Please Critique!

[Greta]

Hello, fellow KeePers!
I have a short story that I wrote, and I would love, love, LOVE feedback on it! Seriously, I love feedback. Please critique! Tear the scene apart if you have to. 😛 Here’s the short story:

The day of my thirteenth birthday I realized why I was different. I guess I’d always known that I was different, but I’d never quite known why. I invited my entire class, maybe 100 kids in all, to my birthday party, and I thought it would be fun if everyone brought his or her favorite book to discuss. That was my mistake. All the popular kids never read books; either they were too stupid or they didn’t think it was “cool.” The bullies, who my mom had made me invite, too, were definitely too stupid to read. Because they were so dumb, they thought that everyone else had to be just as dumb. So they stole kids’ books at school—especially mine, which I can tell you I didn’t like at all. Then there were the normal kids, who tried to stay out of the bullies’ way. Many of them didn’t like to read because…well, they were scared of what the bullies would do to them. Believe me, they weren’t scared for no reason. One time, the bullies had made one kid would had been reading “Robinson Crusoe” stuff his book down the toilet and flush it. Of course, this clogged the toilet, and the poor kid was doused in disgusting toilet water.
Then there were the kids like me. The odd kids. The nerds, as the bullies dubbed us. My best friend, Neal, was a nerd, like me, except he was a science nerd, and I was a book nerd.
On the day of my party, Neal showed up with his favorite book on how to make things blow up. I hoped he wasn’t planning on demonstrating what he’d learned from the book. Next came Chealsie, a known theater nerd. She brought a book on how to act well…figures. I waited for the other kids to show up…and waited…and waited. They never came.
I felt a lump rising in my throat and my eyes stung. I refused to be hurt by their meanness; I refused. Chealsie, Neal, and I would have a fun time, and we’d show them.
I ran to my backyard where Chealsie and Neal were waiting for me. Neal looked at me questioningly, and I shook my head. He didn’t look disappointed.
“Well,” I tried to think of something to say. “What books did you guys bring?”

* * *

We had a blast. We talked about the books, read them together (thankfully Neal didn’t suggest blowing anything up), and ate cake and ice cream. My mom’s homemade ice cream. The other kids didn’t know what they were missing.
When the party was over, I said goodbye to Chealsie and Neal and turned to go inside. Maybe it wasn’t so bad being weird after all.
“Nick!”
I turned at the sound of my name. Chealsie was still standing on the path leading to the fence that enclosed our yard. I swallowed. “Um, yeah…Chealsie?”
“Thanks for inviting me.” She smiled.
“You’re…welcome,” I managed. I couldn’t help noticing how Chealsie’s hair was parted: a little too much hair on one side. Her hair was wavy. Not too straight, not too curly. Perfect.
She stood on the path as if waiting for me to say something.
“Um, thanks for coming!” That sounded stupid. I hoped my face wasn’t as red as it felt.
Chealsie looked disappointed. “Yeah.” She turned to go.
“Wait!” I yelled suddenly. “You’re really…nice.”
Chealsie turned and looked at me, beaming. “Goodbye, Nick.”
I knew right then and there that I wanted to see Chealsie again. Soon.

* * *
44 years later…
I lay in bed, looking at the “How To Act Well” book Chealsie had brought to my birthday party 44 years ago. My eyes stung. The accident, I thought. I instinctively examined at the scares covering my arms—long, white lines wrapping around and around. Why had I lived? Why not Chealsie? Why had I let her drive? Couldn’t the driver have put his phone down while he was driving? After I’d recovered, I’d thrown my stupid phone away. I didn’t want to talk to anyone ever again. The only thing that helped me through my grief was my book. Her book. A present from Chealsie.
I looked away from the book. What would Chealsie think of me now? Working to keep my mind off the grief. Lying on my bed staring at the book in my free time. I opened the book and read the note I’d read a thousands times before.
Dear Nick,
Don’t cry for me. I’m going to be with God soon. I don’t want you to waste your life mourning for me. Love others, and most importantly, love God, for He will never leave you. I love you so much, dearest!
Your wife,
Chealsie
She died after writing the note. Why did God have to take her? Why? The lump in my throat swelled until I thought it would burst. I felt the tears coming, but I clenched my jaw and looked out the window to keep from crying.
Something outside my window caught my eye. A bright flash of sunlight on the surface of metal. It was a little kid—a little kid crossing the street alone. I threw on my bathrobe and ran outside.
I saw the car—bright red—rushing toward the kid standing alone in the middle of the road. The driver was texting.
“HEY!” I yelled as loudly as I could. The kid looked up, and he saw the car. He stood in the middle of the road, petrified from fear. The car was maybe 100 feet away, getting closer by the second.
I did the only thing I could: I ran for the kid. I managed to push to kid out of the car’s way just in time, but my leg didn’t make it. I screamed as I felt all the bones in my leg break. Then everything went black.

* * *

I opened my eyes. A crowd of people had formed around me. The sun…the sun was so bright. I closed my eyes again and licked my dry lips. I tried to sit up, but pain shot through my leg like fire. I groaned.
Someone was crying—a woman. Chealsie, I thought. I looked for Chealsie’s face among the faces of the people looking down at me. She wasn’t there. I wasn’t dead. I tried not to feel disappointed. Chealsie wouldn’t want it.
The sobbing woman was saying, “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry” over and over again. I wanted to tell her it was okay, that everything was fine, but I couldn’t speak.
“—Lucky to have survived,” I heard someone above me say.
“He pushed me out of the way,” A little kid’s voice said. He must have been the kid who was standing in the way of the car. I was glad to hear he was alive.
“Needs medical attention,” A deep voice said.
I felt hands lifting me onto a stretcher. With every move, every jolt pain shot through my body. I bit my tongue to keep from crying out in pain. The stretcher underneath me moved and pushed me into a dark box. An ambulance. Was I hurt that badly? I’d felt worse pain, worse grief than this. Chealsie would be so worried if she hadn’t…if she… I closed my eyes to hide the tears that had come to my eyes once again.

* * *

The next thing I knew, I was in a hospital bed, my leg in a cast. I looked around the hospital. There were flowers next to me on a table and a get well soon card. Daisies—Chealsie’s favorite. How did they get there?
I opened the card and read the note inside.
Dear Mr. Nick Bontar,
Thank you for saving my son’s life; I can’t thank you enough. Please accept this small token of my gratitude (check enclosed). I sincerely hope are well soon!
With enormous gratitude,
Thayer’s mom

I looked at the check enclosed. One thousand dollars!
I tore up the check and let the little pieces of paper float to the floor. I didn’t want anyone’s gratitude; I just wanted to be left alone.
The door of my room creaked open. I looked to see who was standing in the doorway. It was the kid whose life I’d saved. Thayer.
He stared at me, and I stared at him. Finally, he asked, “Why do you have that white thing on your leg?”
I grinned. “My leg’s broken. The ‘white thing’ will make it better.”
He was silent for a while, as if still contemplating how the white thing would make my leg better. “Did you save my life?”
I swallowed. “Yeah, I suppose I did.”
“I could’ve died?”
“Yeah.”
Thayer looked back at my cast. “What’s your name?”
I contemplated what I should tell the kid my name was. Mr. Bontar? No, too formal. Mr. Nicolas? No. I felt a special connection to this kid after what had happened, so I said, “You can call me ‘Nick.’”
Thayer mouthed ‘Nick,’ as if trying the word on for size. He grinned suddenly. “I like you, Nick.”
I returned his smile. “I like you, too, Thayer.”
The smile froze on his face, and he frowned. “What is dying?”
“When you go up to Heaven with God.”
“Do you know anyone who’s died?”
The knee of my unbroken leg trembled the way it did whenever someone asked me about Chealsie’s death. Someone would ask me and after I told him or her, he or she would look at me sympathetically and say that he or she was sorry. As if they understood my pain. They didn’t. But something was different about this kid. He seemed to understand, somehow. “Yeah. My wife, Chealsie, died in a car crash five years ago.”
His eyes looked sad. “Does she know my daddy up in Heaven?”
I caught my breath. This poor kid, only eight by the look of him, had already had someone in his life die. “Yeah, I’m sure she does.”
He seemed satisfied, so he walked out of the room.
For several minutes, I simply stared at the place where the boy had been, the only person thus far who had understood my loss. And he was only eight. I could almost hear Chealsie’s laughter as I realized that maybe there were some good people left in the world.

* * *

I was bedridden for five days, but I didn’t mind it so much because Thayer came to see me every day. We’d talk about life and death, heaven, and other things I never thought I would be discussing with an eight-year-old. Thayer told me about his dad, who had died a year ago from cancer, and I told him about Chealsie, how beautiful and happy she had been. It was as if the burden of her death wasn’t so hard to bear anymore, now that I knew I wasn’t the only one suffering from the loss of someone dear. Now that I knew someone really understood what I was going through and had been going through for the last five years.
On my last day in the hospital, I was telling Thayer the story of the first time I’d met Chealsie. I described my mom’s homemade ice cream and how good it had been.
Thayer looked puzzled. “What’s ice cream?”
“You’ve never had ice cream, Thayer?”
“No.” He furrowed his brow.
“Well, you’re going to have some right now. I’m taking you to get some.”
Thayer looked surprised at first, but then he smiled. “OK.”
I asked Thayer to hand me my crutches, and I managed to stand up without falling over. I grinned at Thayer and said, “Let’s go get some ice cream.”
As we slowly walked into town, I realized something. Something Chealsie had written in the note she’d given me before she died. I don’t want you to waste your life mourning for me. Chealsie hadn’t wanted me to blame people for her death. She hadn’t wanted me to shut everyone out. And one day, I’d see her in Heaven. I was sure of that.
I looked down at Thayer, and I felt overwhelmingly peaceful and happy. Chealsie was right; I needed to love and live life to its fullest. And somehow I knew, that up in Heaven, Chealsie was smiling.

Again, I want feedback. Please give me feedback! *puppy dog eyes* Pretty please?

[Kate Flournoy]

Ooh… nice emotional punch in the gut! 😛 The strongest thing, I’m gonna say, is the emotional impact of everything that happened in the story. The story is adorable— very sweet.
I think your prose needs a little work, though. Not the structure of it— but using it to capture all the untapped drama of a character’s inner world.
For instance, these are your words.

The knee of my unbroken leg trembled the way it did whenever someone asked me about Chealsie’s death. Someone would ask me and after I told him or her, he or she would look at me sympathetically and say that he or she was sorry. As if they understood my pain. They didn’t.

These are my words.

The knee of my unbroken leg trembled. Not another one of those. I swallowed hard. Not another one of those times I’d try and explain it to someone… listen to their sympathy; smile and nod and act grateful when all I wanted to do was scream at them to go away. To stop pretending they cared. Stop pretending they could understand. They couldn’t. They didn’t.

See what I did with it? It sounds more like the inside of a human mind, doesn’t it? The narrator voice in this story is almost too passive to belong to a human in pain. A human being’s thoughts are never tame or passive, no matter how they may act on the outside.

Also, you tell more than you show. For instance, when you’re telling about the accident that killed Chealsie, you just told us that there was an accident. It shouldn’t be that way— Nick should be remembering it in vivid flashbacks, with images and emotions and body language.

One more thing— the way you started the story off didn’t really have anything to do with the point of the story. Nick being a nerd didn’t have anything to do with him learning to live without his wife. Almost invariably, you should use the first line of your story to foreshadow the theme in some way.

But even with all that, I think you did a great job with this story! Keep it up— practice and practice and practice until you can dig out all the potential in this thing, then bring it to life. 🙂

INFP. kateeverythingwriting.wordpress.com

[Kate Flournoy]

Oops, tag: @gretald

INFP. kateeverythingwriting.wordpress.com

[Greta]

@kate-flournoy Thank you so much for the feedback!!! 🙂 I really appreciate it! Ah, I see what you’re saying about telling vs. showing. I know the difference in my mind, but it’s hard to actually write showing-ly. 😉 I’ll have to go back and edit like crazy. 🙂

[Kate Flournoy]

@gretald I know, right? We know all these awesome techniques, and some of us *gulp* sound so wise and learned, but there’s such a difference between knowing/talking about something and actually implementing it! 😛

INFP. kateeverythingwriting.wordpress.com

[Daeus]

@gretald This is pretty good over all. I like the style. One thing is that it flies through things too fast. Like Kate said though, flashbacks would really help.

So with that, I guess I’m on to red ink.

.”The bullies, who my mom had made me invite, too, were definitely” Take out the “too”
.”which I can tell you I didn’t like at all.” Take out the “I can tell you”
.”weren’t scared for no reason.” Double negative. Sounds weird.
.”I couldn’t help noticing how Chealsie’s hair was parted: a little too much hair on one side. Her hair was wavy. Not too straight, not too curly. Perfect.” The “too much” and the “perfect” give a conflicting feel.
.”Why had I let her drive? Couldn’t the driver have put his phone down while he was driving?” At first I was like, “What? So who was driving? Her, or somebody else?” I think the second guy was the other driver but I didn’t get that at first
.”Why did God have to take her? Why?” Delete the “why?”. I don’t like it when people think to themselves too much. It slips into telling.
.”I groaned.” delete
.”I looked at the check enclosed. One thousand dollars!
I tore up the check and let the little pieces of paper float to the floor.” 1 Sounds too energetic for his condition. 2 the exclamation point does not fit with his action.
.”It was the kid whose life I’d saved.” delete “who’s life i’d saved”
.”I felt a special connection to this kid after what had happened, so I said,” delete
.”I returned his smile. “I like you, too, Thayer.”” I think he might be even more pleased with that.
.”This poor kid, only eight by the look of him, had already had someone in his life die.” Put that on a diet. “This poor kid – already.”

A couple of other things. First, The emotions about Chealsie seem to be in the flood stage when I think you might want them in the murky pool stage. Second, the ending was too long. I mean the last too paragraphs. By wanting to say everything, you don’t say enough. Trim it down to about two sentences.

And I’ll be stupid and completely say the total opposite of what Kate said. She wanted you to have the character be more dynamic – more expressive of his pain. I don’t think so. I think this character’s emotions are more hermetic (at least in regards to Chealsie). With him, less is more. Subtly also requires careful prose, but my suggestion is subtlety.

🐢🐢🐢🐢🐢🐢🐢🐢🐢🐢🐢🐢🐢🐢🐢🐢🐢🐢🐢🐢🐢🐢

[Kate Flournoy]

Fair enough. 😉

INFP. kateeverythingwriting.wordpress.com

[Greta]

@Daeus and @kate-flournoy Thanks so much for the in-depth critiques! It’s great to know that I can give you some of my writings to read, and you won’t say it’s good when it’s actually not. 🙂

[Greta]

All right, @Daeus and @kate-flournoy. I’ve edited some. It’s still not quite done, but if you have time, would you mind reading it through? If you don’t have time, that’s perfectly fine.

@kate-flournoy, Is the showing vs. telling problem better? *looks hopeful*

The day of my thirteenth birthday I met my true love. I invited my entire class, maybe one hundred kids in all, to my birthday party, and I thought it would be fun if everyone brought his or her favorite book to discuss. That was my mistake. All the popular kids never read books; either they were too stupid or they didn’t think it was “cool.” The bullies, who my mom had made me invite, were definitely too stupid to read. Because they were so dumb, they thought that everyone else had to be just as dumb. So they stole kids’ books at school—especially mine, which I didn’t like at all. Then there were the normal kids, who tried to stay out of the bullies’ way. Many of them didn’t like to read because…well, they were scared of what the bullies would do to them. Believe me, they were scared for a reason. One time, the bullies had made one kid who had been reading “Robinson Crusoe” stuff his book down the toilet and flush it. Of course, this clogged the toilet, and the poor kid was doused in disgusting toilet water.
Then there were the kids like me. The odd kids. The nerds, as the bullies dubbed us. My best friend, Neal, was a nerd, like me, except he was a science nerd, and I was a book nerd.
On the day of my party, Neal showed up with his favorite book on how to make things blow up. I hoped he wasn’t planning on demonstrating what he’d learned from the book. Next came Chealsie, a known theater nerd. She brought a book on how to act well…figures. I waited for the other kids to show up…and waited…and waited. They never came.
I felt a lump rising in my throat and my eyes stung. I refused to be hurt by their meanness; I refused. Chealsie, Neal, and I would have a fun time, and we’d show them.
I ran to my backyard where Chealsie and Neal were waiting for me. Neal looked at me questioningly, and I shook my head. He didn’t look disappointed.
“Well,” I tried to think of something to say. “What books did you guys bring?”

* * *

We talked about the books, read them together (thankfully Neal didn’t suggest blowing anything up), and ate cake and ice cream. My mom’s homemade ice cream. The other kids didn’t know what they were missing.
When the party was over, I said goodbye to Chealsie and Neal and turned to go inside. Maybe it wasn’t so bad being weird after all.
“Nick!”
I turned at the sound of my name. Chealsie was still standing on the path leading to the fence that enclosed our yard. I swallowed. “Um, yeah…Chealsie?”
“Thanks for inviting me.” She smiled.
“You’re…welcome,” I managed. I couldn’t help noticing how Chealsie’s hair was parted: split into two equal sections. Her hair was wavy. Not too straight, not too curly. Perfect.
She stood on the path as if waiting for me to say something.
“Um, thanks for coming!” That sounded stupid. I hoped my face wasn’t as red as it felt.
Chealsie looked disappointed. “Yeah.” She turned to go.
“Wait!” I yelled suddenly. “You’re really…nice.”
Chealsie stared at me for a few hearbeats, as if trying to decide whether I was serious or not. She seemed to decide that I was and beamed. “Goodbye, Nick.”
I knew right then and there that I wanted to see Chealsie again. Soon.

* * *
17 years later…
I lay in bed and looked at the “How To Ace Drama” book sitting on my bedside table. I instinctively ran my fingers along the scares covering my arms—long, white lines wrapping around and around. Like a net holding me back from happiness. I picked up the book and smelled it. The sweet smell of old books.
“I want you to have this, Nick.” Chealsie had said, pointing at the book. “Don’t blame God, Nick. Don’t blame God.” I had laid my head against her chest. Her breathing had been uneven and fragile. Then it had stopped. I hadn’t been able to speak; I hadn’t even been able to cry. I had just sat there in shock, not believing that Chealsie was really…gone.
I looked away from the book. What if Chealsie was watching me from Heaven? I didn’t even know if I believed in Heaven, but if anyone deserved to go there, Chealsie did. I opened the book and read the note I’d read a thousands of times before.
Dear Nick,
Don’t cry for me. I’m going to be with God soon. I don’t want you to waste your life mourning for me. And please, Nick, don’t blame the driver and don’t blame God. Love others, and most importantly, love God, for He will never leave you. I love you so much!
Your wife,
Chealsie
I tried to block my mind, make the memories of that day go away, but I couldn’t. I remembered everything, like it was yesterday.
We had been talking and laughing in the car. Chealsie had been driving. All I remembered was a huge CRASH! and a hissing sound. The sound of the air bags blowing up. The only thing I remember before gray air bag cloth covered my eyes was sight of the driver in the other car still texting on his phone. Then everything had gone black.
The lump in my throat swelled until I thought it would burst. I felt the tears coming, but I clenched my jaw. I would not cry. It had been five years…I was supposed to be over this by now. I looked out the window to keep from crying.
Something outside my window caught my eye. A bright flash of sunlight reflected from metal. It was a little kid—a little kid crossing the street alone, and a car… I threw on my bathrobe and bolted outside.
I saw the car—bright red—rushing toward the kid standing alone in the middle of the road. I waved my arms around, trying to get the driver’s attention. No use. She was too busy looking down at something, and I had a pretty good guess what it was.
“HEY!” I yelled as loudly as I could. The kid looked up, and he saw the car. He stood in the middle of the road, petrified from fear. The car was maybe 100 feet away, getting closer by the second.
I did the only thing I could: I ran for the kid. I managed to push to kid out of the car’s way just in time, but my leg didn’t make it. I screamed as I felt all the bones in my leg break. Then everything went black.

* * *

I opened my eyes. A crowd of people had formed around me. The sun…the sun was so bright. I closed my eyes again and licked my dry lips. I tried to sit up, but pain shot through my leg like fire.
Someone was crying—a woman. Chealsie, I thought. I searched for Chealsie’s face among the crowd of the people. She wasn’t there. I wasn’t dead. I tried not to feel disappointed.
The woman was sobbing and saying, “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry” over and over again. I wanted to tell her it was okay, that everything was fine, but I couldn’t speak.
“—Lucky to have survived,” I heard someone above me say.
“I almost died, I almost died!” A little kid’s voice cried. He must have been the kid who was standing in the way of the car. I was glad to hear he was alive.
“Needs medical attention,” A deep voice said.
I felt hands lifting me onto a stretcher. With every move, every jolt, pain shot through my body. I bit my tongue to keep from crying out in pain. The stretcher underneath me moved and pushed me into a dark box. An ambulance. Was I hurt that badly? I’d felt worse pain, worse grief than this. Chealsie would be so worried if she hadn’t…if she… I closed my eyes to hide the tears that had come to my eyes once again.

* * *

The next thing I knew, I was in a hospital bed, my leg in a cast. I looked around the hospital. There were flowers next to me on a table and a get well soon card. Daisies—Chealsie’s favorite. How did they get there?
I opened the card and read the note inside.

Dear Mr. Nicolas Bongarson,

Nicolas? I cringed. There was only one person in my life who’d ever called me Nicolas and that was my mom. And even then, only when I was in trouble. I was liking this lady less and less by the second.

Thank you for saving my son’s life; I can’t thank you enough. Please accept this small token of my gratitude (check enclosed). I sincerely hope are well soon!
With enormous gratitude,
Thayer’s mom

I looked at the check enclosed. One thousand dollars.
Something about the note bothered me; it seemed like this lady was trying to pay for her son’s life. Besides, she’d called me Nicolas.
I tore up the check and let the little pieces of paper float to the floor. I didn’t want anyone’s gratitude; I just wanted to be left alone.
Creeeeaaaaak! The door of my room opened. I hadn’t realized how dark the hospital room was until a bright stream of light poured into the room outside of the open door. The light was blinding. I covered my face with arms until my eyes could adjust. When I could finally see clearly, I inspected the open doorway. A small figure was silhouetted against the light pouring in from outside. I couldn’t see the figure’s face, but I knew who it was. It was the kid. Thayer.
For what seemed like several minutes, he stared at me, and, although I knew better, I stared back. Finally, he asked, “Why do you have that white thing on your leg?”
“Um, my leg’s broken. The ‘white thing’ will make it all better.”
He was silent for a while, as if still contemplating how the white thing would make my leg better. He must’ve been thinking about something else, though, because what he said next was so surprising that I probably would’ve jumped out of the bed if my leg weren’t broken. “I almost died, didn’t I? My mommy says I didn’t, but I think she just saying that because she doesn’t want me to be scared.”
I tried not to stare at him with my mouth open. How old was this kid? I swallowed. “Um…yeah, I guess you did.”
I thought he would start to cry or something, but he just looked at me thoughtfully, perfectly calm—almost too calm. “You saved my life?”
“Yeah.”
Thayer studied my cast. “What’s your name?”
I contemplated what I should tell the kid my name was. Mr. Bongarson? No, too formal. Mr. Nick? No, that didn’t feel right either. “You can call me ‘Nick.’”
Thayer mouthed ‘Nick,’ as if trying the word on for size. He grinned suddenly. “I like you, Nick.”
I returned his smile. “I like you, too, Thayer.”
The smile froze on his face, and he frowned. “What is dying?”
Where were all these philosophical questions coming from? The kid was only eight. Or, at least, he looked about eight. I thought for a while. What was dying? I remembered something my mom had told me about death, to comfort me when my cat died. You’re cat’s in Heaven with God, honey. “When you go up to Heaven to be with God.”
Thayer leaned on my bed. I waited for another philosophical question I couldn’t answer. “Do you know anyone who’s died?”
The knee of my unbroken leg trembled. I was sick of being asked about Chealsie’s death. Listening the stock response “she’s in Heaven; you don’t have to be sad.” Pretending to be grateful. As if they understood my pain, my grief. They didn’t.
But I sensed something was different about this kid. He seemed to understand, somehow, though I wasn’t sure how an eight-year-old could understand. “Yeah. My wife, Chealsie. She died in a car crash five years ago.”
His eyes were watery blue, as if reflecting all the tears I’d shed over the years. “Does she know my daddy up in Heaven?”
I caught my breath. This poor kid—already. I wanted to slap myself for being so selfish. “Yeah, I’m sure she does.”
He seemed satisfied, so he skipped out of the room.
For several minutes, I simply stared at the place where the kid had been, the only person thus far who had understood my loss. And he was only eight. I could almost hear Chealsie’s laughter as I realized that maybe there were some good people left in the world.

* * *

I was bedridden for five days, but I didn’t mind it so much because Thayer came to see me every day. We’d talk about life and death, heaven, and other things I never thought I would be discussing with an eight-year-old. Thayer told me about his dad, who had died a year ago from cancer, and I told him about Chealsie, how beautiful and happy she had been. It was as if the burden of her death wasn’t so hard to bear anymore, now that I knew I wasn’t the only one suffering from the loss of someone dear. Now that I knew someone really understood what I was going through and had been going through for the last five years.
On my last day in the hospital, Thayer came to see me again. He asked me to tell him a story, so I told him the story of the first time I’d met Chealsie at my thirteenth birthday party.
“We had a great time. My mom’s ice cream tasted even better that day than it ever had before. And believe me, Thayer, you haven’t had ice cream until you’ve had my mom’s.”
Thayer looked puzzled. “What’s ice cream?”
I chuckled. “Good one, Thayer.”
“No,” He furrowed his brow. “I’ve never had ice cream.” He pronounced “ice cream” like he’d never said the words before.
Who were this kid’s parents? Were they vegan or something? “Man, Thayer. Ice cream…it’s just one of those things you have to taste to know what it’s like.” I tried to think of a way to describe it to someone who’d never had it. Suddenly, I had an idea. “Well, you’re about taste what it’s like. I’m taking you to get some. It won’t be as good as my mom’s—no ice cream’s come close to being as good as my mom’s—but you’ll like it. That I can guarantee.”
Thayer jumped up and down and clapped his hands. “Yay! Can we go right now?”
“Sure we can.”
I asked Thayer to hand me my crutches. My leg felt like molten lava had replaced the blood inside it, but I managed to stand up with Thayer and the crutches’ help.
I winced and grinned at Thayer, “Let’s go get some ice cream.”
It was then I realized something. Something Chealsie had written in the note she’d given me before she died. I don’t want you to waste your life mourning for me. Chealsie hadn’t wanted me to blame people for her death. She hadn’t wanted me to shut everyone out.
I looked down at Thayer, and I felt an overwhelming feeling of peace and happiness. And somehow I knew that up in Heaven, Chealsie was smiling.

• This reply was modified 8 years, 6 months ago by Greta.

[Kate Flournoy]

Yes @gretald, much better! 😀 I’m getting a lot more imagery this time around, not just a vague sense of what happened. Good work!

INFP. kateeverythingwriting.wordpress.com

[Greta]

Thanks for reading and critiquing it, @kate-flournoy! 🙂

[Daeus]

@gretald Ok, I finally got to this. I like it. You did a great job with improving the “showing” stuff.

🐢🐢🐢🐢🐢🐢🐢🐢🐢🐢🐢🐢🐢🐢🐢🐢🐢🐢🐢🐢🐢🐢

[Greta]

@Daeus, thanks so much for critiquing it! 🙂

[Author]

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