Character Short Story

[jjtubbingsworth]

The following is a short story/biography of one of my characters in a novel I'm writing. She is not the main character, but part of the main cast. My story is set in an epic fantasy world, but that aspect is not apparent in this short story. This was an attempt at flexing my writing skills and creating more depth for my character. I firmly believe that delivery is the most important aspect of writing as if the literature isn't engaging, then there's no point in reading more.

Thusly the questions I would like answered are as follows:

Was it generally well written?
Did the sentences and the story flow coherently?
Was my grammar okay?
Was it engaging, did you want to read more and more?
Was the story clear and coherent?
Were the attempted stabs at evoking emotions effective? (ie Aria being sold, killing the brother owner, losing her family)? (I really wanted to at least get people on the verge of tears when her son dies)
How effective or ineffective (lacking) were my descriptions.

Please don't hold back, I need the criticism. Thank you for your comments in advance.

It was dark and the red light of the candle lamp barely illuminated the small, cramped room. The place had the wretched scent of old sweat and pipe smoke; it was penetrating and vile. And the draining heat made everything worse. How could anyone bear this place for more than a few minutes, never mind days, weeks, or years? Yet Aria could still vividly recall the interminable years she had painfully endured here. All those miserable memories came to the forefront of her mind and it burned hotly in her heart. Her muscles tensed, becoming tauter and her lips pressed tighter and tighter together, turning a pallid white. Her piercing gaze stayed fixed upon the thin, paper door, waiting for any shadow of movement. But deep behind her fiery eyes, a torrent of pain and sadness stormed, as if consuming her soul.

For despite the seething rage her body trembled with, the deepest core of her shuddered in the bitter coldness of depression. A single, torturous memory was etched into her mind, playing out over and over and over again, and every time it did, she felt just a little more of herself die. She wanted to cry, but her tears had long since been dried by the heat of her fury. She had no more remorse to spare. The only thing that now motivated her was the hatred she had for these people, her previous… “employers.”

Fifteen years ago, when she was just a girl of eleven, her mother passed away, victim of a deadly fever. The only family she had left was her stepfather, who only ever liked her mother and solely for her money. In only a matter of years, Aria’s stepfather had casually frittered away her mother’s life savings, gambling and indulging in fine liquors. Through it all, her mother remained loyal, telling Aria that her stepfather was a kind, good man. And perhaps this was true, but only because he treated her mother like a queen. Aria, on the other hand, was certainly not regarded a princess or barely something to behold, and definitely not something to treasure.

As soon as her mother died, Aria could remember her stepfather spiraling into hopeless debt with her mother’s wealth all spent. And when he could no longer enjoy his despicable vices, he turned to Aria and told her, “You’re going to settle my debt. And you’ll never see me again. Does that make you happy?”

Aria was only eleven, she had no idea what he meant, but she felt only joy when he told her she would never see this man again. That joy was quickly destroyed and replaced by fear. Her stepfather had taken her into a dark alley in their home city’s most despicable corner; it was a place filled with red lights, pipe smoke, and the most undesirable folk imaginable. She wanted to run away, but her stepfather’s grip on her hand was crushing. She wanted to scream, but his other hand covered her face and she couldn’t breathe. After what seemed like hours wandering through a maze of old, rickety buildings and dank, moldy alleys, they finally came to a stop behind a tall building lit up with dozens of red lights. The smell of smoke was strongest here and Aria remembered how it burned her eyes and nose, and how it made her dizzy. She saw women, barely covered by once beautiful dresses. All of them had deceptive smiles and Aria could see the greed behind their flashy eyes.

She knew she had never been so frightened before and she remembered how she clung to her mother’s broken hairpin, gripping it with all her might. The pin’s teeth dug deep into her small little palms, but she ignored the pain and kept thinking of her mother. Her stepfather and some ugly and portly old man exchanged a few words and it was done. Her life, in return for freedom from debt. She could still remember the horrible laughter her stepfather made as he rejoiced in his financial freedom. It made her sick.

Once as he finished laughing, he noticed Aria holding something and he tried to take it from her. She fought as hard as she could; she would never let go of the last thing that reminded her of mother. She screamed and she bit, and no matter how hard he hit her, she held onto that last souvenir of her mother. It was not until some of the other women had enough that he was forced to stop. He let out a self-righteous chuckle and backed away.

“Have a nice time, kiddo.”

And that was it. That was the last time Aria ever saw him. But as great as it seemed, nothing could ever have prepared her for the next dreadful years of her life, if anyone could call it a life. That very night, she was put work. That night, she was no longer a human being, no longer a child, but a commodity. From that day forth, night after night, she was touched and violated by men like her stepfather, maybe worse-Aria couldn’t tell. And here in her profession, her delicate beauty was a curse. For when she grew too old for the men who liked children, men who liked pretty faces replaced them.

Six years she spent in this hell, every night being smothered by the most unsavory characters in all the land. And finally, just before the last shred of her soul was rent, she had enough. Hope of escape hushed her silent agony and desolation. Hope and hate.

Secretly, she developed her own deadly art. Little did anyone know her lessons in grace and dance were becoming the root of her killing skills. So, for months, she learned the dances and manners that were to make her a better comforter-only she would never use these skills to comfort.

At seventeen, she mustered her courage and made her move. In a single, decisive moment, she barged into the brothel owner’s room, killing his two guards with puzzlingly little effort. And before the wretch could even cry for help, Aria pounced on him. She wiped her knife clean on his shirt and stared intensely into his eyes, absorbing all the fear in his horrified gaze. Aria could remember the smile that broke across her face. Despite the exhilarating and terrifying rush of the situation, she couldn’t help but smile. The deepest part of her felt… unbelievably satisfied.

In a single, savage swipe, she dug her blade into his neck. His flesh was surprisingly easy to rend through. Under the dull, red light of the room, his blood looked like thick, black tar as it gushed out. His pitiful gurgling was like music to her ears and she felt extraordinarily contented as his hot blood poured over her small hands.

After what seemed like but a second, the brothel owner stopped squirming and went limp. Aria’s exhilaration died with the owner and suddenly her joy turned to panic. She jumped off the body and ran, her hands still covered and dripping in slowly thickening blood. She ran clear of the building and kept running, not stopping for anyone or anything. She ran and ran until she was far from the city. Her lungs and legs burned, but she kept going, charging through the forest outside the city. Before she knew it, she had been running throughout the night, never once stopping. The dawn crept over the horizon and Aria was still running. Only after the sun had risen high in the sky did she finally succumb to her exhaustion. She collapsed and slept there on the forest floor.

The following weeks were not the freedom she had expected. Having been a prisoner of the brothel for so many years, she had forgotten how to live or survive. And to make matters worse, she was with child. At first, she despised the thought of bearing the sire of lesser men. She wanted to destroy the life within her, to extinguish the taint that grew in her. But she couldn’t. She couldn’t help but pity the life inside her. And she came to pity herself. How could she harm it, when doing so would turn her into the very person she despised most of all. His filthy, dishonorable contempt for children-it was something Aria would never behold. And so, she allowed the life to thrive inside her, draining away pounds of strength with each passing day. In spite of her own suffering, she cherished her unborn child.

But she was at the mercy of the gods. She had no home and for weeks, no food. Scavenging was the only option for her, and she spent her days picking through garbage, taking whatever meager and rotten morsels from the rats. When at last her hunger triumphed, she gave up hope and curled into a dank corner of an alley. She accepted her death and had no remorse but one: she cried and apologized dearly to her unborn child. Aria held herself in contempt as she would fail as a mother before her baby was even out of her. So, she waited to die.

As hunger wracked her body and as the last few precious breaths escaped her mouth, a handsome, noble young man found her. Amidst the blurry darkness, Aria saw this man to be an angel of mercy, though at first she hesitantly questioned his good will. Years of seeing the very worst of mankind had made her question the honesty of any charity. Alas, her fears and doubts were laid to rest. This man was truly her salvation, a paragon of singular compassion. For his heart was as pure as his comforting smile. It was not in his nature to abandon anyone in need. And Aria so desperately needed him.

In the coming months, Aria found love in this man and he in her. They were married and her child, a beautiful son, was born soon thereafter. Far from her hell and the soured glares of condemning eyes, they thrived in a remote cottage, living off the land. And for the first time in many years, Aria was happy. She could smile now without ill thoughts. She loved her husband and child ever so dearly. They were her precious treasures, her daily doses of light. Finally, she was complete and she had found heaven.

But it was not to last. A scant seven years went by before her past caught up with her. The ones who allied themselves with the brothel owner sought revenge.

It was before dawn, Aria remembered. The sun was still far behind the horizon and the world was lit in a cool, dull gray light. Her husband was still asleep, as was her boy. She loved this time of day and always gladly spent it finding choice mushrooms in the nearby forest, her husband and son’s favorite. This morning did not seem particularly unusual and Aria haplessly engaged in her morning routine.

When the sun finally began to peak over the horizon, filling the forest with a warming golden light, Aria turned back for home, eager to embrace and kiss her two groggy loved ones. But when she came upon her home, she knew something was wrong. She didn’t hear her boy squealing with glee as his father chased him around the house, as they usually played first thing in the morning. Her home seemed ghostly quiet and dead. Its warmth was somehow simply gone.

She dropped her harvest of mushrooms and rushed inside, where she screamed at the top of her lungs. The sight of her husband’s beheaded corpse dangling from the ceiling, drenched in crusted blood stabbed her, piercing into her soul and forever burning into her memory. It lazily and limply swayed. His body seemed to yearn for her, as if trying to get closer to her. But Aria was frozen in terror and sorrow. Unable to endure it any longer, she ran from the house only to trip a few feet away. She finally began to sob, and loudly. No one but the gods would hear her.

She opened her eyes and saw on the ground under her, a trail of blood leading away from the house and into the woods. Her son! Her panic was renewed and she scrambled to her feet, slipping out of her sandals. The wet grass was frigid against her bare soles, but she didn’t give a damn. She wanted her boy. Into the woods, Aria sprinted, following the trail of blood. As she ran, hope slowly drained from her. The trail was too long; her boy must have lost too much blood. Even still, she ran. She had to find him.

Against a tree, she found her son, curled up in a ball, tightly caressing his gut wound. The sun was high now and its warm and golden rays penetrated through the canopy and onto her boy. But his skin was a hopelessly pale.

Aria’s pace slowed to a cautious tread. Her body trembled and her lips quivered violently and uncontrollably. She knelt down and reached for her son, her hands unable to keep steady. Her fingers slowly touched his cold skin. Despite her fears, she could still feel life. Aria’s grip became stronger and she brought herself closer to her precious baby. She rubbed her cheek against his head and began to bawl; she didn’t know whether to be happy or sad.

“Mama?” He rasped hoarsely, his meager voice barely audible.

“Shh! I’m here. Mama’s here.” She forced through the choking lump in her throat, her voice trembling.

“Don’t cry mama. I don’t hurt anymore.”

“Don’t talk, baby. Everything’s going to be all right. Shh.” Her voice started to crack.

Her son weakly extended his hand and touched his mother’s wet face, “I’m sleepy. I want to take a nap. I’ll see you when I wake up, mama.”

His hand slowly fell. When it hit the ground, his whole body went limp in her arms. Aria stopped trembling. Her mouth was ajar, but no sound came out. Her eyes were wide and they stared ahead blankly. Slowly, her body began to shake again. Tears trickled one by one down her face. She screamed, but there was no sound. She stayed there, caressing her son until the sky turned black.

In the morning, she buried both bodies and burned her house to the ground. All that was left of this life were the clothes on her back and her husband’s hunting knife. She had cried all her tears and sadness out; she was completely hollow inside. What filled that void was a seething, furious thirst for blood-the blood of the bastards responsible. Nothing would stop her, not even the gods, who saw fit to punish her so.

And thus, for the past two years, Aria left a bloody trail of retribution. Each murder was more brutal and more satisfying than the last. Finally, she had but one bastard left. And she was keen on making his death special.

She was back now, where it all began. And this is where it would all end. She sat in her dark room, lit only by that maddening red light. Much of her skin was showing; she was wearing a dress much like the ones the other girls wore here. Her lips were lusciously red and her silky hair tied in a beautiful knot behind her wonderfully shaped head. She sat on her ankles, her smooth, alluring legs, protruding from her dress. And she remained composed and patient, her eyes still on that sliding paper door.

What seemed like hours of interminable waiting finally ended as a drunk, middle aged man lumbered haphazardly into the room. She bowed gracefully as he tumbled to the floor. His lazy gaze met hers and he smiled oafishly.

“Wow! Such a pretty one. How-how much do you cost?” He blurted, his breath reeking of liquor.

“I’m new here, so I’m sure my boss can arrange something special for you,” Aria forced a smile.

The man leaned forward and took a closer look, straining his eyes trying to make out the details on her face. He noticed her flower hairpin. Aria took note of this and pulled it out, letting her hair delicately cascade down her back.

“Do you like this?” Aria asked, showing him the pin.

The man’s face drained of color.

“This belonged to my mother; it’s my only souvenir of her. A man once tried to take this from me, but I held onto it for dear life.” Aria explained in a gradually sterner tone, her eyes becoming maniacal.

“L-listen, I’m sorry about you and your mother. If that’s what this is about, I’m really very sorry!” The man shrieked. He stumbled backwards, tripping over his two big legs.

“This isn’t about me. And it isn’t about my mother.” Aria said soothingly, “Do you want to know what this is about?”

The man didn’t say anything. His eyes were wide with terror and his whole body frozen by the same fear.

Aria leaned forward and put her hand on his greasy, cratered face. She whispered softly into his ear, “This is for my son.”

She pushed him down and held him there with alarming strength. Her hand pressed down against his throat, so he couldn’t let out even a squeak. Aria raised her other hand, gripping her mother’s hairpin, its sharpened points staring down at him.

“Are you ready to have a nice time, kiddo?”

[chopper]

ok, its firstthing in the morning here so clarity won't be mystrongest point but even so:

first, welcome to the Chrons! hope you enjoy your stay here.
you're obviously a writer with some thought to your project, as well as a firm belief in your characters. one thing i noticed immediately is the lack of names - aside from Aria, none of the characters here are named. if you're using this is, perhaps, an exercise in character construction, with a view to using the detail to flesh out the character in the main story, i think at the very least her son and husband deserve names. (would Alia flinch or feel pangs of remorse if she heard that name shouted across a busy street? would she look to see if it really was her son?...) plus - the husband's family - is there any remaining? do they have contact with alia, or did they disown him when he married her?
niggly bits, maybe, but IMO they'd help anchor the character a little more.
your questions:

Was it generally well written?
Did the sentences and the story flow coherently?
Was my grammar okay?
Was it engaging, did you want to read more and more?
Was the story clear and coherent?
Were the attempted stabs at evoking emotions effective? (ie Aria being sold, killing the brother owner, losing her family)? (I really wanted to at least get people on the verge of tears when her son dies)
How effective or ineffective (lacking) were my descriptions.

yes
yes
i'll leave grammar to our redisdent pedant (don't worry, he'll introduce himself all in good time)
the story was clearand coherent, and the flashback involved wasn't too convoluted. descriptions-wise, i wasn't very clear as to where/when this was set, or how "real" the world was - for me, world-building is just as important as character-building. i like to know where i am.
as for the son's death, just my opiniion, but i believe it would have worked a lot better as straight description, without the dialogue. the dialogue kinda broke the mood - writing death scenes is something of a skill, and i'm finding it tough myself to write a believable and uncorny one for one of my characters.

anyhow, that's my 2p. great start - as you mean to go on!

s

[chrispenycate]

Originally Posted by jjtubbingsworth

The following is a short story/biography of one of my characters in a novel I'm writing. She is not the main character, but part of the main cast. My story is set in an epic fantasy world, but that aspect is not apparent in this short story. This was an attempt at flexing my writing skills and creating more depth for my character. I firmly believe that delivery is the most important aspect of writing as if the literature isn't engaging, then there's no point in reading more.

Thusly the questions I would like answered are as follows:

Was it generally well written?
Did the sentences and the story flow coherently?
Was my grammar okay?
Was it engaging, did you want to read more and more?
Was the story clear and coherent?
Were the attempted stabs at evoking emotions effective? (ie Aria being sold, killing the brother owner, losing her family)? (I really wanted to at least get people on the verge of tears when her son dies)
How effective or ineffective (lacking) were my descriptions.

Please don't hold back, I need the criticism. Thank you for your comments in advance.

It was dark and the red light of the candle lamp barely illuminated the small, cramped room. The place had the wretched scent of old sweat and pipe smoke; it was penetrating and vile. And the draining heat made everything worse. How could anyone bear this place for more than a few minutes, never mind days, weeks, or years? Yet Aria could still vividly recall the interminable years she had painfully endured here. All those miserable memories came to the forefront of her mind and it burned hotly in her heart. Her muscles tensed, becoming tauter

comma

and her lips pressed tighter and tighter together, turning a pallid white. Her piercing gaze stayed fixed upon the thin, paper door, waiting for any shadow of movement. But deep behind her fiery eyes, a torrent of pain and sadness stormed, as if consuming her soul.

For

comma

despite the seething rage her body trembled with, the deepest core of her shuddered in the bitter coldness of depression. A single, torturous memory was etched into her mind, playing out over and over and over again, and every time it did, she felt just a little more of herself die. She wanted to cry, but her tears had long since been dried by the heat of her fury. She had no more remorse to spare. The only thing that now motivated her was the hatred she had for these people, her previous… “employers.”

Fifteen years ago, when she

had been

was just a girl of eleven, her mother

had

passed away, victim of a deadly fever. The only family she had left was her stepfather, who only ever liked her mother and solely for her money. In only a matter of years,

no comma

Aria’s stepfather had casually frittered away her mother’s life savings, gambling and indulging in fine liquors. Through it all, her mother remained loyal, telling Aria that her stepfather was a kind, good man. And perhaps this was true, but only because he treated her mother like a queen. Aria, on the other hand, was certainly not regarded a princess or

not really "or" - perhaps "but"?

barely something to behold, and definitely not something to treasure.

As soon as her mother died, Aria could remember her stepfather spiraling into hopeless debt with her mother’s wealth all spent. And when he could no longer enjoy his despicable vices, he turned to Aria and told her, “You’re going to settle my debt. And you’ll never see me again. Does that make you happy?”

Aria was only eleven, she had no idea what he meant, but she felt only joy when he told her she would never see this man again. That joy was quickly destroyed and replaced by fear. Her stepfather had taken her into a dark alley in their home city’s most despicable corner; it was a place filled with red lights, pipe smoke, and the most undesirable folk imaginable. She wanted to run away, but her stepfather’s grip on her hand was crushing. She wanted to scream, but his other hand covered her face and she couldn’t breathe. After what seemed like hours wandering through a maze of old, rickety buildings and dank, moldy alleys, they finally came to a stop behind a tall building lit up with dozens of red lights. The smell of smoke was strongest here and Aria remembered how it burned her eyes and nose, and how it made her dizzy. She saw women, barely covered by once beautiful dresses. All of them had deceptive smiles and Aria could see the greed behind their flashy eyes.

She knew she had never been so frightened before and she remembered how she clung to her mother’s broken hairpin, gripping it with all her might. The pin’s teeth dug deep into her small little

small little is tautological

palms, but she ignored the pain and kept thinking of her mother. Her stepfather and some ugly and portly old man exchanged a few words and it was done. Her life, in return for freedom from debt. She could still remember the horrible laughter her stepfather made as he rejoiced in his financial freedom. It made her sick.

Once as

either a comma before the "as", or eliminate it completely – "once he had finished laughing"

he finished laughing, he noticed Aria holding something and he tried to take it from her. She fought as hard as she could; she would never let go of the last thing that reminded her of mother. She screamed and she bit, and no matter how hard he hit her, she held onto that last souvenir of her mother. It was not until some of the other women had enough that he was forced to stop. He let out a self-righteous chuckle and backed away.

“Have a nice time, kiddo.”

And that was it. That was the last time Aria ever saw him. But as great as it seemed, nothing could ever have prepared her for the next dreadful years of her life, if anyone could call it a life. That very night, she was put

to

work. That night, she was no longer a human being, no longer a child, but a commodity. From that day forth, night after night, she was touched and violated by men like her stepfather, maybe worse-Aria couldn’t tell. And here

comma

in her profession, her delicate beauty was a curse. For when she grew too old for the men who liked children, men who liked pretty faces replaced them.

Six years she spent in this hell, every night being smothered by the most unsavory characters in all the land. And finally, just before the last shred of her soul was rent, she had enough. Hope of escape hushed her silent agony and desolation. Hope and hate.

Secretly, she developed her own deadly art. Little did anyone know her lessons in grace and dance were becoming the root of her killing skills. So, for months, she learned the dances and manners that were to make her a better comforter-only she would never use these skills to comfort.

At seventeen, she mustered her courage and made her move. In a single, decisive moment, she barged into the brothel owner’s room, killing his two guards with puzzlingly little effort. And before the wretch could even cry for help, Aria pounced on him. She wiped her knife clean on his shirt and stared intensely into his eyes, absorbing all the fear in his horrified gaze. Aria could remember the smile that broke across her face. Despite the exhilarating and terrifying rush of the situation, she couldn’t help but smile. The deepest part of her felt… unbelievably satisfied.

In a single, savage swipe, she dug her blade into his neck. His flesh was surprisingly easy to rend through. Under the dull, red light of the room, his blood looked like thick, black tar as it gushed out. His pitiful gurgling was like music to her ears and she felt extraordinarily contented as his hot blood poured over her small hands.

After what seemed like but a second, the brothel owner stopped squirming and went limp. Aria’s exhilaration died with the owner and suddenly her joy turned to panic. She jumped off the body and ran, her hands still covered and dripping in

"with", rather than "in"? That way it works for the two verbs.

slowly thickening blood. She ran clear of the building and kept running, not stopping for anyone or anything. She ran and ran until she was far from the city. Her lungs and legs burned, but she kept going, charging through the forest outside the city. Before she knew it, she had been running throughout the night, never once stopping. The dawn crept over the horizon and Aria was still running. Only after the sun had risen high in the sky did she finally succumb to her exhaustion. She collapsed and slept there on the forest floor.

The following weeks were not the freedom she had expected. Having been a prisoner of the brothel for so many years, she had forgotten how to live or survive. And to make matters worse, she was with child. At first, she despised the thought of bearing the sire

I don't think "sire" (a father, an ancestor) is the right word. Lots of possibilities if you want to avoid "child" – issue, perhaps?

of lesser men. She wanted to destroy the life within her, to extinguish the taint that grew in her. But she couldn’t. She couldn’t help but pity the life inside her. And she came to pity herself. How could she harm it, when doing so would turn her into the very person she despised most of all. His filthy, dishonorable contempt for children-it was something Aria would never behold

behold: to look upon. Perhaps consider or contemplate?

. And so, she allowed the life to thrive inside her, draining away pounds of strength with each passing day. In spite of her own suffering, she cherished her unborn child.

But she was at the mercy of the gods. She had no home and for weeks, no food. Scavenging was the only option for her, and she spent her days picking through garbage, taking whatever meager and rotten morsels from the rats. When at last her hunger triumphed, she gave up hope and curled into a dank corner of an alley. She accepted her death and had no remorse but one: she cried and apologized dearly to her unborn child. Aria held herself in contempt

comma

as she would fail as a mother before her baby was even out of her. So, she waited to die.

As hunger wracked her body and as the last few precious breaths escaped her mouth, a handsome, noble young man found her. Amidst the blurry darkness, Aria saw this man to be an angel of mercy, though at first she hesitantly questioned his good will. Years of seeing the very worst of mankind had made her question the honesty of any charity. Alas

why "alas"? Surely it was good that he was not like her normal contacts?

, her fears and doubts were laid to rest. This man was truly her salvation, a paragon of singular compassion. For his heart was as pure as his comforting smile. It was not in his nature to abandon anyone in need. And Aria so desperately needed him.

In the coming months, Aria found love in this man and he in her. They were married and her child, a beautiful son, was born soon thereafter. Far from her hell and the soured glares of condemning eyes, they thrived in a remote cottage, living off the land. And for the first time in many years, Aria was happy. She could smile now without ill thoughts. She loved her husband and child ever so dearly. They were her precious treasures, her daily doses of light. Finally, she was complete and she had found heaven.

But it was not to last. A scant seven years went by before her past caught up with her. The ones who allied themselves with the brothel owner sought revenge.

It was before dawn, Aria remembered. The sun was still far behind the horizon and the world was lit in a cool, dull gray light. Her husband was still asleep, as was her boy. She loved this time of day and always gladly spent it finding choice mushrooms in the nearby forest, her husband and son’s favorite. This morning did not seem particularly unusual and Aria haplessly engaged in her morning routine.

When the sun finally began to peak over the horizon, filling the forest with a warming golden light, Aria turned back for home, eager to embrace and kiss her two groggy loved ones. But when she came upon her home, she knew something was wrong. She didn’t hear her boy squealing with glee as his father chased him around the house, as they usually played first thing in the morning. Her home seemed ghostly quiet and dead. Its warmth was somehow simply gone.

She dropped her harvest of mushrooms and rushed inside, where she screamed at the top of her lungs. The sight of her husband’s beheaded corpse dangling from the ceiling, drenched in crusted blood stabbed her, piercing into her soul and forever burning into her memory. It lazily and limply swayed. His body seemed to yearn for her, as if trying to get closer to her. But Aria was frozen in terror and sorrow. Unable to endure it any longer, she ran from the house only to trip a few feet away. She finally began to sob, and loudly. No one but the gods would hear her.

She opened her eyes and saw

comma

on the ground under her, a trail of blood leading away from the house and into the woods. Her son! Her panic was renewed and she scrambled to her feet, slipping out of her sandals. The wet grass was frigid against her bare soles, but she didn’t give a damn. She wanted her boy. Into the woods, Aria sprinted, following the trail of blood. As she ran, hope slowly drained from her. The trail was too long; her boy must have lost too much blood. Even still, she ran. She had to find him.

Against a tree, she found her son, curled up in a ball, tightly caressing his gut wound. The sun was high now and its warm and golden rays penetrated through the canopy and onto her boy. But his skin was a hopelessly pale.

Aria’s pace slowed to a cautious tread. Her body trembled and her lips quivered violently and uncontrollably. She knelt down and reached for her son, her hands unable to keep steady. Her fingers slowly touched his cold skin. Despite her fears, she could still feel life. Aria’s grip became stronger and she brought herself closer to her precious baby. She rubbed her cheek against his head and began to bawl; she didn’t know whether to be happy or sad.

“Mama?” He rasped hoarsely, his meager voice barely audible.

“Shh! I’m here. Mama’s here.” She forced through the choking lump in her throat, her voice trembling.

“Don’t cry mama. I don’t hurt anymore.”

“Don’t talk, baby. Everything’s going to be all right. Shh.” Her voice started to crack.

Her son weakly extended his hand and touched his mother’s wet face, “I’m sleepy. I want to take a nap. I’ll see you when I wake up, mama.”

His hand slowly fell. When it hit the ground, his whole body went limp in her arms. Aria stopped trembling. Her mouth was ajar, but no sound came out. Her eyes were wide and they stared ahead blankly. Slowly, her body began to shake again. Tears trickled one by one down her face. She screamed, but there was no sound. She stayed there, caressing her son until the sky turned black.

In the morning, she buried both bodies and burned her house to the ground. All that was left of this life were the clothes on her back and her husband’s hunting knife. She had cried all her tears and sadness out; she was completely hollow inside. What filled that void was a seething, furious thirst for blood-the blood of the bastards responsible. Nothing would stop her, not even the gods, who saw fit to punish her so.

And thus, for the past two years, Aria left a bloody trail of retribution. Each murder was more brutal and more satisfying than the last. Finally, she had but one bastard left. And she was keen on making his death special.

She was back now, where it all began. And this is where it would all end. She sat in her dark room, lit only by that maddening red light. Much of her skin was showing; she was wearing a dress much like the ones the other girls wore here. Her lips were lusciously red and her silky hair tied in a beautiful knot behind her wonderfully shaped head. She sat on her ankles, her smooth, alluring legs,

no comma

protruding from her dress. And she remained composed and patient, her eyes still on that sliding paper door.

What seemed like hours of interminable waiting finally ended as a drunk, middle aged man lumbered haphazardly into the room. She bowed gracefully as he tumbled to the floor. His lazy gaze met hers and he smiled oafishly.

“Wow! Such a pretty one. How-how much do you cost?” He blurted, his breath reeking of liquor.

“I’m new here, so I’m sure my boss can arrange something special for you,” Aria forced a smile.

The man leaned forward and took a closer look, straining his eyes trying to make out the details on

of?

her face. He noticed her flower hairpin. Aria took note of this and pulled it out, letting her hair delicately cascade down her back.

“Do you like this?” Aria asked, showing him the pin.

The man’s face drained of color.

“This belonged to my mother; it’s my only souvenir of her. A man once tried to take this from me, but I held onto it for dear life.” Aria explained in a gradually sterner tone, her eyes becoming maniacal.

“L-listen, I’m sorry about you and your mother. If that’s what this is about, I’m really very sorry!” The man shrieked. He stumbled backwards, tripping over his two big legs.

“This isn’t about me. And it isn’t about my mother.” Aria said soothingly, “Do you want to know what this is about?”

The man didn’t say anything. His eyes were wide with terror and his whole body frozen by the same fear.

Aria leaned forward and put her hand on his greasy, cratered face. She whispered softly into his ear, “This is for my son.”

She pushed him down and held him there with alarming strength. Her hand pressed down against his throat, so he couldn’t let out even a squeak. Aria raised her other hand, gripping her mother’s hairpin, its sharpened points staring down at him.

“Are you ready to have a nice time, kiddo?”

Quite a bit of this I feel should have been in the pluperfect (had done) rather than in the imperfect (did), since they are history to the main story whic is already in the past, but I admit it is heavy.

You use dashes to separate concepts (nothing against that) but you type them as hyphens, rather than spacing them off (

"like her stepfather, maybe worse-Aria couldn’t tell"

rather than " like her stepfather, maybe worse – Aria couldn’t tell.) which, for me, makes a compound noun ("Aria-worse")

And how did she arrange that her first client be one of those who was responsible for her family's disappearance? There is a sufficiently flourishing trade that it will only be a small minority who are directly associated with her, and he even seems to know about the previous problem with the hairpin (one could suspect it was actually her stepfather, if it hadn't been that you told us

"That was the last time Aria ever saw him"

Otherwise, not too many direct grammar problems.

i'll leave grammar to our redisdent pedant (don't worry, he'll introduce himself all in good time)

Capital "I" for "I'll" and "resident". Is that more or less what you meant?

[jjtubbingsworth]

Wow! See, I am so very glad I found this site! And thank you for the warm welcome.

Chopper:

for me, world-building is just as important as character-building. i like to know where i am.

I totally agree and I regret not going more into depth with my world in this short story, but I didn't feel I'd have enough time to do so within the short story. However, I'm reasonably confident my actual fantasy fiction will please considering how much work I'm putting into the history, culture, politics, and religion of my world.

s for the son's death, just my opiniion, but i believe it would have worked a lot better as straight description, without the dialogue. the dialogue kinda broke the mood - writing death scenes is something of a skill, and i'm finding it tough myself to write a believable and uncorny one for one of my characters.

I had been debating this myself. I'm not very confident as a writer of dialogue. I cannot seem to write very convincing and non-corny dialogue.

chrispenycate:

Wow... I didn't think I had so many simple grammar mistakes. As simple as those mistakes were, I'm sure someone (like you) would have found the pacing broken as a result.

Using the pluperfect for most of my flashbacks never even occurred to me.

Thank you both for your comments. I obviously have a lot of practicing to do and it really helps to take advice from people who know what they're doing! (my friends and family don't care, share my passion, or speak English).

[chopper]

Capital "I" for "I'll" and "resident". Is that more or less what you meant?

aye, guess so. my typing's worse than normal today.

s