This is an incomplete short story written by a Shortfolio reader. It's under 500 words and they would really like feedback and suggestions of where to take it next:
It's a somber Monday. It is not the same "I don’t want to be here" Monday; a different Monday; one Monday that no student in any level ever wants to endure. Even as I pull into the school's entrance, it’s different. Sure, I'm going to school. Sure, I'm driving the same old crappy hand-me-down jalopy to school. I’m going to sit down at the breakfast table with my friends before the first bell rings. I'm even going to the same classes.
No..
Not the same classes. The classes would never be the same from now on.
I try not to think about it. The images. The sounds. The memories.
Sitting down at the breakfast table, my friends' faces mirror mine. None of us said anything. Silence covers the cafeteria, although two-hundred or more students occupy it. It is filled with silence, but I could tell; there was pain. People urge to yell with pain.
I know I do.
My friends and I sit there at our table, some of us with our heads down, others looking at each other, comforting each other, only using our eyes. Each of us keep saying to the other, "It’s going to be okay."
The bell rings. Class is about to start.
My first period English teacher tries to read us Mark Twain, but breaks down in the middle of A Dog's Tale. No one says anything, we all feel the same way. I look around the room and a pain hits me as my eyes reach Dave‘s desk
What used to be Dave's desk.
The girl behind me, Alyssa, touches my shoulder, trying to comfort me. Reaching back, her hand is wet. She'd been crying. She knows how close Dave and I were. She was close to him as well. We were all close. We were the Terrible Trio. We hold hands for the rest of the class, speechless, looking at the desk, silently comforting each other. He died doing what he did best. He died being a friend.
As the day goes on, the silence dims more and more. In between each class, the atmosphere became less dark and morbid, and turned more into a peaceful memorial. Less sniffing and crying, to more hugging and laughing, thinking of good memories of those lost.
None of us, however, could hide the fact that twelve of us would never be returning.
It's a somber Monday. It is not the same "I don’t want to be here" Monday; a different Monday; one Monday that no student in any level ever wants to endure. Even as I pull into the school's entrance, it’s different. Sure, I'm going to school. Sure, I'm driving the same old crappy hand-me-down jalopy to school. I’m going to sit down at the breakfast table with my friends before the first bell rings. I'm even going to the same classes.
No..
Not the same classes. The classes would never be the same from now on.
I try not to think about it. The images. The sounds. The memories.
Sitting down at the breakfast table, my friends' faces mirror mine. None of us said anything. Silence covers the cafeteria, although two-hundred or more students occupy it. It is filled with silence, but I could tell; there was pain. People urge to yell with pain.
I know I do.
My friends and I sit there at our table, some of us with our heads down, others looking at each other, comforting each other, only using our eyes. Each of us keep saying to the other, "It’s going to be okay."
The bell rings. Class is about to start.
My first period English teacher tries to read us Mark Twain, but breaks down in the middle of A Dog's Tale. No one says anything, we all feel the same way. I look around the room and a pain hits me as my eyes reach Dave‘s desk
What used to be Dave's desk.
The girl behind me, Alyssa, touches my shoulder, trying to comfort me. Reaching back, her hand is wet. She'd been crying. She knows how close Dave and I were. She was close to him as well. We were all close. We were the Terrible Trio. We hold hands for the rest of the class, speechless, looking at the desk, silently comforting each other. He died doing what he did best. He died being a friend.
As the day goes on, the silence dims more and more. In between each class, the atmosphere became less dark and morbid, and turned more into a peaceful memorial. Less sniffing and crying, to more hugging and laughing, thinking of good memories of those lost.
None of us, however, could hide the fact that twelve of us would never be returning.
...
By Chase Mooneyham
2 comments:
I like this. It has gravity. There are nice details too like the teacher breaking down in the middle of Mark Twain. This gives it a sense of authenticity. I'm also intrigued to find out the dead student’s story and the sudden revelation at the end of this segment that Dave is one of twelve who have died.
I think one thing to bear in mind is that this is a naturally shocking subject matter, so use of one-line paragraphs to emphasise is probably not necessary and makes us much more aware of how important the author thinks this or that statement is. In my opinion, your words do that job well so there’s no need.
My suggestion would be that you kept the story centred around that one Monday and did not stray. Fill out the transition from tears to ‘peaceful memorial’ and keep the back story of Dave’s tragic end concise but compelling.
Hope this helps!
Be careful not to give away too much too soon here. Take more time on the details of that Monday, more time building up to what happened. I would incorporate memories of before, but naturally, so you don't leave the Monday morning.
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