# Thieves



## gerdun (Apr 22, 2017)

Grant awoke to the shivering lips of his sister Kate squashed up against his ear.  
‘Shh, don’t say anything,’ she whimpered, her tiny hand placed firmly over his mouth, ‘I think someone is trying to break into the house.’ her whisper trembled with terror and it was only then he noticed Kate was in his bed and her little body was latched vice-like onto his, shaking uncontrollably. 
Grant removed Kate’s clammy hand and raised his head simultaneously opening his mouth to hear better, he listening now intently.  As his senses awoke he recognised something was wrong, the constant contest of rhythmic chorus of crickets with the cacophony of bull frogs was eerily silent, only man or something worse could cause this. 
Suddenly, he heard what had frightened his sister, a quiet but distinct metallic sound came clearly and ominously from the lounge. His heart jumped into the back of his throat and he attempted to leap out of bed but when he tried he could not move, for some reason he was frozen immobile.   
Again, another scraping noise, this time louder, Kate squeaked beside him and pulled his hair sobbing incoherently. Jolting him from his paralysis, he sprang from the bed and blindly grasped for his air rifle, this weapon would offer no deadly impact on a human but grasped now in his hands he felt stronger and safer. 
This  was the third year living on the farmstead and the ensconced president of Zambia had now taken on a  dictatorship role that left a rising unemployment. The increase in  poverty and desperation had forced an increase in crime, sometimes with deadly gruesome  consequences. 
Grant had heard such terror stories but never dreamed it could happen to him, _what now?_ his mind raced frantically. He had just turned 15 and his body had already taken the shape of a fully-grown man but right now though, he didn’t feel like a man, tendrils of fear squirmed in his stomach and his heart pounded faster, harder, roaring in his ears.  
The sweet odour from the waxed floors fought strongly with the musky mouldy thatched roof in his nostrils and he strained his eyes into the well of shadows beyond, oil-black and pooled deep outlining the corridor ahead. His choices were simple: turn left to try awaken his drunken father or right to confront the thieves braking through the burglar guarded windows. 
He steeled himself, there was no time to wake anyone, he had to act quick and stop the entrance. Moving forward, short deep breathes of icy air became ragged in his throat, every one as loud as each floating footstep he took. 
Approaching the den dugout which was submerged from the corridor by three steps, Grant heard another smothered sound forcing him to glance into the lounge.  Pushing through the half bent and upturned burglar guard was the shape of a large African man. Transfixed, he stood suddenly unsure of his actions.
His stomach heaved, a rage filled him like electricity, taking in a huge lungful “UYO KAWAHLALAH!” he screamed wildly, switching on all the lights at hand and jumping into full view. 
The lounge and veranda filled up with a scorching bright glare that stunned Grant for a moment then assessing the ensnared thief below was stuck he raised the empty, useless rifle towards him seemingly way to slow, BANG reload BANG and again, the noise rebounded loudly over the oppressive silence and the small enclosed area increased and exaggerated the effect. 
He noticed the thief’s eyes bulge and heard a high-pitched squeal emit from his startled grimace, slithering and shimming backwards begging for help from the two men that stood behind him. Emboldened, Grant screeched again this time matching the thief in tune he jumped forward in one swoop downwards, landing hard on the concrete floor, ignoring the jolt of pain he rose to repeat his façade but by now they had turn and fled, he saw their figures rapidly disappearing into the garden darkness.
Slowly, he could feel the pain enter his shattered kneecap in waves and throbs, standing unsteadily he turned his head and recognised his father’s stern shape rush in behind him, ‘What the hell is going on here?’, unable to raise his arms Grant nodded towards the mangled bars, ‘thieves,’ he gruffly managed to say as his shoulders began shaking and the tears started, a tiredness suddenly overtook him forcing him gratefully to the cold hard floor.


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## sas (Apr 23, 2017)

Take out the extraneous. Tell the story. It is loaded with adjectives and unneeded description. Yep, I started to skip read. 
Don't use "Suddenly"; "Slowly", etc.  Make friends with the delete key. Don't be that writer who loves words, too much. Trust me.


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## gerdun (Apr 23, 2017)

Very much appreciated.
Thanks, your points are noted.


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## sas (Apr 23, 2017)

gerdun... I would love to see a rewrite after just using delete key, nothing else. Give it a try. It would be interesting. Think of a story as a block of wood you are carving. Keep paring it until perfected. That's how all art is created.


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## gerdun (Apr 23, 2017)

Will do. 
After I have completed my EMA.


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## Olly Buckle (Apr 24, 2017)

Boldness wins the day, a nice little tale. One or two points.


Braking,, stopping the car
Breaking, making the window broken

'...he had to act quick and stop the entrance.' quickly, 'to' rather than 'and' 'entrance' seems wrong, 'break in' ?
'the ensconced president of Zambia had now taken on a dictatorship role that left a rising unemployment.'
ungrammatical
'the ensconced president of Zambia had taken on a dictatorship role that left rising unemployment.'
more gramatical
'the ensconced president of Zambia had become a dictator, leading to rising unemployment.'
better
sas is right, less is usually better, not just by leaving out adjectives, this is background, not story, keep it short.

Breathe a verb to breathe, he breathes deeply
Breath a noun, he takes a deep breath

'empty, useless rifle towards him seemingly way to slow,'
to, too, two, you have the wrong one. 
But you said it was empty, and air rifles go 'Phut', not 'Bang', maybe a small .22 for rabbits? His old, toy, cap gun would make a good noise.

'He noticed the thief’s eyes bulge and heard a high-pitched squeal emit from his startled grimace'
What sas is saying, try
'The thief’s eyes bulged, he grimaced and emitted a high-pitched squeal'
I think we can suss he was startled 

I think you may have got caught upin the excitement, it is a bit jumbled after 'emboldened', the punctuation gets lost, and façade seems a strange word to use.


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## C.Gholy (Apr 26, 2017)

I thought it was a nice bit of writing, but I found it hard to read with the small font packed together.


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## Olly Buckle (Apr 26, 2017)

C.Gholy said:


> I thought it was a nice bit of writing, but I found it hard to read with the small font packed together.



By holding down ctrl. + you can increase the size.


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## Jay Greenstein (Apr 26, 2017)

> Grant awoke to the shivering lips of his sister Kate squashed up against his ear.


You're overdoing it. Her lips are both shivering and squashed against his ear...and she's talking? My first problem with this is that he's not noticing it, you're saying that it happens, but how can you see that her lips are trembling in that position? That aside, how can she talk like that? Press your own lips against your hand and try to talk. And that ignores the fact that with her mouth pressed against his ear she would blow out his eardrum with her first word.

Instead of explaining what happens, which invites over-dramatic presentation, why not have her wake him? Then, like him, we know what caused him to wake. After all, if she wants to wake him and keep him quiet, wouldn't he wake to find her small fingers over his mouth first? Then, when she feels that he's awake, would come the whisper? Tell it from his viewpoint, not yours.





> her whisper trembled with terror and it was only then he noticed Kate was in his bed


So she wakes him, then whispers to him, and _then_ he recognizes that she's in bed with him? Seriously? If someone said that to you, would your next thought be, "Oh, my sister is in my bed?" He recognizes that as he wakes, and reacts to what she says. Wouldn't you? Wouldn't a massage like that get your full attention? Wouldn't you ask her why she thinks that?

But that aside, The crickets do not stop because someone breaks into a house. Does the night fall silent because you open your front door and step outside the house? Hell no. Perhaps those by the door would, but not the ones around the sides and rear of the house. Remember, at this point the reader has no clue of what kind of house this is, and will assume it's like their own.





> This  was the third year  living on the farmstead and the ensconced president of Zambia had now  taken on a  dictatorship role that left a rising unemployment.


So the person is wakened by his sister, and thinks there's someone in the house. He's too terrified to move. So the reader will want to know what happens next. But what do you do? You stop the action, freeze the characters in place, and lecture the reader on history unrelated to what's happening in that room. Things like this belong in a break between live scenes. Grant is focused on the problem, and as he sees it, it might be life or death. So get out of the way and let the poor bastard get on with it in real-time. Is he thinking about the stories he's heard, or is he focused on the situation? He might take into account so action he's heard about, and have it influence his thinking. But he thinks in his present, so the generic "stories"  wouldn't come to mind, only what applies to that moment. And if you want to make this real for the reader, as against a report, tell it in his viewpoint, in real-time. Focus on what has his attention in his moment of now, and move that instant forward, one event at a time, as he notices and reacts,





> Grant for a moment then  assessing the ensnared thief below was stuck he raised the empty,  useless rifle towards him seemingly way to slow, BANG reload BANG and  again,


I have no idea of what this is First the rifle is empty, but then he fires it, reloads, and fires again. But you said it was an air rifle, which could be a bb gun, a pellet rifle, or something bigger, so we don't really know how he's armed. In any case, he would have loaded it when he took the ammunition, or on the way. Wouldn't you? But that aside, no pellet rifle I know of makes significant noise when fired, so "BANG" doesn't apply. And a .22 pellet rifle puts out a pellet at over 500 f.p.s, which can be lethal. Certainly, it can penetrate skin, and capture the attention of whoever it's pointed at.

A couple of minor points: The room is several steps down from the hall, it's not submerged, which would place it under water. And, don't use the word facade, because he wasn't an illusion, he really did have a weapon, and was using it, albeit not as deadly as a firearm.

I also have a problem with a thatched roof house and burgler bars. Why not cut through the thatch with shears? Could be that there are reasons, but I can't be the only one who wondered about that.

You might want to give this article a look. It's a very good way of presenting a scene from within the viewpoint of the protagonist.

Hang in there, and keep on writing.


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## Matt Styles Illistrada (Apr 27, 2017)

yes small font, had to enlarge the font on my cpu


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## gerdun (Apr 28, 2017)

Hi everyone 
I would like to thank you for your feedback.
Your time spent and points made are very helpful and noted.
Any future post will be readable, my apologies.
Much appreciated.


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## Bard_Daniel (Apr 28, 2017)

I read it over and thought you have something workable here. As sas mentioned it's like a rough wood carving. If you keep editing it and working on it there is no reason it cannot be a great piece. All the right elements are there. For the first thing I've seen by you I can tell you that this is a good start.

So keep working at it! 

Thanks for the read.


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## Olly Buckle (Apr 29, 2017)

gerdun said:


> Hi everyone
> I would like to thank you for your feedback.
> Your time spent and points made are very helpful and noted.
> Any future post will be readable, my apologies.
> Much appreciated.



Don't think that was not readable, it was. That can rely on tone and content as much (if not more) as on the presence of small errors.


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## gerdun (May 5, 2017)

*A redraft after everyone's advice*

       Thieves 

  Grant awoke to the shivering lips of his sister Kate against his ear. 
  She was in his bed and her little body was latched vice-like onto his, shaking uncontrollably, ‘Shh, don’t say anything,’ she whimpered, her tiny hand placed firmly over his mouth, ‘Someone is trying to break into the house.’ her whisper was filled with terror. 
  He removed Kate’s clammy hand and raised his head simultaneously opening his mouth to hear better, he listened. As his senses awoke he recognised something was wrong, the constant contest of rhythmic chorus of crickets with the cacophony of bull frogs was eerily silent, man or something worse could cause this. 
  Then, he heard what had frightened his sister, a quiet but distinct metallic sound came from the lounge. His heart jumped into the back of his throat and he attempted to leap out of bed but when he tried he could not move, fear paralyzed him. 
  Again, another scraping noise, this time louder, Kate squeaked beside him and pulled his hair sobbing incoherently. This Jolted him from the bed and he grasped for his .22 rifle, this weapon would kill a small animal but offered no deadly impact on a human but grasped now in his hands he felt stronger and safer. 
  This was the third year living on the farmstead. The once liberal president of Zambia had now taken on a dictatorship role that had caused a rising unemployment. The increase in poverty forcing an increase in crime, sometimes with gruesome consequences. 
  Grant had heard terror stories but never dreamed it could happen to him, _what now?_ his mind raced. He had just turned 15 and his body was already looking like a fully-grown man. Right now, though, he didn’t feel like a man. Tendrils of fear squirmed in his stomach and his heart pounded faster, harder, roaring in his ears. 
  The sweet odour from the waxed floors fought strongly with the musky mouldy thatched roof in his nostrils and he strained his eyes into the well of shadows beyond, oil-black and pooled deep outlining the corridor ahead. His choices were simple: turn left to try awakening his drunken father or right to confront the thieves breaking through the burglar guarded windows. 
  He steeled himself, there was no time to wake anyone, he had to act quick and stop the entrance. Moving into the corridor, short deep breaths of icy air became ragged in his throat. Every breath as loud as each floating footstep he took. 
  Approaching the den dugout which was submerged from the corridor by three steps, He heard another smothered sound and he glanced into the lounge. Pushing through the half bent and upturned burglar guard was the shape of a large African man. Transfixed, he stood uncertain of his actions.
  His stomach heaved, a rage filled him like electricity, taking in a huge lungful “UYO KAWAHLALAH,” he screamed, switching on all the lights at hand and jumping into full view. 
  The lounge and veranda filled up with a scorching bright glare that stunned him for a moment then assessing the ensnared thief below was stuck he raised the empty, rifle towards him way to slow, BANG reload BANG and again, the noise rebounded over the oppressive silence and the small enclosed area exaggerating the effect. 
  He noticed the thief’s eyes bulge and heard a high-pitched squeal like a pig. He was shimming backwards begging for the two men that stood behind him to help. Emboldened, Grant screeched again this time matching the thief in tune as he jumped in one swoop downwards, landing hard onto the concrete floor. Ignoring the jolt of pain, he rose to repeat his façade but by now they had turn and fled, he saw the figures disappearing into the garden darkness.
  Slowly, he could feel the pain enter his shattered kneecap in waves and throbs, standing unsteadily he turned his head and recognised his father’s stern shape rush in behind him. 
  ‘What the hell is going on here?’
  Unable to raise his arms Grant nodded towards the mangled bars, ‘thieves,’ he gruffly managed to say as his shoulders began shaking and the tears started, a tiredness overtook him forcing him to the cold hard floor.


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## Phil Istine (May 12, 2017)

Yes, it must have been scary, but I wanted to feel scared when reading it.  I didn't.  Although it was a second draft (I haven't read the first one), the piece felt too descriptive for what was taking place and a lot of the urgency was removed.
Also, I did try to stay focussed, but the SPAG issues kept pulling me away.  There seemed to be a number of commas where it would possibly have been better to use a full stop and a new sentence.  Shorter sentences might have helped with the sense of urgency.
It felt like you tried to over-write this piece.  Descriptive writing has its place but I'm not sure that this was it.
Once I forced myself to focus, the actual story in there was pretty decent.


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## Olly Buckle (May 12, 2017)

> the ensnared thief below was stuck he raised the empty, rifle towards him way to slow, BANG reload BANG and again,



Let's get this clear, the thief was stuck and ensnared when shot too slowly with an empty rifle, twice.
He was stuck *or* ensnared, you don't need both
he *loaded* the empty rifle and raised it in what *seemed like slow motion*. 
Suggestions, but something needs to happen differently, empty guns don't fire., and 'way *too* slow' for what? The seeming slow is a guess on my part (Note to / too , you had the wrong one).


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## who me? (May 12, 2017)

why is this in NON fiction

like the other guy said too hard to read a small type with no line breaks


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