Young Writers Society

The Cobblestones Bleed In March



January, 2009




It’s cold here but I quite like this frozen prison, hidden and concealed under the blanket of snow. I’d ask my fifty some-odd neighbors but alas I lack vocal cords. As such, we all lack appendages. Doesn’t matter. I’m rather positive we collectively agree that secrecy for now, the cobblestones and I may slumber and remember until the first thaw. It is only then when we awake and weep annually - cry out - when the water slips and trickles through our many crevices like a labyrinth of sorts.
Yes, March is disconcerting. We rest in a circular unit a few feet from the structure, a brick building that towers over us. On the very top, the lion and horse still watch our every move for two hundred and thirty-eight years as if the two had a great sort of animosity towards my neighbors and I, like we committed an atrocious act of hatred.
If only the feet that tread on top us so rudely, surely they could halt for just a moment but alas, most do not. Instead, these feet travel quickly away, never knowing our true age, nor the bitter night where we lay, our stony faces were once blood red. It was a chilling evening on this particular street. People huddled under their coats, wrapping themselves up tightly and blowing warm air into their cupped fists. Their tones were furious, hostile. They traveled by the hordes and made their way in front of the lion and horse; to be judged I suppose. I do not believe judgment was on their agenda for hours into the night, there was a booming shout. “Fire!”
As such, bodies collapsed heavily upon us. They lay crumpled in tight balls, shivering or some did not move at all. Had we been born with arms, perhaps we could have pushed their broken bodies back onto their feet. Keep them safe as the cobblestones and I know well about the temperatures under snow. Had we had any opportunity to assist the deceased and wounded, but no… We bathed in the blood of the victims as they moaned and wallowed painfully, rocking, twisting or contorted into awkward angles on the ground.
I cannot speak for my neighbors but I distinctly recall awaiting a conclusion. We still wait patiently now of course. While the blood had long been washed off and the corpses removed centuries ago, I wonder when the day will come forth when we are no longer forgotten but respected. When will solace arrive when these busy feet stop and take notice to us?
At least we have a name. It was bestowed upon us weeks after the incident. My neighbors and I were honored with the title of the Bloody Massacre. Such a namesake exhibits power. I like it too. At the very least, any onlookers we receive, gawking, studying our pitiless features will let us remain sleeping at King Street for another hundred years.
Sigh…
It is cold here, but I quite like this frozen prison. We are hidden and concealed. Protected from the pains of sorrow. We lay in dormancy for a while longer.

It’s cold here (comma here) but I quite like this frozen prison, hidden and concealed under the blanket of snow. I’d ask (Ask the neighbors what? There's no question.)my fifty some-odd neighbors comma here but alas ('nother coma) I lack vocal cords. As such, we all lack appendages. Doesn’t matter. I’m rather positive we collectively agree that secrecy for now, the cobblestones and I (This makes it sound like the narrator isn't a cobblestone. It's like saying, "The humans and I" when you're a human) may slumber and remember until the first thaw. It is only then when we awake and weep annually - cry out - when the water slips and trickles through our many crevices like a labyrinth of sorts.

Nice description. The narrator is a cobblestond, right?

If only the feet that tread on top us so rudely, surely they could halt for just a moment but alas, most do not. Instead, these feet travel quickly away, never knowing our true age, nor the bitter night where we lay, our stony faces were once blood red. It was a chilling evening on this particular street. (The cobblestone couldn't switch streets. It must be the same street they've seen for their whole existance, so 'particular' doesn't work.) People huddled under their coats, wrapping themselves up tightly and blowing warm air into their cupped fists. Their tones were furious, hostile. They traveled by the hordes and made their way in front of the lion and horse; to be judged (comma) I suppose. I do not believe judgment was on their agenda for hours into the night, there was a booming shout. “Fire!” This last sentence is confusing.

First sentence needs to be rephrased to either:

If only the feet that tread on top of us so rudely could halt for just a moment.

-Or-

These feet tread on top of us so rudely; surely they could halt for just a moment? But, aslas, most do not.

I love the next paragraph. Love it. Tragic.

I cannot speak for my neighbors (comma) but I distinctly recall awaiting a conclusion. We still wait patiently now(comma again) of course. While the blood had long been washed off and the corpses removed centuries ago, I wonder when the day will come forth when we are no longer forgotten (again...comma) but respected. When will solace arrive when these busy feet stop and take notice to us?

Well-written. The 'sigh' at the end disrupts such a formal, almost arrogant voice of the piece, and I think you should symbolize that differently. But this was nice. Very different. People write of aninimate objects requently, but this is a first. Good job!

Hope this was helpful. Just remember your commas.



~Evi

Hi, Evi!

Thanks so much for reviewing.

Wow! I missed all those commas? I usually going comma-crazy, not ignoring them. That's a switch, haha!

Yeah, the cobblestone is the narrator/main character.

Oh! I agree about the "sigh." That is a good point. I'll take a loosey and see make the changes.

Thanks too for reading.