3 a.m. Thoughts: An Open Pen Critique

This Saturday, we have a long fiction excerpt from Readloveexpress22, who blogs over at Read Love Express. Though she welcomed any critique, Readloveexpress22 particularly asked for feedback on her “showing not telling,” description, and grammar.

Thank you for stopping by, and if you have the time, I know that Readloveexpress22 would love to have your feedback on this piece.

The current queue for Open Pen is as follows:

• Beforetheflames (May 7th)
• Sami P. (May 14)

If you would like to submit a piece of writing to be critique, you can read the rules and submit on the Open Pen page.

God bless,

Gabrielle

_______________________________________________________________

3 AM Thoughts by readloveexpress22

By the end of yesterday , I was exhausted. After sobbing for hours with attacks raking my body , I had slumped against the sleeping bag tired. Yet , sleep was far from me. I ached to sleep but unfortunately I was unable to do so. I caught about 3 hours of sleep before I woke up again. So , here I am , awake at 3 AM , hopelessly exhausted but unable to sleep. I got up Quietly and left the tent to get some fresh air. I let the cold air hit me as it slightly pricks my skin. The area is silent and wind is howling causing the fallen leaves to sway to the music of the wind. A grim silence has been cast over the camp-site. All are asleep. The birds are perched upon their trees trying to get some sleep. The silence of the woods is broken occasionally by the faint rustling in the bushes created by some animals. I wonder what the hare must be thinking as it slowly creeped through the bushes. Is it unable to sleep like me? Is it hungry and in search of food? Is there a particular reason for it being awake at this hour? Does it know itself that it about 3 or 4 in the morn? My thoughts are broken by the familiar twang of a bow. It’s the sound that bow which a certain boy held in his hand. Dad always told me ,” Every bow will have its own sound. The twang of my bow and that of William’s are not the same. The sound your bow makes is resonant to the beat of your heart. For the bow and your heart are both set to the same beat. Always remember , what sound a person’s bow makes Alyssa. If that sound connects with you heart it means that person connects with you.”

I follow the harmonious sound of his bow until I reach a clearing where I see my very own Adonis shooting the hell out of an old willow tree. I feel the beats of own heart matching that of his bow. I watch as he carefully pulls out his arrow from the bark of the tree. He slips the arrows back into his quiver. He seems so at ease with his weapon. It is said that a true hunter knows which weapon connects with his soul. It is sort of like Harry Potter with his wand. I know it all seems a bit weird. But to a hunter , a good weapon is what connects with his soul. He doesn’t choose his weapon but the weapon chooses him. I remember the first time Dad took me to get a weapon. Most girls asked for a Barbie or a doll house. Being born in the family I was , I always asked for a weapon. I still remember I walked in the shop at a mere age of 9 wanting to get a sword cause I thought they were cool and I could look like a ninga. However , when I picked up a dagger I felt a spark which I didn’t feel with the sword. That day , I bought my first ever dagger. I still carry it with me to mark my journey as a hunter. I don’t go anywhere without it. Later on, once I mastered my daggers ; I moved on to knives, spears and swords. I don’t connect as much with them as I do with daggers. However , my knives are a close second.

As I watched Adonis shoot I realized that his weapon had chosen him and he had chosen it as well. He looked at it with a feeling of safety. I noticed that it was damaged and could snap any second. His bow seemed to be really fragile and hence , he treated it with care. I shift my attention to his body and face. His lips set in a firm , thin line he looks formidable. His stance is defensive and aggressive at the same time. The cheery , cocky Adonis I know is replaced by an emotionless model of him. Looking closely at his features, I can notice the sadness in his eyes covered by an ice cold , steely gaze. His lips tremble once in a while which he quickly covers by moulding them into a thin firm line. He looks sad and misunderstood. His earlier boyish looks are replaced by that of a person who has seen a lot of pain in life. He momentarily looks up at the sky as though praying to some unknown deity up there. A split second of vulnerability passes on his face but it is gone as fast as it had come. His pain and hurt is not visible but in those striking eyes of his a pool of raw pain is floating.