Young Writers Society

You see a mother sick. Her hair has lost its color, her face looks like a ghost, and blood is streaming from her left hand. She is laying her in makeshift bed. The year, if you’re wondering is 1904. Yes, I know what you’re thinking “Oh, The Victorian era is all glamour and expensive house with footmen and servants.” Well your half right. I’m a factory girl and that’s my mother who’s sick. She cut her hand open badly well she was working in a factory. I live in the black alley in a three room shack with my three bothers. My father died only a few months ago in a factory fire.
Today, as I’m getting ready for work by putting my hair in a bun and slipping on my work dress I can’t help but feel excited because I’m getting paid. I’m the only one who can support my family now , since Momma’s out sick and my bothers are not even old enough to sweep. Before I leave, I go into the kitchen to remind my three bothers to take good care of Momma. There, all sitting around the small, wood table eating there mush.
“Now boys,” I say in a motherly tone, “take good care of Mother. I will be back as soon as I can.”
The boys nod their heads.
I go into Momma’s bedroom to give her a goodbye kiss. The bed seems empty without Father, but still as tidy as ever. Momma’s face is buried in all the thin blankets and sheets. I walk up very slowly as not to wake her up to the bed and kiss Momma’s warm forehead. Her hand is still bloody from the cut she got from using the wheels. After that I leave bedroom and head out into to the kitchen to get my lunch pail and go out the door.
It’s a cold, windy morning. I walk along 21st Avenue past all the shops and stands. People are crowded the streets but I mange to make it though. A newspaper boy, no younger than me is standing sidewalk side and yelling out the latest news headlines. Finally I make it to work. I stand outside ready to face the hard day ahead of me. The factory is made of brick with lots of windows. I work 12 hours a day 6 days a week. I walk inside the hot factory and take off my sorry excuse for a coat. And slowly walk over to my station.
“Get working girl!” says the overseer, Mr. Jones. He walks over to me and pokes me with his cigar. It leaves a burn spot on my sleeve. I put down my lunch pail and go over to the bobbins. The noise from the big machines hunts my ears but you get use to it. I get my spinning machine ready for the starting bell. Another one will sound at noon for a lunch break. The first bell sounds and then the machines start. I have to be fast on my toes to keep up with the bobbins so that they won’t get tangle up.
By the middle of the day, my hands are sore and so are my sounders but I had to do this for Momma. We all need this money even if it isn’t much. Suddenly the machines stop but it isn’t noon yet. I hear a scream and someone says:
“My hand, it’s stuck in the wheel!”
“Jo!” says Mr. Jones.
A young lady, about nineteen comes hurrying to Mr. Jones.
“Take this boy back and clean up his hand.” he says.
The woman obeys and takes him back. I can hear her talking in hushed tones to the boy. The boy’s hand is dripping blood see the boy’s hand it looks like he cut his finger off
“Ok scene’s over everyone back to work.” yells Mr. Jones. The bell starts back up. Wow, I think I’m lucky. Of course I’d been working a lot longer than that boy. My fingers are hard and his are weak. I feel sorry for him. At the lunch hour I sit against the wall and listen to the older women gossip about the latest news.
“You know that child has no mother to guide him.” says an older lady who is standing around with her friends.
I expected she was talking about the boy who hurt his hand earlier this morning.
“Oh that poor boy.” said a younger lady who was standing next to the older lady.
I couldn’t image having my mother gone at such a young age. It’s hard enough living without my father.
After work, I walk home in the dark. The street lights are dim. They shine on my faded out dress. I walk down the street to our stack. It looks like an outcast with its falling roof and a wood panel for a door. But head inside to be greeted by cheery fire lilted by my bothers. I take off my coat and hang it on the hand craved wood coat rack. It the most valuable thing in our house. Momma wouldn’t sell it for anything. I go looking for my brothers since there not in the kitchen working on their homework. I leave kitchen and go into my mother’s bedroom. I’m surprise to see Mother propped up against her pillow. She has the boys on either side of her and she is stoking their hair like a forgotten treasure.
“Well how’s are little working woman doing today?” said Mother, a smile on her face.
“Fine.” I say, even though my legs are numb and my shoulders feel like they’re burned.
But Momma smiled an awarding winning smile which made it all worth it.

it's good but a little un-likely...I don't know what's happened to the father...but if he's not there then it would be unlikely that a small girl would be able to support a family on a mill workers wages.
Ignoring that...lets look at your writing.




[s]You see a mother sick.[/s] Her hair has lost its color, her face looks like a ghost, and blood is streaming from her left hand. She is laying her in makeshift bed.

The year, if you’re wondering is 1904. Yes, I know what you’re thinking “Oh, The Victorian era is all glamour and expensive house with footmen and servants.” Well your half right. I’m a factory girl and that’s my mother who’s sick. She cut her hand open badly well she was working in a factory. I live in the black alley in a three room shack with my three bothers. My father died only a few months ago in a factory fire.



1st Strike. Is that meant to be: You can see that mother is sick. ?
2nd: Put in a new paragreah because you are changing the subject.
3rd: No- I'm actually thinking: Victorian? There the ones that had workhouses, and worked their children to death. I am most certainly not thinking glamour. I'd change that.




Today, as I’m getting ready for work by putting my hair in a bun and slipping on my work dress I can’t help but feel excited because I’m getting paid. I’m the only one who can support my family now , since Momma’s out sick and my bothers are not even old enough to sweep. Before I leave, I go into the kitchen to remind my three bothers to take good care of Momma. There, all sitting around the small, wood table eating there mush.



No, no, no!!! Um..yes, the excited because she's getting paid? No, she's worried because her family could end up in the workhouse with only her to support them. You could really put some fear in!




“Now boys,” I say in a motherly tone, “take good care of Mother. I will be back as soon as I can.”

The boys nod their heads.

I go into Momma’s bedroom to give her a goodbye kiss. The bed seems empty without Father, but still as tidy as ever. Momma’s face is buried in all the thin blankets and sheets. I walk up very slowly as not to wake her up to the bed and kiss Momma’s warm forehead. Her hand is still bloody from the cut she got from using the wheels. After that I leave bedroom and head out into to the kitchen to get my lunch pail and go out the door.

It’s a cold, windy morning. I walk along 21st Avenue past all the shops and stands. People are crowded the streets but I mange to make it though. A newspaper boy, no younger than me is standing sidewalk side and yelling out the latest news headlines.

Finally I make it to work. I stand outside ready to face the hard day ahead of me. The factory is made of brick with lots of windows. I work 12 hours a day 6 days a week. I walk inside the hot factory and take off my sorry excuse for a coat. And slowly walk over to my station.




Add the new paragraph!



“Get working girl!” says the overseer, Mr. Jones. He walks over to me and pokes me with his cigar. It leaves a burn spot on my sleeve. I put down my lunch pail and go over to the bobbins. The noise from the big machines hunts my ears but you get use to it. I get my spinning machine ready for the starting bell. Another one will sound at noon for a lunch break. The first bell sounds and then the machines start. I have to be fast on my toes to keep up with the bobbins so that they won’t get tangle up.

By the middle of the day, my hands are sore and so are my sounders but I had to do this for Momma. We all need this money even if it isn’t much. Suddenly the machines stop but it isn’t noon yet. I hear a scream and someone says:

“My hand, it’s stuck in the wheel!”

“Jo!” says Mr. Jones.

A young lady, about nineteen comes hurrying to Mr. Jones.

“Take this boy back and clean up his hand.” he says.

The woman obeys and takes him back. I can hear her talking in hushed tones to the boy. The boy’s hand is dripping blood see the boy’s hand it looks like he cut his finger off

“Ok scene’s over everyone back to work.” yells Mr. Jones. The bell starts back up. Wow, I think I’m lucky. Of course I’d been working a lot longer than that boy. My fingers are hard and his are weak. I feel sorry for him. At the lunch hour I sit against the wall and listen to the older women gossip about the latest news.

“You know that child has no mother to guide him.” says an older lady who is standing around with her friends.

I expected she was talking about the boy who hurt his hand earlier this morning.

“Oh that poor boy.” said a younger lady who was standing next to the older lady.

I couldn’t image having my mother gone at such a young age. It’s hard enough living without my father.

After work, I walk home in the dark. The street lights are dim. They shine on my faded out dress. I walk down the street to our stack. It looks like an outcast with its falling roof and a wood panel for a door. But head inside to be greeted by cheery fire lilted by my bothers. I take off my coat and hang it on the hand craved wood coat rack. It the most valuable thing in our house. Momma wouldn’t sell it for anything. I go looking for my brothers since there not in the kitchen working on their homework. I leave kitchen and go into my mother’s bedroom. I’m surprise to see Mother propped up against her pillow. She has the boys on either side of her and she is stoking their hair like a forgotten treasure.




The boys are being educated? Can I just say that although the children might have had free education late in the victorian era, if their sister was a mill worker and that was their only income, they would be out begging.




“Well how’s are little working woman doing today?” said Mother, a smile on her face.

“Fine.” I say, even though my legs are numb and my shoulders feel like they’re burned.

But Momma smiled an awarding winning smile which made it all worth it.


Good. You have a nice style but you need to solidify some history. Don't worry though, my friend does that all the time, so don't be offended if i'm a bit harsh! I do in natrally because I have to do it for her!!!

Thanks

aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh.

I think that the very first impression of this story is good

Please do not spam, Matthew. The "ahh" is irrelevant and does absolutely nothing to help the writer out in improving their work.

Additionally, maybe you could elaberate what specifically about the story was "good?" I'm sure the writer would appreciate your insight.

bbqueen wrote:You see a mother sick. Her hair has lost its color, her face looks like a ghost, and blood is streaming from her left hand. She is laying her in makeshift bed. The year, if you’re wondering is 1904. Yes, I know what you’re thinking “Oh, The Victorian era is all glamour and expensive house with footmen and servants.” Well your half right. I’m a factory girl and that’s my mother who’s sick. She cut her hand open badly well she was working in a factory. I live in the black alley in a three room shack with my three bothers. My father died only a few months ago in a factory fire.
Today, as I’m getting ready for work by putting my hair in a bun and slipping on my work dress I can’t help but feel excited because I’m getting paid. I’m the only one who can support my family now , since Momma’s out sick and my bothers are not even old enough to sweep. Before I leave, I go into the kitchen to remind my three bothers to take good care of Momma. There, all sitting around the small, wood table eating their mush.
“Now boys,” I say in a motherly tone, “take good care of Mother. I will be back as soon as I can.”
The boys nod their heads.
I go into Momma’s bedroom to give her a goodbye kiss. The bed seems empty without Father, but still as tidy as ever. Momma’s face is buried in all the thin blankets and sheets. I walk up very slowly as not to wake her up to the bed and kiss Momma’s warm forehead. Her hand is still bloody from the cut she got from using the wheels. After that I leave bedroom and head out into to the kitchen to get my lunch pail and go out the door.
It’s a cold, windy morning. I walk along 21st Avenue past all the shops and stands. People are crowded the streets but I mange to make it though. A newspaper boy, no younger than me is standing sidewalk side and yelling out the latest news headlines. Finally I make it to work. I stand outside ready to face the hard day ahead of me. The factory is made of brick with lots of windows. I work 12 hours a day 6 days a week. I walk inside the hot factory and take off my sorry excuse for a coat. And slowly walk over to my station.
“Get working girl!” says the overseer, Mr. Jones. He walks over to me and pokes me with his cigar. It leaves a burn spot on my sleeve. I put down my lunch pail and go over to the bobbins. The noise from the big machines hunts my ears but you get use to it. I get my spinning machine ready for the starting bell. Another one will sound at noon for a lunch break. The first bell sounds and then the machines start. I have to be fast on my toes to keep up with the bobbins so that they won’t get tangle up.
By the middle of the day, my hands are sore and so are my sounders but I had to do this for Momma. We all need this money even if it isn’t much. Suddenly the machines stop but it isn’t noon yet. I hear a scream and someone says:
“My hand, it’s stuck in the wheel!”
“Jo!” says Mr. Jones.
A young lady, about nineteen comes hurrying to Mr. Jones.
“Take this boy back and clean up his hand.” he says.
The woman obeys and takes him back. I can hear her talking in hushed tones to the boy. The boy’s hand is dripping blood see the boy’s hand it looks like he cut his finger off
“Ok scene’s over everyone back to work.” yells Mr. Jones. The bell starts back up. Wow, I think I’m lucky. Of course I’d been working a lot longer than that boy. My fingers are hard and his are weak. I feel sorry for him. At the lunch hour I sit against the wall and listen to the older women gossip about the latest news.
“You know that child has no mother to guide him.” says an older lady who is standing around with her friends.
I expected she was talking about the boy who hurt his hand earlier this morning.
“Oh that poor boy.” said a younger lady who was standing next to the older lady.
I couldn’t image having my mother gone at such a young age. It’s hard enough living without my father.
After work, I walk home in the dark. The street lights are dim. They shine on my faded out dress. I walk down the street to our stack. It looks like an outcast with its falling roof and a wood panel for a door. But head inside to be greeted by cheery fire lilted by my bothers. I take off my coat and hang it on the hand craved wood coat rack. It the most valuable thing in our house. Momma wouldn’t sell it for anything. I go looking for my brothers since there not in the kitchen working on their homework. I leave kitchen and go into my mother’s bedroom. I’m surprise to see Mother propped up against her pillow. She has the boys on either side of her and she is stoking their hair like a forgotten treasure.
“Well how’s are little working woman doing today?” said Mother, a smile on her face.
“Fine.” I say, even though my legs are numb and my shoulders feel like they’re burned.
But Momma smiled an awarding winning smile which made it all worth it.

[code]

Great choice of topic, character development, setting portrayal, and excellent going in present voice. It's probably the hardest tense to write in. You did miss the present tense a couple times though, in "Of course I’d been working a lot longer than that boy." with the "I'd" and in "I expected she was talking about the boy who hurt his hand earlier this morning." where you need to have, "I expect," not "I expected." Easy mistake. You need to go over your grammar in particular and work out where you've got the wrong punctuation in front of quotation marks and where you need dashes and commas and the like. You should also keep the mother's name consistent throughtout the story: either all Momma, or all Mother. Don't mix it up. In your dialogue, you could also use a more natural tone, using "I'll" instead of "I will" and using other contractions like you did in the rest of the story. :] Great work in the tone of the piece; you do need a major plot coming out now though, even if it's just the start of the piece. Watch your spelling as well: you put are for our and you kept putting in "there" instead of "their". In the section where the boy hurts his hand, I don't think he'd be calmly saying anything. He's more likely to be screeching or crying or screaming it - just use something more forceful. There's also one sentence that doesn't make any sense: "The boy’s hand is dripping blood see the boy’s hand it looks like he cut his finger off " You need to re-write this and clarify what you mean. The piece is written in first person, but you still need to use a fairly formal tone with it. Overall it's really good, but you need to polish it and iron out the wrinkles in the grammar and spelling in particular. It still makes sense the way it is, though, so if I had to rate it I'd probably give it a 9/10.

I love the way you write and how you set your story and characters up. But what I realize in new writers is that they get so excited with writing, they can't wait to finally declare that they finished it. You need to drag out your conversations and descrptions, and maybe take your plot to the extreme and then condese it evry time you revise it. When I say take it to the extreme I don't mean to explian when the boy caught his hand in the wheel to make it all gory. Just use as big vocabulary as you can and descriptions, and don't worry about names, and people as much. You did a great job you just need to clear it up a bit.

Thanks a lot from all your comments. I will revise it and put the new one up as soon as possible.
Have a great summer break!

bbqueen wrote:Thanks

Hae great start it pulls you in and wants to make you read more