred and morose-looking, never smiling and never showing any signs of emotion. “You will go with Alfred and Thomas and take this message back to Grevon,” he said with his usual gruff tone, “Be quick and without delay.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“That is none of your business. Leave,” and he gave me such a harsh glance I was forced to turn away.

Alfred and Thomas were two of the household guard. I didn’t particularly like them; they always seemed to view me with a certain dislike. But they had to listen to what I said, for I was a nobleman’s son. Grevon was the capital of Grevonshire. It wasn’t a particularly memorable town, but the castle where we lived was tall and dominating. I loved it. I had lived there my whole life and still enjoyed standing on the battlements.

Oooh, I actually like this part better than the first. But I guess that's good, as it means you're moving the story along nicely.

But for all it’s appearances

Should be "its."

Something glimmered on the sand and caught my eyes, I was already off my horse and so I walked and led it over to where the object was shining.

I think this should be two different sentences: "... caught my eye. I was..." And "eye" sounds better than "eyes."

Had its owner be so unworthy and unskilled

Should be "been" not "be."

little why

Should be "little while"

I hate to be nit-picky, but I know it needs to be done.

Good luck!

-Sarah

Yay!

I feel like such a loser...I don't really have much to say...but, yesh...

Honesty, Jack, I love the way you write.

Cool . Nice storyline. I love the way you made vivid images of the scenes- it flows like water.

Two things that are turning me down are the grammar and some parts that are weirdly worded (if you want your story to be corrected entirely, from beginning to end, you should ask your teacher for a help). Those two things made me stop reading and start banging my head on the keyboard until I was obscured with my vision so much I couldn't read any fault!

For example: "The vultures are flocking. I was always told that vultures flocked after a battle"... ... ... ... This made
me start banging my head on the keyboard already:twisted: . I believe you wanted to write the story in past tense but
you made an error of slipping in a present tense in the first sentence. Well, tense shift is okay when you are writing
things like book review or criticism because writer have to shift from the story's verb tense to writer's writing verb
tense. However, in story, it's just one way- either past tense or present tense (future tense is nasty-never EVER write
your story in future tense).

Still, I love your story a lot. Not just because it flows like water but the description of setting gives simple view of of uh... setting- just like Hemingway's. You should write more based on this storyline.