(Yeah, I made a vast draft of this and decided it was time to brush up on the good 'ole writing skills. I hope you all like this :} ) Prologue I’ve never actually put thought into the whole “supernatural†debate; “are ghosts real? Do vampires exist? Are they still here? What about the Egyptians? They hold alot of secrets.†Well you know my answer to all these ongoing debates? It’s life. Either way, we gotta live with it. Which is right, isn’t it? Whether all this ghost stuff is real, or it isn’t, we all have to live through it no matter what. Except, of course, if you commit suicide. But that’s beside the point. *** Chapter 1 Travel, torture, and all-round school. I rolled down the window; today, the temperature was soaring in the sunny state of California. It was nearly 84oF, and the cool breeze rolling through the window of my mom’s truck was just right to stop me from either melting from lack of air, or freezing solid from too much of it rushing past me. I turned, looking at my mom and analysed her expression; her blue cobalt eyes were squinted into little slits as the sun blared through her window. Her curled auburn hair was tucked neatly behind her ears, despite the spiralling curls bouncing in every direction. Her lips, what there was of them – they are quite slim lips - were tightly pursed together and twisted into a small scrunch just left to where her mouth should be sitting, showing that she was thinking through something with great detail. “Wolfe...†She sighed, her gravelling voice showing the signs that she had been smoking since she was young. I’ve been begging her to stop lately; the risk of cancer is too high, and all the warnings are over the news and other resources. She wouldn’t listen; she’s too arrogant to take advice from me: the fifteen year-old girl without two brain cells to rub together, supposedly. I nodded, urging her to carry on what her eccentric mind was boggling over. By eccentric, I mean totally bonkers. Which she is, and is probably the reason I can be sensible at times; I have to restrain her from going through with her harebrained schemes. “Well,†a sigh rolled out, fogging an exasperated look over her pale, freckled face. “I was wondering, have you ever thought about taking relaxing pills?†What did I say? Yet another harebrained scheme has formed itself in her childlike mind like modelling dough. I sighed, shaking my head slightly with swift little movements. I knew why she was saying this, and that is the reason I was getting more irritated the further I thought into what she was saying. So, maybe I had a little bit of an anger issue; I just didn’t have any tolerance for people who weren’t being reasonable or being degrading towards me. Basically, that is teachers in general: always so pretentious and immodest. I looked up again, to see my mom looking right back at me; we were parked in the drive of our small home now. I could see my reflection in her eyes; my short black hair was just dangling in little spikes above my eyes – just above, I may add – and just over the top of my ears. My black eyes were a total contrast to my mom’s; we were so alike at times, but when seen together, we were different. I had black, straight hair, and she had wavy auburn hair. She had shimmering blue eyes, and I had deep black eyes. “Well?†she asked, smiling and showing her white teeth. I gave a crooked smile, shrugging my shoulders – which, quite suddenly, felt a million times heavier. “I’m okay, mom.†I smiled reassuringly. I’d always been good at lying; I’d done it so many times that from time to time, I even convince myself that what I say is true. “School is going fine now anyway; all the kids in my class have stopped making a big deal over me being the new girl...†That was beyond the truth. So beyond, that it was like the whole situation I had formed there was like a reverie for me; I had just begun a new term at the local school here - due to my fighting, I was thrown out of my last one – and things are just... bad. Really, really bad. Girls really don’t know how to shut their mouths, and Boys... don’t even let me begin on how boys wind me up. First of all, it’s the name; it’s unusual, I know. And don’t think for one second I have been led to forget that fact. Well, this is the story I was given: My dad was from somewhere in the north of the Washington state, and he had supposedly come from a family that didn’t believe in the whole ‘sex before marriage’ thing that’s going on. He told my mom that he couldn’t stay with her; that his family would be angry and banish him from the home he lived in. He was a bit of a freak, my dad. My mom said that he was just as eccentric as her, maybe a bit more. But I have my theories about the man. I believe that he had lost it all those years ago, and it was contagious; my mom is slowly beginning to go nuts, too. My evidence is this: He only ever asked for one thing once I was born: for me to be called Wolfe. To be honest, if I was my mom in that position, I would say no to that stupid request. But no, mom decided that it would be in the right respect that he should have at least one decision that has something to do with me... which I think is unfair, for the plain fact that she has the good name – Maria, if you must know. Which I think is rather good, as it suits our surname of Vandetta quite nicely - and yet, here I am, the one that is destined to be different. How lovely. Maybe my name wasn’t the worst thing about me; my temper is alot worse. It’s nothing I’m willing to brag about, and for the majority of the time, I get quite embarrassed over it. Have you ever heard the saying, “the possibilities are endless� Well, that saying implies to me when someone makes me snap. It really, really isn’t nice. Another reason for my hatred of the new school I am in; the rumour. The rumour, just like any other rumour, is a very hurtful one. The rumour being, that my sexuality is lesbian. This obscure – and very idle – speculation reared its ugly head within the first week of me attending my new source of education. The reason for this tall tale? My hair is short and spiked at the ends, I am not girly, and I have not got a strict record that the girls call “acceptable†to ensure that I am straight. Acceptable, meaning that I have had a new boyfriend more frequently than a new pair of shoes – which is highly unlikely, as guys are so immature, and shoes are a lot more appealing. Perhaps the several reasons I have mentioned do not stand out as much as I assume they do; perhaps, it is just the stand-out reason, that I am the new girl. The novelty toy in the yard full of children; all of them being interested as to what will happen when certain buttons are pressed, and when something good and entertaining happens, they repeatedly push the same buttons. It’s all logical really. “You’ve gone quiet...†Maria stated, looking at me with curiosity, but masked it with that maternal look that signifies she has the slightest bit of worry seeping through her thoughts. At least she wasn’t edging on hysterical this time; but that’s another story. “What’s wrong?†“Nothing...†I reassured her calmly, my smile false, but still sent out the calming aura and did as it intended; to chill her out. I was so used to this; I’ve been through this scenario so many times before, with moving from school-to-school and denying problems often. Too bad my mom was too busy wrapped in her own little world – the kind which held pink bunnies and big cotton-candy clouds – to notice. But we all gotta pull through, right? ...Right. *** The probability of me getting to sleep that night was so unlikely; I think the French would class it as petite... In other words: very, very small. My mind was too busy running over what the next day was going to hold; it was going to be horrible, I know that much. I was wondering what was going to make it horrible, that kept my mind working. I was hoping it was going to be an easy day tomorrow, the type that I could get away with pushing my ear-phones in and falling asleep to my music in class. A ripe twenty minutes later, at 12:20 am to be exact, I eventually fell asleep. Thank goodness. Falling from my bed in a clumsy state, I managed to pull myself along the thick black carpet underneath my body and pull myself up using the small cabinet in the far corner of the room. I have always been slightly inept, so I was used to tumbling out of my rather high bed many times. The situation that had awoken me was nothing new. Glancing at the clock, I groaned. It was 6:30am, and I was due to wake in fifteen minutes. My school bus wasn’t something to rush for, but I don’t want a detention slip to be slammed on my desk tomorrow morning; it was Thursday today, and I have already been late twice this week, – they were not my fault, the bus just happened to be early the day I had gym first – So if I get one more, an automatic detention will be crushed down my throat for Friday. Said detention will be with Mr Barnbrough; he is the leader of my year. He is tall, stocky, and has a large bald head. He is probably the only teacher of whom I am afraid of to a certain extent – that meaning; I won’t swear or verbally abuse him. All the others are fine to shout at, I think. Throwing on my average black t-shirt and skinny jeans, I looked in the mirror and smiled. I then looked again, frowning; the girl that complimented my eyes when I looked at the reflective glass did not register to be me. My face was glistening from a thin line of sweat that formed on my forehead, deep bluish-black shadows suspended under my eyes, and my eyes seemed wider than usual. “What...the hell....†I mumbled in astonishment, letting my hands probe my own face as I watched to see if this stranger in the mirror did the same, and she did. I must have had a nightmare again, and had a restless night because of it. I always get nightmares, whether they are about clowns, or just about falling through the sky into darkness. They always seemed to frighten me, although I never seem to remember some of them straight away. I can guarantee that it suddenly comes back to me through the day, and most probably in the form of a flash-back or something like that. I glanced at the clock again, to check if I wasn’t hallucinating when I seen it was 6:30am. The small red numbers on the digital clock read that the time was 6:45am. Right on time. *** With my lunch stuffed away into my black messenger bag, and my bus pass slotted into my pocket – along with my cell phone, of course – I waved my mom a goodbye and exited my house. Today was another gloriously sunny day, meaning, most of the kids that participate in making my bus-ride hell will be walking today. Perhaps today wasn’t going to be so bad, after all. The bus stop was a mere 50 yards away when it came into view, and it appeared that my prediction was correct; no-one was there awaiting the bus’ arrival. I certainly wasn’t late; in fact, I was actually on time for once in my dreary life. My lips curled into a minor smile as the bus stop came closer, my ears totally oblivious to the roaring engine that was fast on my heels. I stopped, glanced behind me, and witnessed but a blur of yellow rush past and straight down the road ahead. Said yellow blur being my damn school bus. “You’re kidding.†I gasped, throwing my bag to the floor. “Why me? Why the hell would this only happen to me!?†I could feel my temper sizzling slightly, but I kept it cool. I guess I’ll just have to wait for the later bus. I thought, sighing and sitting on the curb at the roadside. ...If there is a later bus. Looking at my watch, I shook my head slightly; it was now 8:45am and I have been on this hot, sticky, foul bus for fifteen minutes now, and it has barely moved an inch or so. Traffic here is ridiculous, and when you add that onto a brainless, docile driver, it isn’t a very good mix. I glanced around, and noticed I was the only one on this godforsaken bus. All the battered green seats were empty, with the only things inhabiting them, being small residues of fluff that have fallen from the holes in the seating. “Hey...†I called to the front of the bus – which was only several rows away – from the edge of my seat. “Hey, how long are we gonna be?†The driver turned 180 degrees in his seat to look at me. His eyes were hidden by his sunglasses, but by the smile on his face I knew he was amused by this. “Well kid,†He started in his gruff voice. “It seems to me, that you’re gonna be stuck here for a while. The traffic be stretching all down main street, it is.†He let out a low throaty chuckle, and turned back to the road ahead. “This day couldn’t get any worse for me.†I groaned, throwing my arms onto the back of the seat infront of me, and resting my head on them. “I really, really wish I had a new life.†*** On arrival to the pits of hell, the time was exactly 8:59am. My just-on-time entrance was only achieved by me having to actually get out of the bus, and actually run to this damn school; All in favour of not getting on Mr Bald-noggin’s bad side, and to prevent myself from getting a detention. My first class, was undoubtedly my worst. I had gym first period, and to a certain extent, I wish I had stayed on that bus with the big sweaty driver just to miss this lesson. In all honesty, the lesson itself wasn’t that bad; the variety of activities in this lesson was minuscule: we, kicked a ball around, bounced a ball around, or hit a ball with a wooden stick. Calling these things ‘balls’ was probably a major understatement. These spherical weapons were...Well...weapons. Very painful, powerful weapons. In my case, Weapons of mass-destruction, said weapons being aimed mainly at my skull and ankles. Forget all your torture methods when I get sent into hell for my sins, just put me into a permanent gym-class with these exact girls, and it will be enough to send me mental. I stepped into the locker room, and instantly my eyes flickered over towards the corner. The corner was not just any corner, it was the corner. Not a corner, the corner. The rule of the corner is simple: If you are not blonde, pretty or a believer of the rumour – yes, the rumour about me – then you are not accepted to store your belongings, change into your gym kit, or converse with the inhabitants of the corner. The inhabitants of the corner are a selected few. Although the vast majority of my year participates in the rumour, and many of them feel true faith and belief with every word spoken of it, they still are prohibited from this sacred place. They are either not pretty enough, funny enough, or popular enough to be accepted by the few members. The whole ‘popularity’ dispute has morphed itself into a simple algebra code now: popularity = evil + blonde2. And what this formula implies is that you must be evil, and two times blonder than the average student, to be popular. But why? What is the big deal with popularity? You get invited to parties, get ‘hooked up’, get pregnant, get to the front of the lunch queue, and don’t even have to pay for the lunch you eat – if you eat any of it, that is – because your beefy jock boyfriend (Who is a weekly fashion, may I add) has stole it from one of the smaller, weaker kids. ...I believe I just realised why people are craving this type of stereotypical image and title. They get to keep the money they earn; they socialise, have a love-life, and have automatic intimidation planted upon their foreheads. I just really don’t understand how the hell people can automatically fall into that category. Back to the corner. The first girl I spotted – and unmistakably heard – was the ring leader of this little troop. Her shiny blonde hair was hanging at waist length, just above her unreasonably high shorts and caramelised-brown thighs. She was giggling in a high-pitched tone, which shuddered straight through me and directly into my bones. She was probably bragging about what she got up to at the weekend again, and who with. With one swift turn, she was looking at me with those malicious, blue eyes, as if she was staring deep into my most intricate thoughts. This was such an average display to endure, I was tempted to voice-over each word she was going to speak. “Well, look who decided to show.†She smiled, placing her hands on her extremely narrow hips. She continued to giggle slightly under her breath. That greeting was so cocky, so sarcastic... so Lauren Hardy. “Wolfie Vandredda.†She giggled again at her purpose mispronunciation of my name. “Good morning Lauren.†I answered coldly, glaring at the girl stood before me. She glared back, in an attempt to stare me down, but failed miserably. She turned in her plimsoll-lined heel and advanced towards her locker in the corner with some irritation present in her body language, mostly evident by her clenched fists and tightly clenched jaw. The other girls stood in the surrounding lockers to Lauren's were just staring in awe at the sudden rage of frustration that had taken over their little commander, and could do nothing but stand there, frozen in the motion of what they were doing to witness – and possibly work out as to what caused – this miniature fit of rage that had engulfed her. I’m assuming it was just my blank, and rather tired, expression masked over my face that bared no reaction as to what she was saying or taunting at me. I would have smirked in amusement at this if it wasn’t for my blank expression that fuelled this situation. After a few minutes of watching the blonde slam about the corner, and her mindless blonde clones follow after her like servants, I took my usual position at the opposite end of the locker room beside a friendly girl named Nicola. Once dressed, both I and the friendly girl began to chat about the events that occurred several minutes ago. “What was Lauren kicking off about?†Nicola asked, taking a puff of her blue inhaler as we entered the cold sports hall. Her greasy black hair was tied back in a pony-tail, and her rimless glasses had slid down her nose completely once we were abruptly moved out of the way by Lauren and her crew. “She seemed pretty upset to me...†She whispered in her weedy voice as she peeked over her glasses to look at the spiteful blonde again. “I think it’s because I wasn’t giving her a reaction...†I muttered back, glaring at the girl in question with a heap full of hate. “I suppose she projected the reaction she expected me to give out.†With a shrug of my shoulders, I sat on the low wooden bench and waited for our teacher to make her usual entrance; boisterous, rude, and grumpy. As predicted, Coach Hazel made her way into the hall with an abrupt spring in her step. Her curled black hair was tied back into a bun, and hidden by the red NYC cap she wore on her head. With her sharp, narrowed eyes she scanned our small class of ten, which initially told me that she was tallying up the possibility of getting an ounce of work out of us. The possibility must have seemed high in her mind, as she made her decision with a blunt nod and click of her fingers. “Today, class, we shall be having a game of soccer.†She announced in her low-octave voice. “In that game of soccer I want to witness you all push your bodies to their limit, and by saying that I mean I want to see some actual sweat dripping from your little teenage faces, and across the damn floorboards you are trampling over. Do I make myself clear?†Ah, Coach Hazel. How I have always wondered why on earth you have not been thrown out of here, and into the pits of the armed forces. She had always had a way with words, and those words she spoke to us were always moving. Literally, they were moving; she had a slight problem with excess saliva forming in her mouth, which initially made her spit whenever she was giving one of her emotional speeches. This little problem of hers made it difficult to stop yourself from edging back from her, no matter how bad it made you feel. Our class nodded, and we got divided into two separate teams of five girls. The first team consisted of the five girls I do not know in our class. One was extremely tall, two were extremely small, and two were in the middle. One of them – the tall one – was from Laurens clan, and glared at me at random intervals. My team on the other hand, was totally different; we had Lauren Hardy as team captain, Sabrina Evans and Stephanie Yarmfield – two of her close clones – as her defenders, Nicola (my friend from the locker room) joining her in midfield, and me. “Okay. I’m gonna have My Sab and Steph in defence,†Lauren explained when our teams were first arranged. “You two can sort out who goes in goal and stuff. Uh... You. With the greasy hair...†– she clicked her fingers towards Nicola – “You go in midfield with me, okay? Okay.†Then it came my turn. This was her perfect opportunity to get me back for what I ‘made’ her do in the locker room. This was another moment where her words were so predictable, I could have written it down on paper before she had spoken them. “Here we go...†I muttered, looking at Nicola with a patronising smile. “Okay, um, Wolfe, that leaves you to be ****- oops! I mean, strike-er. Good luck with that.†She giggled, along with her little lap-dogs, before running to her position in the badly marked-out hall. “You’re so damn funny, Lauren. You really are.†I muttered, walking to the far right of the crappy wanna-be soccer pitch. This match was going to be painful, I just knew it. And I was right; it was painful. Every time Lauren went to ‘pass the ball’ to me, it ended up flying towards my head at full speed and colliding with my face. The other girls, of course, found this full situation side-splittingly hilarious. Clearly, I didn’t; it hurt a lot and my face had a heart-beat by the end of the 45 minute soccer match. On the bright side, I scored all the goals that helped us win, and Coach Hazel is toying with the idea of placing me on the girls 14+ soccer team. My transition between gym kit and clothes was fluent, which gave me enough time to go to the medical room for some ice and a drink of water to help my jaw deflate back to its original size, before skipping off to French class. French, as per usual, was boring. It was so unbelievably boring, that it is not worth my damn time to explain how boring it was. It is one of the most dreadful lessons I must endure, with the highlight of the lesson being some dorky kid sat in the front row of the class near Madame Melanie choking on their milkshake whilst laughing so hard at his fellow dorks getting a question incorrect. Yeah, French is that bad. But, I would rather have this lesson than gym any day of the week. Once our fifteen minute break between period two and period three settled itself into my agenda, I met up with Nicola outside of the maths building just west of the main school building. She had her usual pink and black fleece and jogging bottoms on, along with a blindingly bright pair of white trainers. I think the manufacturer was Adidas, but I don’t really care for those sport makes; I’m more of a look-nice-and-buy-it type of girl. “Is your Jaw okay?†She asked the moment she seen me with the cold, soggy gel-pack held to my cheek. I smirked and blushed slightly, knowing that she probably wanted to burst into hysterics. “G-getting better.†I managed to splutter as I took the gel-like substance cocooned in a plastic sandwich bag away from my left cheek. “Damn, it’s swelled lots...†Nicola muttered, leaning closer for a better look at my bulbous cheek and jaw. “What Lauren did was uncalled for. You don’t deserve a soccer ball in your mouth just because of your sexuality.†I let out a large sigh and shook my head – which actually did feel heavier – from side-to-side. “You believe the rumour too?†I asked in a slurred tone. She looked down at me with her big brown eyes through her glasses. “Well, Wolfe, you do scream verbal abuse at anyone who believes it. It’s as if you have something to hide or something like that...†She explained, letting her hands make swirling patterns in the air as she gave her explanation. I just nodded my way through it and conjured up an interested expression on my face to keep Nicola talking long enough for me to think about more interesting things other than my rowdy behaviour. “And those names you called Lauren! I laughed so much when I seen her start crying. You were absolutely comical.†This was the moment I tuned back into the conversation at hand, as I couldn’t remember calling Lauren any names at all. “I called Lauren names?†I asked, my eyes narrowing slightly as I attempted to redeem this memory from my memory banks. “I can’t remember that bit...†“You can’t? It was just after you gained back your spatial awareness from the ball hitting your head for the fifth time in a row. I didn’t know you had such a colourful vocabulary.†“I swear upon my own mother’s life I cannot remember this happening. Are you sure it wasn’t just a dream?†I asked, cocking my head to the side with a slight smile. “I’m sure I seen – and heard – you scream those hurtful names at her...†Nicola mumbled, her voice slightly muted by the school bell. “Well, we’ll have to work this out later, won’t we? The bell has gone and I have geography now.†I smiled the best I could without causing too much pain. “I’ll meet you in the same place as lunch starts?†“I’m doing hockey at dinner with Coach Hazel and the other girls. Maybe you could come along?†She asked with a smile. Oh lord. Does this girl know me at all? I hate every aspect of sports, and fail to see the reason why people would actually spend their free time participating in them. You only either hurt others, or get hurt yourself. Although hurting others I don’t mind, as Lauren Hardy is on the girl’s hockey team, but getting hurt is one of my downfalls; I seem to be prone to injuries. “No thanks. I think I’ll pass on that one.†I laughed slightly, as I began to walk towards the main building. “Suit yourself then.†Nicola rolled her eyes, with a smile evident in her tone. “I’ll see you tomorrow then.†“Yeah.†I called back. “See you tomorrow, I guess.†Within half an hour of Mr Cainbrough’s droning about how our economy and lifestyles were wrong, I had resorted to placing my earphones into my ears and playing my heavy music over his old voice. From my few weeks of staying at Stanton High, I have learned that he is the type of teacher that uses his students as people to complain to. I dread to think of how popular he must be with the other teachers in this place. I began to doodle across my notes page; music had always brought out my creative side. I started off with a human eye, and slowly built a face around it. When half the face was scrawled across the A5 piece of paper, I stopped and looked up. The image to greet my eyes was not that of a nice one. Mr Cainbrough was staring at me with his big wrinkled eyes, with his eyebrows furrowed slightly. Other people in the class were giggling to themselves and pointing towards the doorway. I turned, blinked, let the sighaw before me sink in, and placed my head upon the table. I took hold of the wires trailing from my ears and pulled them sharply downwards to remove the small earphones that inhabited them. “Wolfe?†That familiar rough voice called. “Wolfe, you get out of this classroom now young lady.†I looked up and straight into the eyes of my mother, who had now made a bee-line from the door and towards my desk. I immediately stood up in shock and embarrassment, my eyes slightly conical. “Why are you in my geography class!?†I demanded, glaring straight into her sapphire eyes. “Wolfe Maria Vandetta! How dare you hold that tone in your voice?†She snapped back at me. I could feel my cheeks blushing by now, forcing me to make some uncomfortable adjustments to my stance. “Get out of this classroom now!†I sighed, and took my bag before any more trouble could be provoked by me, or Maria, and left.
Nice, this looks pretty well thought out. One little suggestion, though, I'm kinda' having trouble reading it. Do you think you could maybe hit enter after every paragraph? Because, though it looks like you did, I still see some spots where it could be helpful in helping others read it more clearly. Just a suggestion, but it's an overall good story. I give it four-point-five stars. **** and half a star to finish.
Who are you, and how come you write so well and I didn't notice? I think this is really good, and above average from things posted here. One thing I'll say is that I've seen a bit of this premise a lot in...almost every vampire/werewolf/angel , loves human (most of the time dark & dependant) Ect. I'm not saying your story goes there, but it's certainly something to watch out for. There are some parts that seem way cliche...(normal hair v.s. Blond, the fact that the protagonist is averagely pretty, and yet doesn't manage to attain a normal school life) Overall...I enjoyed reading this, and it seems interesting enough. Star rating? well...3.5 out of 5.0 stars....okay 4.0 for the popularity ecuation...that was very win.
While I would normally begin with praise of how well the story has been written, I must instead move on to the errors made. The paragraphs are oddly made, and it is confusing to try and read this story, as I have several times accidentally skipped lines and had to go back and re-read it so I don't get confused. This certain subject has been used many times before, as have many other subjects, and thus, the way you have described it seems repetitive and unpleasant to read, since it seems as if the reader has a general idea of what to expect. I'm not saying it's a bad subject of literature to use, I'm just saying you should try and change it up a bit so your readers don't become quickly bored and stop reading. I noted several spots where I wonder if the dialog is meant to be that way, or if you forgot to add words. For example: "I laughed so much when I seen her start crying", I'm wondering if it was meant to be written in such a way as to imply modern day speech, or if you missed a word or two. Because if you missed a word, you might want to put in "Had" after "I", or even change "I" to "I'd". Overall, though, I did thoroughly enjoy reading this, and though I wish I could give it a five, I must rate as my criticism allows and give this a 3. Sorry.
Thankyou very much for your critique. It's all being taken onboard and I totally appreciate it. I'm going to post more momentarily, and it will be slightly smaller compared to the opening chapter :3 Haha, yeah I don't really like the whole cliche thing, but, I didn't actually intend for Wolfe to look pretty at all. hmm. I suppose that's either a positive or a negetive I must look out for in further writing. I had a vast amount of pleasure in writing about popularity. I'm glad you enjoyed it [: x Okay, on the paragraphs.. I'm unsure as to what you mean by that, but I will check back through and try to relate to the point you have made here. Thankyou for pointing it out x As for the grammar mistake(s), they were for the talk of an average teen. I wouldn't expect any of the characters involved in this, or the next chapter to have proper speech and word pronunciations. Thanks for reading, glad you enjoyed it! [: ...ok. o_O
Not bad. The beginning felt a little bit shaky and there are more than a few times when you've used a word incorrectly or lapsed in grammar but this is overall well structured and executed. The first person perspective is used pretty well and there aren't many, if any, errors in continuity. Remember to start new paragraphs when speakers change and to separate the paragraphs so they don't blend together. You also would do well to study your writing topic; I'm not saying you did not here or have to for that matter but that's a good thing to keep in mind especially if you are writing about a foreign country or a very specific topic. I don't really have anything else in the ways of advice for you since you seem to be doing well enough on your own and wouldn't necessarily benefit from anything more than a brief analysis and opinion.
