Help! YA Historical Fiction--TROOPER

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jenad
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Help! YA Historical Fiction--TROOPER

Post by jenad » August 19th, 2012, 7:31 pm

So I've been on other boards and have been getting different advice. One person told me to cut one thing from my first 5 pages--another told me to add it in. So I've posted two different versions of my opening pages and really need advice on which to keep. Or maybe I should combine the two??


October 2nd 2009
1700 hrs

“What was your fondest memory during that time?”
My steady breathing fills the heated room. Occasionally my chest stiffens as I struggle to catch a breath. There she sits, a spitting image of the girl I loved her rusty hair dangling softly over her shoulder as she clutches her folder bursting with rumpled papers. I catch a glimpse of her face as she concentrates on what I am about to say next. Her foot taps the floor quickly and impatiently. She catches a glimpse of the dog tag, along with the ticking pocket watch, that is hiding from inside my coffee cup full of useless doodads.
“There isn’t one,” I respond in the fashion that I usually do. “There was nothing fond about it.”
“Okay,” she says with a slight huff, a lame attempt to hide her frustration. “What about a lesson you learned?”
It is almost impossible to name just one.
“When someone dies, I think that means whatever they were put on earth to do is completed. And it is the survivors’ job to figure out what that mission was.”
“Okay. Good, good.”
That’s all she had to say?
She scribbles something.
I could tell she did not fully understand.
An uncomfortable silence grasps the stale air surrounding the two of us. I stare blankly at the muted episode of M.A.S.H that flashes across my television set.
She pulls out her cell phone and checks for the time. Her wide brown eyes look hopefully towards me. “I’ve gotta get going. I’m meeting my friend later.”
“Don’t you wanna finish the interview?”
“No it’s all right, just forget it.”
I stiffen at her words. I have hated that phrase ever since I was a young man.
“No, I’m not gonna forget it. I’m gonna answer your questions.”
“It’s fine,” she responds with a small smile. “We’ll finish it up tomorrow.”
“All right.”
Defeat.
“Bye, Grandpa.”
My granddaughter leans over and gently kisses my cheek. I lean the side of my face towards her and nod my head after she gives me the quick peck. She squeezes my arm tenderly and walks briskly out the door.
Suddenly I realize I need her for a moment.
“Elizabeth!” I call after her, hoping she has not left.
I hear pounding steps echoing off the bare walls in the corridor. I can sense the door swinging open behind me, and Elizabeth carries in a gust of cool, fresh air. Her dark eyes look intently at me as she fails to hide the small speck of worry glistening in them.
“What’s wrong, Grandpa?” she asks me almost breathlessly. Those eyes dart around the muggy room.
“Can you pass me the T.V. remote?”
Confusion.
I can clearly see the disappointment forming on her face as she realizes my call for help was truly not very imperative. They must have told her I have not been doing well. She reaches over a few feet and grabs the remote. Slowly Elizabeth places it down on my walker and backs up, a solemn smile faint on her lips.
“Thank you,” I say to her gruffly.
Just as I hit the small button to adjust the volume, I hear her faintly say, “I love you.” The rhythm of her steps is momentarily interrupted as she awaits my response. I pass it off as if I do not hear her over the laughs of the men on the television screen. After a moment or two, Elizabeth regains her rhythm and is out the door.
I come across as a person with no feelings. But that is not true. I am full of feeling, full of life. My issue is I have become too hardened to let my feelings be known. I see it as a sign of weakness that it is extremely difficult for me to occasionally toss a smile someone’s way, or do something that seems as small as saying, “I love you, too.” It hurts too much.
War changed me.
Young men in the forces are continuing to risk their lives. I see it as an act of bravery and integrity, respecting them for their act of valor, but there is no need for blood bath and guns. What point did it prove? That one is stronger than the other? That one is lucky enough to hit a target under pressure? Where does that get us in the long run?
War is a sign of immaturity and resistance to change and understanding. I hate that I scarred my life by seeing sights no man is ever meant to see. I was happy to serve my country, but the outcome was wounding.
I saw men get their stomachs ripped open and their skulls ruptured.
I saw boys from the neighborhood have their names engraved on headstones.
I saw my best friend die trying to save me.
That’s what changed me in war: actually seeing ones I cared for die during the atrocities of war. War changed me from a naïve, mediocre boy into a hard, focused man. The ones that I knew from back in Corona did not recognize me when I returned home.
And that is how I lost some of them.
But the ones that mattered waited around for me to finally figure things out.
People always ask me to recount my experiences in the war. They want to see what I saw, hear what I heard, feel what I felt. These people did not understand that I did not want them to see, hear, or feel war. I did not want to recount my experiences, for I have fought so hard to forget them. I cannot forget them. No matter what I do, I am always reminded of my mistakes and the mistakes of those who were around me.
Later that evening, once I am finally in my cold bed to get some much-desired sleep, I turn my neck towards my closet. It hurts to move my neck in that way. There, in the illumination of the moonlight through one of my two windows, is the “duck cane,” as my grandchildren, who have now grown up, called it. The brass of the duck on the handle does not gleam the way it used to. My impaired walking has become too severe to use the cane anymore. The cane has been reduced to nothing more than a wooden stick now, a symbol of the somewhat better days. Now I have been sentenced to a mere walker, an impending symbol of my demise. Who would have thought that the twist of an ankle in the cold forest of the Ardennes would ultimately lead to such terrible arthritis?
I look away from the closet and gaze at the ceiling. My arms and fingers are stiff. The boys tried to call me a doctor, they did, but I refused to succumb to looking like a weakling. Sure the doc gave me some meds, but he had not discovered the real problem, and now I am feeling the pain of my pride. My stomach tightens for a moment, and I try to relax on the bed. But by this point, I cannot truly relax.
The ceiling above my sunken-in face spins slowly, whirling into a vision of a dull smoke sky filled with heavy clouds ready to break. A sickness ruptures in my stomach and my ankle begins to twitch with pain, bringing back memories of one of the many days that forever changed me.
All I can hear is the ticking of that pocket watch.
If you really want to know my story of discovering what made us boys-turned-soldiers great—my story of war—this is the first and last time I’ll tell it. And let me begin it with this:
I hate war.

-----

October 2nd 2009
0300 hrs

We all have a story.
Either told from a barstool or held in our chests until it bursts, our veins are pulsating with ink as the mind serves as paper, the memories grasping each other in attempt to form pages. I had always wanted to have a story, something that would last way longer than I ever did. I had always wanted people to know my name, not because I was a famous but because of something I did, big or small, that caused people to smile if my name were to be brought up. Everyone is given a story that is their life, but I had wanted mine to be memorable, one that storytellers wanted to tell and the listeners wanted to hear. At the time I did not think I was asking for much. Some people wish for fame, fortune, and success—all I had wanted was something worth telling. Back when I was a kid I wanted a story that would keep people on the edge of their seats, smacking me for building up the suspense. I had wanted people to crowd around me with unlit cigarettes dangling limply off their lips because I had distracted them from setting the flame. I had a greed to have listeners gaze with a stare of puzzlement and wonder that would mix together to form that look of fascination.
As an old man, I have that story now. My experiences during life have created a tale that many would find captivating—a tale of heartbreak and love, betrayal and friendships, mistakes and lessons.
But I never told my story.
War changed me.
People always ask me to recount my experiences in the war. They want to see what I saw, hear what I heard, feel what I felt. These people did not understand that I did not want them to see, hear, or feel war. I did not want to recount my experiences, for I have fought so hard to forget them. I cannot forget them. No matter what I do, I am always reminded of my mistakes and the mistakes of those who were around me.
I saw men get their stomachs ripped open and their skulls ruptured.
I saw boys from the neighborhood have their names engraved on headstones.
I saw my best friend die trying to save me.
War changed me from a naïve boy to a focused man. The ones that I knew from back in Corona did not recognize me when I returned home.
And that is how I lost some of them.
But the ones that mattered waited around for me to figure things out.
I reach across my bed and grab a ticking pocket watch from my coffee cup full of doodads. My fingers play with the cold metal that has not lost its shine despite all that it has been through. I turn my neck towards my closet. It hurts to move my neck that way. In the illumination of the moonlight through one of my two windows is my old cane. When my grandchildren were young they always loved playing with the duck that formed the handle. The brass of the duck does not gleam the way it once did. My impaired walking has become too severe to use the cane anymore. It has been reduced to nothing more than a wooden stick, a symbol of the somewhat better days. Now I have been sentenced to a mere walker, an impending symbol of my demise. Who would have thought that the twist of an ankle in the bitter forest of the Ardennes would lead to such terrible arthritis?
The boys tried to call me a doctor, but I refused to succumb to looking like a weakling. Now I am feeling the pain of my pride. My stomach tightens for a moment, and I try to relax on the bed. But by this point, I cannot truly relax.
I begin to sing to myself.
Like music to my ears, I can almost hear her whisper to me. Her voice is distant, for I have forgotten the true sound. Ignoring the pain, I drop the pocket watch and hold my left hand in front of my face. Despite the years of wear, the ring still has its charm. I miss her dearly. I truly miss her. I loved her. I still love her. I will always love the girl helped me find good in the world.
The ceiling above my sunken-in face spins slowly, whirling into a vision of a dull smoke sky filled with heavy clouds ready to break. My ankle begins to twitch with pain, bringing back memories of one of the many days that changed me.
All I can hear is the ticking of that pocket watch.
If you really want to know my story, this is the first and last time I will tell it. Let me begin it with this:
I hate war.

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klbritt
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Re: Help! YA Historical Fiction--TROOPER

Post by klbritt » August 20th, 2012, 4:45 pm

I have to say that reading the two, I really like what you created in the first excerpt. I feel it gives us a broader sense of your MC. I love that his granddaughter reminds him so much of his wife. I think that your first excerpt does more for the story description-wise than the other.

~Kristie
~Kristie

-: Outside of a dog, a book is man's best friend. Inside of a dog it's too dark to read - Groucho Marx :-

http://www.BKRivers.blogspot.com

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LurkingVirologist
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Re: Help! YA Historical Fiction--TROOPER

Post by LurkingVirologist » August 20th, 2012, 11:44 pm

I second Kristie - go with the first one.
"Books break the shackles of time, proof that humans can work magic." -Carl Sagan

jenad
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Joined: August 5th, 2012, 10:08 pm
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Re: Help! YA Historical Fiction--TROOPER

Post by jenad » August 23rd, 2012, 2:52 am

Thank you both!

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