WARNING: This piece contains dark themes and foul language (censored).

I'm new here and hope to post more fiction up for critique in the future. This is something I'm working on for a story writing class at school. I'm guessing I can post it here since I saw other prose posted here (if not please move to the appropriate place). It has a lot more foul language than most of my other works because one of the goals of the assignment was to create a sense of realism. Other areas I needed to focus on were: frame, character, conflict, dialogue, pov, setting, resolution, and pacing. Please let me know what you think both good or bad, I can take criticism, don't worry about hurting my feelings.

And now for the actual writing:


DADDY
by Danilo Stern-Sapad


Brian was crudely flung into consciousness, his ears ringing with the roar of offroaders somewhere near by. As his other senses flooded back to him he felt the scorching noonday sun welcome him with a searing pain, which brought his tired hazel eyes to tears. As his vision cleared he took a few moments to take in his surroundings. He was in a dried up ditch not too far from where he lived.

Somehow he managed to force his sore protesting body from the ground and onto shaky legs, squinting he examined the parched, caked and balding earth on which he had lain. He couldn't help but notice a puddle of vomit--presumably his own. He reflected on how he might have suffocated to death. This thought troubled him. He was not ready to die and he knew this, at least not while he could still believe his Angel needed him, would miss him if he.... He could not bring himself to that grim thought again. After all what kind of death would that be? Drowning in one's own spewer. He sighed not knowing whether death would be a sweeter recourse than liquor.

As Brian stood staring into space, letting his life drift away into the quicksand of time, the relentless stinging of the sun propelled his thoughts back to the small apartment he shared with his daughter. She would likely be worried sick about him--at least that's what he hoped in his heart to be true. He looked to his wrist to check the time but his watch was not there. He couldn't remember last night; he had no idea if he had been robbed or misplaced it or left it at home or had done any other number of things with it. That was the price he paid to forget--he wouldn't, couldn't remember--and it was a price he was all too willing to pay night after night, day after day, year after year, and so forth at least till it sucked his pockets dry, and on a more serious note, sucked him dry, dry, down the marrow of his bones, dry as the lifeless desert in which he dwelt, the squalid wasteland someone in their madness had the gall to call a thriving metropolis. And such dark thoughts accompanied him as he climbed out of the dried up ditch and ambled down the cracked sun-baked pavement whose bends and turns somehow would take him to his destination--to the only light he has left in his empty life to quench the darkness that had desiccated his very soul: his Angel.

#

Brian looked up from his musings to find himself at the base of a familiar staircase. He had forgotten he was walking, even moving. His hands trembled as he searched his pockets for keys. They were empty--an obnoxious reminder of how empty he felt inside. Peeved, he ascended the stairs with exaggerated effort and banged on the door. He had left the blistering gaze of the sun behind him, only to be greeted by his daughter's dour visage as she cracked open their apartment door just enough to reveal the harsh scrutiny of one eye, one beautiful hazel eye. It was the only proof he had that she was his. The rest of her was tainted with the mark of her mother, her tan skin and dark hair, and the harsh facial expressions that reminded him far too much of his cheating whore of a wife. Would Angel desert him as well? He shivered at the thought.

"You reek of booze."

He responded through gritted teeth. "Just...open the door."

"Come back when you're sober."

"I just need some Tylenol."

Angel closed the door for a bit then cracked it back open just enough to throw the small bottle of pills out of the chink in the doorway. Brian lumbered back down the stairs to pick up the pills, wondering if she had thrown the bottle down there just to spite him; nevertheless he retrieved the precious bottle and made his way back up the stairs. Thoroughly irritated, he fingers eight pills into his palm. As he chewed the pills, staring at the crack in the doorway, all he saw was his cheating whore of a wife looking back at him, judging him, blinding him to his daughter's pained expression.

"What?" He seethes.

"You shouldn't take so many."

"And what do you care?"

She opened the door a bit further, exposing a swollen black eye.

Brian's sour disposition erupted into mad fury as pushed his way into the apartment. "Who did that to you?"

"What? You don't remember?"

He felt a pang of guilt. "I'm so sorry baby, you know I didn't mean it, I was dru--"

"Don't even say it, Brian!"

He looked at her, dejected. "Why do you call me that?"

"Why do you call me by mom's name when you--you....?" She drooped her head hiding her face in her hands. Brian reached for her, trying to wipe away her tears, to show how sorry he was, but she recoiled.

"I'm so sor--"

She whirled around to face him, her soft features gone rigid with her mother's likeness. "Shut the **** up you piece of shit!"

He tried to hold her, comfort her, and she cringed away from him like he was some kind of monster. Crushed, he fell to his knees. "I'm so sorry baby. I'm so--so sorry Angel."

Angel shrieked, pulling her fists down to her sides.

"You never ****ing change Brian! You're nothing but a--"

"A piece of shit. I know. I'm sorry."

"God ****ing damn it! That word doesn't mean jack and you know it. If you were sorry you'd stop you piece of shit." She stared down at him with an expression of unadulterated contempt.

Not that look! He cries to himself. How he hated it! All it did was remind him of that bitch he once-upon-a-time called a wife--his cheating whore of a wife. Angel lowered her head and her raven black hair cascaded down her face, curtaining all but her eyes. Brian saw that they were his eyes looking back at him, and his mounting anger dissipated.

"I'm thirsty," he stated flatly.

She shook her head in disgust. He stood back up as a malicious grin contorts her mien. His hands shook with foreboding as he remembered his wife once more.

"What are you doing?"

As if in reply he heard the pantry door creak open. His stomach lurched.

"What the hell are you doing?!"

The breaking of glass on linoleum ensued. He felt his heart break as he heard the answer to his question, the sickening hiss of spillage; he could smell, almost taste his beloved tequila. He scrambled toto the kitchen, almost slipping on the tequila running across the cracked floor. In an uncontrollable fit of rage, he backhanded her. The sight of the destruction of the only thing in his life that was still there for him, still faithful, was more than he could bear. He did not even look at her as she stormed out of the apartment, hurt beyond measure. He had droped to the floor, lapping up what he could, ignoring the sting of alcohol on fresh cuts as he scrambled around in the broken glass. He loved the rich taste, the slow burn in his throat, but he hated himself all the more for how much he loved it.

#

Cast in a familiar pose, he lay there in the mingled booze, blood, and tears for what seemed like an eternity until the sound of the doorbell brought him out of his stupor. For the second time that afternoon he somehow managed to bring his pained form erect, brushing the glass off his bloodied arms. The insistent ringing of the doorbell was accented by waves of shouted Spanish curses. He opened the door to reveal a plump elderly Hispanic lady, brandishing a rather large and meancing kitchen knife. The obscenities faded in an instant, but the fiery anger in her eyes did not abate; instead, she stepped back, gesturing with the knife and motioning angrily.

"Ok, I get the point...vamanos," he muttered. She jabbered back at him furiously and pressed the tip of the knife against his back, directing him down the stairs. As he moved back into boiling heat outside, he cringed once more against the bright, irreverent sunshine, and his muddled mind began to make out some choice words in her relentless stream of curses: bastard, scum, pathetic, coward. He recalled that his cheating whore of a wife had called him those things and worse. He wished he never knew what those words meant, that maybe just once he could be proud of a name someone called him.

Brian had picked up his pace to make sure his neighbor would not follow. As he walked, blinking painfully in the bright sun, he drew curious glances from the neighborhood children playing in the street. He paused. "Did you see Angel go this way?" He honestly had no idea why he asked that question; it was one of those things that just feels right.

They looked at him afraid. Silent. He assumed it was due to his appearance. He was a bloody mess and he knew it. "Did you see a fifteen year old girl walk this way, damn it?" His eyes flashed a bit as he asked the question again.
One of the group, a young boy probably no older than ten, timidly pointed down the road.
Of course! He thought. Not many places she could have gone. He picked up his pace yet again, moving faster and faster, not sure why, not even sure what he was going to do or tell her when he found her, if he found her, just that he needed to find her. Something had finally either connected or broken deep inside him, and the only thing in the world that mattered to him now was making sure his little Angle was safe.

#

Brian noticed that the sun had sunk much lower in the sky, turning the cloudless blue into a tableau of oranges, reds, and yellows. Part of him wondered how long he'd been walking, searching; his feet were damn tired, and pneumatic drills bore into his temples. Briefly, he stopped to catch his breath and took out the bottle of Tylenol, this time not bothering to count how many he shoved in his mouth. He sighed and let his eyes fall closed against the sunset and as if by some dark magic, once open, before them appears a small, dingy corner store. The connection made in his brain a few short hours ago gave way, letting the search for his daughter drown beneath thoughts of liquor. He hurried toward the store, but as he drew near, the excitement it prompted, quickly turned to disappointment. His pockets were empty. If only lint could pay for tequila.

Through a small bit of glass not covered by graffiti Brian stared longingly at the immaculate rows of liquor lined up for display. His head dropped, a sob constricting his chest. He needed a drink. He needed a drink bad. Now even the liquor had been sucked dry, had deserted him, forcing him to face his emptiness. He felt cold and he shivered at the thought of what he had done to his precious Angel. I don't want to do this anymore! He screamed to himself. His tired eyes rose to meet the glass but to see his reflection peering back at him and not his temptation. It was an old, worn face, etched deep with hurt, pained by grief and anger. It was the face of the monster he had become. The hairs of his arms had stood on end and shuddering, he mutters trough a choked sob the one phrase that had become nearly his entire vocabulary over the past ten years, "I'm so sorry...."

After one last yearning almost hateful glance at the diversely shaped bottles he decided to makes his way back to the dump he called home, and wait for his daughter, his Angel, his light in the abounding darkness, the wretched void that was his soul. Brian stood tall with a firm resolve; cowing to seek help, to really change. He knew now that there was more to life than just his daily fix, he needed to be there for his little girl, his Angel.

"I'll change. I'll do it. Whatever it takes. I'll never hurt my Angel again!"

He smiled for what seemed like the first time in years and at that very instant he's greeted by an all-to-familiar scream. Terror gripped him like had it had never done before.

"Angel!" He cried, searching like a mad man for the source of her voice.

"Help me! Someone ple--"

Brian rushed down a side street toward the sound of her cries, eyes widening in shock at the scene unfolding before him. Two men dragged her back towards a rickety porch as she, desperately violent, kicked and scratched with all the strength in her small body. Snarling, one of them covered her mouth with his hand only to be spurned by a savage bite. With a howl of pain, he released his hold long enough for her to shout, "Daddy!" before the other man smacked her hard across the mouth.

Brian charged with the fury of Armageddon, plowing into one of his daughter's captors, strangling with a desperate force till the bastard went limp. A loud shriek from Angel brought his head around, but not before cold steal had sunk in his back. His single-minded rage had blinded him to his doom. The sobbing of his daughter sounded dim, sort of far away, as Brian released his hold on the dead man and sank to his knees. He wanted to say he was sorry, he was sorry he couldn't save her, sorry he hadn't done so many things, sorry he had done many much more, but nothing more than a nearly silent gurgle escaped his bloody lips. He was spent but she had to know. With what remaining strength he had left he turned to his daughter and gasped, "I'm so sorry-"

His voice fell silent as his lungs began their collapse. He looked deep into her terrified eyes, sees her trembling, as the surviving piece of shit drags her into the darkness--the grim confines of the rundown crack house. Brian's vision had become a muddy red, a he saw and felt was blood--the harbinger of his imminent demise--but he could still hear his Angel as she called out his name: "Daddy!" With a chocked sob, "Daddy." This time with only a whimper, "Daddy...."

Red fades to black, her cries to silence.


END

Welcome Danilo,

I am delighted to see your openness to critique. Good luck with your class.

Brian was crudely flung into consciousness, his ears ringing with the roar of offroaders somewhere near by. As his other senses flooded back to him he felt the scorching noonday sun welcome him with a searing pain, which brought his tired hazel eyes to tears. As his vision cleared he took a few moments to take in his surroundings. He was in a dried up ditch not too far from where he lived.

In the first line, the use of the word "offroaders" seemed out of place to me. I know its the opening line but that was the first hiccup in my reading. I know what you mean but I think there are better choices out there to represent this; overall its not terribly important.[/b]

Brian was crudely flung into consciousness, his ears ringing with the roar of offroaders somewhere near by. Other senses flooded back to him as the noonday sun scorched its welcome through searing pain. His hazel eyes welled to tears, adjusting slowly to take in his surroundings. He was in a dried up ditch not too far from where he lived.

[i]This is a suggestive change and reads a bit better to me. I can already tell you write somewhat like I do at times, trying to cram too much into every line. While this isn't always bad, sometimes lines seem overcrowded. Overall a nice scenic start to your piece.

Somehow he managed to force his sore protesting body from the ground and onto shaky legs, squinting he examined the parched, caked and balding earth on which he had lain. He couldn't help but notice a puddle of vomit--presumably his own. He reflected on how he might have suffocated to death. This thought troubled him. He was not ready to die and he knew this, at least not while he could still believe his Angel needed him, would miss him if he.... He could not bring himself to that grim thought again. After all what kind of death would that be? Drowning in one's own spewer. He sighed not knowing whether death would be a sweeter recourse than liquor.

You start this with another awkward transition, namely the portion of your sentence dealing with the words "legs" and "squinting." What about something like this:

Somehow he managed to force his sore, protesting body up onto shaky legs. He examined the parched, caked and balding earth through squinting eyes. He couldn't help but notice a puddle of vomit and reflected on how he might have suffocated to death. This thought troubled him. He was not ready to die, at least not while he could still believe his Angel needed him, would miss him if he.... He could not bring himself to that grim thought again. After all what kind of death would that be? Drowning in one's own spewer. He sighed not knowing whether death would be a sweeter recourse than liquor.

Besides a few wording changes I omitted a few of yours as well. Sometimes we as writers overstate and repeat ourselves and the removal of these repititions upon their notice often gives us stronger works. I want to say I liked your use of the word "spewer" rather than puke, vomit (again) or up-chuck. It was a very good choice of words. Your last line is flawless and a great paragraph cliff-hanger. Its almost the sort of line one would use as a finisher, but your inclusion of it here almost promises the reader better. Well done.

As Brian stood staring into space, letting his life drift away into the quicksand of time, the relentless stinging of the sun propelled his thoughts back to the small apartment he shared with his daughter. She would likely be worried sick about him--at least that's what he hoped in his heart to be true. He looked to his wrist to check the time but his watch was not there. He couldn't remember last night; he had no idea if he had been robbed or misplaced it or left it at home or had done any other number of things with it. That was the price he paid to forget--he wouldn't, couldn't remember--and it was a price he was all too willing to pay night after night, day after day, year after year, and so forth at least till it sucked his pockets dry, and on a more serious note, sucked him dry, dry, down the marrow of his bones, dry as the lifeless desert in which he dwelt, the squalid wasteland someone in their madness had the gall to call a thriving metropolis. And such dark thoughts accompanied him as he climbed out of the dried up ditch and ambled down the cracked sun-baked pavement whose bends and turns somehow would take him to his destination--to the only light he has left in his empty life to quench the darkness that had desiccated his very soul: his Angel.

This paragraph is an example of trying to cram too much into every line. In this case, its mostly composed of run-on's, something to avoid as much as possible. I might pursue some changes as follows:

As Brian stood staring into space, the stinging sun propelled his thoughts back to the small apartment he shared with his daughter. She would likely be worried sick about him- at least that's what his heart hoped to be true. He looked to his wrist to check the time but his watch was gone. He couldn't remember last night; had no idea if he had been robbed, misplaced it or left it at home. Any number of possibilities existed. That was the price he paid to forget- he wouldn't, he couldn't remember- and it was a price he was all too willing to pay. Night by night, day by day, and year after year; his willingness to let go would absorb him until his pockets ran dry, his spirits ran dry, and finally his body dried down to the marrow of his bones. As dry as the lifeless desert in which he dwelt. This squalid wasteland someone in their madness found the gall to call a thriving metropolis. Bitter angst accompanied him as he climbed out of the desolate ditch and ambled down the cracked, sun-baked pavement whose bends and turns matched his twisting thoughts; and somehow both would lead him to his destination- to the only light to fight the darkness in his very soul: his Angel.


I made alot of changes to this one. I want you to realize that all of my changes are suggestive. While I am honored if you adopt them, I am thrilled if they serve rather as inspiration to your writing. I cut down the run-on sentences and omitted other words here or there. You might want to compare it to your original to see what I removed. Overall I think you have a solid character developing at this point. We will see where you take him in the following paragraphs. Since it is near 1 a.m. here, I will return tomorrow to finish this critique. I have only read what I have commented on thus far, so it should prove interesting when I return. At this point in the story I still feel the desire to read more and its good that you haven't lost your audience by this point. In fact, I would say you've done well up till now in progressing period.

Thanks so much for taking a stab at this!

Were those the only problems you found? Or just the most glaring ones? Or were you afraid I might get upset if you dissected more of it?

I know my grammar (especially with the run-ons) is always a bit off. I've been trying to correct this by referring to style guides, but I guess the problem is my speech is composed mainly of run-ons (also its very disjointed) and it translates to my writing. A lot of the authors I read have really long drawn out sentences and paragraphs.

I'll definitely use the first two if not all these changes, might reword later but they'll definitely be in my next draft. The third paragraph I'll probably work on a bit more; sometimes I like how I initially say something and its hard for me to change it. However, your changes seem small. I'll probably get used to being more succinct as I get bored of my own descriptions.

Again, thanks a lot!

Oh, and love your signature.

Danilo, I apologize for not being able to finish this critique as promised. I attended an unexpected funeral showing today and have not had time to return to your piece yet. I shall do my best to return by Sunday night latest. Thank you for your patience,

-LM

I'm sorry to hear that you have my condolences.

Hello Danilo,

I appreciate the condolences. One of my fathers best friends perished in a car accident after they and two other friends had spent the whole day golfing and having a good time.

I also apologize for this taking so long to get back to you.

Now for your critique:

I am curious as to what the # sign signifies in your piece. If it is meant to serve as a pause or break, a better way to signify that is three (or a few more if you prefer) dashes ( --- ) centered on the page between the paragraphs.


Brian looked up from his musings to find himself at the base of a familiar staircase. He had forgotten he was walking, even moving. His hands trembled as he searched his pockets for keys. They were empty--an obnoxious reminder of how empty he felt inside. Peeved, he ascended the stairs with exaggerated effort and banged on the door. He had left the blistering gaze of the sun behind him, only to be greeted by his daughter's dour visage as she cracked open their apartment door just enough to reveal the harsh scrutiny of one eye, one beautiful hazel eye. It was the only proof he had that she was his. The rest of her was tainted with the mark of her mother, her tan skin and dark hair, and the harsh facial expressions that reminded him far too much of his cheating whore of a wife. Would Angel desert him as well? He shivered at the thought.

This paragraph feels pretty solid on first glance. The first four sentences I would leave as they are. The word "peeved" should be changed in my opinion. It doesn't express the level of anger I imagine this character having- a sort of passive agressive depression- and it makes him seem slightly more cartoonish. I think the word "aggravated" would fit much better here.


He had left the blistering gaze of the sun behind him, only to be greeted by his daughter's dour visage as she cracked open their apartment door just enough to reveal the harsh scrutiny of one eye, one beautiful hazel eye. It was the only proof he had that she was his. The rest of her was tainted with the mark of her mother, her tan skin and dark hair, and the harsh facial expressions that reminded him far too much of his cheating whore of a wife. Would Angel desert him as well? He shivered at the thought.

The first sentence I have reposted above bothered me the first time through. The reason is that is borders on a run-on. I however have the conflict of liking all its individual pieces so I can't suggest a change at the moment. It can stay as is, just soemthing I wanted to mention. Also, at this point I do not know if you elaborate more on Brian's wife but the first mention of her was odd to me. Just the way you phrased "cheating whore of a wife." What if you pursued something like this:

The rest of her was tainted with the mark of her mother, her tan skin and dark hair, and the harsh facial expressions that reminded him far too much of the whore his wife turned out to be.

Or:

The rest of her was tainted with the mark of her mother, her tan skin and dark hair, and the harsh facial expressions that reminded him far too much of the whore he unwittingly married.

Or:

The rest of her was tainted with the mark of her mother, her tan skin and dark hair, and the harsh facial expressions that reminded him far too much of his unfaithful wife.


Your last two senteces end this paragraph very well. Great sentiment to leave the reader with here.


"You reek of booze."

He responded through gritted teeth. "Just...open the door."

"Come back when you're sober."

"I just need some Tylenol."

This dialogue is fine, nothing needs attention here.


Angel closed the door for a bit then cracked it back open just enough to throw the small bottle of pills out of the chink in the doorway. Brian lumbered back down the stairs to pick up the pills, wondering if she had thrown the bottle down there just to spite him; nevertheless he retrieved the precious bottle and made his way back up the stairs. Thoroughly irritated, he fingers eight pills into his palm. As he chewed the pills, staring at the crack in the doorway, all he saw was his cheating whore of a wife looking back at him, judging him, blinding him to his daughter's pained expression.

In this paragraph you begin to do something you have largely avoided up until now: you have begun to mix verb tenses. I don't currently feel there needs to be alot of wording changes (and now is the appropriate time to use cheating whore of a wife. This sentiment would couple with one of the changes I suggested above. The only thing you should avoid is repeating the word "whore." Use it above or use it here). This is what I suggest to bring about verb cohesion:

Thoroughly irritated, he fingered (or poured) eight pills into his palm. He swalloed the pills while staring at the crack in the doorway. All he saw was his cheating whore of a wife looking back at him, judging him, blinding him to his daughter's pained expression.

"What?" He seethed.

"You shouldn't take so many."

"And what do you care?"

She opened the door a bit further, exposing a swollen black eye.

Brian's sour disposition erupted into mad fury as pushed his way into the apartment. "Who did that to you?"

"What? You don't remember?"

He felt a pang of guilt. "I'm so sorry baby, you know I didn't mean it, I was dru--"

"Don't even say it, Brian!"

He looked at her, dejected. "Why do you call me that?"

"Why do you call me by mom's name when you--you....?" She drooped her head hiding her face in her hands. Brian reached for her, trying to wipe away her tears, to show how sorry he was, but she recoiled.

"I'm so sor--"

She whirled around to face him, her soft features gone rigid with her mother's likeness. "Shut the **** up you piece of shit!"

He tried to hold her, comfort her, and she cringed away from him like he was some kind of monster. Crushed, he fell to his knees. "I'm so sorry baby. I'm so--so sorry Angel."

Angel shrieked, pulling her fists down to her sides.

"You never ****ing change Brian! You're nothing but a--"

"A piece of shit. I know. I'm sorry."

"God ****ing damn it! That word doesn't mean jack and you know it. If you were sorry you'd stop you piece of shit." She stared down at him with an expression of unadulterated contempt.

Here is the first problem I have found with this set of dialogue other than the verb I corrected above. The narrator, as set up in your story, should use past tense while characters are free to use present. Anyways, you are repeating "piece of shit" too much. This last one is one too many. You should find something else to replace this as the repition is too much for the impact you want to have. On another note, great use of "unadulterated comtempt." Not only is this phrase unwittingly a reference back to Brian's cheating wife, it is absolving the daughter of her mothers actions. I am not sure if you intended this but either way it worked out well.

Not that look! He cried to himself. How he hated it! All it did was remind him of that bitch he once called a wife--his cheating whore of a wife. Angel lowered her head and her raven black hair cascaded down her face, curtaining all but her eyes. Brian saw that they were his eyes looking back at him, and his mounting anger dissipated.

Other than the verb here, this is pretty solid. Using whore of a wife here should also be just fine as long as you (and I'm rooting for the first one) remove it from one of the places above. I think the best thing you accomplish here is that Brian is disarmed at seeing himself in his daughter.

"I'm thirsty," he stated flatly.

She shook her head in disgust. He stood back up as a malicious grin contorted her mien. His hands shook with foreboding as he remembered his wife once more.

"What are you doing?"

As if in reply he heard the pantry door creak open. His stomach lurched.

"What the hell are you doing?!"

[i]Other than some mild confusion at the pantry door comment, the rest of this dialogue is also sound.

The breaking of glass on linoleum ensued. He felt his heart break as he heard the answer to his question, the sickening hiss of spillage; he could smell, almost taste his beloved tequila. He scrambled toto the kitchen, almost slipping on the tequila running across the cracked floor. In an uncontrollable fit of rage, he backhanded her. The sight of the destruction of the only thing in his life that was still there for him, still faithful, was more than he could bear. He did not even look at her as she stormed out of the apartment, hurt beyond measure. He had droped to the floor, lapping up what he could, ignoring the sting of alcohol on fresh cuts as he scrambled around in the broken glass. He loved the rich taste, the slow burn in his throat, but he hated himself all the more for how much he loved it.

This paragraph has great intended meaning but a few parts hurt its execution (the pantry comment makes more sense here. It simply wasn't clear who was opening it above). I might like to see something like this:


The sound of breaking glass on the linoleum tile was shocking . He felt his heart break as he heard the answer to his question, the sickening hiss of spillage; he could smell, almost taste his beloved tequila. He scrambled to the kitchen, almost slipping on the tequila running across the cracked floor. In an uncontrollable fit of rage, he backhanded her. The destruction of the only thing in his life that was still there for him, still faithful, was more than he could bear. He did not even look at her as she stormed out of the apartment, hurt beyond measure. He droped to the floor, lapping up what he could, ignoring the sting of alcohol on fresh cuts as he scrambled around in the broken glass. He loved the rich taste, the slow burn in his throat, but he hated himself all the more for how much he loved it.

As you can see I made some changes to the first line and omitted other parts of this paragraph. I feel this presentation is stronger. I also loved your last line. It reveals the inner turmoil and conflict this character is dealing with well.

(Once again I think --- would work better here to indicate a pause or switching location in the story.

Cast in a familiar pose, he lay there in the mingled booze, blood, and tears for what seemed like an eternity until the sound of the doorbell brought him out of his stupor. For the second time that afternoon he somehow managed to bring his pained form erect, brushing the glass off his bloodied arms. The insistent ringing of the doorbell was accented by waves of shouted Spanish curses. He opened the door to reveal a plump elderly Hispanic lady, brandishing a rather large and meancing kitchen knife. The obscenities faded in an instant, but the fiery anger in her eyes did not abate; instead, she stepped back, gesturing with the knife and motioning angrily.

The only thing that I think might need attention here is the line where the Spanish curses are being shouted. I don't feel you need the word shouted in there. Obviously that's a preference and is up for your discretion.

"Ok, I get the point...vamanos," he muttered. She jabbered back at him furiously and pressed the tip of the knife against his back, directing him down the stairs. As he moved back into the boiling heat outside, he cringed once more against the bright, irreverent sunshine. His muddled mind began to make out some choice words in her relentless stream of curses: bastard, scum, pathetic, coward. He recalled that his wife had called him those things and worse. He wished he never knew what those words meant, that maybe just once he could be proud of a name someone called him.

Once again you end the paragraph strongly. Only a few other changes I made throughout, including shortening the "whore of a wife" phrase again. It has been applied already in the mind of the reader and constantly repeating something too much sometimes makes it lose its poignancy.

Brian had picked up his pace to make sure his neighbor would not follow. As he walked, blinking painfully in the bright sun, he drew curious glances from the neighborhood children playing in the street. He paused. "Did you see Angel go this way?" He honestly had no idea why he asked that question; it was one of those things that just feels right.

There was nothing outright I saw to change at first in this short paragraph but feel the ending could be stronger. Instead of ending it with "it was one of those things that just felt right." I think you should reflect on the fact that he does genuinely care for his daughter. Something possibly along the lines of:

Brian had picked up his pace to make sure his neighbor would not follow. As he walked, blinking painfully in the bright sun, he drew curious glances from the neighborhood children playing in the street. He paused. "Did you see Angel go this way?" He honestly had no idea why he asked that question; perhaps it was a pang of regret or possibly out of the love he could not show through action.

I am not sure I like my ending much better either, but something that alludes to two different things, such as regret and love etc. would be good for this short paragraph.

They looked at him afraid. Silent. He assumed it was due to his appearance. He was a bloody mess and he knew it. "Did you see a fifteen year old girl walk this way damn it?" His eyes flashed a bit as he asked the question again.
One of the group, a young boy probably no older than ten, timidly pointed down the road.
Of course! He thought. Not many places she could have gone. He picked up his pace yet again, moving faster and faster, not sure why, not even sure what he was going to do or tell her when he found her; if he found her. Something had finally connected or possibly broken deep inside him, and the only thing in the world that mattered to him now was making sure his little Angle was safe.

Just some minor changes, and a few omissions.

Brian noticed that the sun had sunk much lower in the sky, turning the cloudless blue into a tableau of oranges, reds, and yellows. Part of him wondered how long he'd been walking, searching; his feet ached, and pneumatic drills bore into his temples. Briefly, he stopped to catch his breath and took out the bottle of Tylenol, this time not bothering to count how many he had shoved in his mouth. He sighed and let his eyes fall closed against the sunset; as if by some form of magic he saw a small, dingy corner store [b]upon opening them. The connection made in his brain a few short hours ago gave way, letting the search for his daughter drown beneath thoughts of liquor. He hurried toward the store, but as he drew near, the excitement it prompted quickly turned to disappointment. His pockets were empty. If only lint could pay for tequila.

Once again great last sentence. I eliminated a comma near the end and besides other minor changes, feel this paragraph stands reasonable well by itself


Through a small bit of glass not covered by graffiti Brian stared longingly at the immaculate rows of liquor lined up for display. His head dropped, a sob constricting his chest. He needed a drink. He needed a drink badly. Now even the liquor had been sucked dry, had deserted him, forcing him to face his emptiness. He felt cold and he shivered at the thought of what he had done to his precious Angel. I don't want to do this anymore! He screamed to himself. His tired eyes rose to meet the glass but focused on his reflection peering back and not his temptation. It was an old, worn face, etched deep with hurt, pained by grief and anger. It was the face of the monster he had become. The hairs of his arms shuddered as they stood on end while he muttered trough a choked sob the one phrase that had nearly become his entire vocabulary over the past ten years, "I'm so sorry...."

Just a few changes not alot that needs extra notice here. You are slowly unraveling his character and you are doing it in a good way. Adding the ten years comment gives a time frame over the course of Brian's destruction and your description of his reflection shows the reader the toll those ten years wrought.

After one last yearning, almost hateful, glance at the diversely shaped bottles he decided to makes his way back to the dump he called home, and wait for his daughter, his Angel, his light in the abounding darkness, the wretched void that was his soul. Brian stood tall with a firm resolve; cowing to seek help, to really change. He knew now that there was more to life than just his daily fix, he needed to be there for his little girl, his Angel.

This is another example of run-on's bogging down your story a bit. I think something along the lines of this would sound better:

After one last yearning, hateful glance at the diversely shaped bottles he decided to makes his way back to the dump he called home, and wait for his daughter. Brian stood tall with a firm resolve; vowing to seek help, to truly change. He knew now that there was more to life than just his daily fix, he needed to be there for his little girl, his Angel.

This realization seems awfully sudden for Brian but otherwise fits alright.


"I'll change. I'll do it. Whatever it takes. I'll never hurt my Angel again!"

He smiled for what seemed like the first time in years and at that very instant he was greeted by an all-to-familiar scream. Terror gripped him like it had never done before.

"Angel!" He cried, searching like a mad man for the source of her voice.

"Help me! Someone ple--"

Nothing really in need of extra focus here, the dialogue is fine aside from a slight verb tweak above.

Brian rushed down a side street toward the sound of her cries, eyes widening in shock at the scene unfolding before him. Two men dragged her back towards a rickety porch as she, desperately violent, kicked and scratched with all the strength in her small body. Snarling, one of them covered her mouth with his hand only to be spurned by a savage bite. With a howl of pain, he released his hold long enough for her to shout, "Daddy!" before the other man smacked her hard across the mouth.

Good progression.

Brian charged with the fury of Armageddon, plowing into one of his daughter's captors and strangling him with a desperate force until the bastard went limp. A loud shriek from Angel brought his head around, but not before cold steal was splayed across his back.

I'm cutting this paragraph up because of the nexst sentence. Using the word doom in this manner brings a more cartoonish sound to this struggle. You can cut that line entirely and add a similar type line below or leave it off. Its simply too prophetic since its describing the death thats going to happen a few lines away. I would vote for removal entirely.

His single-minded rage had blinded him to his doom.

The sobbing of his daughter sounded dim, far away, as Brian released his hold from the dead man's neck and sank to his knees. He wanted to say he was sorry, he was sorry he couldn't save her, sorry he hadn't done so many things, sorry he had done much worse, but nothing more than a nearly silent gurgle escaped his bloody lips. He was dying but she had to know. With little strength remaining turned to his daughter and gasped, "I'm so sorry-"

His voice fell silent as his lungs began to collapse. He looked deep into her terrified eyes, watched her tremble as the surviving [b]assailant dragged her into the darkness--the grim confines of the rundown crack house. Into the same darkness that had consumed his soul. Brian's vision had become a muddy red, the portentous sign of impending demise; he could still hear his Angel as she called out his name: "Daddy!" With a chocked sob, "Daddy." This time with only a whimper, "Daddy...."

Red fades to black, her cries to silence.

You can see I made a few chanegs towards the end. Overall a very morbid but good story. One of the things you, espescially, need to watch out for is repeating the same things over and over. You described the same thing multiple times throughout the story, which lessons impact it has upon the reader. Another point to look out for is describing soemthing too much. Leave some room for imagination or interpretation on behalf of the reader.

In response to the things you wanted specific commentary on:

Frame: I am not sure what you mean by frame.

Characters: Your characters, mainly Brian was developed decently. There is some room for imporvement but this should do for now.

Conflict: You certainly have decent to good conflict. Brian wrestling with his inner flaw of alcoholism was developed and brought out well.

Diablogue: Dialogue was sufficient and you didn't have any real snags with what you provided.

POV: I am not sure what POV stands for.

Setting: The setting, like the characters, was developed well for the most part but has room for improvement. One thing you can do is take the town or place the story takes place in and use it as a means of furthering your characters description. How does the town affect their views? How did it affect their development as people? Is is dark and ominous in general or bright and sunny with good people inhabiting it? Etc.

Resolution: Your resolution is not entirely existant in the sense of the main problem being resolved. However, you ended your story in such a way that the resolution of Brian's apology more than makes up for his failure to be a better person. It adds to his character and overall the end of your story was good, albeit morbid.

Pacing: The pace of the story was sufficient for its length. Although it was never too slow, a few times you did seem to jump really fast into the next portion; the biggest jump I noticed was his sudden revelation to be a better father and person outside the liquor store. While real world people do have those thoughts that quickly, there is normally a bit more build-up that goes into them having the spontaneous revelation.

Hello again,

I write using manuscript format, and the only thing I changed when I posted my story on here was underlines to italics. Next time I'll replace # with *** or --- if that's more clear.

I really like your suggestions. It's amazing how you can make these small changes without dramatically changing how it reads. Also, I appreciate how you give examples other people who've critiqued my work have just told me stuff like "they fall in love too fast," without giving me any suggestions on how to fix the problem.

I changed the ending paragraph (this might make the reader have less respect for Brian). Do you think the additions in bold work or should I leave them out? See below:

His voice fell silent as his lungs began to collapse. He looked deep into her terrified eyes, watched her tremble as the surviving assailant dragged her into the darkness--the grim confines of the rundown crack house--into the same darkness that had consumed his soul. He wished it would all go away, he wished he could drown everything in a drunken stupor. But it was too late now; blood and death had inundated his entire being. Brian's vision had become a muddy red, the portent of his impending demise; he could still hear his Angel as she called out his name: "Daddy!" With a chocked sob, "Daddy." This time with only a whimper, "Daddy...."


To clarify...

Frame: Can a reader visually "see" the details that show these story telling elements: who, what, where, when, how, and why? And do we read these details on the first page or two?

POV: Point of view. Does the story's pov choice fit the story best? Would first person work better? Is third person close or distant the best choice?

Character: My main goal was to provide sensory details, maybe some unique gestures, and to overall create a complex character. Not sure how well I met this goal.

Setting: Do you think I should place it in a real city? I had in mind Las Cruces, New Mexico when I wrote it. It's about 47 miles North of the Mexican border.

Resolution & Pacing: I made him make his decision to change quickly, cause in my mind Brian doesn't have the capacity to change at least not yet, he wants to but he's not quite there yet, not rock bottom. I added that so the reader would have more sympathy when he dies but you really don't know if he can hold up to his promise to himself, he's never tested. Do you think there's a better way to add resolution without giving up my current ending of him dying trying to save his daughter?

I've always had issues with pacing short stories. I think it's because I really have more ideas than can fit on 8-12 pages and I have to speed up character development and plot. I've been practicing writing short fiction though cause it seems to be the only way to get something published as an amateur.

Again, thank you so much for your incredible input and critiques!

Anyone care to critique my revision? This includes a new ending:

Brian was crudely flung into consciousness, his ears ringing with the roar of offroaders somewhere in the near distance. Other senses flooded back to him as the noonday sun scorched its welcome through searing pain. His hazel eyes welled to tears, adjusting slowly to take in his surroundings. He was in a dried up ditch not far from where he lived.

Somehow he managed to force his sore, protesting body up onto shaky legs. He examined the parched, caked and balding earth through squinting eyes. He couldn't help but notice a puddle of vomit and reflected on how he might have suffocated to death. This thought troubled him. He was not ready to die, at least not while he could still believe his Angel needed him, would miss him if he.... He could not bring himself to that grim thought again. After all what kind of death would that be? Drowning in one's own spewer. He sighed not knowing whether death would be a sweeter recourse than liquor.

As Brian stood staring into space, the stinging sun propelled his thoughts back to the small apartment he shared with his daughter. She would likely be worried sick about him--at least that's what his heart hoped to be true. He looked to his wrist to check the time but his watch was gone. He couldn't remember last night; had no idea if he had been robbed, misplaced it or left it at home. Any number of possibilities existed. That was the price he paid to forget--he wouldn't, couldn't remember--and it was a price he was all too willing to pay. Night after night, day after day, year after year and so forth; it would suck him dry, dry, down the marrow of his bones, dry as the lifeless desert in which he dwelt. This squalid wasteland someone in their madness found the gall to call a thriving metropolis. And such dark thoughts accompanied him as he climbed out of the dried up ditch and ambled down the cracked sun-baked pavement whose bends and turns matched his twisting thoughts; and somehow both would lead him to his destination--to the only light he had left in his empty life to quench the darkness which desiccated his very soul: his Angel.

***

Brian looked up from his musings to find himself at the base of a familiar staircase. He had forgotten he was walking, even moving. His hands trembled as he searched his pockets for keys. They were empty--an obnoxious reminder of how empty he felt inside. Aggravated, he ascended the stairs with exaggerated effort and banged on the door. He had left the blistering gaze of the sun behind him, only to be greeted by his daughter's dour visage as she cracked open their apartment door just enough to reveal the harsh scrutiny of one eye, one beautiful hazel eye. It was the only proof he had that she was his. The rest of her was tainted with the mark of her mother, her tan skin and dark hair, and the harsh facial expressions that reminded him far too much of his cheating whore of a wife. Would Angel desert him as well? He shivered at the thought.

"You reek of booze."

He responded through gritted teeth. "Just...open the door."

"Come back when you're sober."

"I just need some Tylenol."

Angel closed the door for a bit then cracked it back open just enough to throw the small bottle of pills out of the chink in the doorway. Brian lumbered back down the stairs to pick up the pills, wondering if she had thrown the bottle down there just to spite him; nevertheless he retrieved the precious bottle and made his way back up the stairs. Thoroughly irritated, he fingered eight pills into his palm. He slowly chewed the pills while staring at the crack in the doorway. All he saw was his cheating whore of a wife looking back at him, judging him, blinding him to his daughter's pained expression.

"What?" He seethed.

"You shouldn't take so many."

"And what do you care?"

She opened the door a bit further, exposing a swollen black eye.

Brian's sour disposition erupted into mad fury as he pushed his way into the apartment. "Who did that to you?"

"What? You don't remember?"

He felt a pang of guilt. "I'm so sorry baby, you know I didn't mean it, I was dru--"

"Don't even say it, Brian!"

He looked at her, dejected. "Why do you call me that?"

"Why do you call me by mom's name when you--you....?" She drooped her head hiding her face in her hands. Brian reached for her, trying to wipe away her tears, to show how sorry he was, but she recoiled.

"I'm so sor--"

She whirled around to face him, her soft features gone rigid with her mother's likeness. "Shut the **** up you piece of shit!"

He tried to hold her, comfort her, and she cringed away from him like he was some kind of monster. Crushed, he fell to his knees. "I'm so sorry baby. I'm so--so sorry Angel."

Angel shrieked, pulling her fists down to her sides.
"You never fucking change Brian! You're nothing but a--"

"A piece of shit. I know. I'm sorry."

"God fucking damn it! That word doesn't mean jack and you know it. If you were sorry you'd stop you piece of shit." She stared down at him with an expression of unadulterated contempt.

Not that look! He cried to himself. How he hated it! All it did was remind him of that bitch he once-upon-a-time called a wife--his cheating whore of a wife. Angel lowered her head and her raven black hair cascaded down her face, curtaining all but her eyes. Brian saw that they were his eyes looking back at him, and his mounting anger dissipated.

"I'm thirsty," he stated flatly.

She shook her head in disgust. He stood back up as a malicious grin contorted her mien. His hands shook with foreboding as he remembered his wife once more.

"What are you doing?"

As if in reply he heard the pantry door creak open. His stomach lurched.

"What the hell are you doing?!"

The sound of breaking glass on linoleum tile ensued. He felt his heart break as he heard the answer to his question, the sickening hiss of spillage; he could smell, almost taste his beloved tequila. He scrambled to the kitchen, almost slipping on the tequila running across the cracked floor. In an uncontrollable fit of rage, he backhanded her. The destruction of the only thing in his life that was still there for him, still faithful, was more than he could bear. He did not even look at her as she stormed out of the apartment, hurt beyond measure. He dropped to the floor, lapping up what he could, ignoring the sting of alcohol on fresh cuts as he scrambled around in the broken glass. He loved the rich taste, the slow burn in his throat, but he hated himself all the more for how much he loved it.

***

Cast in a familiar pose, he lay there in the mingled booze, blood, and tears for what seemed like an eternity until the sound of the doorbell brought him out of his stupor. For the second time that afternoon he somehow managed to bring his pained form erect, brushing the glass off his bloodied arms. The insistent ringing of the doorbell was accented by waves of Spanish curses. He opened the door to reveal a plump elderly Hispanic lady, brandishing a rather large and menacing kitchen knife. The obscenities faded in an instant, but the fiery anger in her eyes did not abate; instead, she stepped back, gesturing with the knife and motioning angrily.

"Ok, I get the point... vamanos," he muttered. She jabbered back at him furiously and pressed the tip of the knife against his back, directing him down the stairs. As he moved back into the boiling heat outside, he cringed once more against the bright, irreverent sunshine. His muddled mind began to make out some choice words in her relentless stream of curses: bastard, scum, pathetic, coward. He recalled that his wife had called him those things and worse. He wished he never knew what those words meant, that maybe just once he could be proud of a name someone called him.

Brian had picked up his pace to make sure his neighbor would not follow. As he walked, blinking painfully in the bright sun, he drew curious glances from the neighborhood children playing in the street. He paused. "Did you see Angel go this way?" He honestly had no idea why he asked that question; all he knew was he had a nervous feeling in his stomach.

They looked at him afraid. Silent. He assumed it was due to his appearance. He was a bloody mess. "Did you see a fifteen year old girl walk this way, damn it?" His eyes flashed a bit as he asked the question again.

One of the group, a young boy probably no older than ten, timidly pointed down the road.

Of course! He thought. Not many places she could have gone. He picked up his pace yet again, moving faster and faster, not sure why, not even sure what he was going to do or tell her when he found her--if he found her--just that he needed to find her. Something had finally connected or broken deep inside him, and the only thing in the world that mattered to him now was making sure his little Angel was safe.

***

Brian noticed that the sun had sunk much lower in the sky, turning the cloudless blue into a tableau of oranges, reds, and yellows. Part of him wondered how long he'd been walking, searching; his feet ached, and pneumatic drills bore into his temples. Briefly, he stopped to catch his breath and took out the bottle of Tylenol, this time not bothering to count how many he had shoved in his mouth. He sighed and let his eyes fall closed against the sunset and as if by some trick of the Devil he saw a small, dingy corner store upon opening them. The connection made in his brain a few short hours ago gave way, letting the search for his daughter drown beneath thoughts of liquor. He hurried toward the store, but as he drew near, the excitement it prompted, quickly turned to disappointment. His pockets were empty. If only lint could pay for tequila.

Through a small bit of glass not covered by graffiti Brian stared longingly at the immaculate rows of liquor lined up for display. His head dropped, a sob constricting his chest. He needed a drink. He needed a drink badly. Now even the liquor had been sucked dry, had deserted him, forcing him to face his emptiness. He felt cold and he shivered at the thought of what he had done to his precious Angel. I don't want to do this anymore! He screamed to himself. His tired eyes rose to meet the glass but focused on his reflection peering back at him and not his temptation. It was an old, worn face, etched deep with hurt, pained by grief and anger. It was the face of the monster he had become. The hairs of his arms had stood on end. He shuddered and trough a choked sob he said the one phrase that had nearly become his entire vocabulary over the past ten years, "I'm so sorry...."

After one last yearning almost hateful glance at the diversely shaped bottles he decided to makes his way back to the dump he called home, and wait for his daughter; his light in the abounding darkness that wretched void that filled his soul. Brian stood tall with a firm resolve; vowing to seek help, to truly change. He knew now that there was more to life than just his daily fix, he needed to be there for his little girl, his Angel.

"I'll change. I'll do it. Whatever it takes. I'll never hurt my Angel again!"

He smiled for what seemed like the first time in years and at that very instant the sight of a twenty-dollar bill greeted him. Numbly he returned to the corner store to procure a bottle of tequila. As the cashier rung up his total he saw a small angel statuette that reminded of his daughter. He pocketed it unable to afford the trinket.

"Hey I saw that!"

Brian grabbed the alcohol as he darted out of the store. His head felt light, he was drowsy either from the heat or the Tylenol and he toppled to the ground. The tequila bottle broke beneath his weight to form a puddle of mixed blood and alcohol underneath him.

"Someone call an ambulance I think this man needs help!" The cashier cried.

"Oh, that's Brian he's just a dead beat. Hear he beats his daughter. Despicable. Gets drunk off his ass and goes 'round being noisy, gettin' in other peoples shit. Doesn’ remember nothin' or anyone he pisses off the next day. Just leave it."

"Are you crazy this man needs help? Maybe someone should get his daughter."

"Hey, don't look at me man."

Brian could barely make out what they had said about him, but he knew it had to be bad. His throat was unbelievably parched and his vision had begun to blur. "I need a drink, please."

"You see what I mean. Disgusting." The man spit on Brian then proceeded to walk away as more people gathered round.

***

"Can't you see he's thirsty? Why are you all just standing there?" Someone had managed to find Angel.

He heard his daughter. He wanted to say he was sorry, he was sorry he was never there when she needed him, sorry he hadn't done so many things, sorry he had done much worse, but nothing more than a nearly silent gurgle escaped his lips. She had to know. With what little strength remained he turned to his daughter and gasped, "I'm so sorry--"

She had run over to him, cradling his head in her arms. His voice fell silent and he felt weak, distant. He looked deep into her terrified eyes, watched her tremble as she called out his name, "Daddy!" With a choked sob, "Daddy." This time with only a whimper, "Daddy...."

He clutched his chest and he smiled as he saw the angel reflected in her eyes. His vision faded to black, her cries to silence.