Young Writers Society

James Caraway only sat down in his chair when he looked across the table.

“Fancy meeting you here.” He said tightly.

He was currently exuding some of his famous Southern charm on a lady sitting next to him, who James noticed a ring on her finger.

Across from him sat another man. He was tall, much like James himself, towheaded and handsome. He was currently exuding some of his famous Southern charm on a lady sitting next to him, who James noticed a ring on her finger.

James Caraway only sat down in his chair when he looked across the table.

Brothers

Part 1



James Caraway only sat down in his chair when he looked across the table. His heart sank like a stone. This part is confusing what did you mean by he only sat in his chair when he looked across the table?

Across from him sat another man. He was tall, much like James himself, towheaded and handsome. He was currently exuding some of his famous Southern charm on a lady sitting next to him, who James noticed a ring on her finger.
The last sentence was confusing, it should be: "whi James noticed had a ring on her finger.
The man was well dressed. This dinner party required it, anyway. Maybe the gold cuff links were excessive. He wasn’t sure, he thought, looking somewhat remorsefully down at his own plain silver ones.

“Jim? Is that you?”

James and Jim, felt the blood leave his face as what he dreaded to happen actually happened. Slowly and stiffly, he turned.

“Fancy meeting you here.” He said tightly. The man sitting in front of him was looking at him in wide eyed surprise. “This is a McDowell party.”

“I was in the area…” the man said, subconsciously pushing out his chest.

“Where’s Clara?” James asked stiffly, forcing polite conversation.

“Back at home. She came down with a slight cold.” He answered at the mention of his fiancé, turning his head slightly.

James pictured the beautiful Clara Smithson, soon to be Mrs. Clara Harlan.

“It’s been a long time, Jim.” The man said, leaning back slightly and taking a sip of his wine.

“Indeed it has, Beau.” James said, frowning slightly.

Beau Harlan shrugged as if it was nothing, holding his glass in a hand. The two young men stared at one another for a moment.

“Is that all you can say?” James demanded, still frowning. Beau coolly raised a single brow.

“Is there much else to say?” he asked. “It’s all over, you know.”

“I know.” James said tighly, resisting the urge to grunt and cross his arms. He maintained his gentlemanly stance, taking a breath to calm himself.
I liked this sentence and description

“I don’t know why you're back, Beau.” James said.

“Is a man not allowed to travel?”

“He may be allowed, but a traitor traveling is not sat with easily (Maybe say, easily sat with instead?.” James frowned again.

He remembered the heat of his first battle, the sound of the drums, and (The and is not neededthe cannons and the guns. It was as clear in his mind as if it was stamped into it.

James listened to the conversations around him, all polite and civil.

“Be reasonable, James.” Beau scolded, still sitting back with his glass in his fingers. “Time has passed, my old friend.”

“Barely a year.” James said. “Time may heal the physical injuries, but the others take longer.”

Beau sighed.

“What’s done is done. Even though my Southern brothers may not agree, the War is over. Be glad you have all of your limbs, friend.”

James thought of all the men left without legs or arms. Then of the haggard Southern soldiers at the very end of the War, walking like skeletons and looking just like it.

“How was it to return home?” James asked tightly. Beau tilted his handsome, blonde head to one side and shrugged slightly.

“It was as it was. All the people back home were somewhat sick of the fighting anyway.”

James thought the Southern soldiers would be welcomed home by their wives and mothers like they had. They’d talk about what a brave trial it was. The women would want to know every young soldiers tale, and the men would tell them with just the charm like it was an adventure book. What he had seen was very far from some glamorous fairytale.

"Be brave, Jimmy." James’s father had said to him just a little before he had left with the other soldiers. “It’s all you have out there.”

His father was a veteran of the Mexican-American War. James’s mother had begged him not to go to war, he didn’t after much discussion. But James did, their only son, a brave, disillusioned young man who had thought this would be an adventure.

When he was little at the farm, he loved to play soldiers.

“You’ve got to march!” said seven year old Jimmy, a shovel over his shoulder like a gun.

“I am, Jimmy! This rake is really heavy!” said the other little boy, a little boy with blonde curls, blue eyes and a long rake he struggled to keep over his shoulder.

“About face!” little Jimmy said, turning in his path. “We’re going to fight, Beau! We’re going to fight!”

“Fight!” squealed little Beau with a wide little grin.

How right he was.