z

Young Writers Society


Your Heart Belongs to Me (Part 1)



User avatar
884 Reviews



Gender: Female
Points: 28282
Reviews: 884
Wed Nov 23, 2011 6:30 am
StoryWeaver13 says...



Spoiler! :
Not sure how many parts I'll make to this, possibly only two, though maybe three. Grateful for all comments, critiques, and ramblings.


The train was still rumbling underneath me like a distant thunder. Rubbing my eyes to look drearily out the rain-speckled window, the scenery was gray and unfamiliar. My fiancé Misty was still curled to fit the contours of my arm, her knees grazing mine while her face was buried into the side of my chest, soporific words mumbled across her lips in her sleep.

I smiled involuntarily, holding her a little tighter. The letter was still being crumpled in her grip. In the long, slender fingers of an artist, the beautiful letter was Misty’s worst work. It had been written five years ago, when she was sixteen, too young to realize what a mistake those words would be.

“Clarence?” Misty whispered. I murmured an answer back, even though I wasn’t sure she was awake enough to know I replied. Only she could get away with calling me Clarence. To everyone else, I went by Jessup Greer. My middle name still wasn’t great, but anything beat Clarence. Yet when Misty said it, there was something that made my name sound intrinsically musical. Blinking her gray eyes open, Misty pulled back her mahogany hair as though it suddenly required being pinned back into the messy bun it’d been pulled out of only an hour ago. The dark lines beneath her eyes looked like the work of a smeared charcoal pencil, though I knew they’d resulted from too many hours of pacing and running. We’d passed “tired” two days and five cups of coffee ago; adrenaline and caffeine were our two remaining methods of survival.

“You okay, miss?” I asked teasingly, repeating the first words I’d said to her not more than one year ago. Her smile put shame to her own artwork, tepid grin one that no sum of hours could recreate on paper.

“No, sir, not at all,” she answered back, stormy eyes rolling with the playfulness of tumbling thunder. “You may not have noticed, but things are a little difficult right now.”

And as always, I answered: “For all of us, dear.”

Fading like a flower, her smile closed upon itself. Eyes the color of a cloud’s silver lining, Misty looked down at her worn out sneakers, though I knew that realistically she was looking much, much farther. “I hope it’s not like this for all of us,” she said, barely above a sigh. “Will it be this way forever?”

“I don’t know.” The answer was honest.

“Do you think I should leave you?”

“Of course not.” This answer was more honest than the last. Looking back, I had little doubt things wouldn’t change soon, at least not for the better. But I would never feel any relief in watching Misty go. “I’d rather die at this moment with you in my arms than live forever seeing you being held by someone else.”

“Sap,” she teased, smile finally fully bloomed and revealing her white flash of teeth.

“That’s what you get for marrying one of the only straight romance novelists in all of Manhattan,” I responded mildly. “Get to sleep. We have another hour before this train stops.”

“I can’t sleep. I can hear it again, those eerie whispers.”

“Are you okay?” I looked back at the note again. The red words, composed of dry blood that had once run through Misty’s veins, scrawled in her sweeping cursive hand. At the bottom, a black signature from another. In a much less articulate hand, these last letters glistened the name Arachne.

“Clarence Jessup Greer, I’ve told you not to worry.”

“We’re on the run. We’ve been on the run for over 48 hours. Don’t tell me you’re not worried.”

“Oh, don’t get me wrong, I’m freaking out inside,” Misty said with a shrug. Fingers almost caressing across the slip of paper, she lifted it and read it again, as though she hadn’t had it locked within her heart from the moment she wrote those words.

You went and bought a Life from Death, and now you pay your due.
Enslavement is the price to pay; for him, we‘re wanting you.
So with this vow of flesh and blood, a promise Death shall see,
For with the trade of his dear soul, your heart belongs to me.

Misty had been sixteen years old. And she’d given herself to the servitude of Death, for the return of the life of the boy who left her out of fear. Who’d run off and fallen in love with a blonde-haired girl that Misty was foolish enough to believe could ever outshine her.

“Don’t worry,” I assured, though my heart was beating like a hummingbird’s wings. “Your heart belongs to you.”

“And you,” she murmured, her hand gripping mine until her knuckles were white.

I could never find this true about a free spirit like Misty. Yet if I was responsible for her heart as well, to lose it would haunt me until I met Death myself.

~*~


To be continued.
Reading is one form of escape. Running for your life is another. ~Lemony Snicket
  





User avatar
304 Reviews



Gender: Female
Points: 22897
Reviews: 304
Wed Nov 23, 2011 2:15 pm
View Likes
barefootrunner says...



This was written in a particularly condensed, personal style of writing, which I found very interesting, if sometimes overly descriptive. There were no superfluous adjectives, though, and the grammar was exemplary! My first thought was, "This writer knows what they are doing!" Followed by, "What is going to happen next? What does servitude of death entail? Tell me more!" I can't wait for the next piece! Your control over the writing is superb -- some writers (and I am also guilty of this,) get completely carried away by their work, but you kept a firm grip on the mental leash of your "puppy". Great job!
"Not everything that counts can be counted, and not everything that can be counted counts" - Einstein
  





User avatar
73 Reviews



Gender: None specified
Points: 262
Reviews: 73
Thu Nov 24, 2011 5:23 pm
psudiname says...



To begin with, the piece has beautiful diction and imagery. instead of just describing her hair as brown, you chose "mahogany". I was constantly impressed throughout the piece with how well you could paint an image with words, and on top of that the dialogue was fluid and realistic. My only problem was that now and again there would be a sentence that didn't quite make sense. this of course is fine if you eventually explain them all, as they would become foreshadowing, but if you forget to make them clear than they just end up polluting an otherwise beautiful work. For instance, the sentence "...Misty looked down at her worn out sneakers, though I knew that realistically she was looking much, much farther." farther than her sneakers being? hell? the floor? a secret underground bunker? A sentence like that will drive the imagination wild, but if you don't make sure to reign it in later it could be a problem.
In addition, anyone familiar with greek mythology will recongnize the name Arachne, and wonder what implications that name will have on the character. make sure you eventually explain who she is in detail, as I was certainly wondering why her name would be on what I assumed was some sort of pact with Death.
All in all this was an interesting and captivating work, with beautiful visuals and loads of potential.
your friend,
---Psudiname
if anyone wants a review, post on my profile and I'll get to it in a couple days.
  








sweet mother of asparagus
— GengarIsBestBoy