Young Writers Society

Set in the 60's. Loosely based off the song "Eight Miles High," by The Byrds

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When I first arrived off the plane, I thought at first that the city seemed different, until I realized that it was just myself.
Out west, I had literally seen the world through rose-colored glasses, but here at home everything was gray. They didn't dig the revolution here; there was no love. To them, there was a war, and it was a heavy feeling.
I drove aimlessly around the town, the sounds of psychedelic flowing through the speakers. I took in the faces of those around me, on the streets and in the passing cars. All of them seemed so washed up. They followed their lives like shapeless forms, going from one place to another with an eerie sense of routine. They walked with their heads down, and drove with a distant look in their eyes, ignoring all landmarks and street signs.
The whole place had turned cold since I left. Or maybe I was just warm. It had been real groovy out west, in California where they knew what was really happening. They had opened their eyes and their lives to what was around them.
I remember times with them where I was sure I was in a different world. I felt things that I had never known I could feel. I had seen colors breath, and races come together. I felt myself in comparison to the world, and realized that I am a small and fleeting existence. There was no sense in seeing the bad around me and hurting others when I had such a short time to be here. I needed to live while I could, and love while I could. I needed to see the dirty rivers that flooded my country and gave it life, and the dry deserts of the west that took it. I needed to hear music fuse with poetry, and watch as kids spilled their souls on stage. Out west, I danced and flew behind the reach of those afraid of losing their ground.
They saw the world from such a different perspective that there was no way anyone in this rain gray town could understand.
Yet, this was the town I grew up in, and I was back. My mother needed me, though she would never admit it. With Tom gone and my father going off his rocker, it was up to me to pick up where I had left off.
I drove through the rain that constantly came down on the town, occasionally placing my hand on my stomach with a smile, wondering how I would tell my mom.
I was sure she wouldn't be happy about it, especially when I told her I didn't know the father. I didn't see the big deal. Whoever it was, I had loved him for a night, and this baby was created from that love. I would raise it on my own, because though I was small, I felt I had the capacity to do it. I would give my heart to the child, and I would be loved in return.
It was more beautiful and far out than I could ever have imagined.
As I pulled up the long driveway to the house, something seemed off instantly. The feeling in the air was just not right. I squinted as I tried to make out the faces of the two men standing on my porch. They stood with their shoulders stiff and their hands crossed in from of them, demanding authority with their ugly green uniforms that I hated so much.
"Tom..." I whispered, and then flung the car door open and jogged up to the porch where one of the men was now knock-knocking on my door.
"Where's my brother?" I asked when I arrived behind them.
They acknowledged me for an instant, but their attention was diverted when my mom opened the door.
"Are you Mrs. Wright?" the tall one asked, his voice deep and serious.
"Where's my brother?" I asked, louder this time.
My mother nodded, and the shorter one held his hand out to her. I caught the glimpse of something silver shining in his hand, then looked up to see my mother face fall and hear a long, low groan escape from her mouth.
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Wright," he said.
My mother slid down the doorframe, her knees hitting the wet floor, dirtying her pretty blue dress.
"No," I moaned as the soldiers walked away. "No, no, no!"
My voice was rising to hysteria, as I held my head in my trembling hands. My mother began to cry, clutching my brother's dog tags to her heaving chest.
"No, this can't be happening," I yelled, "This can't be happening! He was supposed to come home, he was supposed to come home!"
Frozen to the spot I was standing, tears began to stream down my face. My clothes were absorbing the rain that was steadily falling; yet I didn't notice. I didn't expect to come home to this, and I'm sure my mother didn't expect it either.
"Oh, mama," I cried, walking over and kneeling beside her.
I wrapped my arms around her sunken frame, and rocked her gently.
She whispered what sounded like, "Why? My baby..." over and over as she rocked, choking occasionally on her tears.
I didn't know what to say to her. I was against this war from the start, but LBJ would not listen, and now my brother was gone.
"My baby, my son," she moaned again.
We sat like that for a while, as the rain fell around us, soaking us to the core. I didn't want to move. I felt like the world stopped. All the happy thoughts I had before had vanished, and I felt beaten down like the town I lived in. My brother was supposed to come home soon. He was supposed to be here when my baby was born. He was would have been so excited to be an uncle...
"Mama?" I whispered, and waited for a reply.
When none came, I took one hand off of my mother and placed it on my stomach.
She looked at me with a curious look in her bloodshot eyes.
"Mama," I said to her, then took a deep breath, "I'm gonna name it Tom."

Hi blackbird. I'm Conrad Rice, and I'll be giving you a quick review today.

So, I'm actually not seeing much in the way of problems here. You have a good story, with good description and good characters in it. I also like the way you inject the time period into it, what with the way the main character uses period slang in her descriptions and how she just seems so much a part of the era.

I'm truly not seeing much of anything wrong with this story. Very good job. PM me if you have any questions or comments. Good job, and good luck.

-Conrad Rice

Hi black bird. Rosey here for a review.

So, I must say this was pretty interesting. You slowly unfolded a story and don't hit us with too much information at once. The slang doesn't feel forced or stereotyped, and the point of view and little details your MC noticed about the people around her. I also liked how the ending wrapped up the way it did, with her naming the baby Tom.

However, I found how slowly you unfolded some of these descriptions didn't work to your advantage. I didn't feel the rain was pouring once, even though you tell us it is, and I didn't feel any hate or fear coming from seeing the men in green.

For the rain, add that in when she's observing people. You can have the people around her walk with their heads bent under umbrellas, and people in cars having dull stares past wiper-blades. The information that it's raining, she knows it is, and that it's always raining feels dropped in the story too suddenly for me to really get immersed in the fact it's raining. The rain could play such a massive part of this scene, yet you're not taking advantage.

For the army, that'd also require some more explaining. I'm not American, so I don't know that men in green uniforms meant they were army men. I also couldn't understand why they didn't address her in more length. I know they're supposed to be pictured as stiff, but their actions make them look too stiff.

The opening also got to me a bit. "arrived off" doesn't make sense to me; I'd write it as "got off" in that situation. And how she got a car also mystified me slightly. There seems to be too many assumptions made about how she got the car. Is it rented? Was it waiting for her from her old life? Did her car from California (if she had one) make the trip with her? That last one is a little far-fetched, I know, but because you don't say how she got the car, my mind wonders, and possibilities like that come up. A little loose thread in a story like that can ruin it for some people.

I did like the general tone of the work though. The "freeness" of the MC I enjoyed, since that tone is what makes this work seem the most authentic. You really captured the feel of the hippie generation with your MC's voice. Nice work!

PM me with any questions!

~Rosey

There are very few errors that I can notice in this piece which shows that you take great pride in your work. The plot shows great promise and I would think to see good things from this piece. You have clearly thought about your characters background, beliefs, etc. They are clearly scripted and provide enough of the necessary information. I see great things.

Hey there, I really enjoyed this piece. Is this a short story or are you going to make it into something longer? Either way, I love it. Your pace is good and like Rosey said, your slang doesn't feel cliched. I almost feel like I'd like more of the MC's idyllic outlook. Honestly, the nipicks I have are very minor. You have a couple of redundancies, which I've higlighted below.

When I first arrived off the plane, I thought at first that the city seemed different, until I realized that it was just myself.

I'd get rid of the first, first.

I needed to live while I could, and love while I could. I needed to see the dirty rivers that flooded my country and gave it life, and the dry deserts of the west that took it. I needed to hear music fuse with poetry, and watch as kids spilled their souls on stage.

That first sentence was worded a little oddly. Could you reword it to say something like: I needed to live and love while I could. Also, you started three sentences with I needed. I'm not sure if this was intentional, but it keep of grated on me. However, if you like the way this paragraph is structured, then I wouldn't change it.

They saw the world from such a different perspective that there was no way anyone in this rain gray town could understand.

I think this is the second time that you described the town as gray. Could you use a different adjective? Perhaps, bland, colorless, drab, or somber?

Yet, this was the town I grew up in, and I was back.

You keep saying the town or this town, but you never tell us exactly where this town is. I assume it is somewhere out East, since you keep talking about the west as being so different, but I could be wrong. I think you need to clarify this.

I would raise it on my own, because though I was small, I felt I had the capacity to do it. I would give my heart to the child, and I would be loved in return.

I'm not sure small is the proper word here. Why would the size of the person affect her ability as a parent? Perhaps you meant young? Also, how far along is the MC? Typically, women don't start to show their pregnancy until the fifth or sixth month, so if you don't want it obvious, I'd make her three or four months.

It was more beautiful and far out than I could ever have imagined.

I love this line, because it really is so true. To have a child grow within you, it is unexplainable how awe-inspiring it is.

I wrapped my arms around her sunken frame, and rocked her gently.

She whispered what sounded like, "Why? My baby..." over and over as she rocked, choking occasionally on her tears.

Perhaps with the second rocked, you could change it to swayed or even have the mother trembling.

Like I said, very minor nitpicks, your story was fantastic. I'd love for you to write more, but this also does very nicely as a short story.