Absently tugging out the splinters and fragments of rope imbedded in his heavily freckled skin, a boy contemplated the distant beach. The edge of a vast continent was barely visible over a wide expanse of waves, just a thin strip of white that shimmered in the oppressive heat.
From his place in the crow鈥檚 nest Andrew McCoy could just make out a dark ribbon of colour hovering above that far-away shore. Recalling what little he had been told about the journey鈥檚 destination, he guessed that this band of darkness might be the mouth of the strange jungle he would soon be asked to enter.
Tired after a morning spent in the sun, Andrew sat down on the small circular platform, his knees bent and bare feet flat against its tall wooden sides. Sighing, he wiped his dripping forehead with the back of his hand, gasping in pain as salty sweat invaded the raw little wounds he had created with each splinters鈥?extraction. A breeze played across his face as he rubbed his stinging hand; its clean scent a welcome change after a long voyage spent amongst a crew that worked hard and smelt like it. The tip of an enormous sail a few yards above Andrew鈥檚 head twitched back and forth across the sun, causing his upturned face to be alternately bathed in golden light and plunged into purple shadow.
He gazed skyward, hypnotized by the fluttering sail, until he remembered one of his mother鈥檚 myriad of warnings; looking into the sky on a sunny day was a sure way to make yourself go blind. Andrew thought this unlikely, but saw no point in taking chances; it would be difficult to become a ship鈥檚 captain if he couldn鈥檛 read a compass. He pulled the faded blue kerchief wound around his forehead down over his face. It was scratchy and stiff from several weeks鈥?perspiration, but it worked to shield his eyes from the worst of the sun鈥檚 rays.
Recalling his mother鈥檚 advice sent little waves of guilt sloshing around in Andrew鈥檚 stomach. The two had fought constantly in the weeks leading up to this voyage, Andrew鈥檚 mother insisting that, at thirteen years old, Andrew was nowhere near old enough to go on such an expedition. But Andrew had held firm, relying on his own tenacity and on the help of his uncle Maxwell, who was both captain and funder of this journey. In the end, his mother had said that if Andrew wanted to go there was nothing she could do to stop him. However, she had refused to accompany him to the docks to see him off, and he had left her sobbing at the kitchen table, tears running down his own cheeks as he had slammed the front door.
Despite all the fighting, weeping, and fervent declarations Andrew had made to his mother that he would be a part of this expedition, his desire to take part in the voyage was more or less arbitrary. Andrew鈥檚 longing for a life on the ocean had less to do with a passion for adventure on the high seas than it did with a fear of another kind of life.
His father had died of cholera about a year ago, but until then Patrick McCoy had worked as a coach driver for America鈥檚 wealthy elite. Memories of his father鈥檚 workdays still repulsed Andrew. He vividly recalled watching his father polish his carriage lovingly well into the night; not stopping until wood shone and metal gleamed. Andrew also remembered the dismissive way wealthy patrons had treated his father and his cherished coach. Plantation owners put out reeking cigars on the delicate curtains. City bankers were sick in the carriage after whisky fuelled nights in smoky gentleman鈥檚 clubs. Aging matriarchs left the messes of their ratty dogs behind to stink up the carriage carpet.
Watching his father bow and smile to these wretched people had made Andrew hot with anger and, though he never admitted this to himself, embarrassment. At his father鈥檚 funeral (to which many of his father鈥檚 customers were invited, although none came), Andrew had decided that the McCoy鈥檚 occupational legacy would die along with his father.Do you think my writing is OK?
Something about the word choices take away from the historical value of the piece. I expect the language to be more formal although still informal for that time period. Again something about it was lacking for me. I knew when it should have been around (as far as time) but I wasn't truly there.
I don't mind that the storyteller is so young but at the same time a part of me hopes he ages at least to 16 soon. Mainly because historically their thought processes are more formal than what we have today and he will be better at telling the same story.
I did like it just missed some authenticity of it.Do you think my writing is OK?
It's a little wordy making it hard to breeze through; aside from that it's very goodDo you think my writing is OK?
I'm afraid this doesn't sound any more like a 13 year old boy's thoughts than it did in the last version when he was 12.
Try getting into his head. What language and images would a kid like this use? This sounds like an American woman with a decent level of education.
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