So, I have been working on a beast of a story for years now. I have a little less than half published online, and I'm starting to run into problems.
Essentially, I know you're not supposed to inject personal opinion into a story. But, it is a story about social commentary. What I specifically want to know is, is it preachy? Also I would love constructive criticism. The site it's on isn't particularly good for that.
All the chapters I have published are on here: [url]https://drive.google.com/folderview?id=0ByGOqfaEPl5aendfV0cyY2V2YVE&usp=drive_web[/url]
Sorry for the wall of text in advance. I don't know if you guys want the chapters in this thread or what.
First chapter:
[QUOTE]I don’t know who you are. You might be part of a bomb squad, one of my own parents, or maybe you’re Cairus or Smith. Maybe you’re some government official, huddling behind your desk and your job, creeping in the shadows to hide the fact that you’re as human as I am.
Over the course of this scrawled story, it might seem that Ann was the start of all of my troubles.
Not so.
The problem isn’t Ann. It’s nothing in me or something I’ve learned. It’s not any of the novels I’ve now read, or any of the videos I’ve seen or made. It’s not the company I keep or the forum I frequent.
The problem is one man. Or, more truthfully, it started with one man. It started and then grew, causing riots, violence, and a war no one ever told me about.
Pastor started this problem, but it’ll be solved by us.
I was sopping wet and fifteen minutes late when I barged into Biology. My face contorted into an awkward mask to say, “Sorry I’m late,” and I sat next to Troy at a worn lab station.
A girl sat in front of me.
Her hair had a mirror-like shine to it, the color the same deep black of the lightless stretches of space. I saw her slender legs dangling off of her stool. They ended in sharp, deadly heels I was positive had been featured in last month’s generic action film
She was sitting in the direct middle of the table, the second stool pushed to the side.
Sequestering herself from the rest of the class seemed a haughty thing to do. Even presumptuous. The class would only receive so many lamb brains or frog legs. As funding goes, the school had enough to get through the year and buy the occasional new library or computer lab, but not to buy dissection materials for every student. I thought idly that maybe she could afford the extra materials by herself, since her heels definitely weren’t cheap.
Troy nudged me. I glanced over at him, expecting him to pass me an old-fashioned paper syllabus, only to see him raise his eyebrows, jutting his chin toward the girl.
I smirked.
“Can you believe she thinks she’s getting a station all to herself?”
“She’s sitting there as if she already owns it,” I whispered back.
“You’re Emily Frost, right?” the aged biology teacher asked.
The girl in front of me tilted her head just a tiny bit towards me, her back curving gracefully.
“That’s right,” I replied, all too aware of my now frizzing dirty blond hair. If I wasn’t careful, static electricity would cause me to walk around with an unruly corona.
“Not related to… Emma Frost, are you?”
I smiled thinly at his joke, content to let him be cool for a moment. It wouldn’t hurt to let him earn a good reputation.
No, I’m not related to a mutant. I’m not too normal myself, but I don’t have any superpowers.
Yet.
Besides, I’ve never been one for comics; that’s more of Hunter’s thing. Sure, they might be pretty cool, but I’ve always preferred to do awesome things myself, not obsess over other people doing them on a sheet of paper.
The teacher continued to call out names. His dry, almost whispery voice was more soothing than a lullaby, and I had to fight to keep my eyes open.
“God, Emily,” Troy whispered. “You smell like a wet dog.”
“It’s not my fault the rain smells like ass in this town,” I whispered back, ignoring his lame joke. I might not be one for perfume, but I had been wearing some anyway. My school uniform was clean, hair carefully brushed, the usual first day of school preening. All down the spiral, swimming with the biodegradable waste. “Do you have a hair tie?” I asked him.
It sounded ridiculous even in my mind. Of course he didn’t have one, he wasn’t a girl. But I hoped anyway, looking at his longish hair. “No, sorry,” he replied, ruffling my hair and only making it worse.
The high-heeled girl in front of us turned. She viewed me coolly, seemingly too above me to even see me. “I have one,” she purred. For a moment I thought she was going to add, “but you can’t have it. You’ll dirty it.” Instead, she said, “it looks like you need it more than I do.”
She turned fully around, swiveling on the squeaky, cheap stool. The girl held out a hand to me. I couldn’t help staring a bit at her nails; long, sharp, and painted a deep red that complemented her skin well. Mine were taken care of, but lacked the ostentatious coloring.
Our glances caught. I took the hair tie.
Trying to mimic her gaze of superiority and open challenge, I didn’t break eye contact as I put my hair into a ponytail.
“Thanks,” I lied.
“You’re welcome,” she lied in return, her glossy lips gracefully arching upwards in a way that would make even Cassie glare. She turned back around, flipping her hair, sending a waft of her expensive, heavenly perfume my way. It only served to highlight my insecurities.
“Okay, one last student,” the teacher promised. “And what a one it is. Annabelle Chi- Ann… Shi-ay-“
“She-ow-ay-ja,” the student in front of us said in a bored, rehearsed tone, apparently named Annabelle She-ow-ay-ja.
I smirked. At least I knew one of her weaknesses, though I guess it was one we shared. We didn’t like people joking about our names. I’ve heard all the ice puns in the world. Okay, maybe that’s a bit of an exaggeration, but not by much.
“I prefer to go by Ann,” she said. “Less pretentious that way.”
Sitting behind her, I couldn’t see her face, but I was absolutely sure she was smiling.
I hated first days.
Class after class of the same rules repeated, the same hardened facades of teachers who “won’t let you get away with anything,” the same meaningless speeches that would be better spent on actual useful things, like learning something.
Or washing the wet dog scent off of me.
In my haste to get out of that stuffy, well-lit room, I dragged Troy out by force. He wanted to catch up with pseudo-friends and positive acquaintances. I just wanted to avoid Ann.
She was intriguing. All new students are, at least for an hour or two. I had a feeling Miss She-ow-ay-ja wouldn’t blend into the background so easily.
I walked Troy to his second period class, regretting doubling up last year in Chinese to have a free period this year.
Turns out, I didn’t have enough credits to have a free period. So I got shunted to the most boring class imaginable. Well, maybe not imaginable. I don’t want someone to write a textbook on watching paint dry.
So it’s not a surprise that I was thinking about ditching it. I was certain I was going to drop the class anyway; take anything, even Advanced Chinese. Anything but that class.
Anything other than becoming a homemaker.
I woke up my bracenet, rolling its wheels back and forth to select ‘New Message.’
“I’m already bored, Troy. Get me out of this silly Home-Ec class,” I messaged him, clicking the wheel to send my SOS.
It chirped only a moment later, showing the words, “Too bad, Frosty. You’re staying in that class until you switch out of it. You can join Amanda and me in astronomy.”
I grimaced. “Astronomy sounds fun. By the way, I’m killing you for that.”
“Bring it on. I don’t think icicles are strong enough.”
I heard the chair next to me screech out a low, miserable tone and the huff of the annoyed student as they sat in it. Glancing at the new occupant only made me want to ditch more.
“Hey Annabelle,” I greeted.
“Hello,” she replied. From the corner of my eye, I saw her jaw clench, and I allowed myself a one-sided smirk. “Emma, wasn’t it?”
Damn. “Sure.”
I made the show of looking around the classroom. Every other table was already full. Boy, did that make me feel special.
“It won’t hurt just for today,” she said, obviously putting two and two together. “I plan to switch out of this class as soon as I can.”
“Huh,” I said. “Same here. There are way better things to do with my time than-“
“Learning how to bake cakes,” she finished.
We were silent for a moment, both paying attention to the teacher as she explained, in a very detailed, careful way, that we were not to touch the stoves without supervision and permission.
I gritted my teeth, trying to focus on something bland instead of my growing frustration. My arm tingled with the urge to thrust my hand upwards, interrupting the teachers’ words with something about not being eight years old.
Ann’s hand was firmly clamped over her mouth, unwilling to disrupt such a scintillating and obviously needed discussion about the dangers of a stove. Her eyes shined with mirth as they glanced to mine. Suddenly, my irritation turned into shared amusement.
“It’s like I’m eight all over again,” I mouthed.
Her eyes crinkled and shut. “Your parents didn’t let you touch the stove earlier?” she mouthed back.
I grinned. “I’m a bit of a pyro,” I confessed in a whisper. “Our house insurance at the time didn’t cover that.”
“So you like to play with fire, hmm?” she purred, that air of superiority back in her eyes. I had the feeling she was talking about something else.
“That’s the definition of pyromaniac, yes,” I quipped.
The teacher sent us a glare, mentioning that “two disrespectful young ladies” already broke one of the rules.
We remained as silent as could be for the next forty-five minutes or so, occasionally glancing at each other.
Class let out, and I put my tablet back in my vest. Only then did I notice I had gotten a reply from Troy, messaging me about how important it was to pay attention. Hypocrite.
Ann cleared her throat and I immediately looked up. “I want to make a bet,” she told me, hands on her hips and defiant.
“What’s your bet?”
“I’m betting that I can last longer in this class than you.”
My cheeks pulled up and I bared my teeth in a challenging grin. “Okay. You’re on. What happens when I win?”
“If you win,” she corrected. “I don’t know. Let’s think on it and decide later?”
“Deal,” I replied, already turning away. I exited the gleaming Home-Ec classroom and stopped at the door to wave to Ann. She waved back, an awkward, mannequin-like gesture that conflicted with her confident posture.
The walk to Lit class was easy, but slow. Freshmen loitered against walls, checking their bracenets and tablets for guidance. I remember being surprised that there wasn’t a specially-designed GPS for freshmen.
Dodging them and the hugging, squealing groups of students choking the hallways almost made me late. I arrived with about a minute to spare, seeing Hunter standing casually outside the door.
“Hey Hunter,” I said, leaning against a cool, metal locker next to him.
He murmured a greeting back, too absorbed in the comic book on his tablet to properly respond. A furtive student approached us and I realized it was good-natured Jacob. I greeted him and stood up to leave. I knew what was going to happen next. Hunter dug in some secret little vest pocket for a proxy-drive.
Amanda waved me over to the desk next to her when I walked in.
“Is Hunter dealing again?” she asked in a whisper, clutching my arm with dangerous glints in her eyes.
I told her that he was. It wasn’t really my business if he decided to sell proxies on USB sticks to people. Even if I had been blocked by the national firewall only a few times, I still understood the frustration that comes from the enforcement of its somewhat arbitrary rules.
Nevertheless, I agreed with Amanda that dealing illegal technology in the middle of a populated school hallway wasn’t the most intelligent thing Hunter could do.
She huffed and threw her hand to the side, effectively pushing the issue right out an open window. “How are you?” she asked.
“Why does everyone ask that the first day of school?” I replied. “It’s not as if we didn’t hang out yesterday, or the day before. Suddenly everyone’s super concerned about how everyone else is doing.”
She blinked. “Answer the question, Emily.”
“Other than smelling like a wet dog and my uniform itching like no tomorrow? I’m doing fantastic. You?”
“I’m ecstatic myself. I finally got to use my umbrella,” she said happily.
I grinned. Halfway through last school year, Amanda found a slightly-used umbrella leaning against two trashcans. She decided to keep it with her for the rest of the year, ignoring all of Cassie’s complaints and the fact that it didn’t rain the rest of that year. Not once.
She believes in being prepared. Amanda always brings two pens, two pencils, an eraser, and a handful of mints to every old-school exam. I’m pretty sure her house-apartment is a first responder’s wet dream.
Hunter waltzed in with the bell, followed by the oblivious teacher. “You’ll have to visit RumIYO eventually, Emily,” he muttered as he slid into the desk next to me.
I rolled my eyes and didn’t bother to explain that I already had been to “Rumors: In Your Opinion.” Once you ignore how every thread seems to devolve into a collection of porn, random tablet exploits, or how to make bombs, it can be a very enlightening site.
By that first day of school, I had visited it only once. I still remember how my heart pounded as I carefully and silently stole my mom’s tablet in the dead of night, feeling as if FBI agents or at least the Juvenile Delinquency Department would bust down my door immediately after getting past the firewall, and surfing the site.
Whatever flaws it has, it changed me for the better and my appreciation has only grown since then.
Students passed back a sheet containing a list of all the books we’d read and rules about homework and conduct in class.
No chewing gum, always attend in uniform, no summoning demons while class is in session—you get the idea.
It surprised me that there were actual books on that list. They would at least admit that darker things like sex, substance abuse, and rainy days exist, even if they wouldn’t address it.
I was disappointed to see “re-mastered editions only!!!!” next to each book. The overuse of exclamation points was one thing, but what really broke my heart was that each book would be, using the current definition, “re-mastered to adjust for changing generations and ideas.”
I thought that once, just once, I would love to read a classic that’s not under a hundred pages and has no mentions of soda buddies, bracenets, or, especially, a firewall.
It’s the same thing with comic books. None of them actually die. All of them are re-mastered versions, too, and for all the punching and kicking, there’s no blood. Not even any bruises.
Believe me. I’ve tried getting my hands on a ‘digital original.’ For a thing that can be copied and pasted ten thousand times without losing quality, quantity, or time, they’re surprisingly expensive and rare.
Before that year, I had only seen a DO copy of 1984 once. I desperately saved any money I could scrounge up, wanting to know first-hand why Amanda loves books so much. Before I could get even a quarter of what I needed, the link broke. All my hopes were dashed with three simple numbers.
404. File very much not found.
That experience made going back to the school-assigned, re-mastered versions incredibly difficult. The deepest issue any of those dealt with was facing a cold without any tissues.
I reminded myself to be grateful. The books on the list were better than any of the third grade slobbers that were assigned years ago.
Amanda turned to me, giddy at the thought of studying such complex books. “Real books, Emily!” she tried to whisper.
I smiled and nodded.
What I didn't know then is that Amanda and I would quickly realize that they weren't real books at all, but the same versions of tripe the school fed us.
After the bell rang for lunch, I waved to Hunter and Amanda before rushing to the school’s lobby. “Emily smells like a wet dog” only gets so funny. In fact, it was funny right until my underwear started itching.
Gross, right?
Seniors had a half-hour for lunch. My goal was to call my dad, ask if he was still at home after his interview with some company I didn’t catch the name of, and beg him to bring me a change of clothes.
If I had to bat my eyes in a vid-call, I would.
“Emily? What’s the matter, sweetie?” he asked.
“Daddy! Are you at home?”
“Okay, you never call me that unless you want something,” he told me. “You have money for lunch, right? We didn’t forget that?”
“No, no, I have money. I just- it rained today.”
“Oh, you were caught in the rain. I told you to bring an umbrella.”
“I know, but I was already running late,” I complained. “Can you bring me a change of clothes?”
“Sure thing,” he said. “The things I do for love… Be there in a bit, sweetie.”
“Thank you, thank you, thank you!”
I sat on one of the comfy, expensive chairs by the front doors and tried not to fidget too much. Dad arrived in ten minutes flat and I spent a moment to think about him acting like an action movie hero, dodging bullets and explosions as he rushed to his daughter’s high school.
“Hey Da- whoa!” I pulled back, getting a better look at his face. “Who’d you fight?”
His purplish face transformed into one painful-looking smile. “No one, Emily. There were some protestors in front of the building at which I had an interview.”
Dad’s lower lip started to bleed.
“What building?” I asked, sure it was something called Assault and Blows Incorporated.
“The new ReproTech one. The one Europe lobbied and lobbied for.”
“Ouch,” I said, wincing. I remember the short pixel the state’s news channel had done on the issue. Protestors, vandalism, even a few bomb threats hadn’t stopped the building from being completed, and then populated.
I wasn’t sure I wanted my dad to work in such a place, even if I had no problems with the actual company.
“It’s a lot better than it looks, Em,” he said, handing me the bag that held my uniform. “Just tender, that’s all.”
I shook my head. “Well, thanks again. I wouldn’t have even called had I known you had gotten into a fist fight with a tornado and some trailers.” He rolled his eyes. “I’ll pick up Josh today, if you want.”
Dad grinned. “I think Josh would like that.”
I hugged him and we exchanged our goodbyes. The next ten minutes flew by as I changed in one of the bathroom stalls.
It smelled of new paint. Each of the walls was covered with nothing but gray; no “call this number for a good time,” exaggerated anatomy diagrams, or even “this x is a y because of z.” That gray paint tragically covered up some grade-A, high school character.
Everyone was already at the table.
“Where were you?” Cassie asked, carefully re-applying a coat of mascara. She nodded, and Kendra put away the magnification mirror back into Cassie’s purse.
“I was changing into a new uniform. Can I use some perfume?” I asked her. Cassie handed a circular bottle of clear liquid into my palm. Squirting some, I looked around the cafeteria.
“Are you looking for the new student?” Kendra asked, ever the mind-reader. “Troy told us you both met her.”
“I invited her to sit with us,” Amanda joined in. “But she not-so-kindly refused.”
“Don’t let her get to you,” I told Amanda. “She’s kind of like that. If she wants to sit with us, she will.”
“Are you saying she’s actually a cat in human skin?” Hunter asked.
“She’s not Catwoman,” I said quickly.
“We don’t need Amanda dragging in another charity case,” Cassie coolly observed.
I huffed. “Another charity case? There’s something known as ‘just being polite,’ Cassie,” I said angrily. I knew exactly who she was talking about, and I didn’t like it.
“Ladies, ladies,” Troy interrupted. “Don’t fight. There’s enough of me to go around.”
“Not once football practice starts up,” I replied, swatting his stomach. “By the way, when’s cheerleading practice?”
“Next week,” Cassie answered. She took out a bottle of nail polish and touched up one of the intricate designs on her nails, applying the gleaming coat carefully. Kendra handed her a small nail file almost on cue. “Stop by Coach’s office to get the new permission slip.”
I chewed my food in silence for a few minutes, content to just look out the huge windows and soak up whatever natural sunlight I could get while I could.
“Are we still doing that Healthv thing?” Amanda whispered.
“I already have a few people that want a different teacher,” Troy replied quietly. “And since both you and Emily have Wayne next period, I figured we could switch to that period.”
“Sounds simple enough,” I said.
The senior bell rang and interrupted our secret plotting. Students all around were getting up and throwing their trays away when I finally found Ann. I couldn’t help but stare. She seemed relaxed and unaffected by the hubbub around us, a spot of vivid red and black surrounded by the blurring grays of other students.
Ann looked towards me and I glanced away, following Amanda out of the lunchroom.
We took a seat five minutes later in the neutral area—the no-arms zone between the slackers and the super students.
Amanda dived right into a book on her tablet, plugging in some discreet headphones to listen to the dynamic music. Normally, it didn’t bother me. As the class slowly filled up with bored students, two familiar boys walked in through the aged, wooden door, and it started to bother me very much.
Jason and I stared at each other for a moment and feelings of awkwardness and nearly forgotten rejection charged the air. The familiar realization that, “oh yeah, you tried to shove your tongue down my throat and your hands up my shirt,” made me blush and look away.
And of course Amanda’s faint music couldn’t block out their “whispers.”
“Hey Jason,” Dom started. “Have you seen that pic of Miranda floating around?”
A chair creaked behind me and Jason whistled. “That girl is hot.”
I clenched my fists, trying to really ignore them this time.
“Ice Queen’s not looking so bad herself,” Dom said. “She ever tell you why she broke it off?”
Jason said an impolite word that sounded an awful like ‘witch.’ “No. She said something about there being, ‘no connection.’ I’m a guy. She’s a girl. How could we have no connection?”
I felt the urge to swivel around and tell them that a cement covered bracenet gets more connection than we had sitting next to each other. Also to chew some mints.
The door creaked open and a spot of neon green poked itself through the doorway.
“Hey, Kyle!” I said loudly. I hoped he couldn’t see the desperation on my face. Waving him over eagerly, I immediately launched us into a very deep conversation about the weather and its ability to smell like someone’s rear.
Mr. Wayne, that’s the teacher not the vigilante, walked confidently into the room. The routine started again.
He explained that Senior Health would only be a quarter long and we’d be faced with, “uncomfortable, sometimes gruesome” imagery. I wasn’t fazed. It couldn’t be worse than anything I’d see in Biology.
Oh, how wrong I was.
I entered my new Math classroom and chose a seat in the back. After watching the doorway carefully, I felt relieved that Ann didn’t have that class. It meant I could sit in silence without being acutely aware she was in the room somewhere.
I blushed and suddenly felt judged. No one was looking at me and no one was talking about me, but I still felt as if a million eyes were studying every flaw; every wrinkle, imperfect nail, and loose hair.
That period I didn’t even try to pay attention. I had a feeling I would be spending most of those classes like that, counting the seconds until next period.
Trust me. I tried not to skip to next period. Really, I tried to drag my feet and swing my arms like a patient grandfather clock.
Dance has always been my favorite subject. Yes, it’s a subject, SGO. If Home-Ec gets to be a subject, so does dance.
Even if I spend the entire time in fierce competition with the other girls, or defending Kyle in the freezing locker room, it’s the one class in which I get to move. I leap through the air, twirl dangerously on the slippery floor, and push myself to get the rhythm good, great, and then perfect.
It was one of the few places where I want to be the center of attention.
Up on stage, I can’t see anyone other than my fellow dancers.
Dance is more intrinsic, more logical to me than a formula or a definition could ever be. If you—no. I don’t have time to wax rhetoric on why I love it so much.
I sat next to Kyle and continued our extremely important chat from Senior Health. Cassie was too absorbed in her own friends to wonder why I was sitting next to Kyle instead of her.
This time, the rules and introduction still were too uninteresting to listen to, but at least they were familiar enough to guess at.
An hour passed and I breathed my first breath of freedom since walking in through the school’s doors. I had survived butt-rain, an itching uniform, and the sight of my father beat up like an especially lousy boxer.
I didn’t know anything about Ann. For that sunlit, gently windy moment, it didn’t matter.
My eyes squinted up at the natural sky. Far too soon, I’d be on level three, where the sky was too perfect and, if you focused really hard, you could even see the tiny flickering that comes from a hundred thousand monitors refreshing individually.
So say what you want about my high school.
The uniforms are prissy and lame, the football team has sucked since November, and the cafeteria food sucks worse.
There’s not a lot of positive things you can say about “Our Lady of the Saints Faith-Based Public High School” that would also be true.
Some of the teachers might be boring, but they’re competent. The course material might be tedious and biased, but it’s some of the best in the country.
I didn’t care too much about it on that very first day back as a senior.
My head was down, eyes focused on my work, and ears tuned in to the teachers’ lessons, in spite of my jokes about slacking.
I shouldn’t have to tell you this, but I will.
That’s changed.
[I]I’ve[/I] changed.
I’m no longer such a blind high school student, content to ignore all the warning signs around me just to avoid trouble.
Now I make those warning signs.
So come after me, Shadowy Government Official. I hope Pastor himself gets involved.
After finally tearing so much wool from my eyes that I can knit a scarf, I have some business with him.
[/QUOTE]
compared to most wannabe authors that appear in CC that wasn't so bad. Readable
It's a little bit informal in places, and the narrator's personality/insights are pretty naff here and there too. Also the formatting is awful. With polish you might reach something enjoyable, assuming the bigger picture is good (story arcs and that)
[QUOTE=MakoSkyDub;46874810]compared to most wannabe authors that appear in CC that wasn't so bad. Readable
It's a little bit informal in places, and the narrator's personality/insights are pretty naff here and there too. Also the formatting is awful. With polish you might reach something enjoyable, assuming the bigger picture is good (story arcs and that)[/QUOTE]
Yeah, the formatting is specific to the website it's on. It's essentially no identations and a space between each paragraph. It is pretty awful, yeah. Basically, it's meant to be read on a screen.
Thanks, though!
Had to look up 'naff.' I agree, especially with the first chapter. I still have troubles with balance, and I'm not sure if I've improved. I think it gets better after the first, simply because then there's reasons to be pissy, but I still might tone it down more. Especially that scarf comment.
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