Post by Peach :) on Jan 30, 2011 15:03:11 GMT -5
Okay this is for a short story writing contest (has to be under 1,500 words). I know I need a lot of editing to be done and I would love your critique! Yes it’s a bit morbid; there’s only a tiny bit of very vague violence near the end (only one shot is fired by a gun, just by the way so it’s nothing terrible and I don’t describe anything) but I just want to say that in case it freaks out anybody (which I don’t think it will). Anyways yay! here it goes! Also, I wrote this to the song “Hero” by Regina Spektor so if you want to have mood music listen to that XD
I know it needs a lot of work and I want your specific help on a few things:
1. Name? Hanna is okay but that was just the test name. Any suggestions? Also, names for the story in general?
2. I’m not sure what sacrifice the mom made to let Hanna be a ghost
3. I’m not sure HOW she made Hanna be a ghost either… suggestions? Or should I keep it vague?
4. I didn’t mention this but I will mention it in the revise: The gun was hidden inside the jar of marbles, the same gun the mom used to kill Hanna’s father.
5. Should Hanna talk? I’m not sure. I didn’t make her talk directly at all.\
6. How she gets the marble in her is still undecided; any suggestions?
7. Any suggestions in general about anything would be helpful. Thank! Sorry for the long lsit D:
Five years old.
“Stop, Hanna! Stop!”
I didn’t want to.
I was on top of the stairs and running my finger along the knife, sitting on the top step and watching her pallid face grow paler. Her knot boned fingers shook and mother quietly began to climb the stairs. She was afraid. For me. I let the knife go just as I shook my head, the skin on my finger neatly sliced, very deep. No blood… I asked her why it didn’t hurt. Where is the pain, mother? She didn’t answer. Why did I do this? I didn’t know.
Eight years old.
“Move, Hanna! Move!”
I refused.
I looked uninterested from the middle of the track, sitting with my fingers splayed and my legs crossed as I waited. Her mouth was wide and gaping like The Scream and her face was long. I wasn’t frightened and the alarm rang to foreshadow the train. I almost laughed but mother came and picked me up and ran, hearing the singing of the train’s wheels. I screamed with the train’s whistle. Why did I do this? I didn’t know.
Eleven years old.
“Come down, Hanna! Come down!”
I wouldn’t.
Her eyes were large and fearful and gleaming. With erratic movements, she begged me move and her lips were wilting rose petals. I stared at her emptily from the roof of the house, unflinching as the ladder that had been propped against it clattered to the driveway ground. My mother pleaded with a voice of tears and I let her put up the ladder again and didn’t jump. I wanted to jump. Why did I do this? I didn’t know.
I was older now. I learned about fathers; I learned about siblings. Mother never mentioned them, increasing my curiosity. Mother had three rules in the house; the first rule was to never ask her about family. This wasn’t ever directly spoken from her, but I learned it quickly.
The second rule, and this one was official, was, “Never go into my room.”
And the third rule was a bit of an add on to the second, because she added hurriedly, “And never ever touch the jar of marbles.” Mother didn’t mention the jar of marbles very much at all, snuffing my interest once again. But when she did talk about it, well, she talked quietly and dangerously, as if daring me to speak, as if she’d slap me if a sound would be heard. I avoided her on those days because she had very strange behavior. It scared me and that was all that scared me.
What she had said was that it meant a lot to her, more then I could ever imagine.
Then one night I woke up. The darkness was thick and I couldn’t see very much at all… My right hand fumbled like a spider on the night drawer beside my bed, curling around the smooth handle of my flashlight. It clicked on almost immediately and my body willed itself out of bed until I was standing barefoot on the old wooden floor. Feeling foolish, I glanced back at my bed, deep thought. Thought… I was shocked when I realized I’d walked out into the hall, as robotic as a wind-up toy soldier. Mother’s door was open across the hallway and a tiny breath of wind protruded from within the room, straight through my pajamas and to my bones, licking them cold.
The marbles… I wanted to see the marbles, didn’t I?
Gingerly, I tip toed across the hall with white feet, dancing on the memorized wooden boards, the ones I’d known not to squeak. I’d done this before… waken up to look at the marbles, that is, but that night was different. I was going to open the jar. I was going to touch them. I’d always felt the need to; the sense of desperate longing came whenever I happened to be near Mother’s room.
I floated in like a ghost now, still dancing across the boards, but more airily then before. My eyes kept being drawn to the sleeping form of Mother in her bed, rising and lowering softly. Her back was turned. Moonlight decorated the walls and floor with puzzling shapes and figures, fashioning claws out of branches and bodies out of the pillows on the floor.
Continuing, I reached Mother’s shelves, ignoring the glittering jewelry and flashing mirrors, grabbing the jar I’d searched for greedily, frantically, longingly. Something… something was there…
The lid came off in my hand and I suddenly poured all the marbles onto the floor, stupidly crazed, watching all of the pearly spheres jump, harshly loud.
Mother was sitting in bed.
Ignoring her, I knelt down, searching the marbles for inevitably something, because I was searching for something I’d wanted all my life…
“Hanna… stop. Right now.”
I didn’t heed her words, fingers skipping across all of them, looking. Where is it? My mind whispered this in shuddering agony, but I didn’t know what it meant. Where? Where? Where?
I hadn’t realized I was mumbling until Mother laughed hysterically, slipping out of bed. “What, Hanna? Stop it. Get out.”
I shook my head.
Searching.
Mother treaded softly towards me, eyes widening as a plastic smile was placed onto her mouth, disagreeing with the emotions written over the rest of her face. She was shaking when I found it, touching one marble tenderly.
“Hanna, give that to me.”
I shook my head again, saying that I wouldn’t.
“Hanna, listen to your mother.”
Mother grabbed my wrists, forcing me to drop it, bringing me up to her face. What she would’ve said, I will never know, because I tore myself free from her grasp, grabbing the marble and swallowing it without another word.
Why had I-
Mother wrung her hands, taking steps back, tripping onto her mattress. “No…” Her voice suddenly soared levels of hysteria, and she stared at me as if I were something disgusting. “You couldn’t, Hanna. After all I’ve done for you.”
Images flashed through my head, quickly, memories I hadn’t known I had. Memories that I’d lost… some time ago, I was sure. Suddenly, I was sure. Then…
I’m dead, aren’t I?
I said this aloud to Mother, intentionally, looking at her with astonishment rather then fear. I… was dead… my mind didn’t take this well, immediately repelling the notion. It wasn’t possible.
I asked Mother if I was a ghost.
Mother just shook her head, a grin coming over her face, fingers twitching over the bed sheets. “It was for the best, Hanna. Your father hadn’t wanted you to stay, you know.” It took me a few more seconds to realize what she’d meant.
I looked at her grief stricken face, horrified. I’d died in a car accident… hadn’t I? The past seemed detached from me, as if the story belonged to another girl. I asked her why she hadn’t let me die.
“I loved you so much, Hanna. I wouldn’t let you go. Your father didn’t understand. I had to Hanna. I just had to.”
She’d shot him. Now I remembered. The police had thought that he’d died from the crash also.
“I took you dead, Hanna, and I buried your body. But I kept you, Hanna! I kept the part I needed for you to be with me, Hanna! It was just like nothing had happened and we could have a life without your father. He never cared about you like I did Hanna, he never understood what sacrifices had to be made…”
I asked her what sacrifices.
**I’m not sure of what sacrifice she made, help please?**
I was numb all over. She’d taken a part of me and hidden it… so I wouldn’t know. But now I was full again, wasn’t I? I could die now that I was full.
My hands shot out to the gun on the bottom shelf before Mother could move. She screamed angrily, jumping at me but I grabbed it before she could do anything.
Seventeen years old.
“Don’t, Hanna! Don’t!”
I did.
I took the gun before she could touch me, her face almost demonic in the shadows. This wasn’t home anymore. I was past my due. I only screamed.
Why did I do this?
Now I know.
“Stop, Hanna! Stop!”
I didn’t want to.
I was on top of the stairs and running my finger along the knife, sitting on the top step and watching her pallid face grow paler. Her knot boned fingers shook and mother quietly began to climb the stairs. She was afraid. For me. I let the knife go just as I shook my head, the skin on my finger neatly sliced, very deep. No blood… I asked her why it didn’t hurt. Where is the pain, mother? She didn’t answer. Why did I do this? I didn’t know.
Eight years old.
“Move, Hanna! Move!”
I refused.
I looked uninterested from the middle of the track, sitting with my fingers splayed and my legs crossed as I waited. Her mouth was wide and gaping like The Scream and her face was long. I wasn’t frightened and the alarm rang to foreshadow the train. I almost laughed but mother came and picked me up and ran, hearing the singing of the train’s wheels. I screamed with the train’s whistle. Why did I do this? I didn’t know.
Eleven years old.
“Come down, Hanna! Come down!”
I wouldn’t.
Her eyes were large and fearful and gleaming. With erratic movements, she begged me move and her lips were wilting rose petals. I stared at her emptily from the roof of the house, unflinching as the ladder that had been propped against it clattered to the driveway ground. My mother pleaded with a voice of tears and I let her put up the ladder again and didn’t jump. I wanted to jump. Why did I do this? I didn’t know.
I was older now. I learned about fathers; I learned about siblings. Mother never mentioned them, increasing my curiosity. Mother had three rules in the house; the first rule was to never ask her about family. This wasn’t ever directly spoken from her, but I learned it quickly.
The second rule, and this one was official, was, “Never go into my room.”
And the third rule was a bit of an add on to the second, because she added hurriedly, “And never ever touch the jar of marbles.” Mother didn’t mention the jar of marbles very much at all, snuffing my interest once again. But when she did talk about it, well, she talked quietly and dangerously, as if daring me to speak, as if she’d slap me if a sound would be heard. I avoided her on those days because she had very strange behavior. It scared me and that was all that scared me.
What she had said was that it meant a lot to her, more then I could ever imagine.
Then one night I woke up. The darkness was thick and I couldn’t see very much at all… My right hand fumbled like a spider on the night drawer beside my bed, curling around the smooth handle of my flashlight. It clicked on almost immediately and my body willed itself out of bed until I was standing barefoot on the old wooden floor. Feeling foolish, I glanced back at my bed, deep thought. Thought… I was shocked when I realized I’d walked out into the hall, as robotic as a wind-up toy soldier. Mother’s door was open across the hallway and a tiny breath of wind protruded from within the room, straight through my pajamas and to my bones, licking them cold.
The marbles… I wanted to see the marbles, didn’t I?
Gingerly, I tip toed across the hall with white feet, dancing on the memorized wooden boards, the ones I’d known not to squeak. I’d done this before… waken up to look at the marbles, that is, but that night was different. I was going to open the jar. I was going to touch them. I’d always felt the need to; the sense of desperate longing came whenever I happened to be near Mother’s room.
I floated in like a ghost now, still dancing across the boards, but more airily then before. My eyes kept being drawn to the sleeping form of Mother in her bed, rising and lowering softly. Her back was turned. Moonlight decorated the walls and floor with puzzling shapes and figures, fashioning claws out of branches and bodies out of the pillows on the floor.
Continuing, I reached Mother’s shelves, ignoring the glittering jewelry and flashing mirrors, grabbing the jar I’d searched for greedily, frantically, longingly. Something… something was there…
The lid came off in my hand and I suddenly poured all the marbles onto the floor, stupidly crazed, watching all of the pearly spheres jump, harshly loud.
Mother was sitting in bed.
Ignoring her, I knelt down, searching the marbles for inevitably something, because I was searching for something I’d wanted all my life…
“Hanna… stop. Right now.”
I didn’t heed her words, fingers skipping across all of them, looking. Where is it? My mind whispered this in shuddering agony, but I didn’t know what it meant. Where? Where? Where?
I hadn’t realized I was mumbling until Mother laughed hysterically, slipping out of bed. “What, Hanna? Stop it. Get out.”
I shook my head.
Searching.
Mother treaded softly towards me, eyes widening as a plastic smile was placed onto her mouth, disagreeing with the emotions written over the rest of her face. She was shaking when I found it, touching one marble tenderly.
“Hanna, give that to me.”
I shook my head again, saying that I wouldn’t.
“Hanna, listen to your mother.”
Mother grabbed my wrists, forcing me to drop it, bringing me up to her face. What she would’ve said, I will never know, because I tore myself free from her grasp, grabbing the marble and swallowing it without another word.
Why had I-
Mother wrung her hands, taking steps back, tripping onto her mattress. “No…” Her voice suddenly soared levels of hysteria, and she stared at me as if I were something disgusting. “You couldn’t, Hanna. After all I’ve done for you.”
Images flashed through my head, quickly, memories I hadn’t known I had. Memories that I’d lost… some time ago, I was sure. Suddenly, I was sure. Then…
I’m dead, aren’t I?
I said this aloud to Mother, intentionally, looking at her with astonishment rather then fear. I… was dead… my mind didn’t take this well, immediately repelling the notion. It wasn’t possible.
I asked Mother if I was a ghost.
Mother just shook her head, a grin coming over her face, fingers twitching over the bed sheets. “It was for the best, Hanna. Your father hadn’t wanted you to stay, you know.” It took me a few more seconds to realize what she’d meant.
I looked at her grief stricken face, horrified. I’d died in a car accident… hadn’t I? The past seemed detached from me, as if the story belonged to another girl. I asked her why she hadn’t let me die.
“I loved you so much, Hanna. I wouldn’t let you go. Your father didn’t understand. I had to Hanna. I just had to.”
She’d shot him. Now I remembered. The police had thought that he’d died from the crash also.
“I took you dead, Hanna, and I buried your body. But I kept you, Hanna! I kept the part I needed for you to be with me, Hanna! It was just like nothing had happened and we could have a life without your father. He never cared about you like I did Hanna, he never understood what sacrifices had to be made…”
I asked her what sacrifices.
**I’m not sure of what sacrifice she made, help please?**
I was numb all over. She’d taken a part of me and hidden it… so I wouldn’t know. But now I was full again, wasn’t I? I could die now that I was full.
My hands shot out to the gun on the bottom shelf before Mother could move. She screamed angrily, jumping at me but I grabbed it before she could do anything.
Seventeen years old.
“Don’t, Hanna! Don’t!”
I did.
I took the gun before she could touch me, her face almost demonic in the shadows. This wasn’t home anymore. I was past my due. I only screamed.
Why did I do this?
Now I know.
I know it needs a lot of work and I want your specific help on a few things:
1. Name? Hanna is okay but that was just the test name. Any suggestions? Also, names for the story in general?
2. I’m not sure what sacrifice the mom made to let Hanna be a ghost
3. I’m not sure HOW she made Hanna be a ghost either… suggestions? Or should I keep it vague?
4. I didn’t mention this but I will mention it in the revise: The gun was hidden inside the jar of marbles, the same gun the mom used to kill Hanna’s father.
5. Should Hanna talk? I’m not sure. I didn’t make her talk directly at all.\
6. How she gets the marble in her is still undecided; any suggestions?
7. Any suggestions in general about anything would be helpful. Thank! Sorry for the long lsit D: