Rate the Story Game, número tres

10. I love the narration! You have me hooked and I may have to actually go read this if I find the time.

---

Things were never supposed to be like this. She felt as if her world kept crumbling down around her, brick by brick. There weren’t many bricks left. Alaric was there, and despite the fact that part of him had crumbled, the rest of him was solid. It was this solidarity that helped Elena hold it together; she felt that at any moment she could explode into a pile of dust.

It was a long time coming too; first with her parents’ death, and now with the death of Jenna along with the departure of Stefan.

Her friends tried to help, but it was only Alaric that could keep her from floating away and slow the seemingly constant stream of tears. She couldn’t help but feel that everyone she cared about was leaving her in some way. Who was next? Jeremy? Damon? Maybe even Alaric, her solid brick with the chipped corners.

---

She wasn’t really sure how things turned out the way they did. Alaric had started out as someone who could comfort her so easily and now he was someone she kept secret.

Their relationship had turned into one that hid behind closed doors and whispered words. She saw him in a new light and she was in awe.

She was already aware that she loved him, and not in the familial way. Elena’s love for Alaric engulfed her entire heart in a way she had never experienced before. It was the reason she snuck into his bedroom in the dead of night so she could feel the comfort of his arms around her and his hot lips on her throat.

Alaric needed Elena too, just as much as she needed him, if not more. He didn’t say it, but she could tell by the way he looked at her and the way he held her that he wouldn’t be here right now if it wasn’t for her.

- My Body Is A Cage

8. I normally don't care much for fanfiction, especially not Vampire Diaries because it seems like no one can write it well enough but you could and you did. It felt as if I were watching the show, but the emotions were more defined! Bravo!

- -

Estelle followed the man until the stopped in the small building. At first she did not recognize it, but soon she takes notice of white gowns lining the walls and hanging perfectly on the mannequins. She sighed internally as she recalled that her wedding was less than two months away. She would have much preferred to find a dress on her own, and since Tucker was not her husband yet, he had no actual say in the things she did. However, he had asked her father for permission and she had to obey her father.

One of the tailors, a woman with hair as dark as midnight, walked over to them and took Estelle's hand in her own. She squeezed it lightly. She gave Tucker a questioning look. "Oh, yes," he chuckled slightly. "Any dress that makes her glow will be beautiful enough for me. Just make sure she has some pink to it. She looks absolutely divine in pink."

Just as the woman was about to pull his bride-to-be away, he grabs her arm. His fingers gripped lightly, but she could barely feel any pressure at all. He looked into her eyes and with a smile, he added, "You always look divine."

She blushed and Tucker let the black haired tailor lead her to a room in the back of the shop where they could try on dresses in peace. Estelle longed to speak to her, to tell her that this was not necessary, or maybe even confide in her that she did not love the man that sat in the lobby. But, in consideration of the Law, she bit her tongue. Should a male be present in any building, and distance is not a factor, the female is forbidden to speak.

The tailor left her all by herself for just a moment and she looked at herself in the mirror used for the brides to view themselves in their dresses. She wasn't particularly tall but enough so to be considered lanky and thin. Her hair was a shade darker than blond, and looking at she couldn't help but think of her two sisters and how her looks mimicked that of the eldest Linerock sisters. Her eyes were a dull green, her skin was pale and her lips were a soft pink. Perhaps that's why Tucker thought pink suited her well because the color accented her lips so well.

After a few moments the woman returned with three dresses, each much to beautiful for the plainest of the Linerock women. The tailor helped the young maiden out of her current dress and into the first wedding dress. Once it was fitted correctly against her body, Estelle lifted her skirts and stepped toward the mirror. The sleeves hung across her shoulders, leaving her collar bone exposed. The corset of the dress tightened around her middle and form there the dress fanned out in what seemed to be long, soft feathers. Around her waist the tailor tied a long pink ribbon. With a few minor adjustments to my hair I really could look like a bride, Estelle thought in bewilderment. The woman stared at her in the mirror, seeming to see the same thing, though her eyes are laden with sympathy.

To be only fifteen years old and being forced to give her hand, her eyes seemed to say. Estelle hung her head to hide her sad expression. The woman helps her out of the dress and into the next two, but after examining them, the two young girls silently agree that the first will be the one she wears on her wedding day. Estelle leveled the gown carefully over her arm and held it close to her chest as the walked back to where her fiancé sat in waiting. He rose to his feet immediately and grinned. He was a firm believer of not seeing a bride's dress before the ceremony, so his eyes averted it, staring directly into her own.

"Is that the one you want?" He asked. I nodded.

He paid the tailor a few pieces of gold and a bit of silver and the couple rushed back onto the street. This time, the went with the current of the people and headed toward the country side. Many of the people of this city did not live here, but it was such a short distance that they could work or shop here. Only the exceptionally wealth, like Tucker, could afford a house within the city. As they walked, the pavement turned to dirt road and the building morphed into large, branching trees. After a few more moments, Tucker walked her to the front door of her small family cottage. She wondered briefly if her sisters or father even had wondered if she truly wanted this. She shook the thoughts away. If anyone needed this marriage it was Penelope, her younger sister. Tucker's wealth could provide a much brighter future than the one Estelle and her elder sister, Annie, had been doomed too.

Tucker ran his smooth hands up and down the length of her forearms and he leaned in to kiss her on the cheek. Estelle flourished in an instant. She may not be in love with him, but the kisses were always so sweet. Usually, he'd kiss her goodbye with his lips on hers, but other days, he'd settle for her cheek or forehead. He smiled and kissed the other cheek. "Good day, my sweet," he whispered and disappeared back onto the trail and back into the city. Estelle sighed and entered her home.

- She Spoke

8. I'm not overly fond of the device used to see how the character looks like (the whole looking in the mirror part), however, I felt this piece has an amazing imagery with your use of descriptions in order to paint the image; I also was captured by the fashion that women have to hold themselves when men are present; it ads a lot of interest, and definitely the title at the end of the story made me click on it. On a side note, I noticed a point of view shift into your narration. You started with a third person p.o.v. and in here:

Quote

"Is that the one you want?" He asked. I nodded.

you shifted it to a first person narration.
--

Sophie was a curious child. She had always been. Ever since she was a baby, she'd find her way out of her house to listen to the latest gossip, or follow the neighbor's cat just to find where it left whenever no one else was looking.

This often got her into trouble, of course. Her mother's maid was always so worried and anxious when she took her outside. She often spoke about the first time that Sophie disappeared from her side. The first time she had lost her, they were at the schooling district; one minute she was standing in between her and one of the teachers, listening eagerly as they discussed about the classes Sophie would take next year; then, the next moment, she was nowhere to be found.

That day, the poor maid had returned home alone, tears pouring from her eyes, hands shaking terribly from how scared she was. She tried so hard to find the proper words to tell Sophie’s mother about her daughter’s disappearance, but nothing came to mind; after all, how do you tell a mother that you had lost her child?

When she arrived to the estate, she had to sit for about ten good minutes, trying to clear her hoarse voice and to calm her anxious tears. She often speaks of how she remembers walking to the Lady’s studio and compares that experience to that of a prisoner walking to her death sentence. She walked painfully slowly, head bowed down in shame, tears still staining her face. Whatever punishment she expected was immediately forgotten when she walked into the studio to find Sophie sprawled on the floor on her mother’s side, crying.

“I was exploring!” she had said to her unresponsive mother, who was ignoring the tantrum her daughter was having. The poor maid had taken such a deep breath and then she proceeded to explain herself to the Lady.

Sophie was grounded for a month afterward, confined to her room where she’d only be allowed to take her lessons and to play for no more than an hour. It was such a cruel punishment for poor 7-year-old Sophie.

Despite getting into constant trouble, Sophie never ceased to be her curious self. At age 10 she had successfully gotten the whole village into looking for her; she had been missing for one full day when a traveling merchant found her near the cave by the lake that surrounded the village, happily gathering roses and berries from the nearby trees to make a welcome basket for her mother, who had been away attending to the family’s business.

Sophie didn’t change a bit as the days passed by. She was always in the middle of trouble, but she’d never regret a single thing, for she always had a new story to tell. By the time she reached her 13 years of age, Sophie had learned that many things are not precisely what they seem at first sight, so she always questioned and wondered. Because of this, Sophie had certainly many colorful stories of adventures and misadventures to tell to friends and strangers; she was always very joyful whenever people asked about her latest curious escapade; however, there is one story that Sophie never mentions, because, compared to the rest of them, this one had the strongest bittersweet taste of all.

- Din Season work in progress. Unposted. Con/crit greatly appreciated.

10. I honestly really liked this. I think it's written well and it's different. You definitely have me curious towards the end and you did a good job of pulling me into the story as a reader.

---

Anyone who knew Pete Wentz would easily say he was a great catch, so when he was hooked onto Mia’s line everyone thought she was a lucky girl. Everyone could see how happy they were together, see how well Pete treated her.

What they didn’t see, however, is that these two people were intoxicated by the mere thought of the other. When they were behind closed doors, this intoxication either became something wonderful, or something vile and destructive. Their nights would end with either Pete pushing Mia into bed, falling onto the soft mattress with satisfying sighs… or it would end with one of them pushing the other into a wall, bruises forming as they grunted in anger. It was a never ending cycle, one they had no idea how to get out of; not that either one of them wanted to get out of it. They were, of course, intoxicated by each other and never seemed able to get enough.

- Folie à Deux

10. I really love the flow, and the last line especially leaves me wondering what's going to happen next. I don't really know the fandom, but I don't feel like I have to reading this excerpt.

---

“Pepper, I’m not in love with him!” he called as she walked out. “Pepper!” He sighed as he watched her walk down the hallway and out of his sight. He rubbed his face and closed the door. A soft knock sounded at the door. “Go away.”

“Tony, it’s me.”

“I don’t want to talk to you.”

“Tony.” He sighed and yanked the door open.

“What?”

“I saw Pepper leave…”

“Yeah, she thinks I’m in love with you.” He snorted and walked out of the room. He made his way to the kitchen, where JARVIS had dinner prepared for him. He sat at the table and began to eat, aware that Steve’s eyes were on him the whole time. “She should know by now that I can’t love anyone.”

“Don’t say that; you know it’s not true.”

“Sure it is. I have never fallen in love with anyone before, why should I start now?”

“It’s not—“

“Why are you even still here? I thought I told you to leave.”

“Tony—“

“Go on, get out!”

“Tony, please just let me stay. Please. I… I want to be with you.”

“I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

“Can’t you figure it out, Tony? I love you!” Steve shouted. “I love you so much that sometimes it hurts. And… and being here with you like this… it was… it was like coming home.” Tears began to pour down his cheeks. “You were the first and only person to take the time to try and explain things to me after I woke up from being frozen. No one else even bothered. You were the only one who cared. I trusted you. I fell in love with you, and you’re going to just throw that all away, just like that? You’re just going to wash your hands of me, push me away and give up on this because you can’t handle the fact that you just might be falling in love too!”

-- Fool in Love

Eight, it's good, but I think I would have enjoyed it more if there was less dialogue and more narration, you know?

---x

The summers are never colder than they are in Michigan. I'd meet a lot of people here, but Jimmie Keith was different. Extraordinary, even. A New York accent never sounded so sweet, so innocent. Jimmie had the power of a stallion, but the grace and beauty of the mare. I was a girl trying to lose myself and he was boy trying to find himself.
"God is in the sea."
"God is where you want him, Georgia Kate." he said.
"I want him in the ocean."
Jimmie was a lot smarter than he let on. He told me a lot of things that I once knew but had since forgotten. Being around him was like rereading a book, the most important thing in the world.

it'sasummary

8. It's very unique and I like your characters. You have put a 'was' in the fifth sentence where it shouldn't be, though. :)
--

Falter

This is perhaps the word that applies to Martin almost every day. The tiniest bit of pressure lands on his shoulders and there’s an immediate need to get it all out, verbally – take command, explain himself, start a normal conversation – whatever the case calls for. But his brain and his mouth start to panic and don’t want to co-operate in an emergency.

He’s strolling through Charles de Gaulle airport with plenty of time before take-off, slightly ahead of his crew because they (i.e. Arthur and Douglas) needed to stop at duty-free, or so they said. He’s wearing his Captain’s cap, had it on ever since he left the hotel, and is able to get away from Douglas’ teasing unscathed for once. There’s a majesty in the entirety of the uniform that Martin never gets bored of, doesn’t think he’ll ever get bored of – and although he’s in a place where the pilot to ordinary citizen ratio is substantially higher than anywhere else in the world, he still turns a few heads. If Douglas were here, he’d say that was because nobody would believe Martin tall or old enough to be a pilot.

And then someone collides with him and spills lukewarm coffee all down his jacket.

“Oh, I – I’m so – I wasn’t watching w-where I was going, I – so terribly sorry –”

The woman gabbles and stutters and looks up at Martin with wide, brown eyes. She’s blonde, with a look of almost terrified apology on her fine features as she takes in his uniform.

“No, no – d-don’t worry, I wasn’t, um, you know, head in the clouds,” Martin stutters back, smiling tentatively. “Don’t worry about it; I have another jacket – in here.” He tapped his briefcase.

She smiles, blushes. She extends a hand, clutching a tissue as if wanting to mop the liquid from Martin’s jacket but then retreats, jerkily, as if thinking it inappropriate. Martin takes the tissue from her, and starts to dab at himself. He starts to grow hot around the collar, and the buzz of chatter and announcements reverberates in his ears. I can do this, he thinks.

“I – I’m Martin, by the way. I’m a captain – pilot – well, you can see that, obviously, I –”

She giggles. “Molly. Pathologist. Nice to meet you, um, Captain…”

There’s a pause, in which Martin is sure he’s supposed to say something to stop the endless run of awkward ends to conversations.

“Listen, um…” he begins, trying to work past the contracting muscles in his throat, “you wouldn’t – ah, well, you probably have a flight to catch, but – you know, I feel bad – I should get you another… would you like t-to…”

The woman smiles, and Martin does too, for it seems that someone has actually understood his nonsensical garbling. “Oh! Yes, yes, I’d love that, actually!”

And Martin breathes an inward sigh of relief, praying that he didn’t leave his wallet on the plane.

--untitled,unfinished Sherlock/Cabin Pressure crossover.

9. I really like the narration and dialogue. I'm not familiar with Sherlock or Cabin Pressure, but if Martin is typically an awkward person, you did a great job of getting that across!

---

Mia couldn’t think of what life had been like before Pete, because now after just a few days without him, she was starting to fall apart. The fact that she had left him had finally sunk in and the sadness had swooped down on her so suddenly that she was sure she was going to implode with the impact.

She had never felt so strongly for someone before, never felt like she couldn’t live without someone who wasn’t family. She wasn’t sure how much longer she could stay away from Pete. She knew Pete couldn’t stay away from her. He had called several times and Mia had shut off her cell phone so as not to be tempted to just answer.

Mia had also taken to crying at the mere mention of Pete because of this newfound sadness. She really just wanted to give up and go back to him because being with him was better than being without him.

It didn’t take long for Mia to finally cave. She found herself scrambling with her key to their apartment, trying desperately to get the door open in record time. She didn’t even have to time to laugh over the fact that Pete was scrambling on the other side trying to open the door as well because as soon as the door was open she had wrapped herself around Pete, legs gripped tightly around his hips as his hands held her ass to support her.

- Folie à Deux

8. Simple yet effective, conveys emotions really well. :)

As for me:

Now, this Egyptian (who nobody is certain whether he is actually from the lands of Egypt) and Gannicus, Batiatus's best gladiator, are the only ones left in the arena and the battle will not end until one of them is dead. This battle began with six men: three of Batiatus against three of Solonius. The other four are now lying in the sand, one of them got both his legs chopped off before his skull was crushed with a spear; another one suffered a less painful blow from a sword directly to his heart, which caused instant death; another one had an exposed fracture of the femur, which would cause him to bleed out the femural artery for some time before the wings of Death touched him: time of which he used to inflict a wound on Gannicus's chest not deep enough to kill him, but certainly painful enough; the other one got his hand cut off by his own partner, who now had no legs, in an internal dispute to see which one of them was to kill the legendary Gannicus. None of them would be alive to ever whitness the celt's death which, by the way, would not even happen in this battle.

The Egyptian's size, although taken for granted as an advantage, was proving itself fatal in a deathly match with a man much smaller. Gannicus was lighter, faster and more flexible, not to mention more intelligent - because fighting does recquire brains. Also, he was driven by an incontrolable desire to win, not for the house of Batiatus, but to himself. The reward for the winners of the Ludus was often a night of endless plesaures: food, wine and women. The arena was more than the scenario of gruesome deaths, it was the place where men became Gods. And Gannicus was about to become one.

here's the url:

www.mibba.com/Stories/Read/469491/Abyssus-Abyssum-Invocat/

7, I do like it, and I love your depictions of the gladiators and the politics of the arena (I am appalling with writing historical-based stuff so I tip my hat to you My only one concern was that in places it was a little documentary sounding, as if you were slightly detached from your characters. But i'm addicted to description so feel free to ignore me :'). it was really good.

- - - - -

She's not beautiful. No she'll never be another Helen of Troy, hot blooded men would never go to war for her limp hair and great milky thighs. No great men will willingly die for her hand. Likewise, she's no Marilyn, tossed across a presidents heartline. She'll never end up crooning happy birthday with the world tied tight round her slim manicured finger.She wouldn't grace the stages of the world or tread the sidewalks of any great glorious city with eyes locked on her. No, not a woman like her.

The cruelest diagnosis is that she's utterly ugly. Filthy really, with blackened grit caught under broken,uneven nails. Sneering out at the world with her ragdoll mouth, just a gaping slant cut from under those boot-black eyes. Like harsh little buttons sewn right into her sockets, they harbored a darkness to awake a shuddering in the bravest of men.

They're her favorite, the brave ones, the heroes. Young boys with fresh lace hearts from their sweethearts pinned to their sleeves. Handsome men with no tangible cares beyond their businesses. Painfully handsome with their stiff starched collars and their greased down hair and tragic, lofty dreams of pay rises and suburban utopia. You need only cut them through their thick veins and they'd spray goddamn happiness.

The wretch lures them in easily. The grotesque has somewhat of a different appeal to the beautiful. Yet most can't resist a lingering peak at something so sublimely foul as the smile that leaks, blackened and bleeding, from behind those blistered lips. She'll reach out and touch from the shadows, run those yellow fingers down their perfect skin, feel the contentment of their fattened, lazy existences thrum through their pores.

- absolutely unfinished, and unnamed and I dont even know what it is. maybe an adaption of fairytales into a modern capacity? I have no idea, i'm so blocked at the moment. Plus this is rough and i'm tired so it's probably fraught with mistakes.

8. I like it, but you may want to check over it.

“I hate storms.”

At times like these, Chester Spindle would press his palms to his ears, reluctant to eavesdrop on the house and its chatter.

The storm was just beginning to lighten up. Chester lay in the dark, wrapped in the dreamer’s armor of blankets. He listened to the thunder as it said “Hello” in its deep rumbling voice and waved its flashing hand of lightning to the house. It lit up the little crack between the curtains, stabbing its way in like a blade. Although his hearing was rather poor, he wished that they would quit talking and go to sleep, but houses and clouds have little knowledge to sleep; sleep is what the little creatures who they watch over do, not for something as mighty as they are.

His imagination could have run forever, but he made it stop before it wandered into the realm of the unsavory things that no one wants to think about and very few can without walking out with nightmares. Creativity offered many enticing visions, and it was with these visions that he often wandered as if drunken into that dreadful land.

For this reason, a seemingly harmless storm was chilling.

--Dinner for Five

9. I love how you described the storm. It's quite wonderful.

---

When he finally did stumble into the apartment, he barely had time to shut the door when Mia shoved him into the nearest wall.

“Where were you?!” she shouted, face right in his. Pete turned his face away from her; he could feel her anger seeping out of her in great waves. But of course, he knew this is what he deserved. “Where were you? Answer me!”

She had him by the shoulders shaking him as she continued to ask him. Why wouldn’t he just answer her?

It didn’t take long for the dam to break, and before she knew it, she was sobbing into his shoulder.

“Please, just tell me where you were,” she said, voice scratchy from yelling and crying. “Please.”

Her hands clutched at his t-shirt and she buried her face in the crook of his neck. He didn’t smell like Pete. And that’s how she knew.

She pushed away from him quickly and slapped him sharply across his face. The apartment was dead silent as she watched him, waiting for him to react, waiting for him to deny it, or push her or just something. She didn’t expect to see him slide down the wall, sitting in defeat on the floor as he hid his face in his hands, shoulders shaking as he cried silently.

Mia was in complete shock. She could almost feel her heart breaking as she watched this man that she loved… that she thought she knew, proving to her that he had in fact cheated on her. She felt nauseas, she couldn’t think. All she could do was stare at him in disbelief.

“Why?” she finally cried, backing away from him as he continued to sit there, half the man she though he was. “How could you do this to me?”

- Folie à Deux (excerpt from an unposted chapter)

7. It wasn't bad, not at all. It's just that nothing stood out as outstanding to me and it seemed a tad dull and I wasn't very interested. But, maybe it's because I haven't read the whole of the chapters or whatever. I also found mistakes, such as "though" should be "thought".

---x

The summers are never colder than they are in Michigan. I'd meet a lot of people here, but Jimmie Keith was different. Extraordinary, even. A New York accent never sounded so sweet, so innocent. Jimmie had the power of a stallion, but the grace and beauty of the mare. I was a girl trying to lose myself and he was boy trying to find himself.
"God is in the sea."
"God is where you want him, Georgia Kate." he said.
"I want him in the ocean."
Jimmie was a lot smarter than he let on. He told me a lot of things that I once knew but had since forgotten. Being around him was like rereading a book, the most important thing in the world.

summary

8.5 - It's short, but packed full of emotion. The small piece is gorgeous, and I love it. Especially the line: ''Jimmie had the power of a stallion, but the grace and beauty of the mare.'' Very eloquently written.

***

I played with the silky sand beneath my feet, not paying much attention to the dark-haired boy kneeling next to me.
The breeze, tinged with salt, weaved its way through my dishevelled hair, spraying ocean foam in every direction with an almost vibrant enthusiasm.

''We're going to win, Ivy.'' Aaron murmured, fingers splayed out behind him as he leaned towards the sun.

I sighed heavily, wrapping an arm around my shoulders and lying down next to him. I wasn't so sure anymore.

''Why do you doubt it so much?'' The raven boy asked, resting his head inches from mine.

''Because good never wins, Aaron. That's not the way it works''.

Excerpt from Revolution

[It's very short, sorry ]

9. I love the descriptions and how it makes me curious enough to read more.

---

When I could no longer waste time saying I was getting ready, I left my room and went to grab a bottle of water. Claudia was on sitting on the kitchen counter as she talked on the phone and she squealed happily when she saw me. "I have to go. My dear, darling Lizzie Lovegood has emerged and she shall meet you there. DON'T FORGET YOUR WAND!" She quickly hung up then gestured for me to spin around.

I rolled my eyes, taking a sip of my water as I spun slowly so she could approve. "This is a bit insane, Claudia."

"Doug wouldn't do this for you." I snorted. Doug was the last person I wanted to talk about. "Oh, you're gonna have to tell me how it goes." She nodded with a proud smile. I never saw why she was always so excited about my dating, since she was only a year older than me and rarely went on dates. She'd prefer to watch Youtube videos of Fall Out Boy on my big screen TV. Not that I minded. That was just how we bonded. But when I had to go out because she'd sign me up to date some loser, I did resent it.

"I'm not bringing this guy home, you know. I don't care who he is or what he looks like. I am not bringing over some guy I just met."

"He's been here."

"I hate you." I took a long swig of water and wished I had some rum left instead. She grinned, knowing I didn't mean it. "What time do I have to be there?"

"He's leaving now since we just got off the phone. I'll drive you there if you want. I know your car is still in the shop."

"DAMN YOU, LAZY MECHANICS!" I glared down at my shoes, again wishing I had some rum so I would at least have an excuse for when I made a fool of myself in front of this guy.

-Uneverything

7. Not bad! Just, there's not much going on or anything exceptional about this. In other words, the writings good, just this little bit doesn't offer much to judge on.. if that makes sense?

---

Neither of them had expected something like this to actually ever happen. No one expected that Mia would leave Pete, leave him no matter how hard he pleaded or how many times he apologized, no matter how many times he reminded her of all the good times that they had shared. But all Mia could focus on were the down sides to their relationships, the fading bruises on her shoulders, the fresh bruises on Pete’s ribs, the constant wondering of when things would just be good again—wondering when they could touch each other in a tender way instead of so brutally forceful.

So Mia left. She wasn’t sure if it would be forever or if she’d be back in Pete’s arms the next week. All she knew is that she had to get away, had to end things.

She took a suitcase of her clothes and personal items to her sister’s apartment. She hadn’t taken all of her things because even though she didn’t know what was going to happen, she at least had some reason to go back to Pete, back to the apartment they shared to see if anything would change.

Zoe tried to comfort her, and Mia tried to cry because that’s the normal thing to do when you break up with someone you love, right? But it just didn’t feel like things were over, she didn’t get any overwhelming sense of sadness that made her want to fall in a depressed heap on her sisters couch.

So she just sat there listening to her sister going on and on about how everything was going to be okay and that she was better off without him anyway. She was thankful when her sister finally went into her bedroom, leaving Mia alone. She really just needed some space to think.

- Folie à Deux

7. It's good, but there' s nothing really there to hook me into the story and get me involved in your character's situation. Also, you change tenses briefly with 'All she knew is that she had to get away' - 'is' should be 'was'.
--

The bar stood next to a lake that most people liked to call Jefferson Swamp, ever since the corpse of old Jimmy Jefferson was dragged from it ten years since. Mosquitoes buzzed around the parking lot as the jukebox beat pulsed through the thick blanket of summer air. The open windows of the building did nothing to tempt in a nonexistent breeze. Inside, the place was a sweatbox.

The only barmaid working was the new girl, Susie. She had sweat trickling down the curve of her back and clumps of dark hair falling out of her clip. The locals watched her from the corners of their eyes; the men hated her because she didn’t flirt like Missy or Georgia did, and the women because her body was slim and solid as a pick-axe. She had a voice that jolted like a faulty truck engine against the smooth drawl of everyone else that had grown up in this muggy, dirty town, and she eyed them all with lazy contempt.

“Hey, hey, sweetheart.” Milton McHugh slurred as he propped his fat elbows upon the bar. “A whiskey sour has sugar in it; this ain’t got no sugar.”

Susie strode over to the end of the bar and grabbed a packet of sugar from the condiments table, ripping it open and shaking the granules into the cocktail. “If it’s called a sour, I don’t see why it needs anything that’s gon’ make it sweeter.”

McHugh slurped, a drop of liquid seeping down into his beard. “I know something else that could do with a little sweetenin’,” he grumbled, waddling back over to his table. Susie ignored him; if she wanted to keep her job, she had to learn to keep her mouth shut.

As the bar hit an unusual lull, she caught a whiff of engine oil and tequila riding on the one air-con fan that wasn’t broken. A calloused hand on her waist and a sharp nose against her cheek deflated her frustration a little, and she glanced up at Charlie’s greasy face.

“How’s your first night going?” he grinned crookedly, swiping a glass from the shelf and pouring a healthy dose of tequila into it.

“I’m already overworked,” Susie retorted, nudging the hand holding the bottle with a second glass. “Been here three hours and I can’t take no more rednecks lecturing me on how to make fancy-ass cocktails. You always work your new staff so hard?”

“It’s a test of strength,” Charlie coughed, swigging his drink. “If you can hold the bar on your own on day one then I won’t fire you.”

“You wouldn’t fire me anyway,” Susie grinned, whipping the dishcloth from Charlie’s jeans and wiping spilled Bud from the bar. “I’m different.”

“Oh yeah? And how’s that?”

“’Cause as far as I know, I’m the only employee here fucking the boss.”

-- something that just came out during freewriting; i want to keep it but don't quite know what to do with it.

10. I really liked it! You pulled me into the story really easily. I love the descriptions and the dialogue. Really well done.

---

I do not fear Death.

“I have come for your soul.”

I smile at the thought. A soul, my soul, as if something that sounded so simple could be any less complex.

“And what would I get in exchange for said soul?” The room is cold and I shiver unwillingly, unable to stop the goose bumps from rising on my skin.

“Eternal peace.”

I turn from the window to stare back at the shadowy figure in the room with me.

“That’s an awfully long time,” I smile again. The figure moves closer until I can see his face. I’m taken aback by his beauty. For something, someone, who is seemingly so terrible, Death looks nothing like you would expect.

“You have no fear.” It’s a statement, not a question, but I nod anyway.

Have you ever stared Death in the eye? Have you ever been so close to Death that if you were to reach out your hand you could touch him and know that it’s the end?

I know that the average person would be frightened, shaking in Death’s presence, uncertain of what was ahead of them. But for me, uncertainty made my heart pound in excitement. I couldn’t help but wonder what Death had to offer.

As if it had a mind of its own, my hand shot up toward Death’s face, hovering nearby with an urge to stroke the smooth skin. How could Death look so inviting?

A gloved hand clasped my wrist.

“Don’t.” A whisper.

“Why not?” I chuckle. “Isn’t it my time?”

Dark eyes roam over my face.

“Can I stay with you?”

“What?”

“When I die, when you take my soul, can I stay with you?”

Gloved fingers graze my cheek. I grab them, gripping the fingers with my own.

“Why do you welcome me so easily?”

“Curiosity, I suppose.” I meet his steady gaze, knowing that my eyes are showing off their usual playful glint. “So are you going to take my soul?”

- unposted

Ten. Definitely. There's no doubt about it. I'm speechless from this and I squealed a little because of reasons and it's just amazing.
--

I was in therapy today, with dozens of other interesting individuals, but not one was quite like I. Some of their eyes were bloodshot, and their faces adorned with self-pitying scowls. A few even had cuts lacing their wrists. How saddening. Perhaps they were angels, too, disguised as these wayward humans to try and trick me, to try and make me think I was never going home. Try and make me feel sorry for them, while I was the one truly suffering from being stuck here.

I was not so easily fooled.

“Sid? Do you have, er,” the therapist had begun, but stopped short with a look of confusion on his face – perhaps because he knows what I am – and then continued, “anything to share?”

“Are you angels too?” I had inquired, peering up at them all with a look of mixed curiosity and disdain. Some laughed nervously, so I took that as a yes.

- Paper Angels, posted.

Nine. It's well written and very intriguing. I'm wondering if this Sid is really an angel or if he's using it as a metaphore. Very interesting.

- - -

I sigh. It isn't as if I am going to lie to her. "To be perfectly honest, you're not what I expected. I expected..." I say, trailing off.

"Paladrome to be a man? Or did you not antcipate a woman with the marked skin of a warrior?"

"Perhaps a little of both," I admit. Pierre stays quiet as the older woman and I stare at eachother. Paladrome smiles however, throwing me off. I had expected her to be angry at me or upset. I would not have blamed her. Then again, I'm learning that Paladrome is not a woman who is like any other.

"And why did these things surprise you?" She asks cautiously.

"I guess I never knew a woman could a warrior, or that there were women who wanted to warriors."

"Well, Skye," she replies softly, resting her arms on the counter. She closes her eyes for a moment before speaking. "A woman is a lot of things. She is daring, passionate, and loyal. She is strong willed and has an even stronger heart. But, when it comes down to it, a woman will fight for what she believes in. She will protect what is hers and fight for the peace of others. Woman are sometimes better warriors than men."

By now I'm grinning. Her soft spoken words have sparked inspiration in me. She is a curious woman, I'll give her that, but the lady knows how to give a speech. A second later, Flintlock appears with a large wooden crate in his arms. He slides it across the counter and Pierre sets down a pile of silver coins before lifting up the crate. He smiles at me, cocking his head to the door. I turn to leave with a smile but Paladrome grabs my arm gently.

"Skye, you remind me of myself as a teenager. Let me guess- you're lost here in a new city. You've had something important taken from your life. And you also have a sense of pride and independence that could rival any man." She grins at me and I blush in response. "But let me tell you this- you remind me of a younger me, that is true, but you also remind me of myself just a few years ago- warrior. You are a fighter, Skye, whether you know it or not."

- Birdie, posted.