Forum
Community Forum
Today's Posts
FAQ & Rules
Members List

Writing
Writing Forum
Recent Posts
Critique Guidelines

Groups
YWO Social Groups
Facebook
Myspace

Chat
 
YWA

Register

Store
Support YWO
YWO Merchandise
The Book Despository
Amazon.com (US)
Amazon.co.uk (UK)
Amazon.ca (Canada)

SBS Mag


Reply  Find Chapters
 
Thread Tools
Old 12-20-2016, 09:30 PM View Post #1 (Link) Disposables - Chapter 1
Maple River (Offline)
Literary Newbie
 
Maple River's Avatar
 
Join Date: Oct 2016
Location: Joyzee
Posts: 5
Points: 5.06
Times Thanked: 0
Tick, Tape, Talk


I don’t know if the whole “duck tape” thing is supposed to be ironic—Ollie McDonald, here—but it turns out that irony chafes.

“Hold him still, boys,” King orders his pimply minions as they tape me sideways along the windows of the school bus. “We don’t want him escaping.”

Two teenagers stand guard at the bus doors they wrenched open earlier, while the rest stand on the shredded seats around me, making sure not an inch of me is left un-taped. My face comes next. On the bright side, I’ll never grow a mustache after this. On the dark side, I’ll look like Darth Vader after this. Having your skin duck-taped at an unnatural angle does burn like lava.

A minion pins my arm to the window and stretches tape over it. It feels like my skin is being pulled two different ways. I want to cry, but crying equals damnation, so I settle for the silent scream.

“Hey, King,” one of the braver upperclassmen says to his highness, who stands in the center isle with hands shoved in his overall pockets. “Couldn’t we get in serious trouble for this?”

Yes, I answer for him. It’s called detention.

The King grins, flashing yellow teeth that put all corncobs to shame. “Can’t get in trouble for something you didn’t do.” He switches his gaze to me and hisses the hiss of nightmares, “Right, McDump?

It takes all my willpower not to release uncomfortable bodily fluids into my cargo shorts. As much as I love being royally dubbed by the King, all I want right now is to be sitting in class, learning about everything I’ll probably forget, and texting Mom under my desk to see how she’s doing. So please, Universe, at least let me get out of this with my sanity, if not my dignity.

I tense as I realize that the minions have stopped the mummifying process. All of them are either staring at me, or staring at King. I have absolutely no clue what I did to garner their undivided attention, but it freaks the pupusas out of me.

“You think this is funny, McDingus?” King asks with an angry sneer.

I shake my head. How is this funny? I got towed from the hallway by a group of juniors claiming that I had been chosen for the trial by humiliation. That makes me more terrified, than anything!

But sure, yeah, no problem. I can see how it could be mistaken as funny.

Something vile rises up in my throat as King brings his mug disturbingly close to mine. Whatever he ate for breakfast—children’s dreams—overpowers the sweaty stench of the school bus. Taking in his complexion close-up like this, I can only hope that acne isn’t contagious.

The sixteen-year-old scarecrow looks me in the eye and whispers, “If it’s not funny, then why are you smiling?”

I mentally kick myself when I remember how much my resting face angers him. Whenever I outwardly doze off to focus on the inner workings of my brain, my expression goes to default and smiles. It’s not even a full-on grin, but it must be enough to trigger the King… which is probably why I’ve been picked for this special treatment in the first place. Dang, I was totally standing there with a stupid grin on my face when they walked by.

“Don’t think I can’t tell when you’re being smart, McDouche,” King says with a dangerous chuckle. “We could always tape your whole face.”

My heart pummels my chest to remind me how much I hate suffocating, especially in a rundown school bus behind Trove Public High. Part of me wants to push back and give the maniac a real smile, but I know that won’t do anything but bite me in the end. Plus, Mom would have to deal with yet another funeral. I can’t do that to her.

I feel a cold pair of eyes at the back of my neck. This should be impossible since no one can literally feel someone staring at them, but I can, and I can’t explain it. If someone really is watching my struggle against the higher power, then they would have called principal by now so he can take down these thugs with the ruler of justice.

Yeah, right. I’ll be lucky if I don’t get a suspension out of this.

“So, what do you have to say for yourself?” King asks with an evil smirk, earning a few snickers from his gang.

Help. Help would be nice.


The cold stare grows more intense on my neck, and it starts to bother me to the point of shuddering. I turn my eyes down and put on the most defeated look I can manage without straight-up sobbing. Silence hangs over the bus for a couple seconds, before I hear King grunt in satisfaction.

“I think that’s enough for today, boys,” King says as he stands. “We still have plenty other mummies to get—”

A blue light glares into my vision from below, and I shut my eyes on instinct. Startled yells of King and his gang fill the bus, along with the thump of someone falling off a seat near me. The only sentences I can distinguish among the shouts go something like,

“What is that on his neck? A timer?”

“That’s freaky, man!”

“Everyone out before he blows!”

I stop paying attention to King and his minions as the searing cold on my neck threatens frostbite. The blue light stings my eyes, even from behind closed lids. I don’t dare to move, or even cry out in pain until the cold dies down to a dull numbness. My thrumming heart is the only noise I can hear in the empty bus. Which is just as well, since I’m pretty sure I’m going to have a mental breakdown right here, duck taped to the windows of a school bus, with nothing but the digital blue timer on the inside of my eyes counting down to…

As I take a breath, the tape on my chest strangles me so much tighter. There it is. A six digit timer, counting down from three hours and forty-six minutes, taunting me with its dropping seconds.

My eyes snap open as I feel a sudden rush to get out of the suffocating cocoon. With the quick jerk of my arm, I rip the tape down the middle and hold back a scream. I use the same trick on my other arm, but have to manually remove my legs and midsection from the side of the bus with my hands. Halfway through the process, I come close to snapping in half from propping my upper body on the back of a bus seat. Let’s face it, there’s no easy way to detach yourself from a window.

My waist finally breaks free of the duck tape, and I roll off the seat and onto the floor of the bus with a loud oomph. I jump to my feet as fast as humanly possible after that fall, and dash up to the mirror at the front of the bus. As I crane my head to catch the glowing blue digits imprinted on the side of my neck, only one thought crosses my mind.

I’m going to explode.

Either that, or in exactly three hours and thirty-nine minutes, I’ll make a dinging sound and a pizza will pop out of my mouth.

I slow my breathing to calm myself and develop a plan. I tear off a piece of duck tape that once held me captive and cover the glowing blue digits with it. If worst comes to worst, I’ll be snickered at by a few classmates, but it’ll do the job.

My heart almost slows to a healthy pace, when the deafening clang of metal erupts to my right.

“What you doing in here, boy?” the gravelly voice of Mr. Mince, the bus driver, asks from the doors of the school bus. “Get out before I call the teachers on ya!”

My eyes widen as Mr. Mince throws something at me, and I duck just in time to miss getting hit by the metal lunch box he had clanged against the railing to get my attention.

“Git!”

Without a second thought to the bus driver’s sanity, or his outdated lunch box, I rush past him and sprint the rest of the way to the school building. My heart is back to beating me up as I collapse on the concrete steps behind the school.

I hug my sore knees to my chest and drop my head. I want to hyperventilate so bad it hurts my chest, but every time I close my eyes I get the reality shock of a doomsday counter. Like dozing off on your history report in the middle of the night, only to wake up every five seconds—it’s still there.

But this is way worse.

A panic mechanism clicks in my brain, and I feel a strange mix of adrenaline and sedative wash over my nerves.

You know what? I’m just going to ignore the fact that I’ll probably be pegged for the duck tape disaster. I have a ticking time bomb imprinted on my skin, which means I might just explode. Me, the school, and everyone in the school. Who cares if His Highness deserves to get blown to kingdom come, I’m not sticking around to see what happen when this counter hits zero.

I reach into the pocket of my pants for my phone so I can call Mom. The best plan of action is to have her drive me to an unpopulated area and drop me off. She might not understand, at first, but I hope I can convince her on the way there… somehow. I groan as my hand comes up empty from both pockets. King’s gang grabbed me at my locker, which means my backpack (and my phone) are still there.

I sit up and prepare to make a dash through the halls, when some girl with long dark hair leans over me from behind. My heart jumps into my throat, and it takes all my self-control not to choke on it. She looks familiar. No, the glare looks familiar. It’s the same glare I got from the flute player when I joined the marching band. I was the—um, the baton twirler.

So maybe I have zero musical talent and the baton was easy enough.

I think this is the flute player I bashed in the face with the baton. Her nose is still a bit crooked, but you tend to notice these things when the person’s nostrils are flaring just inches from your face.

My eyes drift from the girl, to the back doors. The last thing I need right now is to get caught up in a grudge, but my Mom made me promise to never come off as rude. Everything I want to do at this moment is the definition of that, so I try for polite.

“Can I help you?”

It looks like I took the wrong approach and waved a Christmas sweater in front of an angry bull.

“You? Help me?” To my relief, she backs up a step and away from my face, while pulling her hair into a tight bun to appear even more intimidating. “I don’t take help from things lying dead on the sidewalk.”

I want to point out that I am, in fact, lying dead on the stairs, but you know. “Okay,” I say when all else escapes me.

Her eyes keep going back to my neck, so I touch it to make sure the duck tape is in place. It is. Thank the Universe.

“What’s that?” she asks with more than a hint of annoyance in her voice.

“Um… duck tape?”

Her eyes narrow into even more suspecting slits. “Don’t you mean duct tape?”

“Sure,” I reply, wondering how anyone can even hear the difference. “Duct tape.”

This only appears to vex the flute player more as she scowls and takes another step down the stairs. “And why do you have duct tape stuck to your neck?”

I open my mouth to defend myself, and maybe admit that I was attached to the inside of a bus for a short period, when my eyes land on the scarf around her neck. Today’s too warm of a day to be wearing one, and the bright pink clashes with the dark green of her uniform.

A thought blinks into existence, and I ask the girl cautiously, “Why are you wearing a scarf in this weather?”

She instantly recoils up the steps and pulls the scarf tighter around her neck. “Mind your own business!” she says as she turns and storms back into the school building. “And stop sprawling around out back like a creep!” The door slams in her wake.

I release a long breath now that I’m free to go explode in an empty parking lot somewhere.

It’s impossible for another kid from the same school to have a glowing blue timer on their neck. Correction, it’s impossible for anyone to have a glowing blue timer on their neck.

Well, it sure would explain why she’s so angry at me… besides the nose.

I spring to my feet when I remember that everyone should be in class right now, making it the perfect chance to grab my backpack and get out of here. After checking the parking lot for Mr. Mince, I duck through the doors and into the hallway. The gray brick walls aren’t doing much for my mood, but I’m not looking to be cheered up as I spot my locker hanging open with my backpack crumpled on the floor in front of it. I grab my backpack and search it for my phone.

I find it in all its cracked screen glory and slam my locker door shut. The bell sounding immediately after jolts me from my victory, and I don’t wait for the mob of high schoolers to come rushing out the doors to make my own sprint for the exit. A few students stroll into the hall before I make it, and I catch the King and his minions out of the corner of my eye as I run past. There’s no mistaking the shout.

“That’s him! The glowing time bomb, kid!”

Well, I guess detention is a good enough conciliation prize for the story of the century.

“Hey, boy!”

I dare to look back at the voice of Mr. Mince, who’s charging down the hall towards me with the stick-figure principal in his shadow.

“You’ve got some explaining to do!”

My head says “not a chance” while my heart says “maybe next time,” and I practically fly through the front doors and out into the courtyard. I frantically search the premises for any mode of transportation. My eyes land on a bike stationed in the stand without a chain to keep desperate escapees from borrowing it.

Well, I am desperate, and I am escaping. Plus, the current risk outweighs the future consequences.

Inwardly apologizing at least twenty times, I get on the bike and take off down the street. I block out the shouts of classmates, teachers, and one disgruntled bus driver as I pedal away from the war zone. Mom told me that using roundabout terms is the solution to addressing guilt, which leads me to believe that Mom has experience with such things.

Speaking of mother dearest, I hope she has a solution for addressing framed vandalism and justified theft. Never mind, I think that just about covers it.

~~~~

Organizer #DR233 stares at its holo-canvas as subject Oliver McDonald, age fourteen, accelerates on his bicycle and distances himself from the educational center. The Organizer swipes to its notes and records:

Progress: Minimal

Details: Confrontation with fellow subject, stolen property, defiance of authority

Current Status: Disposable
  
						Last edited by Maple River; 01-10-2017 at 06:36 PM.
					
					Reply With Quote
Old 01-07-2017, 08:15 PM View Post #2 (Link)
Dest (Offline)
Literary Newbie
 
Dest's Avatar
 
Join Date: Jan 2017
Location: USA (or Sesame Street)
Posts: 8
Points: 23.38
Times Thanked: 1
Originally Posted by Maple River View Post
Tick, Tape, Talk


“Hold him still, boys,” King orders his scraggly minions as they horizontally tape me to the windows of the bus. “We don’t want him escaping.”

I would protest, but I can't, with the tape and all. On the bright side, I’ll never grow a mustache after this. On the dark side, I’ll look like Darth Vader after this. Having your skin duck-taped at an unnatural angle does burn like lava. (Okay, I like the humorous tone here, already)

A minion pins my arm to the window with tape, stretching it so tight I think my skin is going to rip off. I want to cry, but crying equals damnation, so I settle for the silent scream.

“King,” one of the braver upperclassmen says to his highness. “Don’t you think we could get in serious trouble for this?”

Yes, I answer for him. It’s called detention.

The King flashes a sickening yellow grin that puts all cornfields to shame. “Can’t get in trouble for something you didn’t do.” He switches his gaze to me and hisses the hiss of nightmares, “Right, McDump?

It takes all my willpower not to release bodily fluids into my cargo shorts. As much as I love being royally dubbed by the King, all I want right now is to be sitting in class, learning about everything I’ll probably forget, and texting Mom under my desk to see how she’s doing. So please, Universe, at least let me get out of this with my sanity, if not my dignity. (This is interesting so far! For some reason, I thought the speaker was kidnapped by pirates)

I tense as I realize that the minions have stopped the mummifying process. All of them are either staring at me or staring at King. I have absolutely no clue what I did to garner their undivided attention, but it freaks the pupusas out of me.

“You think this is funny, McDingus?” King says with an angry sneer.

I shake my head. How is this funny? I got towed from the hallway by a group of juniors claiming that I had been chosen for the trial by humiliation. That makes me more terrified, than anything!

But sure, yeah, no problem. I can see how it could be mistaken as funny.

Something vile rises up in my throat as King brings his mug disturbingly close to mine. I wonder if he can actually hear the quips I’m making. Green Lantern, save me now.

The sixteen-year-old scarecrow looks me in the eye and whispers, “If it’s not funny, then why are you smiling?” (Nice detail. Now, I'm getting an idea of who King is. So far, a skinny bully with a big mouth)

I mentally kick myself when I remember how much my resting face angers him. Whenever I outwardly doze off to focus on the inner workings of my brain, my expression goes to default and smiles. It’s not even a full-on grin, but it must be enough to trigger the King… which is probably why I’ve been picked for this special treatment, in the first place. Dang, I was totally standing there with a stupid grin on my face when they walked by. (This is funny)

“Don’t think I can’t tell when you're being smart, McDouche,” King says with a dangerous chuckle. “We could always tape your whole face.”

My heart pummels my chest to remind me how much I hate suffocating, which is a lot. Part of me wants to push back and give the maniac a real smile, duck tape and all, but I know that won’t do anything but bite me in the end. Plus, Mom would have to deal with yet another funeral. I can’t do that to her. (Ooh, another funeral? Interesting...)

I shiver as I feel a cold pair of eyes at the back of my neck. This should be impossible (don't need a comma here) since my neck is up against a bus window and no one can literally feel someone staring at them, but I can, and I can’t explain it. If someone really is watching my struggle against the higher power, then they would have called principal by now so he can take down these thugs with the ruler of justice.

Yeah, right. I’ll be lucky if I don’t get a suspension out of this.

“So, what do you have to say for yourself?” King asks with an evil smirk, earning a few snickers from his gang.

Help?

I feel the cold stare grows more intense on my neck, and it starts to bother me to the point of shuddering. Sorry to disappoint whoever’s watching, but fight or flight is no longer an option, so I'm stuck with "fright." And fright is sticking needles in my spine.

I turn my eyes down and put on the most defeated look I can manage without straight-up sobbing, even if that sounds pretty good to my skin. Silence hangs over the bus for a couple seconds, before I hear King grunt in satisfaction.

“I think that’s enough for today, boys,” King says as he stands. “We still have plenty other mummies to get—”

I wince and shut my eyes as a blue light glares into my vision from below. I can hear the startled yells of King and his gang fill the bus and a few thumps of people tripping over each other. The only sentences I can distinguish among the shouts go something like,

“What is that on his neck? A timer?”

“That’s freaky, man!”

“Everyone out before he blows!”

I don’t pay much attention to King and his minions (don't need a comma here; unnecessary comma in a complex sentence) because I’m too busy wincing from the searing cold on my neck. The blue light stings my eyes, even from behind closed lids. I don’t dare to move, or even cry out in pain until the cold dies down to a dull numbness. My thrumming heart is the only noise I can hear in the empty bus. Which is just as well, since I pretty sure I’m going to have a mental breakdown right here, duck taped to the windows of a school bus, with nothing but the digital blue timer on the inside of my eyes counting down to…

The tape on my arms and legs strangles me so much tighter as I take a breath. There it is. A six digit timer, counting down from three hours and forty-six minutes, taunting me with its dropping seconds.

My eyes snap open as I feel a sudden rush to get out of the suffocating cocoon. With the quick jerk of my arm, I rip the tape down the middle and hold back a scream. I use the same trick on my other arm but have to manually remove my legs and midsection from the side of the bus with my hands. Halfway through the process, I come close to snapping in half from propping my upper body on the back of a bus seat. Let’s face it, there’s no easy way to detach yourself from a window. I am seriously regretting the shorts.

My waist finally breaks free of the duck tape, and I roll off the seat and onto the floor of the bus with a loud oomph. I jump to my feet as fast as humanly possible after that fall and dash up to the mirror at the front of the bus. As I crane my head to catch the glowing blue digits imprinted on the side of my neck, only one thought crosses my mind.

I’m going to explode.

Either that or in exactly three hours and thirty-nine minutes, I’ll make a dinging sound and a pizza will pop out of my mouth.

I slow my breathing to calm myself and develop a plan. After walking back to the mess of duck tape on the bus seat, I rip off a small piece and take it back to the mirror so I can cover the glowing blue digits with it. If worst comes to worst, I’ll be snickered at by a few classmates, but it’ll do the job.

My heart almost slows to a healthy pace, before the deafening clang of metal erupts to my right.

“What you doing in here, boy?” the gravelly voice of Mr. Mince, the bus driver, asks from the doors of the school bus. “Get out before I call the teachers on ya!”

My eyes widen as Mr. Mince throws something at me, and I duck just in time to miss getting hit by the metal lunch box he had clanged against the railing to get my attention.

“Git!”

Without a second thought to the bus driver’s sanity, or his outdated lunch box, I rush past him and sprint the rest of the way to the school building. My heart is back to beating me up as I collapse on the concrete steps of the school. At this rate, I’ll die from heart failure.

I hug my sore knees to my chest and drop my head. I want to hyperventilate so bad it hurts my chest, but every time I close my eyes I get the reality shock of a doomsday counter. Like dozing off on your history report in the middle of the night, only to wake up every five seconds—it’s still there.

But this is way worse.

You know what? I’m just going to ignore the fact that I’ll probably be pegged for the duck tape disaster. I have a ticking time bomb imprinted on my skin, which means I might just explode. Me, the school, and everyone in the school. Who cares if His Highness deserves to get blown to kingdom come, I’m not sticking around to see what happen when this counter hits zero.

I reach into the pocket of my pants for my phone so I can call Mom. The best plan of action is to have her drive me to an unpopulated area and drop me off. She might not understand, at first, but I hope I can convince her on the way there… somehow. I groan as my hand comes up empty from both pockets. King’s gang grabbed me at my locker, which means my backpack (and my phone) are still there.

I straighten in my seat and prepare to make a dash through the halls (don't need a comma here) when some girl with long dark hair leans over me from behind. My heart jumps into my throat, and it takes all my self-control not to choke on it. She looks familiar. No, the glare looks familiar. It’s the same glare I got from the flute player when I joined the marching band. I was the—um, the baton twirler.

So maybe I have zero musical talent and the baton was easy enough.

I think this is the flute player I bashed in the face with the baton. Her nose is still a bit crooked, but you tend to notice these things when the person’s nostrils are flaring just inches from your face.

My eyes drift from the girl to the back doors. The last thing I need right now is to get caught up in a grudge, but my Mom made me promise to never come off as sarcastic or rude. Everything I want to do at this moment is the definition of that, so I try for polite.

“Can I help you?”

It looks like I took the wrong approach and waved a Christmas sweater in front of an angry bull.

“You? Help me?” To my relief, she backs up a step and away from my face, while pulling her hair into a tight bun to appear even more intimidating. “I don’t take help from things lying dead on the sidewalk.”

I want to point out that I am, in fact, lying dead on the stairs, but you know. “Okay,” I say when all else escapes me.

Her eyes keep going back to my neck, so I touch it to make sure the duck tape is in place. It is. Thank the universe.

“What’s that?” she asks with more than a hint of annoyance in her voice.

“Um… duck tape?”

Her eyes narrow into even more suspecting slits. “Don’t you mean duct tape?”

“Sure,” I reply, wondering how anyone can even hear the difference. “Duct tape.”

This only appears to vex the flute player more as she scowls and takes another step down the stairs. “And why do you have duct tape stuck to your neck?”

I open my mouth to defend myself, and maybe admit that I was attached to the inside of a bus for a short period (don't need a comma) when my eyes land on the scarf around her neck. Today’s too warm a day to be wearing one, and the bright pink clashes with the dark green of her uniform.

A thought blinks into existence, and I ask the girl cautiously, “Why are you wearing a scarf in this weather?”

She instantly recoils up the steps and pulls the scarf tighter around her neck. “Mind your own business!” she says as she turns and storms back into the school building. “And stop sprawling around out back like a creep!” She slams the door in her wake.

I release a long breath now that I’m free to go explode in an empty parking lot somewhere.

It’s impossible for another kid from the same school to have a glowing blue timer on their neck. Correction, it’s impossible for anyone to have a glowing blue timer on their neck.

Well, it sure would explain why she’s so angry at me… apart from the nose.


I spring to my feet when I remember that everyone should be in class right now, making it the perfect chance to grab my backpack and get out of here. After checking the parking lot for Mr. Mince, I duck through the doors and into the hallway. The gray brick walls aren’t doing much for my mood, but I’m not looking to be cheered up as I spot my locker hanging open with my backpack crumpled on the floor in front of it. Without checking my locker for possible stolen contents, I grab my backpack and search it for my phone.

I find it in all its cracked screen glory and slam my locker door shut. The bell sounding immediately after jolts me from my victory, and I don’t wait for the mob of high schoolers to come rushing out the doors to make my own sprint for the exit. A few students stroll into the hall before I make it, and I catch the King and his minions out of the corner of my eye as I run past. There’s no mistaking the shout.

“That’s him! The glowing time bomb, kid!”

Well, I guess detention is a good enough conciliation prize for the story of the century.

“Hey, boy!”

I dare to look back at the voice of Mr. Mince, who’s charging down the hall towards me with the stick-figure principal in his shadow.

“You’ve got some explaining to do!”

My head says “not a chance” while my heart says “maybe next time,” and I practically fly through the front doors and out into the courtyard. I frantically search the premises for any mode of transportation. My eyes land on a bike stationed in the stand without a chain to keep desperate escapees from borrowing it.

Well, I am desperate, and I am escaping. Plus, the current risk outweighs the future consequences.

Inwardly apologizing at least twenty times, I get on the bike and take off down the street. I block out the shouts of classmates, teachers, and one disgruntled bus driver as I pedal away from the war zone. Mom told me that using roundabout terms is the solution to addressing guilt, which leads me to believe that Mom has experience with such things.

Speaking of mother dearest, I hope she has a solution for addressing framed vandalism and justified theft. Never mind, I think that just about covers it.

~~~~

Organizer #DR233 stares at its holo-canvas as subject Oliver Rows McDonald, age fourteen, accelerates on his bicycle and distances himself from the educational center. The Organizer swipes to its notes and records:

Progress: Minimal

Details: Confrontation with fellow subject, stolen property, defiance of authority

Current Status: Disposable
Okay, I'm surprised not to see any other critiques/reviews.

I love smart-aleck, sarcastic characters, and this kid's narrative makes me laugh. I could see this as a YA thriller/comedy. This certainly kept my interest, and even now I want to see what happens next. I think this was an excellent first chapter! It sets the tone for the story and immediately jumps into the action. You incorporate nice details as well

You might want to revisit some references about commas because you often add them to sentences that don't need them. (This is something I have been working on too! D: ) I don't have any other suggestions besides grammatical ones, so please keep writing!
  Reply With Quote
Reply
Thread Tools

 


All times are GMT. The time now is 04:22 AM.
Powered by vBulletin® Version 3.8.7 - Copyright ©2000 - 2018, Jelsoft Enterprises Ltd.
All writing Copyright © its author(s). All other material Copyright © 2007-2012 Young Writers Online unless otherwise specified.
Managed by Andrew Kukwa (Andy) and Shaun Duke (Shaun) from The World in the Satin Bag. Design by HTWoRKS.