1. Stanley Hu
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    Stanley Hu New Member

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    Proofreading an Introduction?

    Discussion in 'General Writing' started by Stanley Hu, Jul 5, 2014.

    Hi,

    I was wondering if anyone would be kind enough to proofread/edit or provide some feedback regarding my introduction? Thank you!

    Hiroshima


    8:14 AM. August 6. 1945.

    The day was still young, yet Japanese life had already reached full pace as it continued on its daily restless saunter. Nothing in the day’s dawning gave anything away, yet soon society would be forever scarred; human history battered and bruised by the events of this very day.

    The monotonous clack of typewriters keys rang out through the personnel department of the East Asia Tin Works. Miss Toshiko Sasaki whispered to the girl at the next desk, “How was dinner last night?” All she got back was a cheeky grin. Typical.

    Meanwhile, Akihiro Takahashi, a fourteen-year-old student, stood in line with other students at school, waiting for their morning meeting to commence. They joked about the latest antics of their favourite Mr Miyagi, sharing hushed giggles as Fumiko and Yoshiko, the prettiest girls in the school, traipsed past.

    Just several hundred metres away, over the seven deltaic rivers dividing Hiroshima, Dr. Masakazu Fujii relaxed on the porch of his private hospital fanning through the latest edition of Osaka Asahi. As the gentle sea breeze rolled over the shore, the crashing waves and faint hints of the aromatic cherry blossoms complemented the earthy tones of his Oolong tea.

    At the Red Cross Hospital on the other side of Hiroshima, Dr. Terufumi Sasaki, a young man determined to make a name for himself amongst the surgical staff wheeled several blood specimens in readiness for Wassermann tests later that afternoon.

    Down the road, his elderly neighbour stood by her kitchen window, watching the workers across the road tearing down a house in readiness for the bomb shelter to be constructed underground.

    Several blocks down the main street of Hiroshima, Mamoru Yukihiro had just arrived at the Principal Agricultural Office, having just sent his two young children, Manami and Masami at the Nagisa junior school.

    Let us not forget the Reverend Kiyoshi Tanimoto, pausing at the door of a rich man’s house in Koi, the city’s western suburb. He gazed wistfully at his meagre possessions in his handcart, a reminder of a time when money was his friend – know all that had changed. Many like him had evacuated from town, unnerved by the imminent B-29 raid everyone in Hiroshima expected to suffer later that week.


    8:15 AM. August 6. 1945.

    A flash of light.


    A hundred thousand people were killed by the bomb; the humble six only a handful of survivors that lived to speak for another day. Each step they bear in silence as the voices of the dead ring in their ears. They wonder why they lived when so many others died before them. In the face of death, these few have summoned the courage to live; but by doing so they have demonstrated true character. Each knows that in the act of survival, he lived a dozen lives and saw more death than he ever thought he would see. These few can never anything for granted, and neither should we. Each of them takes small moments of chance of fortuitous circumstance - an extra step taken in time, a decision to go indoors, taking the early streetcar – that spared them. At the time, none of them knew anything, but as the years go by they realise that as they say, ‘a human life is heavier that the Earth itself.’
     
  2. Mike Kobernus
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    Mike Kobernus Contributing Member

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    Red denotes delete. Green is what I inserted.

    Hiroshima



    8:14 AM. August 6. 1945.

    The day was still young, yet Japanese life had already reached full pace as it continued on its daily restless saunter. Nothing in the day’s dawning gave anything away, yet soon society would be forever scarred; human history battered and bruised by the events of this very day.

    The monotonous clack of many typewriter keys rang out through the personnel department of the East Asia Tin Works. Miss Toshiko Sasaki whispered to the girl at the next desk, “How was dinner last night?” All she got back was a cheeky grin. Typical.

    Meanwhile, fourteen-year-old Akihiro Takahashi, stood in line with other students at school, waiting for their morning meeting to commence. They joked about the latest antics of their favourite, Mr Miyagi, sharing hushed giggles as Fumiko and Yoshiko, the prettiest girls in the school, traipsed past.

    Just Several hundred metres away, over the river Ōta that divided dividing Hiroshima, Dr. Masakazu Fujii relaxed on the porch of his private hospital, fanning through the latest edition of Osaka Asahi. As the gentle sea breeze rolled over the shore, the crashing waves and faint hints of the aromatic cherry blossoms complemented the earthy tones of his Oolong tea.

    At the Red Cross Hospital on the other side of the city Hiroshima, Dr. Terufumi Sasaki, a young man determined to make a name for himself amongst the surgical staff, wheeled several blood specimens in readiness for Wassermann tests later that afternoon.

    Down the road, his elderly neighbour stood by her kitchen window, watching the workers across the road tearing down a house in readiness for the bomb shelter to be constructed underground.

    Several blocks down the main street of Hiroshima, Mamoru Yukihiro had just arrived at the Principal Agricultural Office, having just sent his two young children, Manami and Masami at the Nagisa junior school.

    Let us not forget the Reverend Kiyoshi Tanimoto, pausing paused at the door of a rich man’s house in Koi, the city’s western suburb. He gazed wistfully at his the meagre possessions in his handcart, a reminder of a time when money was his friend – know now all that had changed. Many like him had evacuated from town, unnerved by the imminent B-29 raid everyone in Hiroshima expected to suffer later that week.
     
  3. Mike Kobernus
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    Mike Kobernus Contributing Member

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    Regarding feedback:

    I apologise if this comes over as harsh. I am not skilled in providing feedback.
    However, for what it is worth, here are my notes:

    I think you introduce too many characters, without allowing us to get to know any, and there is a consistent intrusion of authorial voice (for example, when you say, 'let us not forget').

    Personally, I would prefer to see fewer characters named, but more information on them. Let us get to know them, so the impact when they are inevitably killed is greater.

    There are also a few details which I am suspicious about. For example, waves. It is a river. Will the waves really crash on the shore? It is not the ocean... it flows in one direction, so (while I may be wrong on this point) I do not think that there would be waves like that.

    The following "as it continued on its daily restless saunter. Nothing in the day’s dawning gave anything away, yet soon society would be forever scarred; human history battered and bruised by the events of this very day" is entirely superfluous and should be cut out. There is an obvious intention here to create a poetic vision of a peaceful society, and develop tension by informing us of its impending doom. But I think it is far too obvious.

    I guess this is plenty for now. If you wish to talk about this offline, I would be happy to do so. Just PM me if you want.
     
  4. Stanley Hu
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    Stanley Hu New Member

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    Hiroshima



    8:10 AM. August 6. 1945.



    The day was still young, yet Japanese life had already reached full pace as the streets began to fill withworkers along their daily commute to work. However, this day would mark a special place in human history – a moment we try to forget, yet one we choose to remember.



    My name is Tadashi Akiyami, one of the last remaining postmen within the local district. Trundling through the streets of Hiroshima, I wield by trusty wheelbarrow, bearing the brunt of this city’s communication with the outside world.



    Walking past the East Asia Tin Works, the monotonous clack of typewriter rang out through the resonant hallways of the personnel department. Through the window, I overheard Miss Toshiko Sasaki whispering to the girl at the next desk, “How was dinner last night?” All she got back was a cheeky grin.



    Meanwhile, fourteen-year-old Akihiro Takahashi stood in line with other students at school, waiting for their morning meeting to commence. They joked about the latest antics of their favourite Mr Miyagi, sharing hushed giggles as Fumiko and Yoshiko, the prettiest girls in the school, traipsed past.



    Continuing on my daily route, I noticed Dr. Masakazu Fujii relaxing on the porch of his private hospital fanning through the latest edition of Osaka Asahi. As the gentle sea breeze rolled over the shore, the gentle swell and faint hints of the aromatic cherry blossoms complemented the earthy tones of his Oolong tea. We had often shared a laugh over lunch; gracious of the dissimilar yet comfortable lives we shared.


    At the Red Cross Hospital on the other side of the city, Dr. Terufumi Sasaki, a young man determined to make a name for himself amongst the surgical staff wheeled several blood specimens in readiness for Wassermann tests later that afternoon.



    Several blocks down the main street, Mamoru Yukihiro had just arrived at the Principal Agricultural Office, having just sent his two young children, Manami and Masami at the Nagisa Junior School.



    Reaching the end of my morning mail run, I noticed Reverend Kiyoshi Tanimoto as he paused at the door of a rich man’s house in Koi, the city’s western suburb. He gazed wistfully at the meagre possessions in his handcart, a reminder of a time when money was his friend – now all that had changed. Many like him were evacuating from town, unnerved by the imminent B-29 raid everyone in Hiroshima expected to later that week.



    8:15 AM. August 6. 1945.


    A flash of light.



    A hundred thousand people were killed by the bomb; the humble six only a handful of survivors that lived to speak for another day. Each step they bear in silence as the voices of the dead ring in their ears. They wonder why they lived when so many others died before them. In the face of death, these few have summoned the courage to live; but by doing so they have demonstrated true character. Each knows that in the act of survival, he lived a dozen lives and saw more death than he ever thought he would see. These few can never anything for granted, and neither should we. Each of them takes small moments of chance of fortuitous circumstance - an extra step taken in time, a decision to go indoors, taking the early streetcar – that spared them. At the time, none of them knew anything, but as the years go by they realise that a human life is indeed heavier that the Earth itself.
     
  5. EdFromNY
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    EdFromNY Hope to improve with age Supporter Contributor

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    This is not the section for putting up work for critique. That's in the Writer's Workshop. Moreover, there are requirements to be met before you can do so. You should check out the Forum Rules.
     
  6. cynthia_1968
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    cynthia_1968 Active Member

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    Either way, you got some feedback though. Well written by the way :agreed:
     

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