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Hello! This is Wingiby Iggiby, as you could probably tell. I just had a bit of a story to share with y’all; a concept, perhaps, for an entire book. But I have never gotten that far, so we’ll have to see. However, I just wanted to know what other’s thoughts were on my writing, and I wanted to share some of it with somebody bc I just really wanted to. I’m open to any, absolutely any critique y’all have. Grammar, spelling, etc. But what I’m mostly looking for is advice on how I might make it flow better; if it’s understandable; any thoughts on how I might make it more interesting; if something didn’t make sense; whatever stands out to you about it as to something I might do better. Obviously, I don’t expect y’all to answer all of that. Namely, just something that stands out. That’s all. Thank you for your time 😉

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Holly Simone Merrykin — aged 11 — couldn’t sleep. The air was stuffy with the warm summer heat, and her hair was plastered to her cheeks. The window was open, but the breeze that occasionally filtered through it was humid and hot. It didn’t help that her older sister, Ellie Hadria Merrykin  — aged 13 — wouldn’t stop snoring from the bottom bunk. Holly stared at the bare ceiling above her, searching for at least one little dust speck just to occupy her time. But there wasn’t a single particle, and Holly kicked the thin sheet off of her legs. Then she turned over with a loud thump, half-hoping it would wake Ellie to make her stop snoring. It didn’t work, so Holly sat up and swung herself down the ladder, taking a moment to glance at her sister, who was laying on her back and rumbling very unflatteringly. Holly grinned, and eased her bare toes to the floor. Wincing at every creak the wood-planks made, she tip-toed over to the desk and snatched her drawing-pad and pencil, then creeped across the room to the sliding screen door. The small bedroom contained the old bunk-bed, a wardrobe, Sam’s bed, and a large antique-like mahogany desk that seemed out of place against the white wall painted over with mismatched flowers. There was also a small porch no bigger than a closet that could fit about one chair. Holly was pushing open the sliding door to it, thankful it had been recently oiled. Oddly enough, she now wished her sister to stay asleep. There was something pleasant about being awake all by yourself when you weren’t just lying in bed as bored as a rock.

The moon was still bright and there was a spattering of stars; but in the east, the sky was turning a pale blue. Holly sat in the old cushioned easy chair and breathed in the fresh air. It was slightly less stuffy outside. She licked her fingers to get them a bit damp and turned to a fresh page in her book. It wasn’t clean, because it was smeared with graphite from a previous drawing of wonder woman. Holly tapped her pencil on it, waiting for inspiration. Then she glanced up at the moon and smiled. She bent over her paper and started to draw, delighting in the skritch skritch of the pencil. Slowly but surely, a lean, tall figure appeared. He had a long face and sharp nose; but his shining cheeks, wide grin, and twinkling eyes suggested he was quite amiable. His clothes were nothing fancy, and he went barefoot with a knapsack slung over one shoulder. In his hand he carried a silver moon-rock, and he stood on a gray, pot-holed covered surface.

It was Holly’s moon-man. Contrary to common belief, she did not think of him as some fat man with bursting buttons. She did not think he filled the entire moon’s surface with his insane smirk. Instead, she felt he was a common man, much like her father. And he had to have some aim in life other than grinning madly at folks far below him. What was he doing up there all the time? she thought. And what was in his knapsack? Why was he holding that rock in his hand? Why was he so happy? Wasn’t life on a giant boulder boring?

Holly put her chin in her hands and gazed dreamily at the waning moon. Perhaps the moon-man was picking up the scattered meteors that tore into the moon’s surface and kept it from shining brightly. Maybe that was why it didn’t reflect as much light sometimes. The rocks were what was in his knapsack. That night he had done his job well. And he was probably extra happy because he had a moon-woman for a wife and several moon-babies to entertain him. So life was joyful, and he probably delighted in keeping the moon clean for those down on earth. Surely, though, the moon could not be made of cheese. So what did he eat? What did he feed his little moon-babies? As she contemplated this much more difficult theory, Holly heard a noise. It sounded like the crunch of dry leaves. She would’ve brushed it off as a nocturnal squirrel had it not continued, sometimes stopping, sometimes going: much like a creature trying to sneak along without being heard but failing miserably in it.

Holly looked nervously toward the door. Part of her wanted to go back inside and bury her head under her pillow. She was no brave person; not like Sam, who had insisted in sleeping downstairs on the couch. Samantha Eliza Merrykin — aged 11 — was courageous like that: she would brave being all alone in the silent downstairs just to be near the air conditioner. Holly, however, hardly had the courage to show her siblings her artwork. But she was also very curious, and that curiosity overcame her. She forgot that it had also killed many cats. Holly quietly got up from her seat and peered cautiously over the white railing into the yard — which was a startling nine-feet below. She nearly squealed at what she saw.

A boy stood in the middle of their backyard in the small clearing before the pines and few hardwoods began. He had a large, overstuffed backpack hanging off of one shoulder, and a mop of striking reddish-gold hair. Like a sun-boy’s hair, Holly thought. He probably has a sun-sister, and maybe they go to visit the moon-man’s children. He’s a rather good-looking sun-boy… 

As she thought about handsome sun and moon children, Holly jerked her elbow without thinking and knocked the pencil she had set on the railing. Her favorite sea-blue pencil was now plummeting toward earth with startling speed. Yet to Holly, it seemed to be done in slow-motion like those guys on Youtube that Horace watched. She saw it hit the leaves with a soft poof right in front of the boy. He jumped in surprise, then bent over to pick it up. He examined it for a few seconds, and then looked up at Holly. She saw his pale face with the amber eyes, and she watched as they widened. He looked from her to the pencil; then his cheeks flushed as red as his hair.

“Uh, I’m sorry. Is this yours?”

Holly didn’t know what to say. She was still frightened and nearly speechless. But she straightened her shoulders and asked in as authoritative a voice as she could muster, “what, may I ask, are you doing in my yard?” She immediately wished she had left off the “may I ask” part, but it was too late for that. She watched the boy as he shuffled his feet, making the leaves rattle conspicuously.

“Um, I’ll just put this here,” he said, finally, as he placed the pencil on the ground, completely avoiding the question.

Holly could only last a few more minutes before dashing inside to wake up Ellie, or even Sam. “What are you doing in my yard?” she asked again with a slight shakiness to her voice. She didn’t sound very sure of herself at all, and she knew it.

“Oh, nothing really. Just passing through. Well, goodnight! Er, goodmorning.”

And with that, he nodded at her, his hair bobbing, and started shuffling off again, seemingly unaware of any more stealth since he had been spotted. Holly watched as he plodded his way through the other backyards until he turned a corner and disappeared. Then she sighed a deep sigh of relief, and turned to go back inside. The sun was now peeping over the tops of the trees, but she didn’t have the nerve yet to go pick up her pencil. She would wait till she could possibly get Horace to do it for her, or somebody else. Holly was still scared.

She just really wasn’t that brave.

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If you read all of that, I sincerely congratulate you and thank you 😉 Thank you! 😀