Twelve Black and White Photographs.
Chapter I
Life is so boring. Sometimes, I just wish I wasn’t alive. I only get this feeling when I really want something, and I’m not getting it. Right now, I feel that way. I know that sounds hopeless, but I never get anything at all. I am Katarina and I am sixteen years old. I’m in grade 11. I have a very far out dream, which is to travel all around the world; over and over again. I love exotic places, but I’ve never been anywhere out of my small (and very boring) hometown, Florida. No, I don’t live in the hot, sunny Florida. I live in Florida, Missouri. What’s odd about this place that you’ve probably never heard about in your entire life? Only ten people live here. Yeah, I know. Now you get it. I get very bored in this little town, because there is no school and no jobs, because there isn’t enough money. We somehow, though earn just enough money to stay alive. It’s a pretty cheap town, although Mark Twain (the author) was born here. At least one small town person became famous. I live with my mother- my dad died when I was six from a fire in our house. My mother and I escaped. I don’t remember him, although I wish I did. We don’t even have photographs of him. My mom doesn’t have a job, and no money, either. She can’t save any money, although whenever she saves any, it’s usually spent within twenty four hours flat. I don’t think she really cares about me. My dad was usually the one who cared before he died, but now he’s gone, and I can’t do anything about it.
You would think she would forget this usually boring day, like every other plain year, but this year, I wake up to the familiar tiny stone hut, lying on my pile of hay on top of the concrete floor, and my mother is standing over me with a small engraved wooden box in her hands. She greets me happy birthday, and hands me the box. I hold it in my hands. I never get any presents. Never.
“It was your grandmother’s,” she whispered, “She would have wanted you to have it,”
“Thanks,” I muttered, wondering what was in this box.
My hands found the lid, and pried it open. What was inside was beautiful. A necklace with a carved bamboo cross lay there, just waiting for me to put it on. My fingers had the urge to pick it up, and they slowly moved towards the open lid. I carefully picked it up, and slowly slid it around my neck. As it was on my neck, I felt beautiful. That was a feeling I’d never had before. I saw my mother had a small smile on her face. Maybe she did care about me. I graciously thanked my mother, and bounded towards the door. As I opened it, it creaked like there was no tomorrow, slammed shut. I walked and walked for forty five minutes, and ended up at my favourite tree- a giant apple tree with tons of draping branches. It was so beautiful. You could climb under the branches, and sit against the stump, and you would be in a little exotic looking room made up of branch walls. I did exactly that, and lay down on the grass. I took off the necklace, and took a good look at it, smiling. It seemed to be hollow. But, it was made of bamboo, so that made sense. But, what didn’t make sense was that there was a little crack upon the middle of the cross, going around. I pried at it, and the two halves pulled apart. A tiny slip of yellowed paper slipped out. I read it over and over again, but the words stayed the same. In a scrawl, they read:
‘You have found the treasure of me, my story, and my life lies in this cross. Just wait and see. As you read, this necklace is thinking. If it shall give you a tour while you’re blinking. Throw away this note, and then you’ll see that not everything is just what it seems.’
So, I threw away the note, and the wind blew it far. What next? I couldn’t remember. Maybe this was a joke from my mother. Suddenly, a large gust of wind sent dust flying everywhere, and a blinked the dirt out of my eyes. While I was blinking, I saw black and white pictures. The first was of a beautiful girl, about fifteen years old dressed in rags. She was living in a small hut, and washing the floors with a brush and a big bucket of soapy water. She was dirty, and she didn’t look like she had much hope. The next was of the girl again; in the hut, where she was before, but the bucket of water she was using to wash the floor was on its side, and water was everywhere. She looked exasperated, and her hands were on her head. The next showed a strict looking woman (possibly her mother?) belting her as hard as she could on both palms with an angry look on her face. The girl’s face held a grimace, but she did not cry. The fourth picture showed the girl, sitting under an apple tree that looked very similar (no, identical, just smaller) to mine, and looking at a picture of a middle aged man with laugh lines. It was labelled ‘Father. 1784-1819.’ it was very sad to see. This girl’s father had only lived until thirty four. But, as I real
got cut off. just a main idea.
Alright, I’m not entirely sure what to think of this. Granted, you’ve got a better story pretense than 90% of the others who ask people to read their story, but that’s not saying much. The good news is that you’ve got grammar (as long as you don’t overuse parentheses, this being an example of a good use), but you really need to work on some things, such as character and plot; you know, most of the things that a story needs.
Your character hates her life because its boring? That’s boring. If a character’s only real drive to do anything is because they have nothing better to do, then they’re technically no better than someone sitting down writing an event-less tale. Also, what’s wrong with her body? Her hands have "urges", and her eyelids seem to be controlled by the weather. Also, despite never getting presents, like ever, her super-special necklace seems to last all of 10 seconds. Oh, wait, I mean a 45 minute-walk, which, according to the geography of Flordia, Missouri, would lead her right through a lake, to an apple tree which apparently resembles a willow. Oh, also, nobody has a name. Did they forget them, or lose them in the fire?
Also, what time period does your story take place in? Before Mark Twain’s time, during, or after? Your time periods are all out of wack, especially seeing as that little reference almost seems like its trying to set up a plot point. If she did live around when Mark Twain was born, then, according to the timeline, she would still have six years until he was born, making that single reference impossible. I may be spending too much time on this, but this is all built to make another point; even back then, people didn’t live in stone huts.
I’m not sure where you’re going next with this whole plot, but I don’t really care. If you were going to do something with the characters’ desires to travel the world, then why put in the father references? Even if she does somehow get magically sent away on some whirlwind-world-travel adventure, at this point, I would be happier if Nameless Jenny just stayed in her town, rotting away in lonely desolation, with her mother who no longer cares about her.
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