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  1. #1
    Hillary W
    Guest

    Short story for you to critique

    I wrote this short story while I was in college. I wanted to post it here and see what you guys thought of it. When I wrote this story I was trying to create an environment where the anticipation of something was the driving force. I don't think I did a good job (I didnt build the suspense strongly enough) with that particular goal, but I wanted to know how you guys think I did overall. Here it is:

    Losing Miranda

    Marybelle couldn’t remember the last time she had seen her mother like this. Had it been weeks, months, years? Maybe it had been seven years ago, when she was still a child, and uncle Sammy had been in the hospital dying of cancer. Her memory of that time was clear, as such memories are when they are seared into a brain by a rod of fear. Marybelle had been scared, very scared, and had tucked herself into an impregnable ball in the chair outside his hospital room, pink t-shirt stretched tightly down over her knees and her raggedy old teddybear. A swarm of people had gathered near her, talking intermittently in muted, hushed voices, the ladies fidgeting with their tissues and their hair while the men stood by stoically, uncomfortably. The rise and fall of these whispers and voices failed to drown out the cold, mechanical whir of the hospital machines.
    And so they waited.
    She had no conception of how long she sat there, had no measure of how long she had anticipated his final moments. And when the heart monitor screamed for the last time, Marybelle latched onto the edge of her chair and closed her eyes, waiting for the sound of death to stop. When she opened one green eye- then the other- and peeked out, she saw her mother in the doorway, hair swirling around her thin shoulders, body quivering as she sobbed into her hands. There was a curious ring of light from the wall lamp, Marybelle noticed, and it shined around her head, like a halo, as she slid down the doorway and crumpled onto the floor. People rushed forward, trying to comfort her, and the blur of confusion and sudden action scared Marybelle. She looked down at her lap, at her t-shirt, and saw that her knuckles were skeleton-white with fear.
    Some minutes later her mother had come to hug her, tears glistening as they poured down her cheeks, and told her that uncle Sammy had gone to heaven.
    Had Marybelle been that afraid since?
    She was certainly afraid now.
    Marybelle watched her mother at the sink. She stood, face impassive, washing the same plate over and over again, the senseless drone of the nearby television barely audible above the sound of running water. The kitchen was already glistening clean. The old blue-bird clock chirped once for five-thirty; the news was coming on, and her mother was waiting- hoping- that there would be a story about her eldest daughter, Miranda.
    Miranda.
    Miranda was gone.
    It had been four nights and three long days since she had disappeared. She was gone, missing without a trace, and no one had seen her or heard from her since. They had ridden a wave of emotions- first of annoyance at her not coming home, and then the slow awakening of fear, followed closely by a semi-functional state of hysteria. Now the fear had loosened its grip slightly, allowing them to breathe, to move, to speak. But fear still held its dark hand over them all, holding their lives in place while the world around them cruelly turned as usual.
    The police are now concerned… about foul-play.
    “Look, ma’am,” Officer Nelson had said on Saturday morning, when Miranda had failed to come home the previous night. “You technically can’t file a missing-persons report until 24 hours have gone by. She probably got drunk after the dance with some friends and passed out somewhere. But I’ll put out an APB anyway. And you just call us later when she gets home.”
    Saturday had gone by slowly, the dreary rain outside lapping at the windows like a dog’s tongue in a water dish.
    “When she comes home,” Marybelle heard her father say, “She’ll be sorry she did! I can’t believe she’s pulling this! And after I told her she couldn’t use the car? Is that why she stayed out all night? I’m telling you- we should never have let her hang out with that goddamn Robin girl! She’s bad news. All piercings and cigarette smoke and foul language. Miranda never smoked until she met that girl. I’ll bet they got drunk somewhere and are sleeping it off. Damn her!”
    Marybelle sat in her bedroom, sketching absentmindedly, as she listened to the commotion downstairs. She wondered why they were so angry. She knew Miranda would come home. Why wouldn’t she? Miranda was the perfect older sister; she was an honor roll student, a star athlete, and well-liked- possibly even loved- by her classmates. And she, Marybelle, was smart enough to know that Miranda would come home eventually. And she would have had a good reason for being out all night. And Marybelle, four years her junior, was adult enough to realize this. So why weren’t her parents?
    “I don’t care if you say and she says she doesn’t drink,” her father continued. “I know better. This is the kind of crap teenagers pull these days. I never pulled this @!#$ on my father. He would have smacked some sense into me if I had. Even when I drank I always came home afterwards.”
    Dinner that night was tense, uncomfortable. The three of them sat in silence as they pushed around their dinner with their forks. Every noise that came from outside drove her mother to stand and rush to the window, and each time Marybelle had to watch her mother’s face drop into a frown as she sat back down at the table.
    Sunday came with sunshine and a cool breeze that blew the leaves on the trees against Marybelle’s bedroom window. The rustle of the branches against the window woke her, and she bounded out of her bed and down the hall to Miranda’s room. It was empty, as empty as before, bed still unmade, while the sun splayed its light across her purple bedspread. Her schoolbooks had been tossed across the floor, and several articles of clothing were hung on the back of her computer chair. Miranda’s computer was still on, the green light on the tower blinking, and it made a soft, mechanical whirring noise as it ran. Marybelle could hear faint voices downstairs, but could only vaguely make out what they were saying.
    She shivered involuntarily. “Uncle Sammy,” she said, and reached forward to turn the computer off. The room became eerily silent.
    “I appreciate your help, Jim,” she heard her mother say. “This just isn’t like her. I know something must have happened. Have you talked to Robin or her parents?”
    Marybelle crept down over the stairs. She could see her mother in the living room, dressed only in her tattered old robe, as she and her father talked to Officer Nelson. A female officer that she didn’t recognize stood next to him, feet spread wide apart and arms crossed over her chest. Marybelle noticed that she didn’t make eye contact with any of them.
    “Yes, Mrs. Sampson, we have. We spoke to the Fletcher girl. She said that she and Miranda left from her house to go to the dance just after nine o’clock. She did say that they each drank two beers before leaving for the dance, but that neither one of them were drunk. Robin left the dance at about eleven o’clock, about a half hour early, to go to a friend’s house to sleep. She says she last saw your daughter outside of the school, and that she said that she was going to either walk home or catch a ride with one of the boys there. His name was-“ the officer flipped a page on his notebook, “Kevin. Kevin Anderson. Do either of you know him?”
    They both shook their heads. “No, I don’t ever remember her ever mentioning a friend named Kevin,” her father said, jaw tightened. “Have you checked with this boy yet?”
    The officer shook his head. Marybelle could see a small stack of photos in the officer’s hand. “He lives over on Maple Street. I stopped by earlier but nobody was home. I left a message for either him or his parents to get back to me asap. I’ll swing back by later on today.” The officer stepped forward. “I’m sorry we don’t have anything further. I have four of my men out looking for your daughter. Two are over at the high school and two are out questioning your daughter’s friends. The list of kids I have here- I’m going to check with each one of them and their parents. We’ve also contacted your cell phone company to see if she has made any calls since Friday night,” He nodded his head at them. “You have my number. If she comes home, call me. And I’ll call you once we hear anything. Don’t worry. We will find your daughter.” The door swung shut with a thud behind him as they left.
    Marybelle felt more invisible than usual all day Sunday. She laid on the couch, swinging her skinny legs over one arm, and stared at the swirly patterns on the ceiling without speaking. She imagined that each one was a brush stroke in a painting, and that she was the master artist behind the canvas. She had wanted to paint but couldn’t. She couldn’t get her mind off of her sister’s strange disappearance. Her mother was on the phone again, talking away frantically, dialing the parents of every one of Miranda’s friends whose names she could remember. Marybelle listened over and over until she realized that the conversations were all the same.
    No one had seen her.
    No one knew where she had gone.
    No one knew anything.
    Marybelle’s mother took to cleaning the house that Sunday evening while her father was out looking for Miranda. She watched her mother as she cleaned- frantically sweeping, washing, vacuuming, and tidying every corner of the living room and the kitchen. And when she was done she emptied out all the silverware and even the nice china- dead grandma Ellie’s china that they only used on Christmas- and washed that too. And then she emptied the drawers and the cupboards. Marybelle could feel her stomach tighten as she watched the counter being filled up with baking soda and cake mix and months-old canned goods. Her mother scrubbed the inside of the cupboards with a dirty cream-colored cloth. And after Marybelle had finally gone to bed, her even mother cleaned behind the refrigerator.
    “Gotta get all this dust out,” her mother said aloud to herself, to no one.
    Monday brought the end of the fear and the beginning of the hysteria.
    The police had come again and then gone. Still no sign of Miranda. She had last been seen outside the school after eleven pm, and no one had seen or heard from her since. She wasn’t at the local hospital. No one had seen her in any of the nearby towns.
    Marybelle sat on the couch, soggy bowl of cereal in front of her, and watched the two officers leave. She pushed at her breakfast with her spoon and watched as the cornflakes bobbed up and down in the milk. “Do you want me to go to school today?” she whispered.
    Her father responded. “No, honey, you don’t have to go to school today.”
    “No, no, no,” her mother murmured. “You don’t have to go to school. Not until Miranda comes home. Not until then.” She stood up as if in a daze. “Dave, do you want any coffee? I need coffee. I haven’t slept. I need something to keep me awake. Until she gets home, anyway.”
    Until she gets home.
    The phrase rang in Marybelle’s ears for the rest of the day. She sprawled out on the couch, remote lazily held in one hand, flipping through the channels . Talk shows, soap operas, game shows. All garbage. She threw the remote on the floor in disgust and flopped over onto her back, her hair hanging over the side of the couch. Sighing, she looked up at the black television, and noticed the empty picture frames on the top of the entertainment center. The police had taken photos- photos of Miranda and Marybelle together, Miranda’s prom picture, and even photographs of the four of them. She couldn’t help but look up at the few pictures that remained. There were pictures from a picnic they had a few years ago, a picture from Busch Gardens, and a picture of a grinning Miranda holding Marybelle while she was still in diapers. There was also an older photo of Miranda there, in her basketball uniform, glistening with sweat and holding up a finger as she smiled for the camera. The picture had been taken two years ago, after Miranda had made the game-winning shot in the regional finals. Marybelle could see a gleam of joy in Miranda’s vivid hazel eyes.
    She wondered if she would ever see that gleam again.
    “Sister,” she whispered. “Where are you?”
    Marybelle heard a click behind her. She turned suddenly, startled, to see her mother standing in the doorway. She held a lit cigarette in one hand and a lighter in the other. “Do you miss her?” her mother asked in a low voice.
    Marybelle’s throat tightened. “Of- of course I do, mom.”
    Her mother took a long, silent drag of her cigarette.
    “Mom- you- you don’t smoke,” she whispered.
    Her mother tilted her head sideways slightly, looking her daughter up and down. She was quiet for a long moment. “I used to smoke,” she finally said. “Before I had Miranda. When I was in nursing school. It’s an awful habit.” Another drag. “Just awful. Don’t tell your father. You know how he hates cigarettes.”
    Marybelle shook her head slowly from side to side. “I won’t tell him,” she said quietly.
    Her mother nodded. “Good. You know how he hates cigarettes,” she repeated, and turned away.
    Marybelle looked back at Miranda’s basketball photo, at Miranda’s flush, pink cheeks, her sweat-stained uniform, and her well-manicured fingernails. So perfect. Marybelle looked down at her own ragged, chewed-up nails. So imperfect.
    “Mom, I’m going outside to play basketball,” she said suddenly.
    Her mother didn’t respond. Marybelle turned and took a step forward, toward the kitchen. Her mother was standing sideways, staring at the phone, her arms crossed over her chest and tears sliding down over her cheeks. The clock on the stove in plain view, Marybelle stood and watched her mother for a full five minutes.
    She didn’t move.
    “Mom?” she finally said, voice barely more than a whisper. “I’m going outside to play basketball.” She moved toward the refrigerator. “Do we have any Gatorade left?”
    Her mother slowly turned to her. Reflexively, Marybelle took a quick step back. Her mother’s face was blank and pale and frightened, with a washed-out complexion and red-rimmed eyes. It was the face, Marybelle thought, of one who was living through something terrible and yet still knew that the worst was yet to come. It reminded Marybelle of her uncle Sammy just a few days before he had died. It was the same feeling now, this anticipation of something terrible yet to come, and a paradoxical sense of timelessness when time seemed to both speed up and slow to a crawl. The fear had leeched into their souls. Her mother- she was still alive, but her spirit was broken. Her eyes looked dead.
    “Mom… I’m going to go to the store and get Gatorade. And then play basketball. Is- is that ok?”
    “No! No, you’re not going to the store. Not without your father. “ She barked suddenly, loudly. “You wait for your father. You’re not going alone. And don’t leave the yard. Stay where I can see you.” She wiped away a tear with her sleeve.
    Marybelle breathed deeply. “Oh, ok, I- I won’t. Where’s dad?”
    “He’s- he’s upstairs resting. Nevermind, I’ll go to the store. I need to pick up a few things anyway. What kind of Gatorade do you want?” She suddenly smiled at Marybelle suddenly and gestured with one arm, but her eyes were still dead. “You want the blue kind? Or the purple kind?”
    Marybelle took a step backwards. “I’ll take the blue kind, thanks.” She shivered involuntarily at her empty smile.
    Her mother returned to the house almost an hour later with several big brown bags of groceries. Marybelle was outside, shooting around absentmindedly in the cool September breeze, silently wishing that she were better at basketball. But that had never been her talent, had it? It had always been Miranda’s. Starter on the basketball team as a sophomore and all-state player as a junior. Even her recent cigarette habit hadn’t slowed her down. Marybelle watched as yet another shot bounced off the rim, almost hitting her mother’s car.
    “Sorry mom,” she said quickly as her mother got out of the car. “You need some help with those?” she offered. Her mother’s face was flushed.
    “No, I’m fine.” Her mother reached into her bag and tossed her a bottle of Gatorade. The bottle slid off one sweaty palm and bounced at her feet. Marybelle noticed an unopened pack of cigarettes in her hand.
    She dribbled away from the gravel part of the driveway and onto the tar near the basketball hoop. “Thanks. You know, I’m not much of a basketball player. Not like Miranda is,” she said as she bent over to pick up the bottle.
    Her mother stared at her for a moment. “It’s okay, honey,” she said after a long moment of silence. “It’s okay.”
    From inside the house, the phone rang.
    Marybelle watched as her mother’s head snapped sideways. Without saying a word, both she and Marybelle sprinted inside the house.
    “Hello?” she said as she yanked the phone, nearly pulling the entire receiver off the wall. “Oh, hello Jim. How are things? Any more word? Anything? Have you found her?”
    Marybelle watched her mother’s face as it slowly contorted. “Oh, I see. What did – what did you find? What? A wallet? You- you found Miranda’s wallet?”
    Marybelle’s heart fluttered. She put one hand over her chest.
    “No, no, where did you find it?” Marybelle watched as her mother ran a hand through her hair. “Oh, hi, Jim, yeah, I think my husband just picked up the other line. Explain that again, please.”
    Marybelle watched her mother as she stood motionless, phone held to her ear and mouth partially dropped open. “And there was still money in it? What? All her identification, her cards, cash, everything?” She shook her head. “And what about the cell phone records?”
    Marybelle’s heart lept into her throat. Miranda. Miranda. Miranda. Where are you? Her eyes welled up with tears. Where would she be without her wallet? Where? And why?
    “So there was a number? There were phone calls made that night? To where? To who? Who did she call?”
    Marybelle tapped the table with one finger. She pushed her pointer finger down, hard, until the tip of it turned white. White like her knuckles had been when uncle Sammy had died. A wave of nausea swept over her as she took a long, deep breath. The room spun around her slowly as her mother’s voice turned into a drone of unintelligible words. And she remembered then, remembered her sister’s smile and her sister’s voice and her sister’s arrogant strut. A strut as if she owned the world. And she had, hadn’t she? At least she had on the basketball court. And off the court she had been loved, even when she was being mischevious, and had been full of life.
    And now Miranda was gone.
    Marybelle closed her eyes, leaning her head forward on the kitchen table, wisps of her light brown hair falling forward into her face. She could see a picture of her sister’s face in her mind; round and beautiful and radiant, it smiled at her.
    The crash of the phone back on the receiver brought her back to reality. “Mom?” she asked as she looked up.
    Her mother stared at the wall behind Marybelle with an eerily blank stare.
    “Mom?”
    Upstairs she heard a noise from her father. A heart-wrenching, muffled scream and the bang of something hitting the wall. She jumped out from her chair and shoved it into the table. She reached out an arm to her mother. “Mom, what is it? Tell me!!” She heard another yell from her father, and a string of curse words. Another bang, and a sound of something crashing against the wall again.
    “Dave!” Her mother yelled, all but ignoring her. “Dave! Come down here! Please!” She strode around the edge of the table and stormed toward the stairs. “Dave! Please!”
    Marybelle followed her mother as she stormed through the kitchen entryway and into the living room. They both stopped at the foot of the stairs.
    “Mom?” she asked plaintively, lip trembling.
    Her mother turned to her slowly, as if in a daze, and gazed down into her daughter’s face. “I’m sorry, honey. The- the police say,” she stopped and took a deep breath. “The police say that they found your sister’s wallet completely full and next to her jacket, which was- was torn. They found it on the side of the road about five miles outside of town.” Another breath. “And that the late night janitor saw her talking to a man, a man in a car, right before she left the school dance, and that he thought that this man was using your sister’s cell phone. And- and the police are now concerned…” Her voice trailed off. “Concerned about foul-play.”
    Concerned about foul play.
    Marybelle was snapped back to reality as she heard a crash behind her. She looked back at her mother. She had dropped the dish that she was washing, and it had broken into huge, sharp fragments all over the kitchen floor. Marybelle stood slowly, feeling a wave of nausea spread over her. She hadn’t eaten since yesterday- Monday- afternoon. And now the evening news was just coming on. “Did you cut yourself?” No response. “Mom?”
    Her mother shook her head slowly. “No. No, I didn’t.” Her eyes were fixated on the television screen. “Shh, the news is on. Let’s see if they have anything on Miranda.”
    Marybelle’s hands shook violently as she picked up the broken pieces. In the background she could hear the newscaster start her opening evening speech.
    “Shh, shh, be quiet,” her mother said.
    “I didn’t say anything,” Marybelle whispered.
    “Where’s your father?”
    Marybelle shrugged. “I thought he was out with the- the search party. You know that.” She stood up angrily. “Mom, I want to go help look for Miranda,” She said firmly. “Why aren’t we helping? Why are we even hiding in this house?”
    Her mother grabbed her by the neck with one hand. Marybelle took a reflexive step backward as she looked at her mothers face. “Because!” She yelled. “Don’t you understand? This search party, they’re not looking- they’re not looking for your sister! They’re looking for her body! “
    Marybelle felt the words as though they had stabbed her through the heart. “No, no, no. Mom, she’s only been gone a couple of days. Why would the police say that?” She shook her head from side to side as her eyes welled up with tears, and struggled to break free from her mother’s grip.
    “The police didn’t say it, I did! You think that if that search party finds her out in the woods after four days, she’s gonna be alive? You think that there’s anything that we can do? Your sister is GONE, Marybelle. She’s GONE. And if they find her alive it will be a miracle. She may turn up somewhere else if she ran off with someone but if she’s in the woods I swear to you she’s DEAD. That’s why I’m not out there in the woods! I don’t want to see my baby if she’s dead!” Her mother’s body shook as she screamed.
    Marybelle wrenched free of her mother’s grip and collapsed onto the floor, sobbing. She barely felt the slice of the plate as it gashed open her palm. “No, mom, Miranda’s not dead. She just ran off somewhere. She just got mad or drunk and ran off with some boy or something. I swear it.” She shook her head from side to side as she stared pleadingly up at her mother, tears streaming down her face.
    “Shhh!” her mother said suddenly, face losing its expression of rage, and reached down one arm to grab Marybelle’s shoulder. “I- I think your father is home.”
    Marybelle cocked her head sideways as she heard a car pull into the driveway. She pushed herself up weakly with one arm, leaving a half of a bloody palm print on the linoleum. She tossed the plate parts in the garbage. “Is it dad?” she asked, wiping away her tears with the back of one hand. She pulled down her shirt with the other.
    Her mother stood on her tiptoes to look out the window over the kitchen sink. “No, it’s not your father. It’s- it’s Jim Nelson, I think. It’s a cop car.”
    “Maybe he’s dropping dad off.”
    Marybelle leaned back against the counter and took a deep breath, running her uncut palm through her hair. Her mother swung open the outside door and waved to the police car with both arms. Marybelle could hear it crunch over the gravelly part of the driveway and slow to a stop in front of the side steps. Her mother waved again frantically.
    The car’s headlights shone directly into the kitchen. Marybelle lifted one arm up to cover the glare in her eyes.
    “Jim! Jim! Hey, is my husband with you? Jim!” Marybelle’s mother called out.
    No response from the car. It idled quietly in the driveway. Marybelle could see three figures inside the police car.
    One of them was clearly a woman.
    A bolt of excitement ran through Marybelle’s body. “NO!” Marybelle said. “Who’s that with them? Is- is it?” She couldn’t even say her name.
    Her mother grabbed her arm and waved again, her arm flopping from side to side crazily. “Marybelle, honey, I can’t even see, what are you talking about?”
    Marybelle pointed at the car. “I don’t know why they’re not getting out mom, but that looks like a woman’s head in the front seat. Is- is it?”
    Her mother squealed with delight. “MIRANDA!” She screeched, and sprinted down over the steps and toward the cop car.
    The doors on both sides of the car swung open at the same instant the car lights turned off. Marybelle stopped when she saw Officer Nelson and the uncomfortable-looking female officer get out of the car.
    “Mom- mom… what’s going on? That’s not Miranda,” Marybelle whispered. “I- I thought it was Miranda.”
    Her mom straightened up, startled. She lifted one hand to the officer pleadingly. “Jim, Jim, what’s – what’s going on here,”
    Officer Nelson took two steps forward, his mouth firmly set into a straight line. The female officer turned slowly away, again avoiding eye contact, and opened the passenger door behind her.
    The figure in the backseat did not move.
    “Jim?” her mother whispered. “What- what’s going on? I can’t see who you have there,” she said as she tried to look into the car’s backseat.
    “Ma’am-“ Officer Nelson started to say.
    Marybelle heard a sound then, a noise so terrible that she could not have imagined it had come from a human being. It pierced the night sky like a sword through her heart.
    “NO!” She heard her father yell.
    He lurched sideways out of the backseat of the car and toppled onto the driveway. In the dim light Marybelle could see him clutching something in his hand. She stepped forward, feeling her knees go weak and buckle underneath her as she fell down next to her father. She didn’t notice as the gravel cut deeper into her bloody palm.
    He raised it up, a piece of wrinkled purple cashmere cloth. Marybelle instantly recognized it as one of Miranda’s sweaters.
    In the faint light, she could see a tear running down one side of the sweater. A dark red bloodstain covered one sleeve. She shook her head over and over again in disbelief.
    Her father leaned up at her, face soaked with perspiration and tears, and grabbed her face with one trembling hand.
    “We’ve lost her,” he gasped. “We’ve lost Miranda.”

  2. #2
    jayce
    Guest

    Re: Short story for you to critique

    Your eighth word is "had", which in narrative openings frequently heralds the onset of back-story. Sure enough, that's what you did--you launched into a whole bunch of stuff that happened before you started your story, hads to the left of me, hads to the right. I couldn't finish. Try picking a different spot to begin your tale.

    Sorry. Feel free to scoff.

  3. #3
    Hillary W
    Guest

    Re: Short story for you to critique

    No, I won't scoff. I want to see what people think.

    Since you didnt finish it I won't ask you any more questions, but thanks for the input.

  4. #4
    jayce
    Guest

    Re: Short story for you to critique

    The reason I didn't finish is because of the back story. The idea is to open in media res, in the middle of things. Give the reader a scene where something is happening in real time, not in past time, which yanks them out of the experience. Conflict and tension can only be generated in present-time scenes. Without tension, the reader's mind wanders, and you lose them.

    (Also, post shorter excerpts, no more than a thousand words. And double space between paragraphs and dialog--it's much easier on the eye.)

    Keep trying.

  5. #5
    Hillary W
    Guest

    Re: Short story for you to critique



    i copy and pasted this from a word file. sorry if it came out all messed up.

  6. #6
    jayce
    Guest

    Re: Short story for you to critique

    Lots of folks don't know about the formating.

    If you decide to repost, start a new thread; you'll get more responses.

    Good luck.

  7. #7
    Hillary W
    Guest

    Re: Short story for you to critique

    is there any way to delete this post? sorry, this is my first day on this board.

  8. #8
    Gary Kessler
    Guest

    Re: Short story for you to critique

    The issue isn't posting from a Word file. What you need to do for Computer screen readability is to put an extra line feed between paragraphs in your Word file before cutting and pasting it into the text box here. You can easily do with with "find and replace." Put one paragraph symbol in the "replace" field (these can be found on the pulldown menus of "find and replace") and two in the "replace with" field.

    Like most others, I don't have the time to critique a full story here.

  9. #9
    L Bea
    Guest

    Re: Short story for you to critique

    "...hads to the left of me, hads to the right.

    Jayce, that's awesome. So Stealers Wheels-esque of you!

    <http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8StG4fFWHqg>

    Hillary,

    This story needs to start at "Upstairs she heard a noise from her father."

    Bea~

  10. #10
    Hillary W
    Guest

    Re: Short story for you to critique

    bea,

    thanks for the input. i think the story definitely needs to be re-arranged.

    any thoughts on the style of writing, the flow, etc?

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