Young Writers Society

Life hasn’t always been as easy as it is now. At least not for me. Name’s Jena, in case you’re reading this and have a sudden need to care. Although, if I’m going to be honest, I hope to heck no one ever reads this. I don’t even know why I’m writing this to be even more honest; I just woke up one morning and decided that if my life ever caught back up with me I’d want to have some account of how things were before. People everywhere call that feeling nostalgia, but I just call it shit. You feel like shit when you wonder “what if” and then you have to do something equally shitty to forget about what you did to make you feel like shit in the first place. Welcome to my world. I know it isn’t too hospitable at the moment, but hey, we haven’t even got to the good stuff yet.

I guess I have to start at the beginning in order to really give the whole picture. Isn’t that the way all those other tell-alls do it? Here goes nothing. Let’s see…

#

Stray cans littered the alleyway, along with empty boxes half-disintegrated from the rain and housing rats and other tenants no one desires. The weak cries of one such creature broke the unsteady silence. The back door of a bar whose better days had ended decades ago opened with a creak, and the owner struggled into the alleyway dragging an overfull black bag of clinking bottles and other waste.

His name was Grant. He didn’t have any need for a last name and even if he did have one before owning The Lucky Mutt he never cared to share it with anyone, especially not his customers. The Lucky Mutt attracted the rejects of the armed forces, people that had methods not entirely approved by the government or were found to be “excessive” or “intolerable.” Grant didn’t care what his customers did so long as they continued to buy drinks and didn’t start too many fights.

He was ex-Spec Ops himself and knew how to end a fight almost before it had started. Despite his gruff and grizzled appearance, Grant didn’t feel his fifty-five years like he should have if he perhaps had been another man. That was why he didn't feel the need for a bouncer even though most of his clientele could spit and kill someone before the saliva hit the ground.

He tossed the bag with a half-hearted grunt and was about to retreat back into the grey brick cave when he heard what sounded like a baby. One pause was enough for him to pick up the mewling sound as it emanated from a box near the back of the alley.

Cautiously, Grant approached the box and peered inside to see that wrapped up in a semi-clean blanket was a little pink face. Big, icy blue eyes fastened themselves on the age-lined face and hazel eyes looking down on them. The man blinked, but those blue eyes and everything attached were still staring up at him with no expectations. They seemed to be daring him not to care.

Hesitantly, because he had never so much as touched a baby as held one, he reached down and scooped the tiny child up into his trembling arms. Grant had never been married or even considered fathering a child. Having a family was something he had given up long ago in the time where his life revolved around the next mission. It wasn’t as if mothers ever went out of their way to let him babysit their kids and bars weren’t typically a place to find children. But neither were alleys.

The tiny child had stopped crying and was just looking impassively at her unlikely savior. With one last look at the whole alley, Grant the barman made his way to the rusted door with his precious cargo and shut the chill of the alley out along with his feeling of disgust at whoever had thrown away a child.

#

That December day, I found a home and a father. That day my whole life changed, or maybe it became what it was meant to be. Only God knows and we aren’t exactly on sharing terms. I don’t want to bore you with all the details of how I was raised by the patrons of a dirty bar or learned to cuss in five different languages, but suffice it to say that my upbringing wasn’t your typical all-American dream. Heck, most people would say I was better off in that box in the alley, but I’m not most people. Thank God.

For all intents and purposes, fate intervened and I was given a chance at life when the world had all but given up on me—at least my birth parents in any rate. They don’t figure into this story. So there I was, just a baby and already I’d had a taste of the bitter cruelty of society. How’s that for a lesson in living?

baywolf25 wrote:Cautiously, Grant approached the box and peered inside to see that wrapped up in a semi-clean blanket was a little pink face The last part of this sentence is a bit confusing; consider reworking. Big, icy blue eyes fastened themselves on the age-lined face and hazel eyes looking down on them. The man blinked, but those blue eyes and everything attached were still staring up at him with no expectations. They seemed to be daring him not to care.

Hesitantly, because he had never so much as touched a baby as held one, he reached down and scooped the tiny child up into his trembling arms. Grant had never been married or even considered fathering a child. Having a family was something he had given up long ago in the time where his life revolved around the next mission. It wasn’t as if mothers ever went out of their way to let him babysit their kids and bars weren’t typically a place to find children. But neither were alleys.

The tiny child had stopped crying and was just looking impassively at her unlikely savior. With one last look at the whole alley, the Cut the "the" hereGrant the barman made his way to the rusted door with his precious cargo and shut the chill of the alley out along with his feeling of disgust at whoever had thrown away a child.

#

That December day, I found a home and a father. That day my whole life changed, or maybe it became what it was meant to be. Only God knows and we aren’t exactly on sharing terms. I don’t want to bore you with all the details of how I was raised by the patrons of a dirty bar or learned to cuss in five different languages, but suffice it to say that my upbringing wasn’t your typical all-American dream. Heck Try "hell," it's more in character, most people would say I was better off in that box in the alley, but I’m not most people. Thank God.

For all intents and purposes, fate intervened and I was given a chance at life when the world had all but given up on me—at least my birth parents in Change "in" to "at" any rate. They don’t figure into this story. So there I was, just a baby and already I’d had a taste of the bitter cruelty of society. How’s that for a lesson in living?

I loved this piece. You did a superb job of describing the event in Jena's informal and slightly vulgar way. I sincerely hope you continue with the story.

I have one more small critique. At the beginning, when Jena is explaining why she wrote the book, simply waking up one morning and spontaneously deciding to write an autobiography is, me being a reader, a bit strange. Consider thinking of a different reason.

Good luck on the story.

Hey Baywolf, I showed up this time!

So before I get started I just want to say that I agree with Kaf about the tone of this story. By using the language and sentence structure you did, you gave us the beginning of a picture of what this girl is like. Just by reading the first couple of paragraphs, I could tell that your main character was an independent girl who didn't give a hoot about what most - if not all - people think. This is awesome because if you can explain someone's personality without saying "she was fiercely independent and didn't care what anyone else thought of her", then that makes the story more engaging and interesting to read. So anyway, on to my two nit picks!

Cautiously, Grant approached the box and peered inside to see that wrapped up in a semi-clean blanket was a little pink face.

Having a family was something he had given up long ago in the time where his life revolved around the next mission.

Both of these sentences seem to be a bit clunky. If you leave them as they are then I think that they work fine, but if you used fewer words/divide up the sentence/something else I haven't thought about then I think that it would sound better.

When I first read this, I thought that it was a little cliche - a gruff old man raising an orphan isn't exactly an original concept. However, the originality you bring into the story with the tone and the girl's overall attitude brings a refreshingly unique aspect into it and makes sort of overpowers the whole cliche feel. If that makes sense.

In addition to that, I really like the way you developed the characters. I won't talk about Jena again, but you made Grant seem more human than I expected him to be. When you were first describing him I got the impression that he was going to be your run-of-the-mill old, grumpy war veteran. Towards about the middle of the story though he began to seem a bit endearing and I began to like him.

So that's all for the review. I know that it was horribly short and didn't go in depth very much but when I get over this cold maybe I'll be able to come back and edit into a more helpful post! Also, I just didn't have any major critiques or criticisms, you wrote this quite well.

Compliments to the chef,
HP

Yo,
that was pretty good. As in: good overal rhythm of both sections; good descriptions; nice tight punches throwin in the sentences, although we'll see if you can maintain that for the duration of the story arc, heh-heh (skeptical hand rubbing)

One thing that I'd recommend: the prequel bit with Grant, is seen and described by a third person narrator who seems out of place after the first person intro. But, I think this can be easily remedied, by sprinkling this bit with elements of the narrator. Stuff like "then I suppose he must've grinned like he does in such situations." As in: the described 'origins of' are a piece of fine writing. You don't have to sacrifice it in the name of narrative coherence, but neither should you leave it like a sudden intrusion of another narrator. Absorb it into the first person by modifying some sentences to remind the reader that this is conjesture by the same first person narrator.

...Yes I know James Patterson keeps combining first person Alex Cross stuff with third person narration of the evil doers, but that's different, here in your case it affects the past of the first person narrator, therefore I feel justified in my recomendation.

Good prose though, not half bad