End of Chapter Four - 750 words

[Esfires]

Short scene this time. This is definitely a character development scene, an almost vignette that comes at the end of a long chapter. I want this chapter to end with a tired, contemplative, almost depressed ending. Besides the obvious character development, it will help provide contrast to the next chapter which begins at a party where I'll be introducing my villain.

You can ignore the "why" behind some of the dialogue. The relationship between Simon and his father, and the reasons behind it, have been dealt with earlier.







Thomas eased the front door of the Gates house shut behind him, stifling a yawn. He rubbed at his arms, trying to retain what little heat he had left. He wanted to stamp his feet, get his blood flowing, but it was well into the night and he didn’t want to wake anyone.

Charles had been right about the guns, they were in sad shape. Some of them were decades old. But at least the first shipments of new guns out of Maridon were starting to trickle in. The capital’s workshops must be hard at work to supply the mobilization, and the first fruits of that labor were beginning to appear.

“Rotten damned fruit,” he muttered as he stripped off his coat. The new guns had been manufactured in haste, and they weren’t much better than the old. Most of them could be salvaged, but it was going to be weeks before even one in three of the men would have a reliable weapon. There were going to be more long nights ahead.

He yawned again as he passed the door to the kitchen and almost missed the murmuring coming from the half-open door. He paused for a moment to peek through the narrow opening.

A small pool of light from a flickering oil lamp sitting in the middle of a rough wooden table illuminated the otherwise dark room. Simon sat at the table, leaning over the surface with his head buried in his arms. He might have been asleep, but for the gentle shaking of his shoulders.

Mrs. Hill sat beside him, smoothing his hair as she spoke. Thomas could barely make out the words.

“Now these weren’t the people that had gone to fight the King,” she said. “Nary a one o’ them that went to fight the Last War ever came back. No, these were the ones they left behind, the wives and the daughters and the sons, them that couldn’t fight for themselves. They seen the fire and the lights that lit the sky to the east and south, and they knew their men weren’t gonna be comin’ home no more. They knew the King had won. So they gathered up what they could and they fled across the narrow sea to the north, to the last island o’ free men.”

Thomas moved away from the door and stepped lightly down the hall, draping his coat over one arm as he entered the dim parlor where an inviting flame still crackled in the hearth. He sank down in the chair closest to the fire, legs splayed out on the rug, and let his head fall back with a deep sigh. The weariness began to seep out of his body, slowly replaced by the warmth of the fire.

“Long day, Mr. Mathews?”

He started awake, knocking his coat to the floor and almost rising out of his seat before remembering where he was. He hadn’t intended to fall asleep.

Elizabeth watched with an amused smile from her place on the couch across from him. She held a pair of knitting needles in her hand, and a half-finished crimson scarf lay draped across her lap.

Thomas bent to retrieve his coat. “Longer than I’d like.” He settled back into the chair and rubbed at his eyes, letting loose another jaw-cracking yawn. “And yourself, Miss Gates? Isn’t it a little late for you to be up?”

She held up her hands, displaying the swathe of red wool. “I can’t work on this during the day. I might get caught.”

“Caught?”

She returned to her work. “It’s for Simon’s birthday.”

Thomas stretched his feet closer to the fire. “I passed him in the kitchen. Your housekeeper was with him.” He frowned down at the mud that caked his boots. “He seemed upset.”

The needles clicked softly as they rocked back and forth in her hands. “Simon asked our father about taking another trip to visit the camp, but he had just come in from mother’s grave.” The needles paused for a moment. “It was not a good time to ask.”

Thomas stared into the fire and hugged his arms across his chest. The red glow of the blaze seemed suddenly harsh, without warmth.

He woke as the first rays of the morning sun filtered through frost-covered windows, pouring white light on the dead ashes of the hearth. He had no memory of drifting off, only of colorless dreams of both men and guns that did not always seem to function as they should.

[TheDustyZebra]

I'd say it's doing what you want. Must be, since nobody else has said anything at all!

[JoanDrake]

I was just going to agree, it's downright depressing, but that is what you're trying for, yes?

Actually, it's more depressing at the end. The middle evoked a feeling of nearly "delicious" tiredness, but the awakening with the frosted windows, I could almost feel the cold.

I get the feeling that Thomas is a somewhat overly serious young man, and he might be more than a little disturbed by this coming war which nobody seems to really want.

[Scott R. Forshaw]

Thomas eased the front door of the Gates house (should this be gatehouse, or Gates' house?)shut behind him, stifling a yawn. He rubbed at his arms, trying to retain what little heat he had left. He wanted to stamp his feet, get his blood flowing, but it was well into the night and he didn’t want to wake anyone. You paint a nice, vivid picture, here. There's just enough information to make it compelling, without it seeming too over-dramatic.

Charles had been right about the guns, they were in sad shape. Some of them were decades old. But at least the first shipments of new guns('guns' appears twice in this paragraph, each of them in close proximity to the other. It just seems a little repetitive, don't you think? Could you not perhaps use 'weapons', instead, for the second instance?)out of Maridon were starting to trickle in. The capital’s workshops must be hard at work to supply the mobilization, and the first fruits of that (Delete'that', I don't think you don't need it)labor were beginning to appear.

“Rotten damned fruit,” he muttered as he stripped off his coat. The new guns had been manufactured in haste, and they weren’t much better than the old ones. Most of them could be salvaged, but it was going to be weeks before even one in three of the men would have a reliable weapon. There were going to be more long nights ahead.

He yawned again as he passed the door to the kitchen, (I'd place a comma here. The sentence seems a touch too long without it.) and almost missed the murmuring coming from the half-open door. He paused for a moment to peek through the narrow opening.

A small pool of light from a flickering oil lamp sitting in the middle of a rough wooden table illuminated the otherwise dark room. (For me, the sentence structure doesn't quite work, here. I feel it's too long, and could certainly be tweaked to make it read better. Perhaps something along the lines of: A flickering oil lamp illuminated the rough wooden table upon which it sat; the only source of light in an otherwise dark room. Or something like that... ) Simon sat at the table, leaning over the surface with his head buried in his arms. He might have been asleep, but for the gentle shaking of his shoulders.

Mrs.Hill sat beside him, smoothing his hair as she spoke. Thomas could barely make out the words.

“Now these weren’t the people that had gone to fight the King,” she said. “Nary a one o’ them that went to fight the Last War ever came back. No, these were the ones they left behind. Thewives and the daughters and the sons, them that couldn’t fight for themselves. They seen the fire and the lights that lit the sky to the east and south, and they knew their men weren’t gonna be comin’ home no more. They knew the King had won. So they gathered up what they could and they fled across the narrow sea to the north, to the last island o’ free men.”

Thomas moved away from the door and stepped lightly down the hall. Draping his coat over one arm, he entered the dim parlor, where an inviting flame still crackled in the hearth. He sank down in the chair closest to the fire, legs splayed out on the rug, and let his head fall back with a deep sigh. The weariness began to seep out of his body, slowly replaced by the warmth of the fire.

“Long day, Mr. Mathews?”

He started awake, knocking his coat to the floor and almost rising out of his seat before remembering where he was. He hadn’t intended to fall asleep.

Elizabeth watched him from the couch, opposite, her lips curled to form an amused smile. She held a pair of knitting needles in her hand, and a half-finished crimson scarf lay draped across her lap.

Thomas bent to retrieve his coat. “Longer than I’d like.” He settled back into the chair and rubbed at (Delete'at') his eyes, letting loose another jaw-cracking yawn. “And yourself, Miss Gates? Isn’t it a little late for you to be up?”

She held up her hands, displaying the swathe of red wool. “I can’t work on this during the day. I might get caught.”

“Caught?”

She returned to her work. “It’s for Simon’s birthday.”

Thomas stretched his feet closer to the fire. “I passed him in the kitchen. Your housekeeper was with him.” He frowned down at the mud that caked his boots. “He seemed upset.”

The needles clicked softly as they rocked back and forth in her hands. “Simon asked our father about taking another trip to visit the camp, but he had just come in from mother’s grave.” The needles paused for amoment. “It was not a good time to ask.”

Thomas stared into the fire and hugged his arms across his chest. The red glow of the blaze seemed suddenly harsh, without warmth. (This last sentence feels somewhat contradictory. You mention 'red' and 'glow', 'blaze and 'harsh', which are all indicative of heat, or warmth. Yet, you finish by telling us it has no warmth. It's somewhat confusing, don't you think? Up until the final two words, I honestly thought he was overwhelmed by the intensity of the heat; I was completely thrown, after that.)

He woke as the first rays of the morning sun filtered through frost-covered windows, pouring white light on the dead ashes of the hearth. He had no memory of drifting off, only of colorless dreams of both men and guns that did not always seem to function as they should.


On the whole, I thoroughly enjoyed the excerpt, and felt it worked rather well. It may seem as though there's quite a lot of red, but I promise you, it isn't as bad as it looks. The piece is well thought out, and the characters seem well rounded. With some tightening, and, in places, better sentence structure, it has the potential to be very good indeed.

I hope I've helped.

All the best.

[Esfires]

Sounds like I accomplished exactly what I was going for. This is actually one of the most depressing scenes in the entire book, but its the sort of thing that will be vital for Simon's character arc later. His relationship with his father is the major driving force in his arc, especially since I kill his father off a couple of chapters after this scene.


Thomas isn't actually looking forward towards a war. Part of his demeanor is because that's just his personality. He's not a very cheerful guy, though he has his moments of sarcastic humor. He also has something in his past that he's very ashamed of, but that hasn't been revealed yet.

With Elizabeth, I try to keep her very matter-of-fact about things, even about uncomfortable topics. I want her to come across as very strong, emotionally. At least, up until the point I break her.

[Tecdavid]

I really liked this excerpt. The characters, from what little we see of them, really do feel human and real, in no small part due to the dialogue, which I thought to be very good. To begin with, I didn't know whether Simon was in fact a child, or some acquaintance of Thomas's who was also worried about the gun dilemma. Until Mrs. Hill spoke to him, of course. (But that's probably just because this is the first I've seen of the story, and I'd know who he was at this point in time if I'd read from the very beginning. )
I'll be honest - I didn't find this passage to be particularly depressing, but rather... warm. I felt a sadness towards Simon's state, but a warmth toward Thomas, Elizabeth, and Mrs. Hill's reactions to it.

I liked it.

[RJM Corbet]

This is good writing. I would lose the capitilization of King and Last War and reserve capitals for proper names only.

Also, this section:

He sank down in the chair closest to the fire, legs splayed out on the rug, and let his head fall back with a deep sigh. The weariness began to seep out of his body, slowly replaced by the warmth of the fire.

I think would be more effective if you rework it so the weariness gradually begins to seep INTO him, as it does when one is at last allowed to relax after a busy day?

Both are very small things though ...

[Kylara]

Reads well to me, with good rhythm, which is always important. But I'd either remove or change one of the "guns" as they are too close together to be unnoticed repetition and they jolt a little.
Maybe switch "and almost missed" to "almost missing" as it will bring more attention to the importance of the boy crying at the table, Thomas cares about Simon and is genuinely concerned for him (from what I read anyway, I may be wrong) rather than it seeming like he is eavesdropping on a private moment.
Also change the word "glow" to something less comforting, if the fire is harsh you don't want it glowing, a word that brings warmth; try "glare" or something similar so that the harshness isn't such a surprise. Other than that, and a couple of sentences that could be tightened, I think it is great, just the sort of style that is quietly tired and depressing, slowing you down before the end of the chapter; which is probably what you want if the next dives into a roaring party, you'll get the extra contrast.

[Bowler1]

When I first finished the section I thought this guy has not given me a large enough section to comment on, but it's almost 800 words long. So I'd just read this right through and was engaged, so good stuff from me anyway. I'd echo Scotts comments on sentance structure, in that some held me up a little and flow is upset sometimes. That said, your voice comes through well in your writing, so, if it's working do you need to fix anything!

Keep on writing please.

[Hex]

I liked it a lot.

I wondered at Thomas, who was trying so hard to be proper in your earlier extract (that was him, wasn't it?), letting himself yawn so widely in front of Elizabeth -- I wondered if he'd have tried to stifle it in her presence.

For me, the writing flowed nicely. It worked well in my head and sounded good when I read it aloud. There were a couple of tiny exceptions:

Thomas eased the front door of the Gates house shut behind him, stifling a yawn. He rubbed at his arms, trying to retain what little heat he had left.

I didn't like the similar sentence structures with the -ing words. It jangled a bit in my head and I'd have prefered --

"Thomas eased the front door of the Gates house shut behind him and stifled a yawn..."

(I know it changes the meaning a little, losing the implication that he did both things at once, but I'd do it anyway).

"Charles had been right about the guns, they were in sad shape"

This felt to me like it could do with a longer pause than a comma after 'guns'.

I don't understand what Mrs Hill is telling Simon or what relationship it has to Simon's father's refusal to allow him to go up to the camp. It doesn't sound like she's cheering him up.

(and I very much liked the 'The red glow of the blaze...' sentence -- just to give you another point of view to contend with )

[Esfires]

Didn't really expect this to get a bump after the thread died, but thanks for the comments. It still seems like most people are taking from the scene exactly what I wanted them to, which is the most important part. The biggest flaws are occasional breaks in rhythm and sentence structure, all of which can be addressed on my final clean-up revision. Some your guys' comments are just a result of not knowing the characters or what's been going on, but that's expected.

I'm about a fifth to a quarter of the way through my revision of the work right now and it's been a little while since I put something up for a crit, so I might post something soon. I wanted to post some of the good action stuff, when the s**t hits the fan, but those sections were too long and wouldn't have given a good representation of the work if broken up. I'll try to find a short section to post soon, with maybe a bit of a synopsis for those who have been following the story.