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Allison

Allison Short Story Tomana ZoTomana

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#1 Offline Zox

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Posted Dec 04 2012 - 02:48 PM

[font="'times new roman', times, serif;"]Allison[/font]

 

     [font="'times new roman', times, serif;"]It is the morning that is most special to me. Not that I am a morning person - oh no. I am up at odd hours and dread the ringing clock that calls me to wake up and face the sun that burns my eyes and warms my skin beyond what I would prefer. No, I am not a morning person, but the morning (once my eyes no longer are hurting) is the most special time of day for me. It is pure, new, without the struggles of the coming day.[/font]

     [font="'times new roman', times, serif;"]She made the morning special, mainly because she wasn’t part of my morning. She was the signal that the time has come to put the (eye burning) peace of the sunrise aside and begin the long fight toward the death of nightfall. The morning makes the fight all the more important, all the more desperate, for if I must leave the peace of the innocent sunrise behind I must make sure I can see it again. I had to make sure that she can see it again.[/font]

     [font="'times new roman', times, serif;"]Where did it all begin? The afternoon of my life? It all began with her, the day she walked into the band hall, and I knew that I had to step out of the morning to hold hands with the night. Literally all eyes were on her, Mr. Hryorchuk was introducing her to us after all, but not all eyes were on her face, which was turned down to stare into the air near the ground. No. The eyes that could see were on the long, virgin white bandage that wrapped neatly around the forearm clamped tightly against her side. Few noticed the French Horn that dangled in her left hand. The French Horns noticed, and as their section leader I rejoiced that we now had a third member, but even my eyes were drawn immediately to the three, even, broad, bright red lines that stained the inside of the bandage, revealed only briefly when Mr. Hryorchuk slapped her back as he asked the band to welcome her to the class.[/font]

     [font="'times new roman', times, serif;"]I don’t even remember what went through my head while the band murmured a half-hearted welcome to this stranger named Allison who quickly, efficiently, and quietly took her place as my third-chair. We played our songs, Allison catching on quickly and the bell coming (too soon, looking back) to snap the tension of a classroom into the freedom of lunch.[/font]

     [font="'times new roman', times, serif;"]“French Horns always eat together,” my second chair, Gabie, beamed at our newbie. Gabie was the embodiment of morning to me. When I was to leave, she would step up more than I ever would have hoped when it came to being a leader in the band. Allison gave the smallest of smiles, and followed us as quietly as a predator moving through the night.[/font]

     [font="'times new roman', times, serif;"]The moment I knew would come as soon as I saw the lines – the moment I had hoped there would be sense enough, decency enough, to avoid – came. A boy, a trumpet (wouldn’t you know it?), whose name isn’t worth mentioning brushed past us three with a single word.[/font]

     [font="'times new roman', times, serif;"]“Cutter.”[/font]

 

     [font="'times new roman', times, serif;"]I could have punched the runt. Arrogant sophomore, he had no clue what kind of whirlwind he might have gotten if she hadn’t spoken first.[/font]

     [font="'times new roman', times, serif;"]“If you really think so, maybe you should let me demonstrate.”[/font]

 

     [font="'times new roman', times, serif;"]For the first words any of us had heard from her, these were not the ones that could have left the best first impression. The fact that they had come out in a low hiss with a long smile most of us had only seen in the movies did not help.[/font]

     [font="'times new roman', times, serif;"]The trumpet blanched and moved off, and we French Horns made our way (silently now) to the lunch room to take our place with the saxophones. As soon as we sat down with food, we broke the awkward silence to talk shop. How long had she played? What chair was she at her last school? Did she play anything else? Where was she from? Scores last year at Solo & Ensemble? All the gossip usual to band geeks. She even smiled at the end, until one of the saxes, one of my classmates, leapt onto the elephant we were so contentedly walking around.[/font]

     [font="'times new roman', times, serif;"]“What happened?” He asked, pointing at her arm, unconsciously relaxed on the table such that the lines, somewhat more ragged now than they had been. Allison immediately snapped her arm back to her chest, wincing. Her eyes went to the apple in her hand and she smoothly, almost mechanically answered, “Nothing a knife couldn’t cure.”[/font]

     [font="'times new roman', times, serif;"]My mind wanted a coin to flip. Fifty-fifty shot at whether she was ashamed or not. I honestly couldn’t tell at that point that the only shame she had was what was having to be “cured” and not how the “cure” was obtained.[/font]

     [font="'times new roman', times, serif;"]In any case, her words had the effect of silencing the table as she took one last bite at the apple in her hand and rose to leave. Gabie, my little morning child, sprang to assist and guide her around the school. I had a few words with the saxes, hoping to give Allison a chance before she exiled herself.[/font]

     [font="'times new roman', times, serif;"]I didn’t see Allison at all until school rang out for the day, out in the parking lot beneath that merciless sun. Her bandage had been changed, it was pure white now as she slipped on a jacket against the chill wind. I was making my way to my car and offered a ride.[/font]

     [font="'times new roman', times, serif;"]The ride to her family’s apartment was silent, for the most part. There was a mild discussion about fingerings between MLK Street and Anderson Street, but it wasn’t until we arrived that she said anything real.[/font]

     [font="'times new roman', times, serif;"]I wished her a good day, and a hope that she wouldn’t have to seek a cure tonight. I received back more than I had bargained for. She went slack, hunched over in my passenger seat, and began to speak. She asked me to imagine having to be the 11th grader who was in her third high school, knowing that your step-father’s inability to work would send you to another at the end of the year. She asked me to imagine waking each morning to a kitchen of beers and cold pizza a week old, to come home to a silent mother cleaning up the night in preparation for the evening. She asked me to imagine sleeping to dream the dreams of memories best forgotten, that you wished were forgotten, only to wake to find the memories of creeping hands and heavy breath resurfacing with renewed intensity from a childhood marked by nothing else. She asked me to think of only being able to say you truly owned one thing, and could only control one thing in your life.[/font]

     [font="'times new roman', times, serif;"]And so she left, and when I got home I sat in my car and stared into the distance, imagining. I never could think clearly, and now the tears that my control disallowed to be free clouded my mind like mocking voices to condemn me. How dare I wish what I wished her?[/font]

     [font="'times new roman', times, serif;"]And so I was handicapped all afternoon, until the sunset came: orange in the sky but red upon my arm. The night passed in clarity and confusion, in desperation and prayer. Silence and speech between age and youth.[/font]

     [font="'times new roman', times, serif;"]The morning is special to me. It brings a time to think with the previous day gone, dead. It brings a time to see forward on the day with nothing yet written on the slate. So I, with a virgin white bandage on my arm marred by a jagged line of red, bowed to my mother and left to school with a mind on the day ahead, catching Allison only just before she entered the junior wing.[/font]

     [font="'times new roman', times, serif;"]I touched her shoulder, my own bandage hidden by my jacket, and smiled before heading to my own classes. Band was fourth period. There would be time to speak, time to imagine, with morning now over. The new girl was known already among all the students I knew. On every tongue, for what seemed would be ages but was truly only a small while, was the bandage, fresh with the red life of its wearer. I could only speak of her being a French Horn. I never could speak well; translate my hesitant thoughts with my stupid mouth. Band came and went, lunch arrived and passed. Allison, she confessed too late, knew of the words spoken and held her head high during the next week. Then her name slipped out of the common gossip. She was a fixture of the school now, the girl who was proud until she spoke, quickly looking to the floor to keep the anger or sorrow from being read in her eyes.[/font]

     [font="'times new roman', times, serif;"]Though she wore her bandage openly, defiantly to those who could not know, my own bandage was never seen by any other than myself and my parents, nor did I need it ever again. I could now imagine, and because I could imagine my days became the fight to regain the morning, the special time when I did not have to imagine.[/font]

     [font="'times new roman', times, serif;"]I still gave Allison rides home, and eventually she gave me more to imagine, not knowing why she did. I didn’t know why she did, but I imagined, and I dreamed until I woke up in the morning where the sun could burn from my eyes the images of my imagining. Soon I began picking her up from school, and I no longer had to imagine some things, and my mornings ended too soon as she slowly transformed herself from night to day. Limps smoothed out on the short walk to my car, stray hairs combed into place before my car door was opened, wrinkled sleeves ironed away by unerring hands to cover the perpetual red lines. Ever polite, ever proud, ever effacing herself behind the mask of Allison, who had no bags beneath her eyes or purpled marks at the base of her throat. And so from the first step of hers towards me in the time before the afternoon I imagined and thought my clumsy thoughts.[/font]

     [font="'times new roman', times, serif;"]My father is a doctor in our city, and he leads the EMS, and I told him about the things I imagined and thought when the morning was over. He was silent as he departed my room that night so long ago when the sunset was twice red, and every day told me, “Just wait a little while more.” And so I waited a little while more, until the day Allison did not come out to my car, the day I did not touch her shoulder and did not eat with her at lunch. Not until the end of the day did I see her walk proudly into the school with her silent mother to get the work she had missed.[/font]

     [font="'times new roman', times, serif;"]It was several weeks before she would give me another thing to imagine, speaking strictly of band and choir and music theory during lunch and while riding home. Winter break was to come soon, and before school let out our band always held chair competitions so that those eager for it could be leaders. Allison was gunning for my chair, obviously, but I was not worried about that. Two weeks before school let out, I offered her the guest room at our house, offered the pure, soft mornings where no imagining had to take place. She declined, and again walked home from school.[/font]

     [font="'times new roman', times, serif;"]I saw her rarely during the break, dressed still in our school uniform, now with an ever present jacket to cover her arms I never again saw bare, whether her sleeves were long or short. On New Year’s Eve I heard a call go out over the EMS channel for an ambulance at Allison’s address. That night my father informed me an arrest had been made, and took me to give a deposition to the police at the hospital, standing at the foot of the wide bed where Allison lay like a broken bird, her mother gently sobbing into her hands. It made the headlines, but the inky lines did not contain what I had been told to imagine, to dream, to wonder, and to fight through until morning came.[/font]

     [font="'times new roman', times, serif;"]I have not seen Allison since, and I do not know where she is. There was no news, only rumors when she and her mother just left in the night. For ages her name was again on the tongues of the school, but eventually her story became a fixture of the school. The girl who came and went and left nothing behind: nothing but a note in locker 574 by the band hall telling Gabie goodbye and a stained, white bandage wrapped around a small, dull knife in locker 567 that I have kept ever since.[/font]


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#2 Offline Kragghle

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Posted Dec 07 2012 - 05:06 PM

:kaukau: [color=#0000ff;]Just so everyone knows, Zo'Tomana and I have had a discussion about this before he published the story.  It's interesting to see that you took some of my suggestions near the beginning.  I hated being picky early on but I'm glad they they do help start off the flow.  Of course, flow from then on isn't so important in longer short stories such as these and you just focus on writing and getting the story in.[/color]

 

[color=#0000ff;]In some ways, this was an abstract read for me.  Perhaps you explained it in there somewhere, but it was surreal when he stated talking about imagination and when he cut his arm in response, although never really showed her.  It's not something I understand, but you do what some authors don't do enough and just sip over explanations of the character's actions and let the reader figure that much out for themselves using their - to use a choice word - imaginations.  So it requires some work on my part, which reminds me of some of the more satisfying reads I've ever encountered.  That's not to compare this to Fahrenheit 451, one of my favorite books, but I think Ray Bradburry would be proud.[/color]

 

[color=#0000ff;]There was a point where I looked at all the paragraphs and noticed that only four started with quotation marks.  That's really different from my style, as I tend to have a lot of dialogue, but it's good to see that you're secure with your style, which is reminiscent of a person recounting a story in a blog entry.  Not so much repeating in in real life, but this reflects some of my longer blog entries about life that I didn't expect nor intend people to comment on.  Naturally, these wouldn't have too many exact details, only those of emotional significance that would stick with a person.  You manage to do this.[/color]

 

[color=#0000ff;]This was one of those reads where my mind wandered just a little bit during the mass of paragraphs.  I do that a bit with my own writing, too, and the details begin to get jumbled up after a while.  Maybe that's a good thing in this case, as it makes the story a bit more of a sensual experience in the reader's mind, but if you wanted to be crisper you could have hit enter twice a few more times just to make it a little more compartmentalized.  Maybe, maybe not.  Of course, the story still remains as a more important element than style, so I'll move on to that, but only afte mentioning that at least your style is truthful, and I know that you write from personal experience, so the style is ultimately good, even if I have to dig my teeth into it, because truth is an element of paramount importance that must be incorporated into both style and story.[/color]

 

[color=#0000ff;]Good job on finding something interesting to write about.  I would have never thought of writing a story about a person who cuts herself, nor a story about a person who has to stop and wonder about how to treat a person who has clear sensitivities.  it raises important questions.  What do you do when someone clearly need help but you know he or she will reject it?  How do you work with them instead of against them?  What's the proper reaction?  These are not only big questions but tricky questions, because most people don't really know the answer and aren't secure with the ones that they bring up.  To my understanding, neither was the main character, and there will always be the guilt of not preventing something that just might have been within his power to stop.  He tried being her friend, but apparently that didn't work.  I feel sad for him and sad for her.  It's a downer of an ending, but it definitely gets me thinking, and I appreciate stories that can start discussions, of which this is one.[/color]

 

[color=#0000ff;]Really, though, it's kind of weird looking at this story, liking it, and seeing the title Allison.  I knew an Allison and she was really bright and cheery, but what especially comes to mind is Allison Mack, who plays Chloe Sullivan, my favorite gal on television of all time.  Those are very different images of the Allison you present here.  Strange.  But then, that's an experience that's unique to me.  Because of my love of Allison Mack, though, I definitely wanted to check this out right away.[/color]

 

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#3 Offline Unikitty Tekulo

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Posted Dec 08 2012 - 11:06 PM

[color=rgb(0,100,0);]Interesting story.  I actually found it a bit difficult to follow at certain points, mainly in the beginning and towards the end.  Then again, that might just be my preference in style talking (I got a bit spaced out, especially when the word "imagining" showed up). [/color]

 

[color=rgb(0,100,0);]I like what you wrote about.  Sometimes there are things in life that an average Joe (in this case, the narrator) just can't relate to.  In my experience (though it wasn't as severe as Allison's) I saw students who were generally outgoing in sports, friendships, etc.  They didn't bully anyone and they were generally well-liked or at least heard of throughout the school.  When chance would have it, they would talk to someone with an issue (that wasn't always obvious), they would do their best to try and pump school spirit into their blood and change their attitude.  [/color]

 

[color=rgb(0,100,0);]I am so glad that wasn't the direction you went with for your narrator.  I found him quite interesting because he was a band nerd who happened to be the squad leader.  He certainly seemed to care about his section; getting excited about a new recruit for the French Horns, eating lunch together with band buddies and his general attitude seemed realistic.  He seemed to give Allison more of a gentle nudge in a friendly direction as opposed to this big speech about why you should never feel sad ever which can get exasperating after so long.  In short; this character was simple, yet the way he handled something he couldn't fully understand was interesting.  [/color]

 

[color=rgb(0,100,0);]Now, I wasn't sure where you were going with the story at the point where Allison left (I'm guessing there was some sort of dispute between Allison and her step-father?  Either way, I think it was best to keep that area vague), but I did like the way you wrapped it up with the locker.  It seemed to give a nice sense of closure to the story.[/color]

 

[color=rgb(0,100,0);]Overall, I liked what you wrote here.  It's not a subject I can totally relate with, however it was indeed a good read.[/color]


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#4 Offline Aderia

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Posted Dec 14 2012 - 01:00 AM

Oh! Zox posted a new story!! =D

 

And my raction was thus: Posted Image happy cat huggle time.  and then by the end  Posted Image sad cat huggle.*with irritating watermark*

 

:crying: it was so...touching!!   But yeah, I can't say what hasn't already been said by the good reviewers. It was a brilliant story, albeit tear-jerking. The fact that it was more or less taken from real life really drove it home. Oh, and also. Posted Image you already showed me this, but mini french horns squeee!!So yeah, great story by great author and having to follow two really great reviews was too much greatness for me. So I had to resort to visual aids. But since a picture is worth a thousand words, technically I schooled all ya. =P


Edited by Aderia, Dec 14 2012 - 01:02 AM.

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#5 Offline brother-in-lawford

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Posted Dec 30 2012 - 12:31 AM

Right, so, quite a bit of what I could say has been said already, so I'm going to comment on what I find that I can comment upon. First, excellent choice of a title-it's somewhat abstract, at first, but once you read the story you get the full meaning of it. That's how I like my titles, and that's not how very many authors title their stories, sadly.

 

After that, I'm normally not a fan of a first-person technique, though I'm rather fond of the way you managed to get the story out using that manner. Like Jean said, it's as though the story is being recounted through a blog entry, unlike many other such stories. And while quite a few authors I've seen (myself included) tend to focus mainly on what the character is thinking and little else, the way you managed to blend that with description of what is happening around our good narrator was rather nice.

 

And, finally, to wrap up what little I can say, very nice use of the motifs of imagination and night vs. day (or, rather, night vs. morning). Your take on these concepts fit the story perfectly, and while many would say that's no surprise, it really can be, at times, especially with how you managed to fit them in here. Good job, my friend.

 

Now get out and write more, you lazy creature.


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#6 Offline Zox

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Posted Dec 30 2012 - 02:44 AM

First, I respond to TWO-FOUR-SIX-OH-OOOONNNNNNNNNNNNE!!!

 

[color=rgb(0,0,255);]It's not something I understand, but you do what some authors don't do enough and just sip over explanations of the character's actions and let the reader figure that much out for themselves using their - to use a choice word - imaginations...[/color][color=rgb(0,0,255);] I think Ray Bradburry would be proud.[/color]

----------

I be quite flattered with the Ray Bradbury thing =D

 

[color=#0000ff;]There was a point where I looked at all the paragraphs and noticed that only four started with quotation marks.  That's really different from my style, as I tend to have a lot of dialogue, but it's good to see that you're secure with your style, which is reminiscent of a person recounting a story in a blog entry.[/color]

----------

I was going for the storytelling idea, though maybe not so much in the blog entry style...but okay XD I know there is almost not dialogue, but I just didn't feel it was needed for the story. I'm just glad that it fit the story in the eyes of a reader.

 

[color=rgb(0,0,255);]Good job on finding something interesting to write about.  I would have never thought of writing a story about a person who cuts herself, nor a story about a person who has to stop and wonder about how to treat a person who has clear sensitivities.  it raises important questions.  What do you do when someone clearly need help but you know he or she will reject it?  How do you work with them instead of against them?  What's the proper reaction?  These are not only big questions but tricky questions, because most people don't really know the answer and aren't secure with the ones that they bring up.  To my understanding, neither was the main character, and there will always be the guilt of not preventing something that just might have been within his power to stop.  He tried being her friend, but apparently that didn't work.  I feel sad for him and sad for her.[/color]

---------

A lot of people who may look at this aren't in the Ambage, and so aren't privy to the chat, but the Sad motif was prevalent in there, and I hope that everyone who read this was affected. I hope I didn't overly depress anyone, but I'm glad that you (and others) can feel for my Allison and the narrator.

 

[color=rgb(0,0,255);]It's a downer of an ending, but it definitely gets me thinking, and I appreciate stories that can start discussions, of which this is one.[/color]

----------

I'll come back to this when I get to Aderia's review.

 

[color=rgb(0,0,255);]Really, though, it's kind of weird looking at this story, liking it, and seeing the title [/color]Allison[color=rgb(0,0,255);].  I knew an Allison and she was really bright and cheery, but what especially comes to mind is Allison Mack, who plays Chloe Sullivan, my favorite gal on television of all time.  Those are very different images of the Allison you present here.  Strange.  But then, that's an experience that's unique to me.  Because of my love of Allison Mack, though, I definitely wanted to check this out right away.[/color]

----------

Well, the character is a combination of two real people, but I didn't feel like it was right to use either of their names...so I used the sister of one XD That's how I got the name

 

And now Tekulo.

 

I like what you wrote about.  Sometimes there are things in life that an average Joe (in this case, the narrator) just can't relate to.  In my experience (though it wasn't as severe as Allison's) I saw students who were generally outgoing in sports, friendships, etc.  They didn't bully anyone and they were generally well-liked or at least heard of throughout the school.  When chance would have it, they would talk to someone with an issue (that wasn't always obvious), they would do their best to try and pump school spirit into their blood and change their attitude. 

 

[color=rgb(0,100,0);]I am so glad that wasn't the direction you went with for your narrator.  I found him quite interesting because he was a band nerd who happened to be the squad leader.  He certainly seemed to care about his section; getting excited about a new recruit for the French Horns, eating lunch together with band buddies and his general attitude seemed realistic.  He seemed to give Allison more of a gentle nudge in a friendly direction as opposed to this big speech about why you should never feel sad ever which can get exasperating after so long.  In short; this character was simple, yet the way he handled something he couldn't fully understand was interesting. [/color]

----------

This is something I'm VERY happy to read. I always doubt myself when it comes to characters, and the idea that I put something out there that is interesting and believable is AWESOME. Now to something I apparently wasn't clear enough on =(

 

 

Now, I wasn't sure where you were going with the story at the point where Allison left (I'm guessing there was some sort of dispute between Allison and her step-father?  Either way, I think it was best to keep that area vague), but I did like the way you wrapped it up with the locker.  It seemed to give a nice sense of closure to the story.

---------

Allison's step-father was arrested for child-abuse.

 

And Aderia

 

Oh! Zox posted a new story!! =D

 

And my raction was thus: happy cat huggle time. 

----------

Cute pictures =)

 

and then by the end

 sad cat huggle.*with irritating watermark*

 

:crying: it was so...touching!! 

----------

Back about the story having a downer of an ending. I'm sorry about it being so sad, but even looking back on the RL memories..oh wait

 

But yeah, I can't say what hasn't already been said by the good reviewers. It was a brilliant story, albeit tear-jerking. The fact that it was more or less taken from real life really drove it home.

----------

Yeah, it was taken from RL (on the more, not less side), but about the sadness... it was a sad period, it is still a sad story with too many loose ends. Maybe readers should follow Aderia's example and have a cat to hug close at hand XD

 

And teh Otter

 

 

Right, so, quite a bit of what I could say has been said already, so I'm going to comment on what I find that I can comment upon. First, excellent choice of a title-it's somewhat abstract, at first, but once you read the story you get the full meaning of it. That's how I like my titles, and that's not how very many authors title their stories, sadly.

--------

Wow, and all that really came to my mind was that I was titling the story with the name of a central character =O

 

After that, I'm normally not a fan of a first-person technique, though I'm rather fond of the way you managed to get the story out using that manner. Like Jean said, it's as though the story is being recounted through a blog entry, unlike many other such stories.

--------

Why through a blog entry? D=

 

Now get out and write more, you lazy creature.

--------

I dun wanna D=

 

 

Thanks for the reviews guys, they are greatly appreciated. Allison was something different to write, and I may or may not write something similar at a later date. There is more to "Allison"'s story, I just don't know if I want to (or quite how to) approach it.


Edited by Zo'Tomana, Jan 23 2013 - 01:33 AM.

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#7 Offline Zaxvo

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Posted Apr 24 2013 - 11:00 PM

Hey, it's Zaxvo here from the SSCC! Your story has been selected for a free review!This isn't the first story I've read about cutting. And to be perfectly honest, I sort of expected you to deal with that subject a bit more. For anyone interested, I highly recommend The Perfect Cut by Julie Burtinshaw; it's an excellent read.Note that I'm not trying to be derogatory in any way, I just don't have other words besides "cutter" to use. Obviously in the story the term is a sensitive one, and I imagine it would be as well in real life. For this review I don't have a better way to distinguish, so I'm going to use it. But again, I mean no offense to anyone.My main complaint here is the lack of focus. What is the story about? Your title, and much of the body, sugests you wanted it to be about Allison. But the introduction, to me, is primarily about our narrator, about how he has problems he wants to avoid. About how he struggles through the day, day after day, in a never ending battle. And then these struggles are never touched upon. He's the first chair of his section of the band, he's got friends, we're never told if he's doing particularly poorly in school, and he seems likable enough. And he seems like he has a decent, if not good, relationship with his family. Where are the problems? Why are his days so horrible? It's not relevant to the tale you're trying to tell, the story of how a defiant student joined a high school for a few months and then left after bad stuff went down at home. That's the best summary I've got, and really, the narrator's daily struggles play no part in it.Show, don't tell. This is particularly grating at the most crucial moment, at the pivotal point in the story: when Allison is telling him about her. When Allison opens up. But the readers are separated, are distinct, are forced away from the action. Because the way the story is told, we aren't there. It's given to us as a secondhand experience, which right away dilutes the effect.Immerse your readers. Whatever she told the narrator -- actually, however she told the narrator -- was obviously very powerful and very moving. Let us hear it. It obviously affected him to such an extent that he went home and cut himself. That's big. That's massive. Part of the stigma surrounding cutting is that it seems so illogical to the non-cutters...so what was said to turn a non-cutter into a cutter?You're trying to show us how she affected him. So show us. He doesn't really seem to have changed after knowing her. If I was to summarize his character arc, it would be a little like this: boy meets girl. girl talks to boy. boy cuts. girl leaves. boy never cuts again.And I don't see much in terms of a character change there.Last thing, tiny thing: I guess it's just your style, but I'm not a fan of the constant use of brackets. Once or twice I don't really mind, but it's pretty constant throughout the first half of the story. And to me it just interrupts the flow of the story.Well, that's a lot of criticism. But, your story is actually quite good. And while there's actually far too much good int he story for me to condense it down to this post, I'd like to praise Allison's character. From her initial response to the trumpet player, to the response to the sax player, to the breakdown in his car, her character is pitch perfect. Defiant, nonchalant, unashamed, proud, and yet secretly weak and desperate. You've written a wonderfully fleshed person and I would love to read more of her story. Well done.Overall, I really enjoyed the tale. While I think there are elements that could certainly be trimmed out or refocused or rewritten, the titular characters is just to engaging to ignore.Great work. I look forward to reading more.

Edited by Zaxvo, Apr 24 2013 - 11:01 PM.

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