Free AOS Creative Writing Marking!

[elysepopplewell]

Thank you for the help yh my teacher suggested to scrap the accounts from Mahavir which didnt make sense because he is the catalyst for her discovery and to include the perspective of her neighbour which is what I initially planned to do but decided to emit it because I wanted to amplify the message that she didn't need to be physically with her in order to maintain the 'spiritual' relationship. So yh I think she didn't attempt to read my story properly but just skimmed through it which is what the markers do anyways so yh I'm in a bit of a dilemma.

I mean, markers shouldn't be skimming, and the markers I know for creative writing definitely don't skim. So don't stress! But, it is definitely worthwhile to note that your work should be able to be read on surface level, but also much deeper as well. I think you're on the right track

[William Chen]

Hey. Thanks for doing this. It's really awesome. Can I just get some feedback on this creative I wrote. I'm a bit afraid its too flashback-heavy if you know what I mean.

[elysepopplewell]

Hey. Thanks for doing this. It's really awesome. Can I just get some feedback on this creative I wrote. I'm a bit afraid its too flashback-heavy if you know what I mean.

Hey there! I'm so keen to read this creative. I'll let you know what I think of the flashbacks

Original creative:

Spoiler

It isn’t supposed to be like this. Your twin sister is your twin sister. She is supposed to be there for you, offering advice, encouraging you, laughing, crying, introducing you to her friends and siding with you during those family arguments. She is not supposed to be confined to a room, drugged, anaesthetised, eyes cloudy, unrecognisable, drool coming from thin and pursed lips, skin sallow and hair lustreless.
   No, it isn’t supposed to be like this.
But it is.
   They called and said I could see her today. “She’s been good for three days, so perhaps a visit is appropriate.” The voice cold, detached, clinical.
   “Is four okay?” I reply.
   “We’ll try to have her ready.”
   I note the verb and shudder. The last visit ended badly. I had arrived just after lunch and found Emily sitting by herself in the sun-room, staring vacantly across the lawns of the clinic. She ignored my greeting and the gentle kiss on her cheek; yet she allowed me to walk her along the sterile, lifeless corridor and out into the open air, my hand tucked inside her arm. We had only just set foot into the rose garden when the first wail began. Then she broke free and ran, her cries unintelligible, hands waving, only stopping by a tree where she doubled over and began convulsing. Two orderlies who were close by ran towards her and held her arms with firm grips; one I could hear whispering the same phrase over and over. “Peaceful thoughts. Peaceful thoughts.”
   As they walked Emily back to her room one of the orderlies said to me, “Maybe try again later in the week.” They left me standing by a rose bush looking up at the sandstone walls of the sanatorium and the ivy that wound and snaked its way up.
   Emily wasn’t always like this. Through our early years and into childhood, all was well. We often chased each other under the sun that was welded to the blue sky, and the clouds fused with the horizon, and where the small waves cascaded onto the white sand. And she would sing, her voice wide as autumn’s ending, smooth as a river stone.
There were a few moments, however, when alarm bells should have rung. A temper tantrum when she was at school, hitting a girl with a steel ruler, drawing blood and grinning maliciously. Waking one morning finding her holding her pet hamster dead in her arms singing a lullaby. Lying motionless at the bottom of a public pool, holding her breath as if she had drowned, waiting to be dragged to the surface by the lifeguard. What we didn’t realise then was that a darkness was at work, a black mist that surrounded my dearest twin, stalking and shadowing what remained of her innocent naivety, clawing away whatever tenuous grip she had on reality.
   Then came the eating disorder, the gradual wasting away. Her moments of deep introspection and taciturnity tore away at our family fabric, leaving our parents disoriented and at wits end as Emily methodically, almost calculatingly, pulled one thread at a time, dismantling the weave. But my father, being his calm and collected self, was always able to comfort her, restitching what was undone. “Em, you sweet little nut. Why don’t you sing that voice again for us? Yes? Of course you will, my sweet little nut,” he often said. Ah yes, my father. He was the best man I ever knew. Always there knowing what to do. Always there to console and deliver.
Until one day he died. Until one day where he just couldn’t resist getting so drunk and drowning himself in piss and ultimately get hit by a car.
And my sweet mother who just couldn’t bear everything that had happened. I found her lying down next to some shrubs on the beach, eyes barely open, breath delicately heavy. Uncovering the bottle of white pills in her palm, I lay and waited with her as together we watched the setting sun dying the sky a dull pink, and the stars eventually fading from the night.
And now, as Emily and my fortieth birthday approaches, both orphaned, with my life an emotional ruin, broken marriages, a daughter won’t speak to me, a job I despise, and I am completely alone, I am left to pick up the fragile pieces of what went wrong. But I finally realise they are fragments too small to piece together, too numerous to salvage. Without Emily I am lost. Utterly lost. For bonny sweet Robin is all my joy.

…

And so there we are, sitting amongst the tranquillity of the breeze and the cool shade under this tree. I had expected her to run berserk like she did last time, but she is as peaceful as ever, her waist snugly wrapped around by my thin arms. We both waited, listening to a familiar noise around us. If the wind decided to howl, it would have sighed through the surrounding trees, swayed through the sandstone walls and swept this sound down like autumn leaves. If there was any music or laughter, but of course there wasn’t, and thus the sound continued to hum. I look into the eyes of my sister, and I can see that she views the world the same way I do. All we wanted was to tear a whole in this world and run away. I now recognise the sound. It reminds me of my sister’s singing. It reminds me of cutting flowers. It is the soft sound of those who are waiting to die.
I slowly think to myself, “Peaceful thoughts. Peaceful thoughts.”

Creative with my writing in bold text:

Spoiler

It isn’t supposed to be like this. Your twin sister is your twin sister. She is supposed to be there for you, offering advice, encouraging you, laughing, crying, introducing you to her friends and siding with you during those family arguments. She is not supposed to be confined to a room, drugged, anaesthetised, eyes cloudy, unrecognisable, drool coming from thin and pursed lips, skin sallow and hair lustreless. Wow this took a quick turn and I love it.
   No, it isn’t supposed to be like this.
But it is.
   They called and said I could see her today. “She’s been good for three days, so perhaps a visit is appropriate.” The voice cold, detached, clinical.
   “Is four okay?” I reply.
   “We’ll try to have her ready.”
   I note the verb and shudder. The last visit ended badly. I had arrived just after lunch and found Emily sitting by herself in the sun-room, staring vacantly across the lawns of the clinic. She ignored my greeting and the gentle kiss on her cheek; yet she allowed me to walk her along the sterile, lifeless corridor and out into the open air, my hand tucked inside her arm. We had only just set foot into the rose garden when the first wail began. Then she broke free and ran, her cries unintelligible, hands waving, only stopping by a tree where she doubled over and began convulsing. Two orderlies who were close by ran towards her and held her arms with firm grips; one I could hear whispering the same phrase over and over. “Peaceful thoughts. Peaceful thoughts.”
   As they walked Emily back to her room one of the orderlies said to me, “Maybe try again later in the week.” They left me standing by a rose bush looking up at the sandstone walls of the sanatorium and the ivy that wound and snaked its way up.
   Emily wasn’t always like this. Through our early years and into childhood, all was well. We often chased each other under the sun that was welded to the blue sky, and the clouds fused with the horizon, and where the small waves cascaded onto the white sand. And she would sing, her voice wide as autumn’s ending, smooth as a river stone. This just seems to me to be a little too happy, chirpy, idealistic. This might be the bit that is a bit too flashback heavy. Because, I can assume she wasn't always like this because right now I'm taking that she has a drug problem. I don't imagine that she had a drug problem when she was younger. The point is just missed a little.
There were a few moments, however, when alarm bells should have rung. A temper tantrum when she was at school, hitting a girl with a steel ruler, drawing blood and grinning maliciously. This makes the above seem a little more understood now. Nonetheless, it is a little too idealistic above and this bit down here is more real. Waking one morning finding her holding her pet hamster dead in her arms singing a lullaby. Lying motionless at the bottom of a public pool, holding her breath as if she had drowned, waiting to be dragged to the surface by the lifeguard. What we didn’t realise then was that a darkness was at work, a black mist that surrounded my dearest (this sticks out to me as being a tiny bit too dramatic) twin, stalking and shadowing what remained of her innocent naivety, clawing away whatever tenuous grip she had on reality.
   Then came the eating disorder, the gradual wasting away. Her moments of deep introspection and taciturnity tore away at our family fabric, leaving our parents disoriented and at wits end as Emily methodically, almost calculatingly, I know there are differences between these two words, but to me they are just so similar that they aren't effective in comparison. pulled one thread at a time, dismantling the weave. But my father, being his calm and collected self, was always able to comfort her, restitching what was undone. “Em, you sweet little nut. Why don’t you sing that voice again for us? Yes? Of course you will, my sweet little nut,” he often said. Ah yes, my father. He was the best man I ever knew. Always there knowing what to do. Always there to console and deliver.
Until one day he died. Until one day where he just couldn’t resist getting so drunk and drowning himself in piss and ultimately get hit by a car. ending in a vehicle fatality. (the grammar was a bit awkward because of the tense.)
And my sweet mother who just couldn’t bear everything that had happened. I found her lying down next to some shrubs on the beach, eyes barely open, breath delicately heavy. Uncovering the bottle of white pills in her palm, I lay and waited with her as together we watched the setting sun dying the sky a dull pink, and the stars eventually fading from the night.
And now, as Emily and my fortieth birthday approaches, both orphaned, with my life an emotional ruin, broken marriages, a daughter won’t speak to me, a job I despise, and I am completely alone, I am left to pick up the fragile pieces of what went wrong. But I finally realise they are fragments too small to piece together, too numerous to salvage. Without Emily I am lost. Utterly lost. For bonny sweet Robin is all my joy.

…

And so there we are, sitting amongst the tranquillity of the breeze and the cool shade under this tree. I had expected her to run berserk like she did last time, but she is as peaceful as ever, her waist snugly wrapped around by my thin arms. We both waited, listening to a familiar noise around us. If the wind decided to howl, it would have sighed through the surrounding trees, swayed through the sandstone walls and swept this sound down like autumn leaves. If there was any music or laughter, but of course there wasn’t, and thus the sound continued to hum. I look into the eyes of my sister, and I can see that she views the world the same way I do. All we wanted was to tear a whole in this world and run away. I now recognise the sound. It reminds me of my sister’s singing. It reminds me of cutting flowers. It is the soft sound of those who are waiting to die.
I slowly think to myself, “Peaceful thoughts. Peaceful thoughts.”

I love the ending, the "peaceful thoughts" mantra returns. Very awesome.


What I'm not so sold on is the persona. The persona talks of everyone as being sweet and darling. The persona looks back nostalgically and through rose tinted glasses. When in reality, this person is in every position that would direct them to be completely neurotic and bitter. Although this comes through at the end, it certainly doesn't feature in the main part. For me, this is a fragment in the story because the persona isn't consistent. The amount of bad things that happen to the persona is also difficult for a reader to empathise with because it is just so domino-effect. I'm not doubting that a similar sequence of events hasn't happened to someone before, but it is unlikely (and that is a fortunate fact!)
The discovery also isn't super apparent when compared to the rubric. I fear that the creative question might ask of you a very particular aspect and your story, as it stands, won't be able to encompass it. Have you looked at the 2015 HSC exam and any other past papers that you can get your hands on in order to apply the story to the stimulus? In my eyes, that is your next step!

Thanks for posting, I hope this makes sense and hopefully helps! Happy writing Post back if you need more fleshing out or editing!

[Belkelly]

Hi Ms. Popplewell,

My half yearly advanced english exam is this Friday and I wondered if you'd be able to give me some feedback on my short story. I know its wayyy to long, but I'm not sure which parts could be deleted. I'd appreciate any help at all
Thank you!

Belkelly


Death Was My Freedom

I was riding with the wind at my back, the thunder of the herd drumming in my ears. Looking upwards at the sky I could see a mass of threatening dark clouds swallowing all light from the sky. I signalled to a pair of rough dark haired boys on chestnut brumbies, riding along side me. We cracked our whips and urged the cattle on faster and faster towards the corrals in the distance. The dogs barked madly and the horses were sweating hard, but as the first crack of lightning resounded off the hills the last of the herd were safe within the holding yards. Then I heard the dinner bell began to clang as my young wife stood waiting on the homestead veranda.
I began to walk towards her, but my feet felt like lead, they wouldn’t move. As I watched her she began to fade away and the bell became softer and softer. A sharp ‘bing ding’ rang in my ears and woke me up. I rubbed my tired eyes and looked about, but there was no storm, no wife, no cattle, and no sons. Plain white washed walls surrounded me, senseless beings sat in still motion, and the sickening smell of disinfectant filled my senses. The mechanical bell stopped and a middle aged nurse hurried towards me.
“Come on, love, dinner is served,” she smiled with feigned cheerfulness.
“I’d rather not eat, I think I will go to bed,” I replied politely.
“Now, now, it’s very important we keep our strength up. After dinner we will watch a little TV and then it will be time for our bedtime,” she replied with a simplistic but harsher tone in her voice.
I sat at the table and looked down at my plate. The meat had been processed and then steam cooked in a mould of a steak shape. The vegetables had also been made into puree and then pressed into moulds of miniature carrots and potatoes. I looked about the table and saw silent, powerless men and women either being spoon fed by nurses or feeding themselves in robotic fashion. There was no light banter or conversation, only the soft sound of an air conditioner which kept the atmosphere constantly lukewarm. I took a sip from a glass of water and almost felt sick from the after taste of the strong chlorine purificator.  Out the window I could see a tiny garden, bordered by a grey brick wall which surrounded the entire building. Every morning it struggled to block the sun from peeking into the dim and lifeless rooms.
“Eat up deary,” a nurse said patronisingly, as a mother would to her defiant child.
I looked back at her with a scowl, “I’m a grown man,” I said angrily, “I don’t like this disgusting mushed up food for babies and I’m very tired and want to go to bed.”   
The nurse quickly stood up, shaking her head, and called for a doctor.
“I’m afraid he’s getting argumentative and disturbing the other dears, he needs to be quietened.”
The doctor inserted a calming drug into my arm and commanded that the patient be put to bed immediately.
The very next morning I woke at sunrise and got up. No sooner had I made my way to the bathroom when the night nurse spotted the telltale red light of the blood pressure band on my wrist.
“Now, now, deary. Go back to bed,” said the night nurse, with that condescending tone. Another nurse joined her and they led me back to my room.
“We may have to look at getting some night medication for him,” whispered one nurse to the other.
I pondered awhile, my forehead wrinkled in concentration. I decided that if I wanted to still have control over my own senses I would have to submit myself to their commands and live as they wished me to live. I leant back on my pillows, which were far too soft for my liking. I picked them up and put them on the floor, now it felt like my old swag. My eyes slowly closed and I was sitting on the back steps of my old veranda.
“Daddy,” called a young voice. A small boy walked into view from around the corner of the house.
“Yes, Jerry.”   
“Mamma said you’d take me ridin’?”
“I’m a bit busy son, these whips have to be plaited, it takes a long time,” I replied, as I stooped over my work.
The boy’s head dropped and his eyes looked like they were staring at a rainy day in June. I looked across at him and sighed.
“Come on, then. Work will always be around, but a beautiful sky and a spirited youngster won’t be.”
The clock chimed 8 and a creaking door quietly woke me up to reality. I was permitted to walk myself to the eating room and get my own breakfast of lukewarm porridge. 
After breakfast there was Bingo. The round table was situated in a corner of the recreation room, opposite the plasma tv. Plastic vases of paper flowers were situated systematically around the room so that they would not be in danger of drawing attention or, worse, criticism from visitors. I sat down between two half asleep elderly women. A nurse directed the game, while we were like pawns on a chessboard, ordered to make one move or the other, given no knowledge of the rules nor the goal of the game and utterly ignorant of its purpose in our daily lives.
While the nurses dealt out cards I rested my head back on the chair and stared at the white ceiling. Slowly clouds began to form over the plaster and the distant figures of birds began to appear, soaring over the wide blue spaces. A cool hand touched my forehead and stroked my brown hair. The smiling face of my wife looked down on me and I could hear her laughter. Then the scene disappeared and I was standing in a darkened room. She was standing beside me, her face a picture of worry and anxiety. We were both looking down at a young boy lying in a simple wooden bed.
“Daddy, it hurts,” the lad struggled to say, as he touched his chest.
“Anna, go get some sleep, I’ll watch him,” I said, sitting down on the covers. “Listen, Tom, close your eyes and listen for the wind. Do you hear it?” The boy nodded. “Now, if you were a spec of dust floating on that wind, where would you like to go?”
The boy replied in a croaky voice, “Heaven.”
With a jolt, I was suddenly awake and the faces of two nurses peering down at me.
“We’ll have no talk of Heaven, you aren’t going anywhere, deary,” said one of them.   
“Come, love, your son is here for a visit, now isn’t that nice,” said the other nurse to me. 
We went back to my bedroom and a short young man in a R.M.Williams shirt and Ariat boots stood up to greet me.
“Dad, how have you been?”
The nurse left us and I sat down on my bed.
“Well Dad? Are they treating you well?”
“I don’t like it here, Tom, and I want to go home.”
The man shook his head and smiled.
“Nah, Dad. Me and Jerry are far too busy on the farm to keep an eye on you. They provide excellent care for you here, don’t they? I’m afraid there is no alternative.”
My hand shook and I stared at the grey brick wall outside my little widow. I looked at my son, so strong and healthy.
“Where is Anna?” I asked.
“Can’t you remember?” asked the young man, shocked.
“I know. She’s in heaven.”
“I guess. If anyone could get there, Mum could,” he replied, sadly.
I smiled. I could see her face smiling and her cool hand on my forehead.
“I could get there too… couldn’t I. Goodbye son,” I said.
“Goodbye? Where are you going? Dad, what's the matter with you? Get up. Dad, please get up. Nurse, nurse, come quickly.”
I embraced death with a smile, it was my ticket to freedom.

Sixty years later, Jerry sat in the front seat of his daughter’s car.
“One last stop, Dad, make it quick. I need to get home to pick up the kids.”
They pulled up at the graveyard gate and Jerry walked slowly past the sleeping stones of those long dead.
“Come on. The nursing home wants you back in fifteen minutes,” said the tall young woman, impatiently.
The engraving of Liam O’Brien was still visible through the green moss which covered the marble headstone.
Jerry hung his head, tears trickling down his cheeks,  “Now I understand Dad,” he muttered, “I’m so very very sorry.” 

[jamonwindeyer]

Hi Ms. Popplewell,

My half yearly advanced english exam is this Friday and I wondered if you'd be able to give me some feedback on my short story. I know its wayyy to long, but I'm not sure which parts could be deleted. I'd appreciate any help at all
Thank you!

Belkelly

Hey Belkelly! Thanks for posting, I've attached your story below with some feedback! 

Death Was My Freedom

Spoiler

I was riding with the wind at my back, the thunder of the herd drumming in my ears. Looking upwards at the sky I could see a mass of threatening dark clouds swallowing all light from the sky. I signalled to a pair of rough dark haired boys on chestnut brumbies, riding along side me. We cracked our whips and urged the cattle on faster and faster towards the corrals in the distance. The dogs barked madly and the horses were sweating hard, but as the first crack of lightning resounded off the hills the last of the herd were safe within the holding yards. Really cool imagery in this introduction! Sets context effectively with show not tell, I like it! Then I heard the dinner bell began to clang as my young wife stood waiting on the homestead veranda. You'd be surprised how much more powerful your writing will be by removing the word 'Then.' Then immediately puts you into that retell mode, like "This happened, this happened, then this happened." Taking out then, "I heard the dinner bell begin to clang...," adds a level of abstraction to your writing, just raises it up a notch.

I began to walk towards her, but my feet felt like lead, they wouldn’t move. As I watched her she began to fade away and the bell became softer and softer. A sharp ‘bing ding’ rang in my ears and woke me up. I rubbed my tired eyes and looked about, but there was no storm, no wife, no cattle, and no sons. Plain white washed walls surrounded me, senseless beings sat in still motion, and the sickening smell of disinfectant filled my senses. The mechanical bell stopped and a middle aged nurse hurried towards me.
“Come on, love, dinner is served,” she smiled with feigned cheerfulness.
“I’d rather not eat, I think I will go to bed,” I replied politely.
“Now, now, it’s very important we keep our strength up. After dinner we will watch a little TV and then it will be time for our bedtime,” she replied with a simplistic but harsher tone in her voice. Be EXTREMELY careful with dialogue. Dialogue is one of the most powerful tools available to a writer, but also the most dangerous. As soon as you begin to sound unrealistic, you lose the reader. I liked the first line, the next two lost me a little. Say this last line to yourself, it doesn't sound natural.

I sat at the table and looked down at my plate. The meat had been processed and then steam cooked in a mould of a steak shape. The vegetables had also been made into puree and then pressed into moulds of miniature carrots and potatoes. I looked about the table and saw silent, powerless men and women either being spoon fed by nurses or feeding themselves in robotic fashion. There was no light banter or conversation, only the soft sound of an air conditioner which kept the atmosphere constantly lukewarm. I took a sip from a glass of water and almost felt sick from the after taste of the strong chlorine purificator.  You are creating a fantastic atmosphere here, clever word choice, effective imagery, fantastic! Out the window I could see a tiny garden, bordered by a grey brick wall which surrounded the entire building. Every morning it struggled to block the sun from peeking into the dim and lifeless rooms. This last line is fantastic, I really like it, this is a very cleverly crafted paragraph!
“Eat up deary,” a nurse said patronisingly, as a mother would to her defiant child.
I looked back at her with a scowl, “I’m a grown man,” I said angrily, “I don’t like this disgusting mushed up food for babies and I’m very tired and want to go to bed.”  Watch the dialogue here again. I sort of believe the character would say this, but not in this way.
The nurse quickly stood up, shaking her head, and called for a doctor.
“I’m afraid he’s getting argumentative and disturbing the other dears, he needs to be quietened.”
The doctor inserted a calming drug into my arm and commanded that the patient be put to bed immediately. Emphasise "patient" here, I think. I like how the way it connotes a loss of identity.
The very next morning I woke at sunrise and got up. No sooner had I made my way to the bathroom when the night nurse spotted the telltale red light of the blood pressure band on my wrist.
“Now, now, deary. Go back to bed,” said the night nurse, with that condescending tone. Another nurse joined her and they led me back to my room.
“We may have to look at getting some night medication for him,” whispered one nurse to the other.At this point I'll say you definitely need to cut back on dialogue a little, try describing what is happening, even what is being said. Sometimes this can be more effective than the dialogue itself!
I pondered awhile, my forehead wrinkled in concentration. I decided that if I wanted to still have control over my own senses I would have to submit myself to their commands and live as they wished me to live. I leant back on my pillows, which were far too soft for my liking. I picked them up and put them on the floor, now it felt like my old swag. My eyes slowly closed and I was sitting on the back steps of my old veranda. I'd love to see a little more imagery again here, readjust the reader back to the old environment!
“Daddy,” called a young voice. A small boy walked into view from around the corner of the house.
“Yes, Jerry.”   
“Mamma said you’d take me ridin’?”
“I’m a bit busy son, these whips have to be plaited, it takes a long time,” I replied, as I stooped over my work.
The boy’s head dropped and his eyes looked like they were staring at a rainy day in June. I looked across at him and sighed.
“Come on, then. Work will always be around, but a beautiful sky and a spirited youngster won’t be.” Watch your dialogue.
The clock chimed 8 and a creaking door quietly woke me up to reality. I was permitted to walk myself to the eating room and get my own breakfast of lukewarm porridge.  I LOVE the tone in your writing, the sarcastic attitude of your character is coming through, try and push it through a little more!
After breakfast there was Bingo. The round table was situated in a corner of the recreation room, opposite the plasma tv. Plastic vases of paper flowers were situated systematically around the room so that they would not be in danger of drawing attention or, worse, criticism from visitors. I sat down between two half asleep elderly women. A nurse directed the game, while we were like pawns on a chessboard, ordered to make one move or the other, given no knowledge of the rules nor the goal of the game and utterly ignorant of its purpose in our daily lives. Beautiful.
While the nurses dealt out cards I rested my head back on the chair and stared at the white ceiling. Slowly clouds began to form over the plaster and the distant figures of birds began to appear, soaring over the wide blue spaces. A cool hand touched my forehead and stroked my brown hair. The smiling face of my wife looked down on me and I could hear her laughter. Then the scene disappeared and I was standing in a darkened room. She was standing beside me, her face a picture of worry and anxiety. We were both looking down at a young boy lying in a simple wooden bed.
“Daddy, it hurts,” the lad struggled to say, as he touched his chest.
“Anna, go get some sleep, I’ll watch him,” I said, sitting down on the covers. “Listen, Tom, close your eyes and listen for the wind. Do you hear it?” The boy nodded. “Now, if you were a spec of dust floating on that wind, where would you like to go?”
The boy replied in a croaky voice, “Heaven.” THIS is effective use of dialogue. Fantastic. Just this one line by itself is so powerful, the way it is set up, this conversation is crafted extremely well.
With a jolt, I was suddenly awake and the faces of two nurses peering down at me.
“We’ll have no talk of Heaven, you aren’t going anywhere, deary,” said one of them.   
“Come, love, your son is here for a visit, now isn’t that nice,” said the other nurse to me. 
We went back to my bedroom and a short young man in a R.M.Williams shirt and Ariat boots stood up to greet me.
“Dad, how have you been?”
The nurse left us and I sat down on my bed.
“Well Dad? Are they treating you well?”
“I don’t like it here, Tom, and I want to go home.”
The man shook his head and smiled.
“Nah, Dad. Me and Jerry are far too busy on the farm to keep an eye on you. They provide excellent care for you here, don’t they? I’m afraid there is no alternative.”  This would be one area to cut down. This exchange is too drawn out and manufactured, it would work better as description, I think.
My hand shook and I stared at the grey brick wall outside my little widow. I looked at my son, so strong and healthy.
“Where is Anna?” I asked.
“Can’t you remember?” asked the young man, shocked.
“I know. She’s in heaven.”
“I guess. If anyone could get there, Mum could,” he replied, sadly.
I smiled. I could see her face smiling and her cool hand on my forehead.
“I could get there too… couldn’t I. Goodbye son,” I said.
“Goodbye? Where are you going? Dad, what's the matter with you? Get up. Dad, please get up. Nurse, nurse, come quickly.”
I embraced death with a smile, it was my ticket to freedom. I like the idea of this ending, but it is EXTREMELY abrupt. You need a better, more effectual build up. I also think that the dialogue in this situation seems unrealistic. The ending is nowhere near as powerful as the rest of your story, it is very build up, build up, build up, then the climax happens in 3 lines. Work on adding something more here.

Sixty years later, Jerry sat in the front seat of his daughter’s car.
“One last stop, Dad, make it quick. I need to get home to pick up the kids.”
They pulled up at the graveyard gate and Jerry walked slowly past the sleeping stones of those long dead.
“Come on. The nursing home wants you back in fifteen minutes,” said the tall young woman, impatiently.
The engraving of Liam O’Brien was still visible through the green moss which covered the marble headstone.
Jerry hung his head, tears trickling down his cheeks,  “Now I understand Dad,” he muttered, “I’m so very very sorry.”
While I like the idea of an epilogue, I don't think the feelings of the son were explored enough throughout the story to warrant this. It was very much based on the protagonist, the son came in last minute, and we weren't shown his anger towards the death of the father, or any similar emotion that would set this up. Again, very abrupt, and a little manufactured.

What I'll start by saying is that you have some bloody INCREDIBLE things in this story. The way you manufacture the environment of the nursing home is fantastic. Extremely powerful imagery. That flashback in the middle, BEAUTIFUL control of sentence length to create effect. Some wonderful work here! 

I would say the issue I would raise with this story is that, in between these beautiful flow-of-thought imagery sections, you have exchanges with the character that just feel unnatural. Dialogue is very hard to get right, try reading some of these lines yourself, they don't sound like they are coming out of their characters mouth. As a way to fix this, and cut down your word limit, I would suggest cutting back on some of these conversations. Cut back to bare essentials, I think your story and tone will benefit.

My second issue would be a conceptual base. It seems like you are touching on a few themes here: Entrapment, loss, regret. I don't think you are hammering any of them home though. So, the main character feels trapped, and his release is death, but you rush through this conclusion in 3 lines. The flashback to the son being ill, you don't really do anything with this, though it is beautiful. I thought for sure as though the man had lost his son, not his wife. This is the way you had set it up. Finally, the epilogue with the son was not set up, we don't get any glimpse into the sons character, and so it is hard for us to relate to his epiphany in the epilogue. If you need a quick way to trim words, I would trim the final paragraph.

I think you need to think of a better way to tie all the elements together. Really hammer an idea home for the responder. Perhaps you explore the pain felt by the protagonist (flashback to Anna perhaps?), then explore that even the pain is better for the protagonist than the numbness of the nursing home. Pain is meant to be felt. If you want to end with the death in the same manner, build it up more. You could even reference throughout the story that he wants to see family BEYOND THE WALL, they are with the sunlight peeking through the windows. Then right at the end we realise that the character means he wants to join his loved ones outside the wall, meaning: in heaven, he says "Heaven" just the same as his son once did, and fades away.

All in all, you have the pieces of an absolutely FANTASTIC piece of writing here. I think trimming away some of the excess dialogue and giving a little more consideration to how you tie all your ideas together is all that is needed, you have some seriously beautiful use of language already! Great work! 

[elysepopplewell]

Hi Ms. Popplewell,

My half yearly advanced english exam is this Friday and I wondered if you'd be able to give me some feedback on my short story. I know its wayyy to long, but I'm not sure which parts could be deleted. I'd appreciate any help at all
Thank you!

Belkelly

Hey Belkelly,

I didn't get to you in time, but Jamon has marked your work!

It is so polite of you to call me Ms Popplewell, but in the future if you wish to call me Elyse that's fine

[Belkelly]

Wow, thanks Jamon and Elyse!!!
I'm gonna get onto that right now exam is over, but I've heard I have to have a backup short story for the Prelim and HSC exams? Thanks again, you guys are such a great help!

Very grateful,
Belkelly

[jamonwindeyer]

Wow, thanks Jamon and Elyse!!!
I'm gonna get onto that right now exam is over, but I've heard I have to have a backup short story for the Prelim and HSC exams? Thanks again, you guys are such a great help!

Very grateful,
Belkelly

Happy to help Belkelly! I think it totally depends on how flexible your story is in terms of adapting to the stimulus. My creative writing piece (for the old topic of Belonging, I'm a dinosaur) was quite easy to modify, so I only prepared to use one, and just adjusted it to suit the question. Another option is, yes, to prepare two stories so you can use whichever one makes most sense. This is because, basically, an exam will ask you to write a story using a specific idea, or exploring a specific concept. If your prepared story doesn't match, you are in trouble.

This is also why I'm not a fan of completely memorising stories, but rather, memorising the ideas and maybe even a few key lines. It is easier to adjust that to the question.

I hope your exam went well!! 

[jamonwindeyer]

Hi can you please let me know about this. I feel discovery is a little subtle in this story + the ending is rushed so ill fix that up.

Hey Alalamc! Thanks for posting your story, I've attached your story below with some feedback! 

Spoiler

“Welcome. Although illegally, you have arrived at your destination. Year: 12 016 .Birth centre: Earth. Genus: Male. Species: James 3. Congratulations it’s a Boy.” I like the robotic tone to start this off, cool intro!
IT’S ON PREVIEW
The Early rays of Sol eagerly tiptoed around the hospital to glimpse at the happiness that it once so jovially danced with so long ago. For this was no ordinary James 3, or boy for that matter, but one of love. His cosmic pupils, rich with universal colours would beam with knowledge and perfection. Yet he wasn’t a product of machine. His soft giggles, rosy cheeks and stubby-fingers curled around the mechanical hearts of all those around him. Yet he wasn’t programmed to. His blissful smile was as sweet as a summer strawberry and flourished his father with sunshine he never knew existed in the world. Yet it was intended it to do so.Fantastic use of juxtaposition in this paragraph, you are using literary techniques quite cleverly indeed! At this point in the story, I as a reader do not have much information to give this context. I'm confused/waiting for info. Is this intended?
IT’S ON PREVIEW
At 5 yrs. His imagination would start to Samba on the walls. Integrations of African Oranges, Indian Pinks, Caribbean Blues and German greens all at war with the universal white walls of his bedroom. War. At night he will turn to the next page in his History book. Out of the lifeless depth rose a young African child wearing nothing but anguish and ill-fitting bleached army trousers. His protruded skeletal bones gripped his crusty skin, his lungs grasped for nourishment. He turns the page. Gunshots cracked into the warm silent air, loud as thunder but without the raw power of a storm. The blood that had once flowed thick and scarlet in the youth’s veins was clasped in his callused fingers, generations of rich fluid mercifully devouring the little vitality within his young soulless body. He turns the page. Lights glittered everywhere just liked stars dropping to the earth, huge and small buildings collided in a mixture of shadow and geometry, tiny vehicles rushing along tangled lines of streets creating twisting threads of light - they all intertwined together in a magnificent mess of dream. He turned the page. Billboards, skylights and buildings spanned the 1800 horizon, yet among the masses of lifeless personalities, the young American watch the sunset from the plasma screens. Very effective imagery in this paragraph with nice use of repetition too! I would say the idea stretches a tiny bit too long though, maybe take just one page turn out?
IT’S ON PREVIEW
At 6 yrs. He would start school. “He would blend right in now, don’t you worry Rosa” his father would say. But he was wrong. James 3 would smile. People will look. James 3 would write stories. People would do calculations. James 3 would talk of the land of princes and the world of cyborgs. People will talk about quantum physics and the astronomical universe. By day he relied on the sky to let himself know that it wasn't a monochromatic world; just one in which the people were too busy for art. By night he relied on God. On the weekends there was no time to neither play soccer among the multi-coloured crisp, autumn leaves nor build a secret space station among the highest branches, for there was no time to plant a tree. He threw glitter from his window and splashed mercury on the walls to get a glimpse of death and movement. I will say at this point that I am starting to get the themes you are exploring with this piece, but again, I'm not quite sure of the context here. You are setting up society as robotic, but I'm not sure of exactly the circumstances surrounding it. Again, great use of juxtaposition, and I do like the chronological timeline, guides story development nicely!
IT’S ON PREVIEW
At 7yrs. He would as rebellious as to crawl into the attic and look out the window to watch the fiery red orb of light slowly sink beneath the horizon. Threads of light lingered in the sky, mingling with the rolling clouds, dyeing the heavens first orange, then red, then dark blue, until all that was left of the sunset was a chalky mauve, and then that melted away in turn as stygian darkness took over the sky. Sequin-silver stars like the glowing embers of a dying fire winked down at him, illuminating the atramentous curtain of sky. The clouds would then part revealing a lustrous, argent disc casting brilliant rays of moonlight onto the dark grounds of his garden, to which he would fall asleep to.Beautiful visual imagery created here, try playing with sentence length a little. Some of your longer sentences could benefit from being split slightly.

“Welcome. You have arrived at your destination. Year: 12 076 .Birth centre: Earth. Genus: Female. Species: Sarah 1. Congratulations it’s a Girl.” Cool addition of cyclical repetition, I like it!
IT’S ON CAPTURE
The Early rays of Sol eagerly tiptoed around the hospital to glimpse at the happiness that it once so jovially danced with before. For this was no ordinary Sarah 1, or girl for that matter, but one of love. James 3 would hold his newborn to his shoulder and she's smaller than a bag of sugar from the grocers. Tiny toes peek from her blanket, dangling in the summer breeze. Her head, a crazy mass of brown curls not yet rubbed bald from lying in her crib, wobbles beneath his supporting hand. He couldn’t believe how tiny new humans are, how vulnerable, how awe inspiring.
IT’S ON CAPTURE
At 5yrs. James 3 was sure to sit her down. Listen here dear Sarah 1. Society has a picture of what people should be yet it is truly ones choice and personality that shape one’s life. Everyone has their own contribution that makes themselves and this world special. So go on press the button, for this camera has been on preview for too long. Long. Make your own pictures, and run by them, not the pictures that society has framed.
IT’S ON CAPTURE. Okay, so the significance of these repeated phrases are revealed at the end. This is cool, however, consider the effect on a reader who doesn't know what is happening. They get a random interruption every paragraph, and then at the end, it's kind of like "Oh that's what that was, okay." This isn't as powerful as your other uses of repetition. I think you could make it work, but I don't think it is quite there as an inclusion right now.

I really like some of your use of technique in this piece! Very clever use of juxtaposition to set up the robotic nature of society, a really cool cyclical style timeline, great imagery, etc etc. Really cool. I feel you are setting up your themes well, you characterises the protagonist really well and you had an awesome build up. Then, I agree, at the end you kind of throw that build up away and literally have a character say your main idea. This works, but it does feel like you could make it better. Remember, show not tell! Use Sarah by all means, but perhaps have that final idea as reflection on Sarah's early childhood, or something. The dialogue is a little forced and a little less powerful as a result.

Besides this, I also want a little more clarity of plot and context. You set up the tone and the themes well, but I don't have a context. Why is James called James 3, for example? It is okay to have unexplained things in your story, but in this case I feel there was a little too much unknown. Try adding a little extra clarity to orientate the reader and get them into your themes!

Really cool stuff Alalamc, awesome job! I hope this feedback helps! 

[jamonwindeyer]

Hi
I edited my creative, its not finished however I have re-designed my layout. Basically I decided to remove Sarah. This is the first half, basically I am going to continue it by comparing his experiences within general societies. Each paragraph is an attribute that contributes to the protagonists individuality. Can you please tell me whether you can tell this or this idea is too vague.

Hey Alalamc!! Good on you working to improve your Creative!! I've attached it with some comments 

Spoiler

Welcome. Although illegally, you have arrived at your destination. Year: 12 016 .Birth centre: Earth. Genus: Male. Species: James Type: 3. Congratulations it’s a Boy and you’re a father.
IMAGINATION MAKES INDIVUALITY NOT SOCIETY
The Early rays of Sol eagerly tiptoed around the hospital to glimpse at the happiness that it once so jovially danced with so long ago. For this was no ordinary James 3, or boy for that matter, but one made of love. His cosmic pupils, rich with universal colours would beam with knowledge and perfection. Yet he wasn’t a product of machine. His soft giggles, rosy cheeks and stubby-fingers curled around the mechanical hearts of all those around him. Yet he wasn’t programmed to. His blissful smile was as sweet as a summer strawberry and flourished his father with sunshine he never knew existed in the world. Yet it was intended it to do so. In a world produced on a production line came an individual produced from the summer sky. He was unique. UNIQUE.As before, great use of language to create a wonderful tone. Excellent juxtaposition. Great start.
IMAGINATION MAKES INDIVUALITY NOT SOCIETY
At his 4th sight of candles, a smile would stretch from ear to ear and part for the Pacific currents to slowly dribble from within. His laughter was as expressed as quietly as melting snowflakes but with the raw power of an a hundred avalanches, reaching the heavens above; the ears of angels who have forgotten the warmth of such harmonies. Harmonies. His Imagination would Samba on the walls. Integrations of African Oranges, Indian Pinks, Caribbean Blues and German greens all at war with the universal white walls of his bedroom. War. But he would win, for he had the decision. He would win, for he had the control. He would win for he was He. Stepping out of home and into town, they walked, he ran. He saw lights of the universe that glittered like falling stars, huge and small buildings colliding in a mixture of shadow and geometry, tiny vehicles rushing along tangled lines of streets creating twisting threads of light - all intertwined together in a magnificent mess of dream. They saw just a city. 
He was powerful. POWERFUL. I really love the tone you are creating here. Watch that your imagery doesn't have techniques for the sake of techniques, everything must have a purpose otherwise it becomes wish-washy. Just techniques galore with no purpose. You aren't there just yet, but be careful you don't overdo it.
IMAGINATION MAKES INDIVUALITY NOT SOCIETY
At 7yrs.  He would crawl into the attic and look out the window, waiting to watch the once-in-a-lifetime meteor shower.  He waited. Waited. The fiery red orb of ZYRTEC slipped beneath the horizon, like when he dunked his Oreo in Dad’s morning coffee. This is an example of a simile which really doesn't serve much of a purpose. Unless you intend for it to be purposefully anticlimactic and Bathos. Also, Oreos still around in 10000 years? What a world! Threads of light lingered in the sky, mingling with the rolling clouds, dyeing the heavens orange, red and blue, until all that was left of the sunset was a chalky mauve, that melted away in turn as stygian darkness took over the sky. Darkness.  Sequin-silver stars like the glowing embers of a dying fire winked down at him, illuminating the atramentous curtain of sky. The clouds would then part revealing a lustrous argent disc, casting brilliant rays of moonlight onto the dark grounds of his garden, as thousands of pieces of light showered the darkness. Yet among the masses of lifeless personalities, all young Americans watched from their plasma screens.
He was original. ORIGINAL. I really like this repetition of structure and this capitalisation at the end, make sure you do something with it in the long run.
IMAGINATION MAKES INDIVUALITY NOT SOCIETY

I think this piece is really great, and I get where you are coming from with attempting to highlight individual attributes! It's a cool concept!

However, I'd say that the paragraphs don't necessarily describe the attribute you say they do. Really, they all do the same thing, they portray the protagonist as one who is in touch with natural beauties and appreciates simple pleasures long abhorred by the now mechanic society. I don't really get anything different from the latter two paragraphs, for me they achieve a similar purpose.

I'd be keen to see what you do with this story from this point. Right now it seems ever so slightly one-dimensional: Guy appreciates things that a mechanical world doesn't. This is an awesome premise that you are pulling off really well, but try to do something more. Really come up with interesting ways to show individual characteristics of the protagonist. When you compare with other experiences of society, does this cause him to be extradited? Is he like the super-futuristic version of a hipster? Take these ideas and develop them to add layers to your story, and I think it will take a great premise and make it amazing!

Again, your style is as always extremely impressive!  if you do something clever with the latter half you will have an excellent piece. Great work!! 

[brontem]

Hey!  Here’s my creative; it wasn’t the one I used for the half yearlies and I’m kicking myself about it! (the one I used was a lame story, my teacher thought it was a really lame story) – I much prefer this one to the one I actually used (it didn’t go too well hahaha) and I feel like this one is way more adaptable.
It's a pretty.. questionable(?) story.. I feel like I might have just gone completely the wrong way and I have no idea if it even makes sense to anyone but me. I also need help for an ending.

I’m aware it’s incredibly cheesy.. Please don’t hesitate in absolutely ripping it to shreds if need be, I'm willing to keep changing until I get it right 
Thanks heaps!! 

[jamonwindeyer]

Hey!  Here’s my creative; it wasn’t the one I used for the half yearlies and I’m kicking myself about it! (the one I used was a lame story, my teacher thought it was a really lame story) – I much prefer this one to the one I actually used (it didn’t go too well hahaha) and I feel like this one is way more adaptable.
It's a pretty.. questionable(?) story.. I feel like I might have just gone completely the wrong way and I have no idea if it even makes sense to anyone but me. I also need help for an ending.

I’m aware it’s incredibly cheesy.. Please don’t hesitate in absolutely ripping it to shreds if need be, I'm willing to keep changing until I get it right 
Thanks heaps!! 

Hey brontem!! Sounds awesome, the creative is attached below with some brief comments throughout!!

Spoiler

Just as he suspected. The denial was just wishful thinking.
 
Andy’s hands trembled as he clasped on to the document which uncovered the truth. Crushing it in his fists, his hands pressed against his head, cringing in anguish. He never once questioned the position he held in his own life…. He couldn’t begin to comprehend the reality that he has never been, or will ever be, the father of his beloved son. Very nice use of language, good mood established already!
 
The air around him began to thicken, and he was fighting to breathe. His bones rattled at the realisation, and tremors shook his body as he sat awake through the night. Awesome figurative language
 
Andy groggily struggled to remain normality as he mechanically went through his morning routine. Taking his newspaper underarm, the morning stroll to the office was hostile, attempting to absorb the streetscape to distract his mind, and taking no notice of the beggar on his way. Throughout the day reality sent tremors through his whole being.
 
Familiarity was drifting further away from him upon returning home each day. The actuality of the relationship with his son strained his compassion. Interactions became merely an act to preserve normality. I'm noticing repetition of word choice. 'Normality' and 'tremors' stand out. Any particular reasons? Any time he looked into the boys eyes, anger grappled around his body like a vine strangling a fence. This simile has a bit of a bathos-effect. This means it takes something quite serious and powerful and turns it to an everyday situation. It's a little comedic, might be worth revisiting?  Immense pressure clasped his body, and the only way to escape aggravation was to distance himself. Feeling a sense of self slip away, the truth was sucking away the compassion he had left. 

Personal reality seemed distorted. The perception of the position in his own life was being broken down in his mind. Be careful to show and not tell for the majority of the story. Show us, through description and technique, or say it in a more creative way, how the perception of position has been broken down. Don't just say it, show it to us. Inadequacy pulsed through his veins as he questioned his position in the universe.  The distance he felt from his son was internalised daily. Shattering the illusion for the 11 year old soul was too much to even consider. Actions and words lost meaning and heartbreak erupted any time the youngster cracked a smile. Andy couldn’t help but detach himself from the lie which now infiltrated his life. Time together became mechanical, with distance the only way out from ruining the illusion.
            
The umbrella worked hard to hold itself up in the morning’s torrential rain as Andy marched to his office. Fog accompanied the rain, navigating the distance ahead became difficult.
 
Standing impatiently on the corner, Andy unintentionally locked eyes with the beggar across the street. His limbs were shuddering from the bitter cold and the cardboard structure over his head was weeping under the weight of the rain. The misery in his eyes radiated through his being. 'Radiated' is a slightly positive word choice here, I think that choice could be a little better. Andy jolted at the similarity to the expressions of his son. Show us! Go into some details about what the character observes that reminds him of his son.
 
Guilt flooded throughout his body as he realised what he had done. Selfishness had taken over his heart and his mind in an attempt to blame the feigned relationship on the innocent child. This link is a bit of a stretch, it needs to be built up to with reflection and wordplay, just putting it out there straight away is, as you say, a tad cheesy. A build up will fix that!

He watched the beggar toss the structure from over his head, with the weak cardboard dissolving into the puddle beside him. Tremors flooded back into Andy's system, somehow annihilating the disgust and filling him with regret. Time seemed to slow down, making his mind dizzy with remorse. How selfish he had been to anyone who had crossed his path, disregarding other's existence in an attempt to validate his own. Again, the link to the rest of the story is a little bit weak. I'm not 100% believing this reaction by the protagonist.
 
Andy rushed across the street and apologetically passed the umbrella to the beggar, who graciously accepted his charity. It was then where he realised that he simultaneously had opened his heart to a stranger amidst the process of making himself a stranger to his son.

The blood pulsing through his veins had become purposeful again, feeding his heart and his mind with compassion, enlightening him with human emotion. A tremor of sensibility had shocked his system, and his eyed widened as he looked beyond the fog to absorb the streetscape surrounding him. The population which surrounds him in this moment is no different to himself; he himself is no different to his son. Acts of selflessness are not only needed by the ones who cry for it as he realised anyone known to himself needed love as well. Don't put such blatant 'Thesis statements' in a creative. It adds to the cheesiness and becomes a case of show not tell. Andy pondered as the rain soaked through to his bones.

The atmosphere around him was no longer thick and hazy; the crisp air was refreshing. This is actually a really cool ending, but I would love to have seen some mention about the thick and hazy fog somewhere earlier in the text. Back before the climax. It would be a really clever pathetic fallacy.

I think the concept you are exploring in the beginning, those themes of lost purpose and similar, are really powerful and you set them up extremely well. And I agree, very adaptable. You could adjust it in various ways to explore a variety of discovery concepts, so that's a massive bonus.

The story makes sense to me, absolutely. However, I think that the ending sequence seems a little forced. It is a tad cheesy, yes, but Discovery stories often are. The issue with me is the realism of the protagonists response. He's angry about the falseness of the relationship with his son (I'd like to see the reasons for this explored somehow, even if briefly), sees a homeless person who looks like him, and immediately changes. I don't believe that. The lack of build up accentuates the unusual nature of this response. I think it is a little bit of a stretch, and thus, conceptually isn't as strong as it could be. Thus, you need to include Thesis statements in the creative to draw the concept out, which doesn't make for believable storytelling. Essentially, you've forced the concept, rather than letting it come through naturally, if you follow me?

I think the premise is great and you should definitely stick with it. The way you set up the emotional state of the father is great. But I think the finish needs a re-think to be more conceptually natural. What exactly is the concept (you have a few here, but the big one) you want to push? How can you use a natural progression in character to show this concept? EG - If the father is feeling a loss of purpose, a natural next step would be to have some sort of interaction with his child which forces him to realise this. Perhaps you could go negative with it and he actually decides to leave (I'm a sucker for stories without happy endings, they are a nice change, I promise I'm not a pessimist  ). That would be powerful, but may require tweaking to drive home a more negative perception of discovery. Perhaps the father leaves and then has some realisation similar to what you have done above, but with a build up so the progression seems more natural! In reality, 'flick of the switch' changes in opinion don't occur (unless something MASSIVELY significant happens in the story, like a death). We make realisations/discoveries over time. Stretch it out, build it up, make it believable 

Again I stress, I love this premise, and you've done some REALLY clever stuff with language. I just think the conceptual drive needs a bit of a rethink so it becomes more natural    I hope this helps brontem, great work!! 

[brontem]

Hey thanks so much!! I totally get what you're saying by its forced ahahaha, aaaaand I'll probably take that unhappy ending idea and see what I can do 

I'll definitely keep changing and rewriting again and again, I 100% knew that this was nowhere near good enough thanks so much, and just a heads up, I'm going to keep putting this up until it's good enough 

[jamonwindeyer]

Hey thanks so much!! I totally get what you're saying by its forced ahahaha, aaaaand I'll probably take that unhappy ending idea and see what I can do 

I'll definitely keep changing and rewriting again and again, I 100% knew that this was nowhere near good enough thanks so much, and just a heads up, I'm going to keep putting this up until it's good enough 

Awesome, I look forward to it! Unhappy endings are a great way to set you apart, I mean hey, look at Game of Thrones as a prime example of how awesome it can be  would love you to keep posting it as you make changes!! Can't wait to see the next version, great job again 

[brontem]

Hey!! Back again with the creative - thanks so much for the advice I did do a bit of moving around/revising things which sounded weird
I added a bit more here and there, but now I think maybe by adding to the story I might have disrupted the flow? And I think there's still a few 'holes' which may read a bit unusually (and the ending is still pretty vague)

Remember, please don't hesitate in ripping it to shreds if need be!!
Thanks again