Chapter 1

Chapter 1

 

August eleventh is a day that will live in infamy for the rest of my life. Sadly, it was the day I entered this world. Nothing more than exactly eight pounds and three ounces of pure innocence. My mother held me close in her soft, lean arms. Close enough so she could feel my steady heartbeat. She kissed my little forehead and pegged me her little bundle of joy. And my father, well, he grazed the back of my head with his rough, overworked hands ever so gently and smiled because he swore he had never seen anything so beautiful. Me, his precious baby girl.

Unfortunately, the damn nurses and doctors allowed these two foolish excuses for parents to bring me home. Well, their home. This hell hole was never a home to me.

            I guess my mother, and may I add of only seventeen years, had forgotten the bitter taste of alcohol. Less than a week after undergoing hours of excruciating pain to grant me this valuable gift of life, she resumed the poisonous hobby that once consumed her dark nights. It only took three glasses of her beloved red wine to feel tipsy. A couple shots of rum and a few shots of vodka later, she sat still on the floor and stared at the peeling, white wallpaper plastered on her bedroom wall. The room spun in delicate ellipses as the four walls caved in smaller and smaller in her unwell mind. Apparently she had been depressed for a while, and the doctors had no choice but to take her off the meds as soon as she found out she was pregnant. I guess it could’ve led to complications as if being the daughter of a depressed, alcoholic wasn’t complicated enough. Instead, she resorted to thrashing her wrists open with a switch blade to ease her troubled mind while I grew inside of her belly. At least she had enough decency to sober up for nine months. I guess I only have God to thank for that one. If he even exists. 

It was only a matter of time before my mother was escorted out of the house for child neglect and drug abuse by my knight in shining armor. And by that I mean a man in a blue vest flaunting his badge around as though it meant something. As the newest member of the Metropolitan Correctional Center, my mother received a bright orange jumpsuit and a practical pair of black sneakers. Caged in like an animal, and I don’t feel the least bit sympathetic for her. The last I heard, she had been admitted into the mental health institution of the prison by her thoughtful corrections officer. It was probably for the best.

            Similarly, my father spent most of his nights at the local bar drinking his so-called sorrows away. As he consumed countless drinks, night after night, he couldn’t help but boast about me, his precious little gift from above, to all of his life-long friends. And by friends, I mean the hammered alcoholics who were too foolish and drunk to even comprehend the useless words he was spitting out. As long as the next round was on him, they would gladly listen to his trivial achievements. But I guess I can’t really blame him for hitting up the bar scene each night. His aching mind and body craved the most innocent form of attention, something my mother never could provide.

            A year following my mother’s arrest, he had been spotted trying to rob a gas station about forty miles from our residence. Four squad cars with blinding, flashing lights, jerked to a stop, surrounding my father with no escape. On impulse, he pulled out his father’s, my grandfather’s, handgun, aimed the barrel straight down his throat, and fell to the ground as the bullet shot directly through his heart. The officer who shot him claimed he had never seen a man’s face become so pale so fast. My father never would have pulled that trigger, but the officers insisted that they couldn’t risk his unsteady hand turning the gun on them. Maybe now he can finally rest his troubled mind.

…

 

Tonight, the overwhelming roar of the ocean waves crashing against the shore is the only sound engulfing my eardrums. The miniscule grains of sand massage my fingertips as I trace my mother’s name in the sand, only to erase it seconds later. It is my eighteenth birthday. No, let me rephrase that. It is the eighteenth anniversary of losing her to the same addiction that now controls my own life. And despite promising myself I would never follow down her path, I guess it was my destiny. As I sip what’s left of the bottle of some cheap, red wine in the remembrance of my mother, I strangely smell cinnamon in the air. The memories of my grandmother’s freshly baked cinnamon rolls on a Sunday morning before church flood my brain. Swirled to perfection and smothered with her legendary homemade frosting. I remember how she used to call my name from the bottom of the stairs, she’d say, “Charlie, you’ll never guess what I made for you.” But I always knew. She liked to tease me, knowing they were my favorite. I’d run down the stairs as quick as I could and bolt into the kitchen like an Olympic runner. Fresh out of the oven and warm, I can still taste them on my tongue. I miss her tonight.

It was my mother’s mother who raised me. Introduced me to a real home, familiarized me with the idea of being part of a family, and most importantly, taught me what love is. My grandfather died long before I was born and my mother was incarcerated behind steel bars. Looking back, I think that’s why my grandmother always remained so protective over me. I am the lone survivor on the list of people she’s ever loved. Every night she would read me my favorite bedtime story, tuck me in tight under my silk covers, kiss me on the forehead like my mother had once done, and whisper melodically, “Now remember, Charlie, your past does not define your future. Close those sleepy eyes, and tomorrow again the sun will rise.”

            I never really understood what she meant when she said that. I was too young, too naïve. I used to think about those words long after she put me to sleep. Bouncing around in my little mind keeping me awake through the night. One late September night, I mustered up the courage to ask her why she sang those words to me each night. She glanced away at first, probably feeling slightly uncomfortable, but when I prompted again for an answer, she looked me directly in the eye. She nodded, and directed, “Go ahead and get your jacket. It’s chilly out tonight.”

            I didn’t know why she had taken me to the beach. This beach to be exact. I stood beside her, confused and anxious for an answer. I had spent years wondering about my past, and I couldn’t waste another minute not knowing the truth. Her frail hand gripped mine tighter than she’d ever held it as we strode through the sand. She stopped just before her feet would touch the ocean water, peering out into the darkness. We stood, side by side, for what seemed like forever without saying a word. Eventually, she broke the silence. “When your mother was just a little girl, not much older than you, she only had one wish.” I looked up at her face, but it was concealed in the darkness. She continued as I listened intently, refusing to miss a single syllable. “And that wish was to wake up to the sun rising above the ocean every morning.” She paused, taking in a deep breath before continuing. “On her fourteenth birthday, your grandfather and I, having finally saved enough money, moved half way across the country to give our baby the only thing she’s ever really wanted. We stumbled across this little spot and fell in love. We had intended to bring your mother out here most mornings, but things don’t always turn out like you plan.” She always had a way of explaining things to me.

            She proceeded to tell me how a week after arriving in a small town off the coast of South Carolina, my grandfather suffered a minor heart attack. It didn’t seem necessary, but paramedics strapped his body into a stretcher and lifted him into the back of an ambulance. Procedure, they had said. But what seemed like a minor heart attack had its complications, and his heart went into cardiac arrest upon reaching the hospital. Despite the staff making every attempt at keeping him alive, nothing could save that old man’s dying heart. I looked at my grandmother when those words escaped her lips. It was hard to see through the darkness, but I was almost positive a tear was falling down my grandmother’s wrinkled cheekbone. This was the only time I had ever seen her cry.

            Hours we spent, standing on this soft bed of sand. She told me first about my mother. How my grandfather’s death crushed her. Hit her like an oncoming train as she stood trapped on the forbidden tracks. And it spiraled her into an inescapable prison of depression. “She was never the same after that,” my grandmother had claimed. Turned to drugs to hopefully sooth her breaking soul. One night, my grandmother found her lying on the bathroom floor with a syringe jammed in her vein. She was disoriented and soaked in a pool of vomit. By chance, she survived. When my mother realized heroin wasn’t enough to relax her throbbing head, she combined the addiction with liquor. And ever since then, it sufficed in blurring out reality for a few hours to get her through another painful night. “Maybe it would’ve been easier for her if we didn’t find her that night,” my grandmother said. Her expression was blank, and I didn’t ask anything after that.

            Next, she told me about my father. “A good-hearted soul,” she had said. Apparently, he fell in love with the darkness that consumed my mother’s mind and the idea that he could save her from her own living hell. Every free moment of his life, he spent holding her in his arms late at night, trying to shake her from the devil who subsisted in her spirit. She’d fall asleep, but only for a moment as the demon himself would jolt her back to reality. No matter what he tried, nothing was enough. And I know that her tragic episodes, and the pain that pricked at her body, like ten thousand pointy needles stabbing her already numb skin, forced him into forever agony of knowing that he could never be her savior. And that’s when the booze became his companion.

 

…

 

“Charlotte,” I faintly heard, jolting me back to reality.

            My heart skipped a beat as I jerked my head around to find the familiar boy standing upright behind me. It was too dark to make out the emotion in his complexion, but by the tone of his voice, I could tell he was concerned. “What the hell are you doing here?” I asked angrily, throwing my empty bottle on the ground. It broke. He knew this was my place. My sanctuary. And for him to have the nerve to disrupt my haven so carelessly was inexcusable.

            He took a step back and watched me as I stood up and brushed the pellets of sand off my arms and legs. His clothes were disheveled and his blonde hair appeared messy. “I had to see you,” he responded shakily.

            “You know this is"”

            “Yes,” he retorted taking a step closer to me. This was the first time I’d seen his eyes in over a month. His gorgeous blue eyes that could convince any girl to fall in love with just a moment’s glance. I’d admired those eyes many times before, but tonight, they seemed foreign. I had forgotten just how blue they truly were. And all at once I felt vulnerable. Memories. They all came back in this heaping wave of emotion. One happened to stick out.

            About a month ago, we went on a fishing trip together out on the Mississippi River. His parents being well-off was sort of an understatement. In fact, they were rich as hell and owned this magnificent wooden cabin, three times the size of my grandmother’s old apartment. We took his parents boat down the river, drank a couple of cold beers each, and waited patiently for even a nibble. Okay, maybe I had more than a couple beers that day, but he had paid for it, and I wasn’t about to pass up free alcohol. It seemed as though hours were passing and the fish refused to bite, until he frantically stood up and began tugging on the rod to retrieve his catch. I dropped my pole carelessly and strolled over to him gracefully. In my mind that is. It was probably tipsier than anything. I crossed my arms and watched him struggle as he pulled the four and a half pound catfish out of the water. He looked at me, proud of his catch, and I couldn’t help but give him a slight shove that sent him tripping over the edge of the boat and tumbling into the river. His head reached the surface and I couldn’t help but burst out laughing. He smiled to please me, but I could tell that he was shivering. My cheeks flushed as I began to feel guilty for pushing him in. Leaning over the side of the boat, I offered him my hand, only to be grabbed and tugged into the freezing river water. “Now we’re even,” he declared playfully. Afterwards, he helped me back into the boat, and offered me another beer. The sun was beginning to set, and he decided we ought to head back to the cabin. In that moment, I was content. I don’t remember much more of that night, but I do remember waking up the next morning to the smell of French toast and bacon. I smiled.  

            “Charlie, I had to see you tonight. I need to tell you something.” His voice transported me back to reality. I hadn’t seen him in God knows how long. I shivered, and he noticed, stripping himself of his old, high school football jacket and wrapping it around my shoulders.

“Thanks,” I whispered gratefully. He nodded. His expression remained the same. Only, when I looked at him this time, he appeared taller and stronger. His body was only a few inches from mine. I picked up on the fragrance of his cologne. It was something I hadn’t smelled before. In two years I had never known him to wear cologne, yet its aroma was prevalent tonight. Perhaps it was rosewood. I’m not sure. Chills were forming on the back of my spine as a soft breeze gusted through the open air.

            “You really shouldn’t be here,” I retorted and turned back towards the never-ending horizon. He drifted closer to me until my shoulder was pressed up against his bicep. The back of our hands brushed against each other, and somehow our fingers became interlocked. I remembered that hand pulling me into the lake. And suddenly I missed him. The only sound that remained was silence since I had last spoken. I turned towards him and started to mumble something, but before the words could even escape my mouth, his lips were pressed against mine. I could taste the minty flavor of his favorite gum. His free hand embraced my neck firmly. My body felt numb as his hand shifted to the small of my back pulling my hips in closer. I couldn’t process the thoughts bouncing around in my head as his fingertips began tracing the concealed tattoo on my left shoulder. He released me from his grasp and breathed in deeply.

            “I just had to do that,” he asserted, staring into my eyes. Before I could even begin to think of something to say, he turned and walked away. I watched his silhouette disappear into the darkness as he made his way home. I wanted to call his name but somehow the cells in my brain weren’t communicating with my vocal cords and I was left utterly speechless. My eyes were focused entirely on his movements, and even though I was hoping for it, he never turned back around.

            I sat paralyzed for a moment. My mind in shambles. In a race against itself. I stood quickly, grabbing by purse. I started to follow in his direction, seeing a figure in the distance, but I stopped, feeling something between my toes. I picked it up, noticing what it was right away.

            A small metal cross, black around the edges, but silver towards the middle. It must’ve fell out of my purse. I traced the outline of it in my hand like I had done many times before. I could feel the rough indents on the back of the three initials carved into it. C, M, K.

 

…

 

Caleb Mason Kepner. That’s the name of a boy who will forever hold a soft spot in the deep corners of my heart. He still remains a mystery.

            I was a regular in my high school’s detention center. Probably because I didn’t care about solving pointless algebra problems, or reading tedious Shakespearian sonnets, or doing any of the unnecessary tasks that the curriculums demand. They don’t teach a goddamn thing about the real world. But either way, I spent almost every Thursday night stuck behind a squeaky, wooden desk gawking at the minute hand rotating continuously in endless circles until six o’clock.

            About six months before last night, I had the privilege of meeting him. Third row, second seat from the back was commonly known as my seat. Everyone knew it and no one ever tried testing those boundaries. When I stumbled into detention one snowy February afternoon, there he sat in my chair with his head facing down on the desk. Irritated, I walked directly up to the desk, picked up the novel lying next to his head and asked “Who the f**k are you?”  I flipped through a few pages of the copy finding the words unappealing and rather dull. He picked up his head off the desk, and I immediately recognized him.

He was the pastor’s kid. Born and raised in a devout Christian home. He worshipped more in one day than I had prayed in my entire life. I’d only spoken to him once when I was eleven and my grandmother unwillingly made me to go to church with her. I hated every second of it. In all honesty, I never again had any desire to waste an hour of my life being forced to listen to an old man in a robe glorifying something that he doesn’t even know exists.

 “What did you possibly do?” I asked with a slight sneer forming across my lips.

            He glared into my eyes for a long time, gave a sarcastic chuckle, and resumed his position. This caught me off guard. Intimidation was my strength. I hated being played at my own game. Angered, I dropped his book to the floor with an enormous thud. He didn’t even flinch.

            “What’s this?” I said sarcastically, picking up the cross on his desk. The same cross I held in my hands now. It looked like it used to be part of a necklace but broke off. I traced the outline of it in my hand, and placed it back on the desk.

            “Keep it,” he said. I looked at him, confused, but he didn’t move. Just breathed in the luscious aroma of a wooden desk. I picked it up again and stuff it into my pocket.

Ever since that day, I would notice this boy around school. Always walking down the halls alone with his earbuds jammed in his ears. I wondered what he was listening to. And he always carried that damn book around. I couldn’t help but wonder why. For some unknown reason, he was stuck in my head. I just needed to know the story behind this kid. One Friday, I observed him walking his usual route towards his next class. History, I think it was. Just as he was walking by with his eyes staring straight ahead as though he were seeing straight through everyone, I grabbed his sleeve and tugged him to a stop. He looked at me, carefully removed his earbuds, and waited for an explanation as to why I interrupted his daily venture.

            “What are you listening to?” I asked curiously. Probably some dreadful Christian music or a sermon on morals. He stared into my eyes, perplexed.

            “Why do you care?” he asked. I looked into his chestnut shaded eyes and realized I didn’t.

            “Never mind,” I responded, beginning to walk away.

            “Charlie, wait,” he said grabbing my arm. Forcefully, yet gently all at once. I didn’t even know he knew my name. “You really want to hear?” he asked hopefully.

I nodded as he handed me his right earbud, which I graciously received and placed into my own ear. But for some reason I didn’t hear any sound coming out.

            “I don’t hear anything,” I stated, rather confused. He smiled, a broad grin from cheek to cheek.

            “That’s the point,” he responded taking back his earbuds, placing them back into his ears, and heading in his usual direction towards class. He was different, and I couldn’t help but smile.

            It soon became routine for him to stop by my locker each day. We’d talk for a moment or two and then he’d disappear. I always wanted to know more about this strange kid. So, I took initiative and invited him over to study one day. And for some ungodly reason, he accepted. However, a book wasn’t even cracked that night. Hours we spent talking. Laughing. It was all so effortless. Complete opposites, yet our personalities clicked. Soon after, he invited me into his home and introduced me to his parents. They seemed sweet. We hadn’t officially said that we were dating, but it was pretty clear that we were together. He brought out the best in me. More than I had ever thought possible. I felt for the first time in my life that I was worthy of something. I was lucky.

Our relationship continued into the summer months. June was lively. I don’t think I’ve ever had so much fun with someone. Caleb always found a way to make me laugh. I felt like a kid again. Carefree. I called him one day, but he didn’t pick up. I thought it strange, but I figured he was busy with his summer classes or something. After a dreadfully long week with no texts or calls, I became concerned. He had never ignored me like this before, and I needed to know what was going on with him. So, despite my negative feelings about church, I decided to head to his father’s service the next Sunday. And there he was.

That’s the day I fell in love with him. He was sitting front row, eyes glued to the giant cross at the front of the building. I sat in the back, watching him. Observing Caleb was like seeing a fireworks show. The way he listened to his father’s words so intently. He absorbed every single syllable and yearned for more. When he sang the hymns, the shy and reluctant voice that I had known became devoured by the emotional connection he felt deep in his bones. I had never seen so much passion in him before. But then he turned around, and I noticed the scar on his cheek. A wide gash spanning from his nose to the side of his face. When he saw me, the delighted smile faded, and I knew he didn’t want anything to do with me.

 

…

 

Somehow, the lavender scented candle sitting on my rustic, wooden nightstand still flickered. As I inhaled the morning air, lavender and rosewood were the only scents engulfing my nostrils. I sat up slowly, realizing how much my head ached. I was hoping it was from the overwhelming thoughts in my brain, but from the smell of my breath, I vividly remembered it was from all the damn alcohol I drank. Reaching over the candle, I grabbed the bottle of Advil, popped a couple pills down my throat, considered popping the whole bottle, and eventually placed it back on my nightstand. Sounds psychotic and all, but it’s not a rarity for me to contemplate suicide. More like a daily expression of how fucked up I really am. 

            Three weeks before last night, my grandmother passed away. Fell asleep to the melody of the wind brushing the tree branches against the window pane. Somewhere in between her dreams of my grandfather and the morning sunrise, her aging soul drifted into the gates of heaven. It was peculiar that she wasn’t awake baking hazelnut banana bread or outside painting the image of the cardinals that swooped through the cloudless sky. It hadn’t even crossed my mind that morning that she would never wake up again.

            I found her. Lying under the quilt she had sewed for my mother. She appeared angelic as the gold tinted rays from the sunset tiptoed into her window and molded a glimmering effect around her. Purity was the only word that developed in my mind. And for some reason, she was too breathtaking for a tear to even escape my eyes. It all felt surreal.

            I was only seventeen at the time. Despite only being a couple of weeks short of legality, the courts insisted I be placed into foster care. I thought of my mother at my age. As irresponsible as she was, she was allowed to raise a child, and I couldn’t even take care of myself for a month? It was so unfair. However, and for some reason I’ll never understand, Caleb’s parents pulled some strings and allowed me to stay the summer with them until I went off to college. At least, that’s what Caleb had told them. My GPA couldn’t even get me into a community college and he knew it. I wondered if this was the first time he had ever lied to his parents. I wondered why he lied for me. What changed his mind about me?

            My alarm clock buzzed sending my endless thoughts back to reality. I guess I didn’t realize how much I drank last night, but it must have been more than I had anticipated because I didn’t even remember stumbling home last night. Well, Caleb’s home.

            A tingling sensation crept down my side. Reaching down to scratch it, I realized what I was still wearing. Noah’s high school football jacket.

Author's Note

Any advice or feedback is welcome! Honesty is appreciated!

Reviews

[R. Linskey]

I thought the father going to the bar and bragging about his daughter to a bunch of drunks, and how you wrote it showcased a great observation from Charlie's mind (that type of writing style makes me respect the character's intelligence). I read some of the reviews on here, and I actually don't mind the lack of dialogue (but I do crave some dialogue, as I wanted to see if Charlie's inside mind-voice matches what she says out loud.)

Although, reading about someone's whole family dying was hard for me to feel empathy, due to the fact that I don't know much about the dead. But I'm curious to know what this book is about, since there's no synopsis, I'll just have to read the book to find out!

[Sarah]

Thanks for the review. Yes, there is a lot of exposition in the first chapter, but I promise the next few chapters have much more dialogue. Thank you for your kind words and happy reading!

[R. Linskey]

A lot of exposition from teenage characters is natural anyway (take John Green for example), and I still enjoyed it enough to finish the chapter with curiosity.

[Sarah]

John Green is a big inspiration. I adore his books, and the way he develops his characters all with their own unique personalities that makes me want to know more. But thank you! I'm glad it was easy for you to read!

[Rebecca]

Really poetic writing. I understood/emphasized with the narrator's sadness that she didn't have a mother to raise her, and get into the same addiction of her mother. It was a little hard to read and didn't hook me until Caleb came with the cross. That part of it feels like a subplot you could go into. Also, her mom's self-harm was intriguing as well.
Strong prose, it was hard to read but I went and reread it I loved the ocean scene, I have many like that in mine, go deeper into the ocean as a metaphor for madness that can lure people into alcohol as an escape. Powerful voice I can't think of what advice I could give you to edit it. But keep writing.

[Ashish]

I didn't understand one thing and that's because I have completely lost in the story.

Charlie was with her grandmother in the beach, but then Caleb came and no sign of grandmother...

Will you clear me ?

Waiting for your reply :)

[Sarah]

The visit with her grandmother was a flashback, and it's not Caleb on the beach with her.

[Cody Mitchell]

Seems to me an interesting first-person perspective. I enjoyed the description of the boy absorbing the words of his father. I found the point of not hearing anything in the microphone both bemusing and thoughtful. Sort of reveals the personality of the boy. I liked the girl's rather sarcastic personality but would have like to hear more of her lapse into drinking. Why she would vilify her mother yet chose the same path, clearly lacking book smart intelligence and not attempting to try. Although this is a classic representation of kids with terrible parents. Appreciate the sentence structures. Enjoyable but just with the first chapter, I'm not sure where the story will go which is good. I'm wondering what will happen, if she'll improve her lot in life or simply let the self-destructive nature of her parents rule her attributes and personality.

[Haseo]

I wish I can say happy birthday to her but I defiantly cant which is very sad.
I LOVED THIS CHAPTER
this writing style (1st person) isn't easy at all and yet, you just make it sound like a water sipping, for sure there are a lot of past-present leaps but that's normally what a 1st person narrative will do.
the length is good (comparing to the number of chapters), edit for your self before sending it to a publisher to make the publishing go faster (double spacing, remove the double enter, line, font size, margins, etc.)

you need to work more on the continuity for such ex (the courts insisted I be placed into foster care) I think you should add "the courts insisted that I to be placed into foster care)

you only mentioned Noah twice, which is confusing, I re-read the chapter again and again to see who is this Noah but .... nothing. (WHO IS HE :O - I will clean my glasses and come back)

its great chapter and I am sure it will be a big hit once you edit it and publish it ( I want a free copy :P) and don't forget to sign it for me

[Sarah]

Thanks for the review. I'm sure if you read a little closer, you can figure out who Noah is ;) Also, I am working on the self-editing process as well as having a few friends help me with it before publishing!

[Haseo]

I know who was Noah after I read it again, but at first I was confused and I had to re-read it all over, because you just jump from a not named character to him and riding next to him which had confused me.

[Jim Slaughter]

Sarah, as I read the opening paragraphs, I was reminded of how much Charlie's background and story fits with some of the female inmates on the Netflix original series "Orange Is the New Black"...and I don't mean that facetiously. Now, of course, I'm intrigued with what will be the title. Although I like this very much, and your exposition skills are wonderful...I have a great deal of difficulty with description when I write prose...I may only read parts of succeeding chapters because I tend not to read very long pieces on these writing sites. I so admire anyone who can put together, and follow through with, a novel. I'll be perfectly happy with a few short stories. I do have a question in Paragraph 3: thrashing her wrists? My actual favorite part of this part of your novel is the name Caleb Mason Kepner...how very southern! Advice you ask for: proofread, proofread, proofread; and a little bit overwritten in various places. Just my observations. Any hints about the title?

[Sarah]

"The Burning of a Tethered Rose" and I wouldn't know about Charlie's character resembling the characters from Orange is the New Black because I've never seen it. I do have to say that if you only read parts of this, you'll be missing out and highly confused throughout. Thrashing her wrists refers to cutting. And proofreading and editing is about all that I'm doing now that I'm done. Thanks for the review!

[Lyn Anderson]

This is a really well crafted story, with wonderful character development. It needs only minor editing to make it flawless. I would think, were it to be submitted to a publisher, they would either edit or suggest the edits and work through them with you. If not, I would suggest paying an editor a percentage of sales on self-publish. What I notice is a tendency to use had with past tense, instead of simple past tense, when it is not necessary, and to have some inconsistencies in the timeline in the Noah, Caleb saga. This is hard not to do, and hard to see when you are re-editing.

[Sarah]

Thank you for the review. I plan on publishing this one day. I'm actually almost to end. Just a couple chapters shy, and once I finish, I will be working through it on a deeper level, editing wise. I don't know too much about the editing process, but I'll surely research in more in the months to come.

[Lyn Anderson]

It feels like you are on the right track. Mostly, you have to watch that the timeline makes complete sense, with no gaps. The passive past tense is unnecessary unless you are talking about what someone had done, while standing in the present. From my limited experience with current publishers, passive past tense has fallen out of favour with contemporary editors.

[AliciaB]

This is cool. The descriptions are beautiful, especially the ones about Charlotte's grandmother at the end. And I really like Caleb so far. I was a bit confused, though - are the boy Charlotte meets on the beach (he's called "Noah" in the final section, but other than that he isn't named) and Caleb different people? Since the guy on the beach isn't given a name at first, I wasn't sure if he was Caleb or not. There's also a lot of mixing of past and present in this chapter - it gets a little difficult to follow at times. Finally, about Caleb being a pastor's son and being raised in a "devout Catholic home"... Catholic pastors are generally referred to as priests (the "pastor" of a Catholic church is the priest who's "in charge" at that particular church, as there may be several priests there), and priests are celibate, which means they never marry. You could easily fix this by making Caleb's family a different denomination of Christianity (I'm no expert on these, but I know pastors in other branches are able to marry). Or, if Catholicism is a really important part of the story later, you could have Caleb's father be a deacon. They act as assistants to the priest; they cannot carry out an entire Mass celebration on their own, but they can give homilies (sermons), and they are allowed to marry and have children. Good luck with this story! It has a very cool premise.

[Sarah]

Thank you for the review! You're definitely right and I'll make sure to fix that right away! And you are correct that Noah and Caleb are two different people. I didn't give Noah a name at first because I wanted the reader to question it. There are several hints throughout that say that they are different people. For example, the color of their eyes. But overall, thank you for your comments and I'll be sure to incorporate them into my revisions!

[Christopher Miller]

This engaged me immediately, very well done. You have great skill with imagery, and mentioning little things to pull the reader in. I say 'little things' but I don't mean exactly that. A good example is my favorite part, when she traces her mother's name in the sand. It's a little detail, but I found great significance in it. Our lives, our bodies, are just as transient. We are written in the animated clay, then gone.
I see there's some criticism on your exposition, but I have to say I think you've done it just right. Caleb appears and it's immediately known that he's important, and I'm left wanting to know more.
I will say that the chronology could be made clearer, especially toward the end of the chapter. After she woke up in bed wearing his jacket, I had to scroll back up to make sure this was back in the present, that he had handed over his jacket after coming to see her on the shore. (To be fair, I'm reading with distractions.)
Overall, I enjoyed this very much, and look forward to reading more.

[Sarah]

Thank you for your review. You see, the jacket is a key thing that not many people have picked up on. The last line really makes the whole chapter if you read closely. Because during the whole scene I deliberately didn't mention a name. So you, along with many others, have assumed that it was Caleb who offered her the jacket but if you read close enough, you would find that it wasn't Caleb at all. There's a few more subtle hints in there with the color of their eyes. I'm surprised that not many people have caught onto that yet.

[Marianne Rose]

Wow! I read the review below and had such a different experience! Maybe being a woman, I relished the inner feelings and descriptions of the scenery- especially in the opening scenes. I loved the stories about the girls' birth, growing up, the parents she had, their fates . . . It read like a true authentic telling of the girl's life. I loved the flow of the writing through all the scenes of family- including grandmother's arrival. Then when Caleb arrived, I lost interest. There was mystery and depth before- but the relationship with Caleb didn't seem to have that. I read quickly through that section, looking for the flow I felt before. It returned with the lavender scented candle, and the story of grandmother's death. I think the flashbacks to Caleb were too long for me- I wanted to stay and find out more about the girl- I wasn't interested in him. It just goes to show, every reader is different!

You write beautifully, poetically, with smooth rythms and unique turns of phrase. I enjoyed this opening . . . I hope to learn more about this girl I already feel quite attached to. Thank you for a beautiful introduction to her.

[Sarah]

Thank you for your kind review. There is a reason I placed Caleb in there so suddenly, but everyone has their own opinions and they're entitled to them. I hope you'll give it a fair chance and read more of the chapters to come!