the_maverick

They appeared to be transfixed by the walls, the walls so clean they remind them of the walls they knew at a time before ‘Brother’ Maddas came to power. It was not a Victory wall, but a wall so normal it reminded them of what life should be.
Then, the power went and the light disappeared as though snuffed out like a candle. We decided to feel our way to the door, wearing our Kevlar. When we reached it we twisted the handle, trying to prise it open from the Victory catch which held it secure.
As we left, a solitary figure was coming towards us from the other end of the road, in a way that suggested she was walking both somewhere, and nowhere. It was the girl with dark hair. It was a day since she had first walked past us further down the road, outside the armoury department. As she came closer to us, outside the aid ministry, we saw that her right arm was in a sling, not noticeable at a distance because it was the same sand-blasted colour of her overalls. Probably, she had crushed her hand while escaping from one of the Americainian ‘guided’ bombs on her home. It was becoming a common accident in the theatre of war.
We were perhaps four metres apart when the girl stumbled and fell almost flat on her face. A sharp cry of pain rang out from her. She must have fallen directly on to the injured arm. I stopped short. The girl had risen to her knees. Her face had turned a milky yellow colour against which her mouth appeared blood red. Her eyes were fixed on mine, with an appealing expression that looked more like fear than pain.
A curious emotion stirred within me. She was the enemy who perhaps was trying to kill me: but in front of me, was also a human creature, in pain and perhaps with a broken bone. Already I had instinctively started to help her. In the moment when I had seen her fall on her bandaged arm, it had been as though I had felt the pain in my own body.
‘You’re hurt?’ I said and mimed
She shook her head. I delved into my right pocket and removed a bar of chocolate and handed it to her. She took it shaking and then scampered off down the road.
‘The power’s back on’ I heard someone shout and so I wandered back into the Aid ministry and sat with my new comrades.

The day passed uneventfully and I awoke the next day and began to witness the same monotonous, fully controlled cycle again, the hallmark of life here.

At 6 o’clock the people’s anthem stuck out. The people went out on to the streets and stood to attention. They lived under threat from ‘Brother’ Maddas and his ever present eyes.
The day drew on, the power which had collapsed dramatically the day before, was stabilised and we decided to venture out onto the street again.

I stared abstractedly up and down the road. The girl with the dark hair was not there. We paced down the road, but after a few yards we were stopped dead.

The image that met us was inconceivable. The girl, the girl with the dark hair, hung there, swaying in the wind, a noose draped around her slender neck. Underneath the small feet was the label in the telltale font of the regime;

‘This is what happens to those who talk to the infidels’

The humanity and innocence of the girl had been drawn out of her through the same rope that had taken her life.
Her rounded face now contorted by bruises, cuts and gouges, bore the scars of man’s inhumanity to man.

Yesterday I had been transfixed by the girl, the girl so vulnerable she reminded me of the children the people here knew at a time before ‘Brother’ Maddas came to power. She was a girl so average she reminded me of what life should be. Now, she was transfixing me because of her degraded state. She had been strung up like a piece of meat, humiliated and I was powerless. And the noose still hung on the necks of every other citizen of this regime, waiting to be pulled, and the eyes of the ‘Brother’ were still smiling.

eggo

Hey Mav,

Some very good prose here. The story itself was a bit formula. It was something thats been done quite a lot. Here your writing overcomes it and makes it readable.

There are a few spelling errors that need attending.

Most common mistake everyone makes,
Catch that.

This sentence really doesn't work.

She held me transfixed... maybe?
Fragment


Give this good reworking.

Thanks

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LIGHTFOOT

I don't know what to say. It felt like you dismantled 1984 so you could put it on two pages. The main character had no substance, he was just a judgemental figure with no real purpose. The whole background is slightly overplayed(hence the 1984 reference.), you make the government sound a bit much like Big Brother. The slight...non-relationship(i guess you could call it that) between the character and the girl is what should be the important part, but it feels lacking. It feels like this: Bad government, army man and traitor woman. That's all that is really there. It's like they're made of hollow glass, and if you touched them they would crumble leaving nothing.

It shows a true trajedy of war and power, but it's simplicity is startling. it's like you have the makings to make something powerful, but don't. Reworking could yield great results.

the_maverick

Hey,

thank you for your comment,s I wrote this when I was 14 (two years ago) so it isn't my best but unfortunately a lot of work has been on lost on breaking computers!!

I'm going to rework it over the next two days and hope to improve!

Thanks again

Mav

A Glass Thought

I know how that breaking computer thing goes. I would have lost damn near everything I've written if I didn' post it up here and print out a copy for editing.

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gohn67

Hey Mav,
I'm a bit out of it today, so take that into consideration when you read my comments.

I agree with the others that this has been done before. I think too short to set it apart from similar stories like this.

Things are a bit vague. Like I'm not really sure who the enemy is and the daily routine of life is. Life seems dreary, terrible, but don't really get much specifics. I guess this goes with the first point also. If you add more unique, specific details of the regime and life there, it will make this story stand out more from similar stories.

Also I had a hard time figuring out the point of view you were writing this in. It took a while to realize that this was first person. In first person you have to stick with what the narrator knows, sees, you can't jump out of his mind and vision.

I think one of the reasons I get confused on the pov, is that in the first sentence of this piece you use "they..." Which doesn't really establish a very concrete pov. They is very vague.

"scars of man's humanity to man"
This is a very strange phrase. Sounds awkward to me. Repetitious.

Also you use "we" and I don't know who the we is. How many people? Who they are?

Good description of the girl with dark hair in the second paragraph.

Your protagonist seems to care, seems to have feelings, for this girl.

I hope I didn't sound too harsh. Obviously I understand that you wrote this two years ago but you mentioned that you were going to revise this, so I decided to give you some input on what I as reader wanted more of or got confused at. Grammatically your writing is sound, I only saw a few typos.
Just got to work on structuring this story, and fleshing it out with more detail. I think with the scope of this story, you need to add a lot more to it before it can be effective. You have a nice skeleton so far of the plot just, god I hate to sound cliche, but add the heart, intestines, spleen, skin, veins to the story.

I hope this helps, and look forward to the revision.

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the_maverick

started going through it again - changed the woman to a mother figure. any better?

A solitary figure trudged towards us from the other end of the road, carrying an absent expression of a woman who was walking both somewhere, and nowhere. Anywhere else in the world this woman wouldn't been seen, she would blend into the landscape, no more than an idling bird. Here though, every face is potentially that of death, every shroud housing a concealed weapon and every young man an extremist.


As she moved closer though, her heaviness over the shoulders, and her features carefully etched both my grief and genes clawed something deep from inside me. There was a familiarity framed with smooth dark hair and a twisted and sinewed arm crossed across her chest in a sling, something indistinguishable at a distance from her sand-blasted overalls.


Probably, she was a mother, I thought, like mine, working to clothe her sons and put food on a plate. That was the link.


We were perhaps four meters apart when the woman stumbled and fell almost flat on her face. A sharp cry of pain rang out from her. She must have fallen directly on to the injured arm. Rushing forward I stopped short. The mother had risen to her knees. Her face had turned a sickly mild yellow, against which her mouth appeared blood red. Her eyes were fixed on mine, with an appealing expression that looked more like fear than pain.


A curious emotion stirred within me. Here stood a woman who from a hundred yards I had tensed my finger towards the trigger, she had been an enemy who perhaps was trying to kill me: but in front of me, lay a human creature, in pain. Already, I had instinctively started to help her, and in the moment when I had seen her fall on her bandaged arm, it had been as though I had felt the pain in my own body.

‘Kayfa halek? You’re hurt?’ I said and mimed

She shook her head. I delved into my right pocket and removed a bar of chocolate and handed it to her. A hesitation flooded over her for a brief instant but the offer was too kind to begrudge and she took the chocolate and disappeared off down the road.

‘Change of Shift on the Roadblock’ I heard someone shout and so I wandered back into the Aid ministry and sat with my new comrades.

The rest of the day passed uneventfully in the real world, but in my head a million scenarios played out. I was swapping and changing the scenery of this broken town in a devastated country to the quiet lanes I knew from home, my M16 slung low, to a camera and the woman to my mother who had just come of shift. Her shoulders so sagged, and her eyes so sore bt a fire so deep in her eyes it would light up the cold of Siberia. The same passion and devotion I had seen in the Iraqi woman when I held out my chocolate bar. The same undying desire to help her family and do her level best. I wondered if I'd see her again and wondered if she would ever be made whole again.


The next day, I awoke and began to witness the same monotonous, fully controlled cycle again, the hallmark of life here, the theater of war which plays out the same sad tragedy with the same tired leads and only the kamikaze extras to change its pace.

At 6 o’clock the people’s anthem stuck out, people went out on to the streets and stood to attention, the extremist they attended not of preference but out of a duty. Not a duty to Allah or to their family, but a duty to the ever present, and all seeing ‘Brother’ Maddas and his ever lethal bombs.

gohn67

Hey Mav,
It looks a lot better. The details that you added this time, like the fact that she is an Iraqi Woman, and this is in Iraq really changes the feel of the story from Sci-fish to more modern day stuff. I think I like it better like this.

You don't introduce the narrator until the third paragraph, which makes it a bit strange still.

I like the descriptions overall.

maybe "her" injured arm instead. kind of awkward as "the"

There are a on or two tense shifts in this piece, and a few typos, but small things.

Good job on the revision Mav.

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