I wrote this short story a while back in elementary school, and I recently just found it again. I decided it was worth it to edit the story and retype it. Thing is, I found there was a problem with it. When I turned it in to my current English teacher, she also pointed out that the ending just, kind of, fell short. I would really appreciate it if someone read what I have and critique it, even as the story as a whole. Thank you ahead of time.

There once was a child who was very sick, so the people of the child's home placed him outside the village and gave the child food every other day in hopes their child would get better. The child stayed indoors often, and no one came into the child's house for fear that they would get sick themselves. So, the child began to hate until one day another young boy, who had bright eyes and pure black hair, visited the sick child. With him he brought a bound book, quill and ink.

This bright eyed boy said nothing, but left the sick child with the blank paged leather book and quill. After a few days went by, the sick child began to write and fill the book with hateful words and pictures for the village and its people.

When the bright eyed boy returned and read what the sick boy had wrote, he cried. He hugged the sick child, then left, still without saying a word or making a sound.

The sick child became confused for he felt as if he had wronged the bright-eyed boy, the only other child who had ever ventured near the house or showed concern for the sick being dwelling inside. He started to write, instead of desires for cruel justice to befall the village, about happier thoughts and wonders for the world outside the hut. The sick child kept it as a journal, always by his side.

The bright-eyed boy came back again, later along in the sick child's life, and read the new writings the child had written. The bright-eyed boy smiled this time, pleased by the new way of thinking the sick child had developed, even though the child still remained very sick and alone in his hut. Seeing the boy smile made the sick child happy as well. Even though he looked happier than his last visit, the bright-eyed boy did not speak nor communicate with the sick child, and he left once more.

As time could have predicted, the sickness eventually claimed the child, so much so that he could not answer the door when the messenger from the village left food. His strength left him so much that he could not even lift the cover of his book to take up his writing. The bright-eyed boy returned again.

Now, some time had passed since the third visit, but the sick child saw that the bright-eyed boy had not changed. He was still young, dressed in the same pants and shirt as the first day he had graced the sick child with his presence and gifts. The sick child, now perhaps in the later teens of life, did not mind, however, and tried to put on a good face for his only visitor and friend.

The bright-eyed child looked down on the sick one, his eyes filled with grief, but still said nothing to him. 'Why?' the sick one said, his voice so weak that it was no more than a whisper, such as the flit of a dove's wing is no more than a soft breath of air. 'Why, after all these years, do you not speak to me? I long to hear your voice, young one.

The bright-eyed child only shook his head, tears spilling down his cheeks.

Then perhaps you can write for me, tell me why and how and what.

The bright-eyed boy smiled, just a twitch of his mouth, and nodded. He took up the sick child's quill, opened the book to the last page, the only page left untouched from ink, and wrote down a single line. He showed it to the sick child, who could barely read the line in the darkness.

I want you to write stories for me.

He nodded, then sobbed. 'But I cannot write any longer, friend. You have waited too long. I can barely sit up in my bed, let alone write for you. How I longed to be free of the chains that bound me, but they cling to me still, pulling me away from a life I should have had. Oh, if only, if only you had requested this of me sooner, my friend.

The boy shook his head, and then stood, offering his hand to the sick child. The child stared at it for a few minutes only, his mind a battlefield where doubt, fear, and hope raged. Without another word, without another tear, without, perhaps, another thought of woe or grief, he took the hand of the only friend in the world he had ever known.

Well, as is my way of writing and reading, I felt it was too vague and nondescript at first, but as the story went on, I could tell that was how it was meant to be. It was good, no doubt, but here is the bad stuff people hate, The last paragraph, is really....Bizarre. I can understand how your teacher thought it seemed to fall a little short, as we never know what happened to the sick boy, or why the child never aged. I would have ended it with something such as, (adding to, not changing your ending here) "he took the hand of the only friend in the world he had ever known, and the world faded around them, as the boy took him away from the world that had banished him." Basically stating that the boy was an angle, (or if its too religious for you, think shinigami, or grim reaper) and knew he was going to die from the beginning, so writing the stories would leave something behind. But that's just my take on it.

That's one of the options I was considering...I'll work on it some more if the beginning is too confusing as well. Thank you so much for taking the time to read it too. ^_^