Left Handed Scissors for Hairstylists

Okay… I am 11 and I need some feedback on my story. I think i will call it willow. Sorry about any grammar mistakes, this is just a rough copy:
Tenrek stared at her in amazement. “You are quite a puzzle to me. Let’s get going before Tliko or someone comes after us.” Before they could take a step, both of them stopped. Aklika’s striking green eyes got wide and she became very pale, making her green clan tattoos very obvious. She moved her hand to her brother’s amulet quickly. Tenrek’s hand also moved to his shark tooth necklace. His skin went very pale, and his blue green eyes very wide and scared. Both of them stood frozen in their places, their bare feet glued to the sand.
It sat on the large rock they had used for the offering. It’s sickly ashen, wrinkled, skin was paper thin. It’s large bloodshot eyes were fixed on both of them. It’s lips curled up into a snarl, revealing sharp fangs that had turned green. It curled it’s talons around a small stone, and scurried off.
Aklika closed her eyes, wanting this nightmare to be over. Tenrek didn’t move. She wanted to cry. She wanted to tell Tenrek everything, but Tliko had forbidden her.
“Tenrek? Are you alright?” She moved over to him and found he was shaking with fear. “A-a-a demon. On the beach. On the shark island. It cannot be!” His eyes were distant. He didn’t seem himself. She stroked his clan tattoos, and put her arm around him. “It’s alright. It will not hurt you.” Her voice sounded more shaken than she would have liked. “It’s gone. It will not hurt you.”
He turned to face her. They stared at each other for a long time. Then, once Tenrek had stopped shaking, they went back to the village. Aklika had already been contemplating something as she was comforting him. She was endangering everyone. She was only trouble. There was no other option. She had to leave. And she had to find the Spirit Hunters soon.
That meant leaving Tenrek, and Tliko, and Sheshki, and Denrai. It meant leaving the life she was beginning to rebuild. It didn’t matter. She couldn’t endanger them any farther. If the demons were after her, they would follow her, and leave the shark island. It was the only way.
After she had lead Tenrek to his shelter and swearing him to secrecy, she left for her shelter. She no longer shared one with Sheshki, for they had now accepted her into the clan. Her decision pained her.
Aklika got everything in her pack ready. She had to have some way of letting Tenrek know what she was doing, to say goodbye. If she told him in person, he was sure to stop her by calling Tliko over. No. I should leave him something, something he can remember me by. She searched through her pack, until she found a few willow switches and feathers for arrow making.
She wove the switches together to make a bracelet. Next she wove the feathers in so that they dangled from the switches. She put it aside, then found a stone that was a bright green, like her eyes, and used some of the powder Magia had given her to paint her clan tattoo on it. He would know it was her who left it. She was almost crying the whole time she was preparing to leave.
She emerged from her shelter. It wasn’t quite evening yet. Aklika looked around for Tenrek. She saw him arguing with Denrai. She went over to them. “Tenrek, give it back!” Denrai shouted. “I told you for the last time, I didn’t take your boat! It must’ve floated away or something. I don’t know what happened to it!” Aklika felt a pang of guilt. She had taken a skin boat from the shore for her plan. It was too late to say anything.
“Tenrek, I heard there are supposed to be a lot of lichens washed up on the far shore. Wanna go try and catch some?” Tenrek loved roasted lichens. They were his favorite thing to snack on. He couldn’t say no.
They walked together down the beach. They talked a little, and Aklika tried to hide her regret and sadness. The sun was slowly hunkering down for a quiet sleep. They found the far side of the beach, and there were no lichens. Aklika had lied, she just needed an excuse to spend time with him before she left. “Oh well,” she said. “I guess they got swept away with the tide.” Tenrek could sense the sadness in her heart, and the regret in her eyes.
“Is something wrong?” he asked her. “I’m fine.” she lied. Tenrek knew she was lying, but he said nothing. They found a few pieces of driftwood and started a small fire. The fire blazed a pale green. The sun was setting and the sky was ablaze with color. Aklika had seen nothing like it before. She would miss this place.
It was beginning to get late, and time was racing toward Aklika till it was time to leave. She looked at Tenrek one last time. “It’s getting late.” she said in a sad voice. She looked his face over. She would always remember his bright blue green eyes that reminded her of the ocean, that made it impossible for him to lie. She would remember his face, the soft handsome features. She would remember his laugh, that held the happin
happiness of the world. But most of all, she would remember the kindness he had showed her that first time she had met him. She had nearly drowned, and he rescued her. He had made sure she was okay before giving her off to Tliko. He was a true friend.
Aklika had to look away for fear of crying. He was like a brother to her. “Goodnight,” she whispered. “Goodnight,” he replied. He wanted her to stay. He reached his hand out to her, but she kept moving. “Aklika, wait-” he called. She was gone. He sighed, and puts the fire out.
She moved quickly. Hurrying to Tenrek’s shelter, she left her gifts and went back to get her things and a skin boat. She had stolen a gutskin parka from Tenrek, but he hadn’t noticed. She quickly changed into it, and dragged Denrai’s boat and paddle out to the sea, and paddled. She paddled faster than she had ever done.
She took one last long look back, dried her tears, and went forward, without another glance back.
Okay, just for clarification, this is at the end of the 7th chapter, it is just my favorite part so far. It is not the beginning, so I’m sorry for any confusion.

I wish I could have written a story this well when I was your age.

I like the fact that you don’t have your characters and setting "well-defined" when you open your story.

Your writing style allows yours reader to raise questions in their minds about the characters, and reflects how real human relationships occur. We don’t know people when we first meet them.

This could easily be expanded into a series of related short stories that could be threaded together into a novel, or simply expanded into a novel without any form of break in the storyline.

If you’re interested in having your writing published I recommend going to www.ralan.com. The site maintains an active list of what publishers are looking for now; including an a through z listed of book publishers.

Please keep writing.

powered by Yahoo Answers

The darkness was too deep, the silence was too dead. The lights flickered as if winking at him, the subliminal whispering goodbye to him. Also goodnight because, soon, they were to be dead – along with the still night.

Cheap hugging b… ! Stupid tree-hugging losers who want him to save the world.

Lights – ever heard of lights? He muttered with the scar on his upper lip bouncing against his pronounced nose. With his hair darker than his black eyes, gently rubbing his snotty nose, he gazed out the ocean as the waves combed the shore. It sounded like a lullaby; as the waves gently hit the rocks like drumsticks against a drum.

He chuckled uncontrollably like hiccuping, thinking of how in grade school they used to say ‘friends before money’.

Money bought him this nice prison cell, this 4×10 prison cell overlooking the massive ocean which looked like dark oil.

He thought about Patrice; how he was the most important person in her life. She was The Chosen One, she loved him so much she died for him – what an exulted thing she committed!

He thought about her in that white dress, the way her eyes reflected like a knife, their shade so pale that tears that were falling were the same color as her eyes. Mimicking his heartbeats, not a beat out of rhythm.

The light went out, nothing left to see now but the stars trapped in the sky. He was just as strapped in as the stars. Tomorrow was the day to brake out, tell the world what he really was! Fame, fame, fame – newspapers will be printing, bigger than any famous stuck-up, no-good loser. (jejune) characters that are going to wish they were him.

He looked down at his concrete whole, for the first time after escaping. Going to be that no good, cop that was jealous of his fame, who got him in this mess in the first place! He put his painting back to the whole when he heard the words starting.

I-I-I wa…w-want a cigarette! hey ! -the voice stuttered, as if an earthquake was in his voice.

He looked over to find a young 19-year-old Jim there. He killed his parents for calling him ‘good old chubs’. The killer gazed at him, his stomach sunk into the bars as far as they went. Sections of fat rolled over the bars. Pure fat cells, just flapping as if it wanted to fly away. It was clear that nothing on this boy was capable of flying, or even clearly being able to lift past it’s gravity.

P-pa pa-a pap leas- Jim jeered, as if protesting.

The killer began singing, chanting in a voice ‘I shot the sheriff but I didnt shoot no deputy, oh no! oh!
I shot the sheriff, but I didnt shoot no deputy, ooh, ooh, oo-ooh’.

Yeah! All around in my hometown,
They’re tryin’ to track me down;
They say they want to bring me in guilty
For the killing of a deputy,
For the life of a deputy.

But I say ‘Have a cigarette! Chubs
in what little light there was to light up the room, the killer grabbed a cigarette, lit it and began to smoke.

Jim stared at him as if he were to do a trick, breaths quickening. He approached with his arms out, his stuttering turning to pronunciations a newborn could make. Then the killer’s eyes lit up like a candle with rage, remembering: ‘no distractions till then’.

He could feel his blood boil.. He wanted to compress his face into the bars. Make his skull into mash potatoes. Watch thin blood pour, to the floor. Same color as thin, crimson, Chianti wine.

Yet, this caged bird would sing again. Life outside the big house was looking to pulchritudinous.

He tossed the cigarette right after getting a whiff, the red light rolled across the floor and that was going to be him. He was going to roll away; no more gambling for cigarettes, it was real money now!

It made him think of the deadman’s hand, aces and 8s. They call it deadman’s hand because a man was killed for winning when a guy bet a lease on his house. Bam shot him, for having 8s and aces in his hand, back in cowboy times.

The cop that got him here was going to get dealt a deadman’s hand now.
I am not good at much but I have always been a writer.

woah. thats a really good story! i defiantly will add u coz i wanna know whats next! =)

powered by Yahoo Answers

The darkness was too deep, the silence was too dead. The lights flickered as if winking at him, the subliminal whispering goodbye to him. Also goodnight because, soon, they were to be dead – along with the still night.

Cheap hugging b… ! Stupid tree-hugging losers who want him to save the world.

Lights – ever heard of lights? He muttered with the scar on his upper lip bouncing against his pronounced nose. With his hair darker than his black eyes, gently rubbing his snotty nose, he gazed out the ocean as the waves combed the shore. It sounded like a lullaby; as the waves gently hit the rocks like drumsticks against a drum.

He chuckled uncontrollably like hiccuping, thinking of how in grade school they used to say ‘friends before money’.

Money bought him this nice prison cell, this 4×10 prison cell overlooking the massive ocean which looked like dark oil.

He thought about Patrice; how he was the most important person in her life. She was The Chosen One, she loved him so much she died for him – what an exulted thing she committed!

He thought about her in that white dress, the way her eyes reflected like a knife, their shade so pale that tears that were falling were the same color as her eyes. Mimicking his heartbeats, not a beat out of rhythm.

The light went out, nothing left to see now but the stars trapped in the sky. He was just as strapped in as the stars. Tomorrow was the day to brake out, tell the world what he really was! Fame, fame, fame – newspapers will be printing, bigger than any famous stuck-up, no-good loser. (jejune) characters that are going to wish they were him.

He looked down at his concrete whole, for the first time after escaping. Going to be that no good, cop that was jealous of his fame, who got him in this mess in the first place! He put his painting back to the whole when he heard the words starting.

I-I-I wa…w-want a cigarette! hey ! -the voice stuttered, as if an earthquake was in his voice.

He looked over to find a young 19-year-old Jim there. He killed his parents for calling him ‘good old chubs’. The killer gazed at him, his stomach sunk into the bars as far as they went. Sections of fat rolled over the bars. Pure fat cells, just flapping as if it wanted to fly away. It was clear that nothing on this boy was capable of flying, or even clearly being able to lift past it’s gravity.

P-pa pa-a pap leas- Jim jeered, as if protesting.

The killer began singing, chanting in a voice ‘I shot the sheriff but I didnt shoot no deputy, oh no! oh!
I shot the sheriff, but I didnt shoot no deputy, ooh, ooh, oo-ooh’.

Yeah! All around in my hometown,
They’re tryin’ to track me down;
They say they want to bring me in guilty
For the killing of a deputy,
For the life of a deputy.

But I say ‘Have a cigarette! Chubs
in what little light there was to light up the room, the killer grabbed a cigarette, lit it and began to smoke.

Jim stared at him as if he were to do a trick, breaths quickening. He approached with his arms out, his stuttering turning to pronunciations a newborn could make. Then the killer’s eyes lit up like a candle with rage, remembering: ‘no distractions till then’.

He could feel his blood boil.. He wanted to compress his face into the bars. Make his skull into mash potatoes. Watch thin blood pour, to the floor. Same color as thin, crimson, Chianti wine.

Yet, this caged bird would sing again. Life outside the big house was looking to pulchritudinous.

He tossed the cigarette right after getting a whiff, the red light rolled across the floor and that was going to be him. He was going to roll away; no more gambling for cigarettes, it was real money now!

It made him think of the deadman’s hand, aces and 8s. They call it deadman’s hand because a man was killed for winning when a guy bet a lease on his house. Bam shot him, for having 8s and aces in his hand, back in cowboy times.

The cop that got him here was going to get dealt a deadman’s hand now.

Okay, I like learning new words, writing, if you share my interest add me.
I love learning new words too. my name is Danielle.

I like your writing, very descriptive. I can only wish that I could write as well.
I saw your video, and now, your name. I would hope that you would not give out too much infomation about yourself, the internet is infamous for it`s pervs.
Keep writing, you could have a future at it.

powered by Yahoo Answers

The darkness was too deep, the silence was too dead. The lights flickered as if winking at him, the subliminal whispering goodbye to him. Also goodnight because, soon, they were to be dead – along with the still night.

Cheap hugging b… ! Stupid tree-hugging losers who want him to save the world.

Lights – ever heard of lights? He muttered with the scar on his upper lip bouncing against his pronounced nose. With his hair darker than his black eyes, gently rubbing his snotty nose, he gazed out the ocean as the waves combed the shore. It sounded like a lullaby; as the waves gently hit the rocks like drumsticks against a drum.

He chuckled uncontrollably like hiccuping, thinking of how in grade school they used to say ‘friends before money’.

Money bought him this nice prison cell, this 4×10 prison cell overlooking the massive ocean which looked like dark oil.

He thought about Patrice; how he was the most important person in her life. She was The Chosen One, she loved him so much she died for him – what an exulted thing she committed!

He thought about her in that white dress, the way her eyes reflected like a knife, their shade so pale that tears that were falling were the same color as her eyes. Mimicking his heartbeats, not a beat out of rhythm.

The light went out, nothing left to see now but the stars trapped in the sky. He was just as strapped in as the stars. Tomorrow was the day to brake out, tell the world what he really was! Fame, fame, fame – newspapers will be printing, bigger than any famous stuck-up, no-good loser. (jejune) characters that are going to wish they were him.

He looked down at his concrete whole, for the first time after escaping. Going to be that no good, cop that was jealous of his fame, who got him in this mess in the first place! He put his painting back to the whole when he heard the words starting.

I-I-I wa…w-want a cigarette! hey ! -the voice stuttered, as if an earthquake was in his voice.

He looked over to find a young 19-year-old Jim there. He killed his parents for calling him ‘good old chubs’. The killer gazed at him, his stomach sunk into the bars as far as they went. Sections of fat rolled over the bars. Pure fat cells, just flapping as if it wanted to fly away. It was clear that nothing on this boy was capable of flying, or even clearly being able to lift past it’s gravity.

P-pa pa-a pap leas- Jim jeered, as if protesting.

The killer began singing, chanting in a voice ‘I shot the sheriff but I didnt shoot no deputy, oh no! oh!
I shot the sheriff, but I didnt shoot no deputy, ooh, ooh, oo-ooh’.

Yeah! All around in my hometown,
They’re tryin’ to track me down;
They say they want to bring me in guilty
For the killing of a deputy,
For the life of a deputy.

But I say ‘Have a cigarette! Chubs
in what little light there was to light up the room, the killer grabbed a cigarette, lit it and began to smoke.

Jim stared at him as if he were to do a trick, breaths quickening. He approached with his arms out, his stuttering turning to pronunciations a newborn could make. Then the killer’s eyes lit up like a candle with rage, remembering: ‘no distractions till then’.

He could feel his blood boil.. He wanted to compress his face into the bars. Make his skull into mash potatoes. Watch thin blood pour, to the floor. Same color as thin, crimson, Chianti wine.

Yet, this caged bird would sing again. Life outside the big house was looking to pulchritudinous.

He tossed the cigarette right after getting a whiff, the red light rolled across the floor and that was going to be him. He was going to roll away; no more gambling for cigarettes, it was real money now!

It made him think of the deadman’s hand, aces and 8s. They call it deadman’s hand because a man was killed for winning when a guy bet a lease on his house. Bam shot him, for having 8s and aces in his hand, back in cowboy times.

The cop that got him here was going to get dealt a deadman’s hand now.
I like to be a doctor and write for fun. Doctor have to take English courses.

Very detailed way of describing each event, each moment, each little thing. "Then the killer’s eyes lit up like a candle with rage…"
But I thought you wanted to be a doctor?
You might very well make it through an English major, but who knows if you’ll get published. Of course you’re going to start out small, but if you keep practicing, then who knows.
You can only hope and try.
It’s good to aim high. Just don’t be too down on yourself when things don’t turn out how you wanted to or expected. Sometimes it’s better that way. You might discover something completely unexpected and wonderful.

powered by Yahoo Answers

The darkness was too deep, the silence was too dead. The lights flickered as if winking at him, the subliminal whispering goodbye to him. Also goodnight because, soon, they were to be dead – along with the still night.

Cheap hugging b… ! Stupid tree-hugging losers who want him to save the world.

Lights – ever heard of lights? He muttered with the scar on his upper lip bouncing against his pronounced nose. With his hair darker than his black eyes, gently rubbing his snotty nose, he gazed out the ocean as the waves combed the shore. It sounded like a lullaby; as the waves gently hit the rocks like drumsticks against a drum.

He chuckled uncontrollably like hiccuping, thinking of how in grade school they used to say ‘friends before money’.

Money bought him this nice prison cell, this 4×10 prison cell overlooking the massive ocean which looked like dark oil.

He thought about Patrice; how he was the most important person in her life. She was The Chosen One, she loved him so much she died for him – what an exulted thing she committed!

He thought about her in that white dress, the way her eyes reflected like a knife, their shade so pale that tears that were falling were the same color as her eyes. Mimicking his heartbeats, not a beat out of rhythm.

The light went out, nothing left to see now but the stars trapped in the sky. He was just as strapped in as the stars. Tomorrow was the day to brake out, tell the world what he really was! Fame, fame, fame – newspapers will be printing, bigger than any famous stuck-up, no-good loser. (jejune) characters that are going to wish they were him.

He looked down at his concrete whole, for the first time after escaping. Going to be that no good, cop that was jealous of his fame, who got him in this mess in the first place! He put his painting back to the whole when he heard the words starting.

I-I-I wa…w-want a cigarette! hey ! -the voice stuttered, as if an earthquake was in his voice.

He looked over to find a young 19-year-old Jim there. He killed his parents for calling him ‘good old chubs’. The killer gazed at him, his stomach sunk into the bars as far as they went. Sections of fat rolled over the bars. Pure fat cells, just flapping as if it wanted to fly away. It was clear that nothing on this boy was capable of flying, or even clearly being able to lift past it’s gravity.

P-pa pa-a pap leas- Jim jeered, as if protesting.

The killer began singing, chanting in a voice ‘I shot the sheriff but I didnt shoot no deputy, oh no! oh!
I shot the sheriff, but I didnt shoot no deputy, ooh, ooh, oo-ooh’.

Yeah! All around in my hometown,
They’re tryin’ to track me down;
They say they want to bring me in guilty
For the killing of a deputy,
For the life of a deputy.

But I say ‘Have a cigarette! Chubs
in what little light there was to light up the room, the killer grabbed a cigarette, lit it and began to smoke.

Jim stared at him as if he were to do a trick, breaths quickening. He approached with his arms out, his stuttering turning to pronunciations a newborn could make. Then the killer’s eyes lit up like a candle with rage, remembering: ‘no distractions till then’.

He could feel his blood boil.. He wanted to compress his face into the bars. Make his skull into mash potatoes. Watch thin blood pour, to the floor. Same color as thin, crimson, Chianti wine.

Yet, this caged bird would sing again. Life outside the big house was looking to pulchritudinous.

He tossed the cigarette right after getting a whiff, the red light rolled across the floor and that was going to be him. He was going to roll away; no more gambling for cigarettes, it was real money now!

It made him think of the deadman’s hand, aces and 8s. They call it deadman’s hand because a man was killed for winning when a guy bet a lease on his house. Bam shot him, for having 8s and aces in his hand, back in cowboy times.

The cop that got him here was going to get dealt a deadman’s hand now.

Wow, you wire like Stephen king.

powered by Yahoo Answers