EDITOR’S NOTE: In this, our first workshop piece at READ, we will share a submission that we feel has promise but needs some revision. We’ll give comments and thoughts and ask readers to give comments and thoughts. The writer will then be given time to revise and perhaps share the revised piece. If you choose to comment, please make every effort to give actionable feedback, something the author can do something with.
A comment such as, “I like this piece” is fine but when giving suggestions for improvement be specific and clear. For example, “Have you considered starting at a different spot to jump in faster. Starting at such and such would build more tension.”
The full piece without editor’s comments will be posted first, then followed by the same piece with editor’s comment. Editor’s comments will appear in parenthesis and be italicized.)
KETCHUP SANDWICHES (without comments)
On the brisk autumn morning of October 13, 2008, in Rolla, Missouri, the blaring alarm clock jolted me awake. Groggily, I rolled over to silence it, squinting to check the time: 6:00 AM. Sunlight filtered through the faded curtains, burning my eyes as I stumbled out of bed. The house was freezing; my breath clouded the air as I shuffled into the dusty living room. Outside, rusty cars rested on cinder blocks, long abandoned. Inside, the sound of Dora the Explorer blared from the television, filling the quiet morning with noise. My younger sisters, aged three and four, lay fast asleep on the cracked linoleum floor, their blonde hair contrasting against the room’s lingering scent of stale cigarette smoke. Freckles dotting their cheeks, they were both dressed in pajamas. Their small forms barely stirred as I searched through every room, coming to terms with Mother’s absence. My stomach growled, urging me to tiptoe past my sleeping sisters and into the kitchen.
Rummaging through the cupboards, I found little: a few spices and a loaf of stale white bread, past its date but not yet moldy. The fridge offered only a bottle of ketchup and mustard. Determined, I made myself a simple breakfast: two slices of bread with a thin layer of watery ketchup between them. It wasn’t exciting, but it did the job. The stale bread was dry and crumbled in my mouth, the watery ketchup offering a faint tang. As I ate, my mind wandered to visions of exquisite tomato dishes crafted by an Italian chef. I could almost smell the rich aroma of tomatoes simmering in a thick, savory sauce. These dreams of decadence abruptly ended with the approaching hum of the school bus. Swallowing the last bite, I grabbed my backpack and hurried out the front door, the taste of ketchup lingering faintly on my tongue.
As I approached the bus stop, the neighborhood kids turned away, noses wrinkled as if I reeked. I probably did. I hadn’t showered that morning—there was no hot water at home, and I’d been out of body wash for a week. The smell of sweat and the faint scent of smoke from our living room clung to me. Mother was never around to tell, and even if I did, she’d either scold me or forget to get more. At home, I felt alone; at school, I felt invisible. I was seated right behind the driver, in the first row as you entered the bus. He moved me there after the fight with Anthony. Anthony enjoyed bullying me—whether it was for being short, overweight, or poor—whatever he found amusing that day. He was a skinny, pimple-faced 16-year-old who sat in the back of the bus with his girlfriends. The worn leather of the bus seat felt cold against my legs as I sat down.
I reached into my backpack and pulled out my book: Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. Mom had given it to me as a birthday gift the year before. She wasn’t around much, so she tried to make up for it during the holidays. The pages were slightly frayed from being read so many times. I attempted to read, but my concentration was shattered by a sudden thud to the back of my head. The sharp sting and the rustle of crumpled paper falling to the floor told me it was Tony, again. He had a habit of throwing crumpled-up papers at me. The laughter from the back of the bus echoed, making my cheeks burn with humiliation. If he was feeling particularly malicious, he’d add bits of metal—ends of pencils, paper clips, whatever he could find. Today, a small paper clip clinked to the ground next to me.
“What’s your problem, Tony?” I muttered under my breath, too afraid to confront him directly. From behind me, Tony smirked, his girlfriends laughing.
“What’s that, stinky? Speak up, can’t hear you over the smell.”
His voice was sharp, cutting through the bus’s engine noise. I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my palms, trying to focus on my book, but the words blurred. The bus ride seemed endless, each bump and jolt amplifying my discomfort. The musty smell of the old bus and the stale air pressed down on me. I slunk further down in my seat and held my book with my arms crossed, trying my best to ignore Tony. I watched the world pass by from the bus window, the blurred shapes of trees and houses blending together, longing for a life worth living. Tony’s taunts echoed in my mind, each word a jab that left an invisible bruise. I couldn’t escape the feeling of being trapped, suffocated by the weight of my existence. I needed a way out, a glimmer of hope to hold on to. Maybe today, I’d find it.
Arriving at school, I exited the bus and felt the cool morning air on my face, a brief respite from the suffocating bus ride. The cafeteria was bustling with noise and the clatter of trays, but I sat at a table by myself, my stomach growling. I was embarrassed not to be sitting and eating with the other kids my age. The smell of syrup and pancakes filled the air, taunting me. The bell rang, its sharp sound cutting through the noise, and I rushed through the library to get to class, the quiet of the bookshelves a stark contrast to the chaos of the cafeteria.
The day at school seemed to drag on endlessly. In class, I kept my head down, hoping to avoid attention. The lessons were forgettable, and even recess, usually a brief escape, failed to leave a lasting impression. The playground’s usual cacophony felt distant, as if I were watching from behind a glass wall. At lunch, I sat with the other poor kids, the clatter of trays and the indistinct chatter blending into a background hum. I knew my place well. With few friends and lackluster grades, school felt like eight hours of enduring my own embarrassment. I struggled to focus in class, preferring to goof off for attention. The dull hum of fluorescent lights and the scratch of pencils on paper seemed to drone on forever. Though my attempts at humor often missed their mark, they eventually led me to forge a genuine friendship with Ian. We had been classmates for two years, both of us living in the same trailer park. Ian had a great sense of humor, and we bonded over our love for video games. Like me, he was a bit chubby, with tousled brown hair and deep, dark eyes that always seemed to sparkle with mischief. We often exchanged jokes during class, snickering quietly to avoid the teacher’s stern gaze.
As the bell signaled the end of another school day, the sound felt like a release from a prison sentence. I couldn’t help but turn to Ian with a grin, the weight of the day momentarily lifting.
“Hey, can I please come over after school to play video games?”
“Absolutely!” he replied eagerly.”I’ll ask my dad to order us a pizza too.”
Ian’s house had always felt like a second home to me. His parents welcomed me with open arms and graciously shared their food. They were kind, generous, and hardworking people. His father, a policeman, was someone I looked up to because he was everything my own mother was not. When I arrived at my stop, I went straight to Ian’s place. My mom never seemed to care much about where I was after school—she was hardly ever home. Sometimes, I figured she was probably doing drugs again, like she did most days.
Watching Ian interact with his dad stirred a mix of emotions within me. His father’s attentive presence starkly contrasted with the absence I often felt from my own mother. Ian waited for me at his door, and upon stepping inside, his parents greeted me warmly with snacks and soda. Their jovial presence highlighted my mother’s declining health, as her eyes sank further back into her head each day. The fizzy sweetness of the soda offered a welcome change from the bland ‘meals’ at home. In that moment, basking in the sugary goodness, I cherished my time with Ian and his caring family. We played wrestling games on his Xbox for hours, the sounds of virtual combat blending with our laughter. Ian’s father treated us to pizza, and we ate to our hearts’ content. The cheesy, savory slices were even more delicious than the meals I had daydreamed about that morning.
“Hey Ian,” I said, feeling a rare sense of contentment, “could I stay over tonight? I’m really enjoying myself.” His cheeky smile brightened.
“Of course,” he replied. “Did you bring your school clothes for tomorrow?” “No,” I admitted. “I’ll go grab them real quick.”
And with that, I hurried off into the gathering darkness. Our trailer was only a few rows from his, so it didn’t take me long to get there. As I approached, the wail of sirens and the flash of red and blue lights caught my attention. Three police cruisers were parked outside our trailer, casting ominous shadows on the worn-out porch. My uncle stood amidst it all, his voice breaking as he pleaded with the officers not to take us away. Confusion gripped me as I tried to make sense of the chaotic scene.
I approached one of the officers, Officer Browne, as his badge read. He was a tall man with a neat mustache, his expression grave in the harsh light. Before I could ask him what was going on, he turned towards me, his voice gentle yet serious.
“Hey there, son. We’re here to take you to a safe place.”
I looked up at him, a knot tightening in my stomach. The gravity of the situation began to sink in. “Yes, sir” I replied, my voice tinged with anxiety.
From within his police cruiser, he pulled out a black trash bag and handed it to me.
“Go get five outfits and a couple of toys,” he gestured towards the trailer.
I made my way up the rickety old porch to fulfill his request. Struggling to hold back tears, I couldn’t shake off the feeling of confusion.
“Where’s my mommy?” I asked as the officer escorted me to my room.
“She’s not here right now, little man,” he explained. “Now go ahead and get your clothes.”
As I gathered my clothes, tears streamed down my face, and a sense of guilt started to wash over me.
“Did I do something wrong, officer?” I asked hesitantly.
He shook his head. Glancing at me with a look of disapproval he muttered “No, you’re fine. Now, hurry up.”
After gathering my clothes, he ushered me into the back seat of the car. My sisters were already there, fast asleep and safely buckled in. I held back my tears, careful not to disturb their much needed rest. Confusion, fear, and guilt churned inside me as we drove in silence through the night. I peered out into the darkness, wondering what lay ahead.
Eventually, the car stopped, and we were dropped off by the officer, who gave us a curt glance before leaving. Waiting for us were two middle-aged women, one with dark hair and the other with light. Behind them stood a facility with a white exterior trimmed in red. We stepped inside and were greeted by a bland gray interior, lined with rows of computers on small desks. The dark-haired woman led us into a cubicle and began asking us questions.
“Are you all feeling hungry?” she inquired.
My sisters and I responded in unison, “Yes.”
All day long, my stomach had been making loud, growling noises, and at that point, I was determined not to turn down any food that came my way. The woman with light hair left, leaving the other one behind to stay with us. She asked us more questions: What are our lives like? How does our mommy treat us? Does mommy hit us? Questions like that. The interrogation only added to my mounting feeling of guilt. When the questioning was over, the other lady returned with a crumpled brown bag overflowing with fast-food burgers, french fries, crispy chicken nuggets, and a variety of sauces. We eagerly dug in. It had been such a long time since we had enjoyed a truly fulfilling meal. After eating until we couldn't eat anymore, I felt a deep sense of satisfaction and joy. Feeling content, the social workers allowed us to rest on the floor while they made calls. They seemed to be in a panic and greatly concerned. Time passed by slowly. Eventually, they woke us and asked us to enter a different vehicle, a small white 4-door car. The night was pitch black as we drove for what seemed like an eternity. Thoughts of Mom haunted me until we finally arrived at our destination—a rustic, wooden cabin deep in the woods. Gravel crunched under the tires as we pulled into the driveway, where a friendly, elderly man greeted us warmly. He guided us inside slowly, where the cabin exuded the comforting scent of earth and wood, creating a simultaneously inviting and unfamiliar atmosphere.
“This is your new home now,” he said with a deep voice, leading us through the long halls and up the wide stairs. He stood tall, with a thick, graying beard and a balding head. “You’ll have the chance to meet everyone else tomorrow.”
“By the way, my name’s Rich.”
After placing my bag of clothes in the room, Rich led my sisters to their room while I settled onto the cozy twin-size bed tucked in the corner. It was my first time having a bed with a frame, and after so long, I felt genuinely grateful. Lying there, confusion lingered as I tried to grasp what had happened that day. My mind wandered as I stared at the rough-hewn wooden ceiling.
No more ketchup sandwiches, I thought to myself as I lay in bed, the silence of the countryside enveloping me. The moonlight filtered through the curtains, casting soft, ethereal patterns on the wooden floor. Exhaustion weighed heavy on my eyelids, but beneath it, a spark of hope flickered. It was a rare moment of clarity amid the unpredictability of my past, a whisper of possibility in the stillness of the night.
Tomorrow loomed uncertain, like an open field waiting to be explored. But for the first time in a long while, I dared to entertain the idea of a different future. A future where meals were more than mere sustenance, where stability and comfort were not just distant wishes but achievable goals. The thought buoyed my spirits like a gentle breeze, carrying me into a peaceful sleep filled with dreams of brighter days ahead.
KETCHUP SANDWICHES (with editor’s comments)
On the brisk autumn morning of October 13, 2008, in Rolla, Missouri, the blaring alarm clock jolted me awake. Groggily, I rolled over to silence it, squinting to check the time: 6:00 AM. Sunlight filtered through the faded curtains, burning my eyes as I stumbled out of bed. The house was freezing; my breath clouded the air as I shuffled into the dusty living room. Outside, rusty cars rested on cinder blocks, long abandoned. Inside, the sound of Dora the Explorer blared from the television, filling the quiet morning with noise. My younger sisters, aged three and four, lay fast asleep on the cracked linoleum floor, their blonde hair contrasting against the room’s lingering scent of stale cigarette smoke. Freckles dotting their cheeks, they were both dressed in pajamas. Their small forms barely stirred as I searched through every room, coming to terms with Mother’s absence. My stomach growled, urging me to tiptoe past my sleeping sisters and into the kitchen.
(Editor’s comment: The first paragraph any piece, fiction or non-fiction, needs to compel the reader to continue. The heart of this story and paragraph is the mother’s absence and what that means at this moment to this narrator. Consider getting to that much faster in the first paragraph and also commenting on it as the older narrator. This is a piece that would benefit from the insight of the older narrator. Hint to the reader early that this day is different than other days. Edit down the descriptors a bit. The reader needs a taste of the situation but not a minute by minute of the morning.
For example: It was 6am, on the brisk autumn morning of October 13, 2008, in Rolla, Missouri, and my mother was gone. The house was freezing. Sunlight filtered through faded curtains. My breath clouded the air as I shuffled from room to room looking for her. Outside, rusty cars rested on cinder blocks, long abandoned. Inside, the sound of Dora the Explorer blared from the television, filling the quiet morning with noise. My younger sisters, aged three and four, lay fast asleep on the cracked linoleum floor, their blonde hair contrasting against the room’s lingering scent of stale cigarette smoke, freckles dotting their cheeks, they were both dressed in pajamas. Their small forms barely stirred as I searched through every room, coming to terms with Mother’s absence. My stomach growled, urging me to tiptoe past my sleeping sisters and into the kitchen. This wasn’t the first time we’d woken up alone. I didn’t know it would be the last.)
Rummaging through the cupboards, I found little: a few spices and a loaf of stale white bread, past its date but not yet moldy. The fridge offered only a bottle of ketchup and mustard. Determined, I made myself a simple breakfast: two slices of bread with a thin layer of watery ketchup between them. It wasn’t exciting, but it did the job. The stale bread was dry and crumbled in my mouth, the watery ketchup offering a faint tang. As I ate, my mind wandered to visions of exquisite tomato dishes crafted by an Italian chef. I could almost smell the rich aroma of tomatoes simmering in a thick, savory sauce. These dreams of decadence abruptly ended with the approaching hum of the school bus.
Swallowing the last bite, I grabbed my backpack and hurried out the front door, the taste of ketchup lingering faintly on my tongue. As I approached the bus stop, the neighborhood kids turned away, noses wrinkled as if I reeked. I probably did. I hadn’t showered that morning—there was no hot water at home, and I’d been out of body wash for a week. The smell of sweat and the faint scent of smoke from our living room clung to me. Mother was never around to tell, and even if I did, she’d either scold me or forget to get more.
(Editor’s comment: Is the author in the same clothes he slept in? He says, he hadn’t showered that morning and he reeks? That seems too much. How long has it been? How long has there been no hot water. Also, body wash seems off to me? Would a child this poor be using body wash rather than straight soap? If so, context might be needed.
Maybe clarify with something about all things, not just body wash, being unavailable. Or rather maybe talk about what and how things would become available. What is the norm for these children in terms of food and supplies. Also, was this the first time he’d made a ketchup sandwich or was this a regular thing? What were his strategies for survival in this household? He’d eat moldy bread sometimes? Draw the line at moldy bread?)
At home, I felt alone; at school, I felt invisible. (Editor: Consider committing to things rather than softening them the word “feel.” At home, I was alone. At school, I was invisible.) I was seated (Editor: sat) right behind the driver, in the first row as you entered the bus. He moved me there after the fight with Anthony. Anthony enjoyed bullying me—whether it was for being short, overweight, or poor—whatever he found amusing that day. He was a skinny, pimple-faced 16-year-old who sat in the back of the bus with his girlfriends. The worn leather of the bus seat felt cold against my legs as I sat down.
I reached into my backpack and pulled out my book: Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. Mom had given it to me as a birthday gift the year before. She wasn’t around much, so she tried to make up for it (Editor: her absences) during the holidays. (Editor: How does the narrator feel about this? Are these gifts precious because they are rare? Do they make up for her absences? Do they feel fake? Enough? Not enough?) The pages were slightly frayed from being read so many times. I attempted to read, but my concentration was shattered by a sudden thud to the back of my head. The sharp sting and the rustle of crumpled paper falling to the floor told me it was Tony, (Editor: a skinny, pimple-faced 16-year-old who sat in the back of the bus with his girlfriends and taunted me to impress them.) He had a habit of throwing crumpled-up papers at me. The laughter from the back of the bus echoed, making my cheeks burn with humiliation. If he was feeling particularly malicious, he’d add bits of metal—ends of pencils, paper clips, whatever he could find. Today, a small paper clip clinked to the ground next to me.
“What’s your problem, Tony?” I muttered under my breath, too afraid to confront him directly. From behind me, Tony smirked, his girlfriends laughing.
(Editor’s note: How does the narrator know there is a smirk if he is not directly looking at him?)
“What’s that, stinky? Speak up, can’t hear you over the smell.”
His voice was sharp, cutting through the bus’s engine noise. I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my palms, trying to focus on my book, but the words blurred. The bus ride seemed endless, each bump and jolt amplifying my discomfort. The musty smell of the old bus and the stale air pressed down on me. I slunk further down in my seat and held my book with my arms crossed, trying my best to ignore Tony. I watched the world pass by from the bus window, the blurred shapes of trees and houses blending together, longing for a life worth living. Tony’s taunts echoed in my mind, each word a jab that left an invisible bruise. I couldn’t escape the feeling of being trapped, suffocated by the weight of my existence. I needed a way out, a glimmer of hope to hold on to. Maybe today, I’d find it.
(Editor: Try shorten this entire section with Tony and writing it as much as possible in active, immediate language. It is given the reader a sense of this child’s school experience but the absence of the mother will be what’s on the reader’s mind. It may not be unusual for the narrator but it is unusual for the reader. There needs to be some more reference to her absence throughout the piece and also how the narrator feels about it. If it’s normal, there needs to some comment about it.
Maybe bring the narrator’s speculation about her being off doing drugs early. How does he know this? What does he know? Consider adding sentences here and there throughout the piece describing something with the mother or an entire flashback scene that shows some interactions with the children.)
Arriving at school, I exited the bus and felt the cool morning air on my face, a brief respite from the suffocating bus ride. The cafeteria was bustling with noise and the clatter of trays, but I sat at a table by myself, my stomach growling. I was embarrassed not to be sitting and eating with the other kids my age. (Editor: Why isn’t he getting breakfast? Why isn’t he sitting with them?) The smell of syrup and pancakes filled the air, taunting me. The bell rang, its sharp sound cutting through the noise, and I rushed through the library to get to class, the quiet of the bookshelves a stark contrast to the chaos of the cafeteria.
The day at school seemed to drag (Editor: dragged) on endlessly. In class, I kept my head down, hoping to avoid attention. The lessons were forgettable, and even recess, usually a brief escape, failed to leave a lasting impression. The playground’s usual cacophony felt distant, as if I were watching from behind a glass wall. At lunch, I sat with the other poor kids, the clatter of trays and the indistinct chatter blending into a background hum. (Editor: Where is Ian at lunch? Why aren’t they eating together?) I knew my place well. With few friends and lackluster grades, school felt like eight hours of enduring my own embarrassment. I struggled to focus in class, preferring to goof off for attention. The dull hum of fluorescent lights and the scratch of pencils on paper seemed to drone on forever. Though my attempts at humor often missed their mark, they eventually led me to forge a genuine friendship with Ian. We had been classmates for two years, both of us living in the same trailer park. Ian had a great sense of humor, and we bonded over our love for video games. Like me, he was a bit chubby, with tousled brown hair and deep, dark eyes that always seemed to sparkle with mischief. We often exchanged jokes during class, snickering quietly to avoid the teacher’s stern gaze.
(Editor: Try to make the paragraph above more active and mostly focused on Ian in this moment. The narrative summary of the day isn’t adding enough to the piece. Ian is the example of what life could be for the narrator. Spend more time with the present day moment with Ian and weave in the past information, rather than starting with a summary of the relationship and then going into a scene. When in doubt, go with an immediate scene and add in narrative summary here and there throughout the scene if needed to give context.)
As the bell signaled the end of another school day, the sound felt like a release from a prison sentence. I couldn’t help but turn to Ian with a grin, the weight of the day momentarily lifting.
“Hey, can I please come over after school to play video games?”
“Absolutely!” he replied eagerly. “I’ll ask my dad to order us a pizza too.”
Ian’s house had always felt like a second home to me. His parents welcomed me with open arms and graciously shared their food. They were kind, generous, and hardworking people. His father, a policeman, was someone I looked up to because he was everything my own mother was not. When I arrived at my stop, I went straight to Ian’s place. My mom never seemed to care much about where I was after school—she was hardly ever home. Sometimes, I figured she was probably doing drugs again, like she did most days. Watching Ian interact with his dad stirred a mix of emotions within me. His father’s attentive presence starkly contrasted with the absence I often felt from my own mother. Ian waited for me at his door, and upon stepping inside, his parents greeted me warmly with snacks and soda. Their jovial presence highlighted my mother’s declining health, as her eyes sank further back into her head each day. The fizzy sweetness of the soda offered a welcome change from the bland ‘meals’ at home. In that moment, basking in the sugary goodness, I cherished my time with Ian and his caring family. We played wrestling games on his Xbox for hours, the sounds of virtual combat blending with our laughter. Ian’s father treated us to pizza, and we ate to our hearts’ content. The cheesy, savory slices were even more delicious than the meals I had daydreamed about that morning.
“Hey Ian,” I said, feeling a rare sense of contentment, “Could I stay over tonight? I’m really enjoying myself.”
His cheeky smile brightened.
“Of course,” he replied. “Did you bring your school clothes for tomorrow?”
“No,” I admitted. “I’ll go grab them real quick.”
And with that, I hurried off into the gathering darkness. Our trailer was only a few rows from his, so it didn’t take me long to get there. As I approached, the wail of sirens and the flash of red and blue lights caught my attention. Three police cruisers were parked outside our trailer, casting ominous shadows on the worn-out porch. My uncle stood amidst it all, his voice breaking as he pleaded with the officers not to take us away. Confusion gripped me as I tried to make sense of the chaotic scene.
I approached one of the officers, Officer Browne, as his badge read. He was a tall man with a neat mustache, his expression grave in the harsh light. Before I could ask him what was going on, he turned towards me, his voice gentle yet serious.
“Hey there, son. We’re here to take you to a safe place.”
I looked up at him, a knot tightening in my stomach. The gravity of the situation began to sink in. (Editor: What gravity? What situation? What does the narrator feel? Where does he think his mother is? What does he think is happening? I also just realized that the reader doesn’t have a good sense of how old the narrator is in this piece. His sister’s are three and four. His bully is sixteen. How old is he?)
“Yes, sir” I replied, my voice tinged with anxiety.
From within his police cruiser, he pulled out a black trash bag and handed it to me.
“Go get five outfits and a couple of toys,” he gestured towards the trailer.
I made my way up the rickety old porch to fulfill his request. Struggling to hold back tears, I couldn’t shake off the feeling of confusion. (Editor: What exactly is he confused about? Be specific. Does he think she’s in jail? Hospital? Dead? Doesn’t want them? What’s happened before that gives this moment context? Does she always come home eventually? What’s it like when she comes home?")
“Where’s my mommy?” I asked as the officer escorted me to my room.
“She’s not here right now, little man,” he explained. “Now go ahead and get your clothes.”
As I gathered my clothes, tears streamed down my face, and a sense of guilt started to wash over me.
“Did I do something wrong, officer?” I asked hesitantly.
He shook his head. Glancing at me with a look of disapproval he muttered, “No, you’re fine. Now, hurry up.”
After gathering my clothes, he ushered me into the back seat of the car. My sisters were already there, fast asleep and safely buckled in. I held back my tears, careful not to disturb their much needed rest. Confusion, fear, and guilt churned inside me as we drove in silence through the night. I peered out into the darkness, wondering what lay ahead. (Editor: Thoughts about mom? What does he think is coming?)
Eventually, the car stopped, and we were dropped off by the officer, who gave us a curt glance before leaving. Waiting for us were two middle-aged women, one with dark hair and the other with light. Behind them stood a facility with a white exterior trimmed in red. We stepped inside and were greeted by a bland gray interior, lined with rows of computers on small desks. The dark-haired woman led us into a cubicle and began asking us questions.
“Are you all feeling hungry?” she inquired.
My sisters and I responded in unison, “Yes.”
All day long, my stomach had been making loud, growling noises, and at that point, I was determined not (Editor: going) to turn down any food that came my way. The woman with light hair left, leaving the other one behind to stay with us. She asked us more questions: What are our lives like? How does our mommy treat us? Does mommy hit us? Questions like that. The interrogation only added to my mounting feeling of guilt. (Editor: Why guilt? For what?)
When the questioning was over, the other lady returned with a crumpled brown bag overflowing with fast-food burgers, french fries, crispy chicken nuggets, and a variety of sauces. We eagerly dug in. It had been such a long time since we had enjoyed a truly fulfilling meal. After eating until we couldn't eat anymore, I felt a deep sense of satisfaction and joy. Feeling content, the social workers allowed us to rest on the floor while they made calls. They seemed to be in a panic and greatly concerned. Time passed by slowly. Eventually, they woke us and asked us to enter a different vehicle, a small white 4-door car. The night was pitch black as we drove for what seemed like an eternity. Thoughts of Mom haunted me until we finally arrived at our destination—a rustic, wooden cabin deep in the woods. (Editor: What thoughts of mom? Be more specific about what the narrator is thinking.) Gravel crunched under the tires as we pulled into the driveway, where a friendly, elderly man greeted us warmly. He guided us inside slowly, where the cabin exuded the comforting scent of earth and wood, creating a simultaneously inviting and unfamiliar atmosphere.
“This is your new home now,” he said with a deep voice, leading us through the long halls and up the wide stairs. He stood tall, with a thick, graying beard and a balding head. “You’ll have the chance to meet everyone else tomorrow.”
“By the way, my name’s Rich.”
After placing my bag of clothes in the room, Rich led my sisters to their room while I settled onto the cozy twin-size bed tucked in the corner. It was my first time having a bed with a frame, and after so long, I felt genuinely grateful. Lying there, confusion lingered as I tried to grasp what had happened that day. My mind wandered as I stared at the rough-hewn wooden ceiling.
No more ketchup sandwiches, I thought to myself as I lay in bed, the silence of the countryside enveloping me. (Editor: No more ketchup sandwiches feels like it should be the last line of the piece. How does the narrator get to that thought? Stay with the emotional moments rather than the general physical descriptions of the location and physical feelings. Where’s mom? What’s he thinking is going on in terms of his life and relationship with his mother. Go through that and then come full circle back to ketchup sandwiches.) The moonlight filtered through the curtains, casting soft, ethereal patterns on the wooden floor. Exhaustion weighed heavy on my eyelids, but beneath it, a spark of hope flickered. It was a rare moment of clarity amid the unpredictability of my past, a whisper of possibility in the stillness of the night.
Tomorrow loomed uncertain, like an open field waiting to be explored. But for the first time in a long while, I dared to entertain the idea of a different future. A future where meals were more than mere sustenance, where stability and comfort were not just distant wishes but achievable goals. The thought buoyed my spirits like a gentle breeze, carrying me into a peaceful sleep filled with dreams of brighter days ahead.
Some great potential here, but a couple of things can be greatly improved. First, reconsider using any adverbs. They tend to be redundant and can be distracting. Mostly, though, I would suggest you focus on "Show, not tell" throughout. Consider the viewpoint of the reader who is reading your stuff as if it were a moving picture. Your words create images in our heads. So, verbs like "felt," "seemed," and those statements that can only be observed by the character (i..e., the writer) don't keep the reader engaged because we can't "see" them. What does the reader see? Show them. Example: "I was frightened" tells. "The hair stood on the back of my neck" shows. Good luck with this piece! It's a great story and very relatable!
The editor's notes reminded me of Stephen King's 10% formula from his book On Writing. Formula:
2nd Draft = 1st Draft – 10%.
The story leaves you feeling good about the boy, so it is doing its work in that department. Bettering the craft of writing is a process. I am going through it too. I gained significant insight from both the editor's notes and comments.