Prologue/First Chapter Critique

I know there are a few other threads going for critiques at the moment so I hope I’m not doing the wrong thing, but I found I wanted something a bit more than 200 words or three paragraphs. So… I thought I’d start a Prologue/first chapter critique (capped at 1000 words).

Moderators: Please feel free to lock or delete this if you see fit.



RULES for posting your excerpt (based on what I’ve seen in other threads):

No details to be given.

Post the prologue or first chapter of your novel up to 1000 words maximum.

Please do not post unless the person above you has received a critique, that way everyone can get some feedback.

Please don’t post your excerpt in someone else’s thread line. Start a new one.



CRITIQUE guidelines:

1. Critique (try to be specific and as detailed as possible):

2. Genre and age group:

3. Shelve it or buy it:

4. Score (either letter A, B, C, D, or out of 100):



Please be respectful and honest.

As the fire began ripping through the wooden hull of the ship, only one thought ran through Kale’s mind.
God really isn’t my friend today.
He recalled the day’s events briefly in his mind; the abrupt awakening at an ungodly hour in the morning, the hole that had mysteriously appeared in his favourite dress shirt, and finally this entire fiasco.
“Don’t worry about it, Blondie,” were the first mate’s exact words as he personally shoved Kale’s arms into the navy sleeves of his enormous coat. “It’ll just be a quick job.”
Kale scoffed at that. This was anything but quick.
As his body was weighed down by the enormous amount of loot stuffed into his pockets and spread over his back, he took a sweeping glance about the deck.
The cowardly men who had set their own ship alight were flinging themselves over the edge, choosing that as a preferable option than staying and burning slowly. He couldn’t say he blamed them. Others, people he recognized, were trying to get as high as possible to avoid the flames, yet still desperately clinging to whatever they had stolen. He felt no pity for them as their grip slipped and they also plummeted to their deaths.
There was little that he could do to save himself up here, he concluded, and moved away from the carnage surrounding him. He headed towards the captain’s chambers, and was pleased when he noticed that this was one of the rooms that had not been torched in their futile attempts to bring down the thieves with the ship. He shoved open the door using little force, unsurprised that it was unlocked. Captains were not cowards; they would not hide behind a locked door while their men died.
As soon as his foot stepped over the threshold it became clear that he was not the only person who had thought of his plan. A grubby man that he instantly recognized had shoved the dead captain’s body out of his chair, and was desperately searching the drawers of his desk. His head snapped up when he noticed Kale in the doorway, and shot him a look of disdain before continuing. Kale ignored him completely.
He marched over to the bookcases that lined the walls, carelessly tossing the books to the floor in search. Every time a heavy book struck the wooden floor it emitted a loud bang, and every time the other man flinched.
“Find anything?” he asked gruffly, not even looking up.
“Not yet,” Kale replied, sweeping an entire shelf’s worth onto the floor. “Dammit, where the hell would he put the thing?”
“Beats me. Every captain puts it somewhere different.”
Kale hummed in agreement and moved away from the bookcase, deciding them to be not worth his time. He headed towards the captain’s bed, making sure to step over the bloody corpse as he did so (knife to the back, a terrible way to go) and began to strip the sheets. The other man recognized the sound and snorted.
“Why would he hide it there?”
“Why wouldn’t he?” he snapped back, and quickly lifted the mattress. He cursed when it wasn’t there.
“We don’t have the time for this…” he groaned, running a hand through his hair. “The fire’s spreading as we waste our time here. Soon it’ll spread too far…”
“Are you gonna state the obvious or help us get out alive?” the man hissed, and began tearing the drawers out of the desk in the hope that he’d hidden it behind.
“Found it!” he cried in relief, and his fingers closed around the small device.
“Give it to me,” Kale ordered, holding out his hand. “My voice is clearer than yours.”
“Just ‘coz you’re a little rich bastard,” he muttered bitterly, but relinquished his hold nevertheless.
Kale snatched it instantly and pressed a button, praying that it worked like the one he owned.
“Mayday! Ship going down off the coast of Locksford. Our co-ordinates are-”
He offered the device to the other man, who practically screamed them before Kale took it back.
“We need immediate assistance. The whole thing is ablaze. Is anyone out there?”
There was silence for a few seconds before a voice crackled back.
“Roger. I think we see you.”
Thank God.
“Thank you. We’ll head to the deck now.”
“Be careful.”
It fell silent again and Kale let it fall to the ground.
“Let’s go.”

***

It look less than a few seconds for them to make it onto the deck, but Kale was immediately hit by just how much their situation had deteriorated. The deck itself was now ablaze, and men were clinging to the rigging desperately in hope of survival. He knew by the way the fire was twisting and writhing, dancing teasingly as though it knew just how easily it could take their lives, that it would take mere minutes for it to ruin the cotton sails and send them reeling off course, and seconds after that to reach the helium balloon suspending them in the air.
When that occurred, there would be no chance for it to even fall. The entire thing would be consumed in an explosion of fire, burning them alive before sending them towards the ground, a charred, bloodied but still very much alive mess. Until they hit the ground, of course.
Kale shivered at the sight of it, able to respect such a powerful thing while still being utterly terrified of it. He reached for the item around his neck, wishing not for the first time that it was a cross. Perhaps if God saw him genuinely praying then He would consider saving his life.
Instead, his fingers clasped around a small, golden heart-shaped locket that only he could open.

*This is all I could get in that was less than 1000 words...

Chapter One
Memories

postmaster@university.edu
To: All Students
Subject: Cancellation of Classes
Date: Friday, December 12, 6:55am
Message:

Early in the morning of Thursday, December 11, a fire broke out in the computer labs of the Information and Technology Building. The exact cause of this fire has yet to be determined. An investigation is ongoing.

Due to this unfortunate occurrence, all classes will be cancelled for the days of Friday, December 12, Monday, December 15, and Tuesday, December 16. Final exams taking place within the Information and Technology Building are temporarily suspended. A replacement exam location is being found. Your teachers will contact you with further details on where and when your final exams will take place.

We hope you will join us in supporting the injured students as we work together to rebuild our campus after this terrible accident.

Sincerely,
Patricia McMuellan
Dean of Students
----

The bed she woke up in was not hers.

Blinking, she levered herself into a sitting position, trying to get a better look of her surroundings. She was in a hospital, or a clinic; there were half a dozen other beds in the room, all filled with college-age students. A few of them she recognized-- classmates, though none of them were close friends. All were obviously injured; bandages covered arms, legs, even a head. At the foot of the beds hospital staff milled around, checking charts or monitors. She could hear a low buzz of talk and hurried footsteps in the hallway. If she had to guess, she thought that this might not be the only such room.

She looked down at herself, searching for similar bandages. There was nothing; her skin was clean and unbroken. She ran her fingers through her short hair and found nothing on her head either.

What the hell was going on?

One of the doctors had finally noticed she was awake, and hurried over. Reaching into his pocket he pulled out a tiny flashlight. Flicking it in her eyes, he watched as she blinked, and seemed satisfied. "How are you doing, Viridian?" he asked, consulting his clipboard. "I'm Doctor Park."

She frowned. "It's Veri. Not Viridian." Someday she was going to get her parents back for that name. "And I'm fine... I think. Would you mind telling me what's going on here? What happened? What is all this?" she waved to encompass the beds and injured patients.

"Well, we were rather hoping you could tell us," he said. "All we know so far is that there was some kind of fire--possibly an explosion-- at one of the labs last night. You were found unconscious inside the building. So were the others. You're the first to wake up."

"An explosion?" she asked. "That sounds... serious," she managed. So why do I seem to be okay? A thought occurred to her, and she tried to wiggle her toes. They wiggled. She sighed a little in relief. Not paralyzed, then. And seemingly not even scratched. But the other students were all obviously badly hurt. Just what was going on?

"Yes, well, I understand they're still trying to determine the exact cause. But if you don't mind, I want to go through some routine questions with you, and later on I believe the police would like you to give a statement."

"The police?" she said, suddenly anxious.

"It's nothing to be worried about,” he said soothingly. “As I said, they are investigating what happened. Since you're the first to wake up, they just want to hear your take on events."

"Oh. Okay," she said. "So, what are these questions?"

"Routine things. We want to make sure you don't have any head trauma or memory loss... I need you to confirm your name for me, please."

"Viridian Fields."

"Age?"

"Twenty-one."

"Profession?"

"Uh, I'm a student. Here. Junior."

"And your major?"

"Advanced robotics and AI theory."

His eyebrows raised. "Robots, huh? Sounds impressive."

She shrugged. "I guess. I've always been pretty good with electronics and things."

He nodded absently, writing down her answers on a notepad, checking things off. "And do you remember what you were doing last night?"

She nodded, started to answer...and then stopped, blinking. "Actually, no."

"No?” he asked. “What is the last thing you do remember?"

"I..." she frowned, thinking back. It was just before finals, and the last week or so had been kind of a blur of late-night caffeine-and-cookie-fueled studying. She'd gone to the library to check out a stack of books she needed to finish that one paper, and she'd definitely started on the paper, because she remembered talking to Kim about it and making plans to do a study session for the final test. And then she'd had the Law's class and talked to him about her experiment... and that was it. "I remember going to class Thursday, talking to my teacher. I wanted to ask him some questions about my experiment. That's it."

"Thursday. What time on Thursday?"

"Uh... that's the afternoon class. It ends at 1:15, but I had to wait to talk to him because he was giving back test scores that day and a bunch of people had questions. So, I dunno, 1:30? Two?"

"And you don't remember anything after that?"

She searched her memory, but came up blank. "No."

He frowned, writing something on his clipboard. "Any previous history of blackouts?"

She shook her head. "No."

He pulled out the little flashlight and checked her eyes again. “Hmm. Well, you don’t have any of the normal signs of a concussion, but we should probably do a few more tests just to make sure there isn’t something we’re missing. I’ll see when we can schedule you in, and we’ll keep you here today just for observation. In the meantime, I want to do a simple exercise and make sure the rest of your memory checks out. I’m going to give you three words, and ask you to remember them in a few minutes. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“The three words are: leopard, bottle, spoon.”

“Leopard, bottle, spoon. Got it.”

“Right. So, Viridian. That’s an unusual name. Is there a story there?”

She sighed and rolled her eyes. “Ugh. My parents thought it was ‘poetic.’” She raised her fingers in sarcastic quotes. “They’re both kinda hippies, honestly. They got all into this back-to-nature kind of stuff and moved out to the middle of nowhere with some friends before I was born. That’s where I grew up—the middle of nowhere, all farm animals and endless grass and nothing to do.”

“And you came here for college?”

She shook her head. “Nah. I guess I was born with city blood, because I got sick of it when I was nine or ten. Went to live with my uncle up near Chicago. He runs a shop there, fixing things up. He used to do electronics, but now that everyone just throws theirs out and buys new stuff, he started doing cars instead. He used to let me tinker around with all the old stuff. Like I said, I’ve always been pretty good with that kind of thing. Used to build toy robots out of junk metal. Eventually I thought it would be cool to start building them for real.”

He nodded. “I see. So, do you remember the three words I told you a few minutes ago?”

(Imagine this first paragraph-thing in italics, please, I don't know how to make it italicized on here...)

The man bent over his guitar
A shearsman of sorts. The day was green.
They said, “You play this blue guitar
You never play things as they are.”
The man said, “Things as they are
Are changed upon this blue guitar.”
And they said then, “But play, you must
A tune beyond us, yet ourselves
A tune upon the blue guitar
Of things exactly as they are.”

“I quit,” I spit out hurriedly. I just wanted out of this prison, but the power of my words hit me like a dozen jail bars afterward.
“Pardon?” my teacher asked. Her eyes burned into mine, and I was tempted to lower my eyes. I knew I needed to stand my ground, however, so I managed to muster the courage to glare back.
“I said, ‘I. Quit.’” Maybe it came out in a disrespectful tone, but the words were already hovering overhead. Miss Young, my definitely not young cello teacher, let her artificial smile falter for a quarter of a second, but it was quickly repaired.
“Don’t talk to me like that, young lady. Now sit down, and play that movement precisely as it’s WRITTEN. Now! No buts, no questions, just play it.”
Her eyes were pretty intimidating, but I was not about to back down to a little lady with what appeared to be a bouffant that was ran over by a tractor. You could tell the fifties must have gone pretty well for her, because she always dressed like it was ‘fifty-two. A whole decade off, but who knows if she ever realized it.
“I’m sorry ma’am, but considering that in all technicality I just fired you, you can’t be telling what I can and can’t do,” I said, already starting to pack my cello up. “I’ll have my parents call later about refunding the lessons they’ve paid for this coming year. Thanks for all these years, Ms. Young, but I need to move on. Bye!”
With that I grabbed the case and walked out of the lesson room, trying to keep enough confidence up to keep me from turning around and running back to her, telling her I was just joking.
Amazingly, I made it outside and onto the sidewalk. That was when it hit me. What had I done? My legs almost collapsed beneath me. Ten years of lessons, very possibly wasted. I could probably consider the scholarships Ms. Young had helped me get gone, too. Funny how two words, properly paired, could so easily abolish so much. My parents would undoubtedly be beside themselves. It’s not like I could just not tell them, either. And when I told them, they’d more than likely not understand what motivated me to up and quit so abruptly. They wouldn’t see all the thought I put into it, or how unkind and close-minded teacher could be. They definitely wouldn’t believe me when I told them I had simply forgotten to tell them my plans. That is truly what happened, but how believable a story is that? “Yeah, well, I just kind of forgot to tell you about this life-changing decision of mine and make sure you guys were okay with it. Sorry about that.”
Yep, I was good as dead.

I originally posted the first 200 words of this in the 200 word critique and have made some changes from the feedback I received. I would love to hear some thoughts about the whole prologue. Thanks :-)

_______________________________________________________

Prologue – Where the Trouble Began

The Dragon roared over the valley as the girl ran. She pumped her arms furiously and beads of sweat trickled down her back. Tufts of grass and dirt flicked up around her and stuck to the back of her legs. She could hear her best friend panting and smell his fear, and no doubt the Dragon could too. She’d already decided they were never coming back, this was the last time.

Glancing to her right their eyes met and she yelled, “Now!”

This was the part they’d planned in advance. It would be tricky to pull off while running so fast over uneven ground, but they had no other choice. It was either, take the risk and hope it landed in the right place, or stop running and face the beast behind them. Stopping was not an option.

She waited for him to throw the book out in front of them, praying it would land the right way up. To her horror it hit the ground with its spine, opening slightly, and the momentum forced in onwards. It rolled over a few times collecting bits of grass along the way. Time seemed to stop and the only thing she saw moving was the book. She held her breath and her stomach felt heavy with worry, like she’d swallowed a stone. Finally, the book came to rest a few metres away with its yellowed pages open to the sky. She grabbed the boy’s hand and they took two final steps before jumping into the book.

They landed heavily on top of one another on the back lawn of the estate. The girl scrambled to her feet, brushing the grass from her hair. Her grey eyes blazed with an intense anger and the boy shied away from her. He lay on the grass with the closed book beside him and sunlight gleamed off the emerald at its centre. She lunged over him and hastily picked it up, wedging her nails under the edge of the amulet and tearing it from the leather cover.

“This,” she said, shaking the book in the boy’s face, “get rid of it. I don’t care how, just…” and she threw it at him where he caught it at his chest. She clenched her fists, one closed around the amulet and its chain dangled between her fingers. She turned away from him until her anger subsided a little. “Never again do we go back there.”

“But we can’t just leave him,” the boy said, protesting strongly and getting to his feet.

The girl spun on her heels and her anger flared again. “Yes we can!” She pushed him in the chest and he stumbled back sitting down heavily on the grass. He brought the book up like a shield. “Lock it up and throw away the key. Swear to me you will never go back.” The silence between them was thick as they stared at one another. She towered over the boy, her steel glare boring into him. “Swear on your Mother’s life,” she said.

The first thing you should know is this: we all die. There is no happy ending; there is no happily ever after. There is just this: we all die. When I refer to we, I mean those currently alive, carefully excluding Jailinus. My name is Daimeon Warnaout and I’ll be your narrator for the beginning of this story, only because the true protagonist has yet to be born.

Some may think it’s weird that I’m directly addressing the reader but even though you may not be able to see me, I certainly can see you. Now now, don’t panic. I’m not going to kill you, I’m not working with the government, and I most definitely am not going to sweep you off your feet into an unhealthy relationship. Unlike a certain person who shall remain nameless.

I really should start in the beginning, rather then the present, for only the past truly knows the path of time and in this, the path is very important.

When I looked out my second floor window that snowy December morning, I thought perhaps there’d be enough snow to have reason for not showing at work that day. Never would I have thought that day, of all days, would be the one that changed the world for the worst.

I turned and went to make a sandwich, contemplating the snow. There never was anything but a white Schneefrei since we gained the ability to alter the weather as we pleased. By we, I mean the human race. In those days, there was but we the humans living in Lon, a land discovered thanks to yet another of our scientific achievements.

Three hundred years prior, had you said there were multiple universes, you would have been laughed at. Not now, not after we scrubbed ourselves free of religions of all kinds. The revolution of the atheists against the theists came about 2050-60. No specific beginning point, just the majority making itself known.

That majority was largely correct in their assumption that there were no deities in any form living in their world. Imagine their surprise when they made it through the barrier and the first person they met was a god. The god was friendly enough, if a bit of a joker, and luckily for us, was amused by our progress.

Had he been of any temperament but friendly, we would have been dead there and then. Frankly, death is a rather depressing end to any scientific excursion, never mind one that plants you squarely where no man has ever gone before.

My door swung open behind me and in walked trouble on six-inch heels. Her grace and poise was disarming but deceptive; she was a coiled death adder waiting to strike. She also happened to be my fiancée.

She scowled at me and said, “Why are you still here? Don’t you have work? Get off your ass, you lazy bum.” I shrugged my shoulders helplessly at her and gestured to the snow. She rolled her eyes and said, “You know for a fact there won’t be enough snow to justify your laziness. Go to work.”

Something about her continued persistence in my going to work made me suspicious. I eyed her distrustfully as I walked over to the bedroom to grab my pants off of the door and yank them on.
“I guess I’m off then,” I said, moving her out of the way and walking out the door.

She closed it behind me and the moment the door was fully closed, I pulled out my enhet, a small device that had usurped the cellphone’s position as king of mobile communications. It was far more useful than a phone of any kind, having a variety of things it could do in addition to making calls, accepting texts, and playing games.

Tapping the screen with fury, I activated the bugs in the walls and watched her as she walked around the apartment.
“Yes, send over Meinhard Mout. He’ll do fine,” she said to the person on the other side of the enhet. Curious, I put the name into a search and found the first result to be a brothel on the other side of town, the side that we Sol were never supposed to go to but did so anyway.

It was simply the only way to get certain things; little luxuries like alcohol and medicine. Of course, there were always the unscrupulous criminals that insisted upon peddling drugs but the trade was highly regulated by an unlikely source.

One would think that since he got paid either way, Cat wouldn’t give half a fuck about what his drugs did to the users but he did. As he put it, “We can’t kill all the fools; there’d be a whole lot of product with no buyers.”

In the end it was money that he was concerned about, but it was the thought that counted. I ducked out of the way into a different corridor as voices approached my front door. Peering out into the hall, I saw a tall blond stride up and knock softly at the door. Rage blossomed in the pit of my stomach as I charged out of my hiding place and attacked him.

These are just my opinions, so take it with a grain of salt.

1. Critique (try to be specific and as detailed as possible): Okay if I'm going to be honest, I'd stop reading after the first paragraph. I hate when the narrator directly address the audience. It feels cheap and gimmicky.

Your tone makes it seem like you're trying way too hard. It's too formal and that annoyed me. And the random info dumps interrupted the story for me. You don't have to let your reader know everything right off the bat. When I open a good book I expect to be taken right into the middle of things, not to be given a history lesson.

2. Genre and age group: Adult fantasy/sci-fi

3. Shelve it or buy it: Shelve it.

4. Score (either letter A, B, C, D, or out of 100): C

The cries and wails of newborn infants could be heard from the female dormitory. Young mothers met their child once, and then their child was carried into the babies’ dorm, not to be seen again until they were old enough to join either the male or female dorm.

The youngest mothers were taken off of the List for one year to regain their strength, as were the sickly ones. The older ones, however were kept constantly on the list until 25, upon which they were released with their respective male and sent to an assigned house, where any further children could live with them.

Some said it was to repopulate the earth after most of it was wiped out in a devastating war, leaving only 200 kids, 100 male, 100 female, and 10 adults on the planet. But others explained that many on the earth had in fact survived the war, and the Supervisors, as they were called, wanted to grow their own army and destroy the rest of the survivors.

Escape? It was unheard of. Many had tried, and those who did were bumped to the top of the List to become the next ones to undergo treatment.

That was where Raine and Brooke came in. Both had tried to escape, and now they were at the top of the List, the first ones to undergo the ‘treatment’ the next morning, and it was not going to be pleasant, that was for sure. That is where their story begins.

Chapter One

The cold hard floors of the main building made Raine’s feet fall asleep as she waited with dread. This was her first time at the top. Why did everyone dread the top of the list? She had asked that of Lizzie, one who had already been in the list once, not too long ago.

“The list has sections. The top no one knows what happens. And as you know, those on the top usually don’t come back. Those in the middle section are given one or two assignments, from childbearing or experimental subjects, and the bottom, where everyone wishes to be, is the waiting section or ineligibles.” Lizzie had told her a few months before.

“Why do they want to do this do this to us?” Raine asked in despair, knowing after the little escape attempt of hers that she was put on the top.

“Honestly,” Lizzie said, looking around and lowering her voice, “I think there were survivors.”

At that time Raine was 14, too young to be put at the top of the list. But when she turned 15 a week ago, she was put up at the top with her best friend and cousin Brooke. And now Raine knew she had made a terrible mistake.

Brooke watched the nervous movements that Raine made from across the room, along with the ten other young girls as they waited. The boys were in the next room over, Brooke knew, having talked to one in the hall using hand signals.
“Number seventy-two and seventy-five!” A loud voice bellowed from the other side of the huge white door.

Raine cast a terrified glance at Brooke as one of the ‘nurses’ grabbed her hand and took her beyond the white door, and yet another grabbed Brooke as she struggled to break free, anything to get out of the mess she was in.

“You,” One of the women said with a glance over Raine. “Follow me.” She said with a smirk as she took a folder from
the filing cabinet and forced Raine along the winding corridor, leaving Brooke alone as another woman approached.

“And you are?” She asked with a disgusted tone, turning toward the filing cabinet to look for her file.

“Number seventy-five.” Brooke said, looking down at the floor. Everyone of them had names, but no one called them by their names, at least not the adults.

“Brooke Whitfield, aged 15, and you have been in this facility for 11 years, correct?” The woman asked in a business-like tone that made Brooke keep looking at the floor as the guard behind her held her cuffed arms.

All Brooke could do was nod. The woman turned toward the guard and handed him a file.

“She goes into room 21, further down the hall, you know where it is.” The woman said with a glance of disgust at Brooke.

The guard roughed her down the corridor and down a flight of stairs, into a room filled with scientific equipment. But they passed that room by and walked out the other end, into a holding room for the test subjects.

“Number sixty-seven, you come with me.” The guard said, shoving Brooke into the room as he grabbed the other girl and took her out, leaving Brooke’s cuffs on, and tight too.

Inside the testing room was a piece of equipment no one dared use before, deemed too dangerous to use until they had gotten more test subjects to use in case of a misfire.

The guard took the girl and strapped her onto a table, put a piece of tape over her mouth, and motioned for the pair in the door to come to the table.

“The subject is ready.” He said, handing a folder to one of the scientists from the cabinet against the wall, which held numerous documents and files of sorts that many had never seen before.

“Ah, how perfect. Elizabeth Harris, aged 16, known as Lizzie to some girls, known to us as an elaborate escape artist. What procedure did the director wish for us to perform today?” The woman asked, looking up from the folder at the other man.

“Procedure 49. The Director said three of the other subjects had miscarried their children, and the Director wishes for us to stay on target growth.” The other scientist said with a nod.

From the room Brooke was in, she heard everything perfectly. She knew the girl. It was Lizzie.

Suddenly loud and muffled screams filled the room as the whirring of tools started, and then all fell silent.

Oooo, I wanna play along, too. :)

Dream of a Thousand Stars - Prologue

Etheris Edgerton needed a smoke.

It was pouring rain as he opened the backdoor of his shop and stepped out under an awning that didn’t quite manage to keep the rain off his heavy tiku-leather boots. The clouds muted the night into only the faintest shades of gray, filtering out all but a trace of moonslight. As dark as the night was, it was just as loud. Massive raindrops beat a rhythm on the taut waxed canvas of the awning. With a thought Etheris turned on the night vision in his retinal lenses, relics from his time with Arandee, and fished a cigarette box and his old metal lighter out of the pocket of his coat.

It had been a long day, but profitable, from the early afternoon farmers looking to add to the gaia-focusing tattoos that helped grow their crops, the evening kids just wanting something for decoration, and bleeding into the late-night semi-inebriated customers looking to have something done to their bodies they would regret in the morning. Gaiamancer though he was, arms lined with his own focusing tattoos, Etheris sympathized most with the latter group. He took a long draw on his cigarette, closed his eyes, felt it fill his lungs and wondered if it was too late into the night to do something he would also regret in the morning.

It wasn’t until he opened his eyes, night vision shifting the waterlogged alley into shades of blue and green, that he noticed the roughly man-sized bundle of blankets lying on the soaking ground.

Etheris choked out the lungful of smoke in surprise, leaned against the wall hacking until he got back his breath. Through tears squeezed out by the coughing fit he could make out a smallish hand poking between folds in the bundle. He stared at it. It didn’t move. Grumbling to himself about vagrants, he stubbed his cigarette out on the wall, scowled at the sky, accepted that the sky had no intention of quelling the torrent, and stepped out from under the awning.

He crouched beside the blanket and lifted the hand. The skin was cold and clammy, but he could sense the gentle warmth of its gaia underneath. After a moment’s searching he felt the telltale throbbing of a pulse beneath his fingers. Not a corpse, at least.

It was a few feet from where the bundle lay to the relatively dry haven by the door. Etheris regarded the distance, shivering as cold fingers of water wound their way down the back of his neck despite his oiled leather duster. Brute strength wasn’t among his gifts. He turned back to the unconscious bundle, leaned forward and peeled away part of the blanket, trying to get a glimpse of the person he was considering risking injury to help. The face he uncovered was a boy who couldn’t be any older then fifteen, pale, far paler than anyone Etheris had encountered outside of the clans. He turned his night vision off. The hair plastered to the boy’s scalp was a shade of orange he’d never actually seen on a human before. The boy’s cheeks and eyes were sunken, and if he hadn’t felt that flutter of a pulse under his skin Etheris would have taken him for dead. A kid, and a sick one at that. He cursed under his breath.

Ignoring the cold that soaked through the front of his clothes from the sodden blankets, Etheris wrapped his arms around the boy and hauled him to the door. He fell against the wall beside him, panting. The boy was still unconscious. It occurred to him then that the boy didn’t smell like a drunk. He didn’t reek of cheap fruit wine, just wet human. Something else, then, tanni milk or akasham or whatever cheap thrill Paolo’s street kids snorted or shot into their veins. Etheris frowned, running his fingers over the boy’s cool cheek. He had seen a lot of things wash up in the alleys here, and any shop known for gaiamancy was going to be a magnet for vagrants in need of a healing touch. But so young…

There were no more appointments tonight. He could take the boy in, let him sleep off whatever he had gotten into inside where he’d at least be warm, give him a meal in the morning and set him loose. Despite whatever terrible choices had left him passed out in the alley, he was a cute kid. Much too young for Etheris, but cute nonetheless.
That decided, Etheris pulled himself to his feet. As he looked back down at the boy he noticed an envelope, pale brown paper held against his chest by the wrapped blankets. Reactivating his night vision, he teased the thing out from the sodden mess, careful not to tear it. On the front his name was starting to bleed across the paper. Despite the cold he started to sweat, and the world turned to glass around him, threatening to break as he eased open the flap. There was money inside, a thick sheaf of bills, and underneath it something he hadn’t seen in years, not since he left Arandee’s Academy. He unfolded it slowly, willing it to defy his expectations, willing them to not draw him back into his father’s machinations. But it was exactly what he feared it was. On the paper was a schematic of cybernetic augments, with a note scrawled at the top:

REMOVE THE TRACER FIRST.

Chapter One

The snow beat against the aged glass. The sound reminded Liam of half-forgotten memories. Of a place far, far away from this primitive planet and their primitive people. A place he didn't want to remember.

“If this was your fiftieth time in a diner this week, what would you recommend?”

The waitress blinked, a curious look settling over her homely face. A short, plump woman with peroxide blonde hair and a permanent stick of bubble gum in her mouth, Gwen Harper had seen her fair share of weirdos at Cantalen's Diner and Pit Stop. Still, that didn't stop her from being surprised by the boy's question.

Liam waited for her response, his hands trailing the battered menu. Whoever made it, Cantalen he supposed, had tried to make it appear fancy, like what you saw in upscale restaurants. It was a soft orange and words had been written by hands to give the reader the "homemade" feel. It worked. He sniffed it, delighting in the smell of peach cobbler that filled his nose. Gwen gaped at him, but Liam continued his examination. On the fifth day of his arrival, the menu had become so familiar to him, he was sure he could list every item from memory.

A cough startled him out of his thoughts to discover Gwen the Waitress looking at him as if he were a interesting science project.

"Well?" he said raising an eyebrow. The woman had not answered his question.

Gwen stuttered to reply. "Have you tried the Peach Cobbler?"

"Five times." He flicked through the menu.

"Homemade Jammers?" she asked, referring to the roll of bread stuffed with whatever fruit they had lying around at the time.

"They tasted like old socks."

"A Mushroom Swiss Burger?"

"I hate swiss." He could see her becoming frustrated and a slight chill ran through him. Someone was paying attention to him, acknowledging him.

She popped her hip. "Do you like anything?"

Liam paused at the question. Did he like anything? It was hard to tell. Too soon to adjust to this strange planet and their strange customs. "I like apples." He decided.

She matched his haughty expression. "We're out." As soon they'd left her mouth she wanted to take back the words. The boy looked crestfallen. How strange, she thought. Sucking in air, she applied a smile to her cracked lips. "How 'bout I make you some eggs?"

The boy blinked at the offer. "Eggs?" He tested out the new word.

Gwen blinked at the boy's apparent confusion. How could he not know eggs? "Eggs. You know the stuff that comes outta chickens?" She flapped her arms for emphasis. The boy continued to stare. Just as she was about to try another gesture a loud snicker interrupted her. Pete, the chef, was at the counter, wearing his customary smirk. Gwen's face burned as she realized he must have been watching the entire time.

She looks like an unattractive lady bug. Liam observed the woman who had been making ludicrous hand gestures at him. Most be a human greeting. He pantomined her and Pete the Chef laughed. Liam took his laughter for approval and smiled, while Gwen wished she could crawl under a rock.

Gripping the side of the table, she said, "I'll just go place an order right now." She scurried into the kitchen, eager to escape the strange boy and her co-workers laughter.

Liam stared after her before returning to his menu, content to just re-read the booklet over and over again. Human writing was so strange...

A pleasent smell filled the air and he breathed in deeply. Maybe he would like these eggs after all. So wrapped up in his thoughts and wonders of this world, he didn't notice the figure at the door.

Activity stopped. Liam amd Pete the Chef looked, wondering who else would be walking around in the middle of a snow storm. Gwen's humming could be heard through the thick silence.

The stranger stood for a moment, his head bent, hair covering his face. Slowly he made his way over to a booth, his face hidden from sight. As he took a seat, their eyes met. For a brief moment, Liam caught the man's acidic green glare. His heart thumped. Stark-white hands gripped the countertop as he tried to control the sudden flurry of emotions. The man should not have been there, could not be there. It was wrong, very wrong.

The man shrugged off his coat, revealing a long, spindly body. His eyes remained on Liam, the corners of his mouth curving upward. Liam returned it with a blank stare. For a moment, not a sound could be heard. They stared, waiting for the other to break first. Lights flickered above and the man blinked. Liam smiled innocently and returned to his menu, singing a Christmas tune and swinging his legs.

"These angels sing their songs on high, sing me Noel today..."

Pete the Chef glanced uneasily between the too. They were rivals of some sort. Warring gangs. A rising problem in the small town and now it was at his diner.

He stepped out from behind the corner, hands raised. "Hey I don't know what you guys are fighten 'bout, but take it somewhere else. Don't need no drama here."

The man acted first. Leaping over the table, he whipped out a gun. Pulling the trigger, a small orb of light appeared and took aim to Liam. The boy lunged to the side. All that remained of the booth was the burnt stub the table sat upon. The light had blown a hole through the booth, which now glowed an unholy red.

Liam scrambled to his feet as the man reloaded the gun.

"You damn Yulics never die!" The man fired.

Events of a person’s life can change in the space of a day or even a couple hours. With me, the utterance of a couple of words from a doctor after he had run a bunch of tests, had me in stirrups attempting to put a speculum inside of my untested vagina, and another spreading cold clear goo over my lower abdomen and probing it with an ultrasound, changed me forever. Those tests started after my sixteenth birthday.

Remembering turning fifteen to sixteen now is like trying to remember a dream. Images that appear with closed eyes are fleeting and more impressionistic than real. My best friend at the time, Lacey was constantly going to the bathroom. She said it was because she had drunk too much water the night before and during the day. Nodding, I knew that it was best to not embarrass her. Why she thought that having her period was a thing to be ashamed of I didn’t understand then, and don’t understand now.

At the time, there was nothing insidious in my having to go to the bathroom, for I really did. Lacey was in there and I could hear her humming something indistinct. Outside in the hall, I was doing what my dad would have called the “piss and shit shuffle.” She finally came out after flushing the toilet and was startled to see me standing there moving from one foot to the other. She followed me with her eyes as I went into the bathroom, and I think I still felt the gaze after the door shut.

What prompted me to look under the sink after I had done my business, I'll never be able to say. Maybe suspicion or maybe envy of something that I had not yet experienced. Now, looking back on it, I can say the latter. I hadn’t had my period. Inside the waste-basket lay several clumps of toilet paper. Despite the grossness of it, I picked one up, unwrapped the white paper, and found a pad, evidence of Lacey’s womanhood. The aisle of the grocery store that held all of the feminine products was like a shrine to commercialism and the biological functions of a woman. I never understood what my mom said when she talked about heavy flow and spotting and light flows. To me it was all the same. Looking at the pad in my hands, I wondered if the dark brown spot was a heavy or light flow. With the care that Lacey seemed to wrap the pad, I put it back in the waste-basket and washed my hands. Blood never grossed me, and it was probably my most boy-like trait, other than sports.

“You took a long time in there,” Lacey said to me as I opened the bathroom door.

Shrugging my shoulders I said, “There was a lot. I’ve been holding it for a long time.”

If she accepted the lie, I couldn’t say. She seemed satisfied though, and I never brought it up. There was privacy in the menstrual cycle, I suppose, and it was something that only those that had experienced seemed to be able to discourse.

Besides Lacey, Jennifer and Heather were also at my birthday party. They were my best friends at the time. We were a clique at school, nowhere near the status of the popular crowd, but also nowhere near the high-school socially damned. I met Jennifer on the gymnastics team, but since she was going to college in the fall, we wouldn't be around each other much after the summer, if at all. Lacey I can’t remember how I met her. We just fell in with each other and were friends after that. Heather was Jennifer’s friend, a little older than me, and it was through Jennifer that I met her.

The doctor told my mother once when I was fourteen or so that it was because I was so involved in sports and gymnastics that I had not yet had my period. He assured her of my normal development, and that I should have it any time. Any time became months, and months became quarters, and those became years. Mom would brush my hair as I looked at myself in the mirror and tell me that things were going to be okay and that all things came to each of us in their own time.

“Later,” she said to me, “you are going to be thankful that it has been so late in coming.”

How thankful can we be in the delay of normal?

My dad baked the cake that day and he said that it was one of his best. He baked professionally. Clarke's Confections the store was called, and some said it housed the best bunch of sweets that you could get east of the Mississippi. I don’t know about that, but I do know that if it was not for my athletic activities, I would have been a statistic. It was not that my dad pushed sweets on us, but he did not deter us either. It was a gigantic thing, the cake, looking like it belonged on a wedding table: three tiers, fondant and pink frosting everywhere on it. He made his own flowers and the ones that were on the cake were my favorites: lilacs and lilies.

“Thank God you do not like roses,” my dad would tell me every year he made a cake for my birthday. If roses were my favorite, he would have spent nights upon nights making them for me. As it was, he spent nights upon nights making this cake, and that was with me telling him that I didn't want anything fancy.

--JSC

Ok I had posted my opening in the 200 words one but I have done quite extensive editing since then based on feedback from people and other things.

Also Really want to know if I should keep the posted scroll towards the end here or strike it out? I italicized the scroll so if is found easily. I also included a bit after the posted scroll as I wanted to show the scroll and a bit after to see what people think about pulling what the scroll says from the chapter which is telling what the MFC and SFC are reading instead of showing though what the MFC and SFC say or not. With the scroll pulled I am very close to the 1000 max though still a bit over with the editing of combining the before the scroll and after scroll I will most likely do if I strike the scroll out. Please let me know what you all think please.

FYI my book will have a Glossary I wanted to remain true to the concept of criers so I use what they use. "OYEZ. —used by a court or public crier to gain attention before a proclamation."
************************************************************************************************************
A dark haired young lady, with her hair in a warrior's tail, and her companion entered the dry goods shop. The shop was one of the open booths with actual wooden floor and walls, but no glass in the windows in the front, which led to the market square. Smaller bags of different flours, salt and sugars, as well as yeast, were on the shelves that lined the inside walls. As they looked over the shop, the shopkeeper was looking her and her strawberry blonde friend over, since he had not seen them in town before. They were dressed the same, but they were in casual clothes - not something that could be seen as a uniform. They had long sleeved white tunics belted over what looked like a long brown skirt. The pair walked over to him at his counter and smiled to him.

“Hello, sir. My name is Tracey and this is Jenny,” she introduced We would like to place an order for a number of the fifty pound bags of things but I don’t see any of them on the shelves only the twenty-five pound bags are there. Do you carry them or do we have to special order them?” the dark haired girl asked.

“Morning Ladies, I am Jon Thorison and I have the large bags out in the back. What can I do you for?” he asked, pulling out a clipboard with a form on it that he used for large orders. He looked up towards the front doorway as they heard the loud ringing of a large brass bell and the call of: "Oyez, Oyez, Oyez!" Jenny turned around and looked out of the shop, her pony tail swinging as her head turned. Tracey remained focused on Mr. Thorison, tough, so he returned to her and taking their order down.

Jenny saw a lanky young man with soft blonde curls, who she thought was close to their age, walking into the center of the market square. ‘Ah, that must be one of the king's criers wearing all that...well I wouldn't be caught wearing that elaborate red and gold jacket...well maybe the long black boots. But white breeches? Really? They will be a bitch to clean.’ She watched from the shop as he walked to the center of the square, ringing his bell. She wondered if he had arrived last night, as they had, or if he had just come in. If he had just arrived, he had timed things perfectly as it was now nearing lunch time, so the market was at its most crowded time of the day. As he strolled though the square with a large scroll and his bell, she heard him call out again: "Oyez, Oyez, Oyez!" People left the stalls to watch him. A handful of them followed him to the center, and she wondered what brought the king's crier today. It wasn’t that they never saw one. A crier would come a few times a year to make the king’s announcements, but everyday kingdom news were delivered by the traveling bard. So the crier meant the information was important, whatever it was, and everyone needed to hear it, like a new royal proclamation.

Jenny tapped Tracey as the crier got nearer the center of the square. She was in the middle of bartering over the dry goods they needed when she turned to her friend, who nodded her head to the crier to call her attention to him. When she saw the red coat, instead of blue, that the town crier wore she understood what Jenny was telling her. With a nod, she turned back to the merchant. "If you can see those things delivered to the academy's storage in the Bartleys’ Pub and Grub, it will be appreciated," she told him. He agreed and she turned to exit the shop, leaving to listen to the crier with her friend.

The crier climbed up on the widest part of the fountain in the center of town. It was designed to provide a small stage to allow any crier to stand above the crowd. The crier cleared his throat and projected his voice in the special way crier’s and bards have that while he wasn’t yelling, everyone in the market square even the farthest corner could hear him clearly as if he was next to them. “Oyez,Oyez! The King’s Rangers Wish All To Know The Trials Of Three Will Be Held On The thirty-third Day Of The Maiden. All Participants Must Be Registered By eight Bells. The Trial Events Starting At nine Bells. Come One Come All To Bear Witness As The Best In The Realm Prove Themselves Worthy To Be Called A Member Of The King’s Rangers. Additional Information Will Be Posted”

The Crier took a calming breath as he finished looking, over the small crowd about him. He stepped off the fountain and took the few steps to the announcement board, where he posted the Ranger’s scroll explaining the trials and the timing for everything. The scroll was like an unofficial test, as only those who could read would be able to get the information. As he walked away, a few people from the crowd moved to read the scroll which surprised him, as not many towns taught their youths to read nowadays, even though the Rangers preferred all their members to know how to read and write. He smiled as he left, it was always nice to see a town that strove to be better than the average.
Tracey and Jenny were among those who crossed the square to the board. They read over the posted scroll…

(The Ranger's trials of three is upon us once more.
The trial of threes has three rules and three games.
All participants are expected to perform the basics in each of the trials.
The three rules are simple:
Rule number one: Anyone under the age of 18 must be sponsored by a current Ranger.
If under 16, the sponsor must be the Captain of the Rangers with support from his second.
Rule number two: Cheating and lying are expressly forbidden, and basis of disqualification.
Rule number three, the rule of three: A participant cannot partake in the trials more than three times.
Registration begins at six bells on the thirty-third day of the maiden and ends at eight bells.
The first event will commence on the same day after nine bells have tolled.
In the following days, all participants must be present by six bells, with each event starting after seven bells have tolled.
Upon the fourth day, at exactly seven bells, the fifteen top warriors shall be announced.
All are welcome to bear witness.
So come, one and all, to the trial of three.)

As the girls read over the posted scroll, two older men drew near and seemed to read over their shoulders. The girls glanced back at them, their hands hovering defensively over their belts. The men also watched the two girls, wondering if they were fighters thinking of trying out, or if they were merely planning to watch the trials.

Tracey’s polished silver gaze cut towards Jenny, a glimmer of excitement dancing within, "Well, Jen, looks like it’s that time of year."

"Aye, I will need to get a sponsor though. You will be able to sign up no problems, Trace. We need....." Jen replied.

“Ya right, lady. These games are for men only. If you girls want to fight, go join the king's guards,” interrupted the man standing slightly behind Tracey rudely.

Chapter One


Brooke watched the nervous movements that Raine made from across the room, along with the ten other young girls as they waited. The boys were in the next room over, Brooke knew, having talked to one in the hall using hand signals.
“Number seventy-two and seventy-five!” A loud voice bellowed from the other side of the huge white door.

Raine cast a terrified glance at Brooke as one of the ‘nurses’ grabbed her hand and took her beyond the white door, and yet another grabbed Brooke as she struggled to break free, anything to get out of the mess she was in.

“You,” One of the women said with a glance over Raine. “Follow me.” She said with a smirk as she took a folder from the filing cabinet and forced Raine along the winding corridor, leaving Brooke alone as another woman approached.

“And you are?” She asked with a disgusted tone, turning toward the filing cabinet to look for her file.
“Number seventy-five.” Brooke said, looking down at the floor.

“Brooke Whitfield, aged 15, and you have been in this facility for 11 years, correct?” The woman asked in a business-like tone that made Brooke keep looking at the floor as the guard behind her held her cuffed arms.

All Brooke could do was nod. The woman turned toward the guard and handed him a file.

“She goes into room 21, further down the hall, you know where it is.” The woman said with a glance of disgust at Brooke.

The guard nodded as he whisked her down the corridor, going into a room which had another door, which he opened with a smirk.

“Number sixty-seven, you come with me.” The guard said, shoving Brooke into the room as he grabbed the other girl and took her out, leaving Brooke in her cuffs, tightening them before leaving.

The guard took the girl into the room outside the door and strapped her onto a table, put a piece of tape over her mouth, and motioned for the pair standing in the doorway to come to the table.

“The subject is ready.” He said, handing a folder to one of the scientists from the cabinet against the wall, which held numerous documents and files of sorts that many had never seen before.

“Ah, how perfect. Elizabeth Harris, aged 16, known as Lizzie to some girls, known to us as an elaborate escape artist. What procedure did the director wish for us to perform today?” The woman asked, looking up from the folder at the other man.

“Procedure 49. The Director said three of the other subjects had miscarried their children, and the Director wishes for us to stay on target growth.” The other scientist said with a nod.

From the room Brooke was in, she heard everything perfectly. She knew the girl. It was Lizzie.

Suddenly loud and muffled screams filled the room as the whirring of tools started, and then all fell silent.

-----

Raine struggled as she was forced onto a table and tied down. The whirring of tools and bleeping of monitors filled the air. Then another person clamped a mask tightly onto her face, filling it with sweet-smelling gas, and watched her with a sharp look on his skunk-like face. But soon the gas turned into a different kind of gas, as Raine struggled and shook with terror, as she started to scream at the top of her lungs, "NO! HELP ME SOMEBODY PLEASE!!!!"She screamed as her body convulsed and shook wildly, her arms scratching frantically at the restraints, and then she grew silent as she fell into a deep sleep.

The man next to her stood up and threw the syringe away into a bucket.

"My work here is done." He said, glancing at the woman in the corner.

"Good." She said, smirking at him with a nod. "Grandmother would have been pleased."

The man turned and walked out the door with a stamp of his foot in disgust. "Grandmother was an evil and disgusting woman. She did what she did in hatred of that group of people that escaped and freed her prisoners. But I'm going to change that." He whispered fiercely as he cast one more glance at the victim through the open door.

Determined, he walked off, knowing he could be a part of this no longer.

-----

Brooke shuddered as she thought of what was happening just outside her door, the pure horror of the screams she had heard sending chills up her spine.

Am I next? Brooke wondered, fear and dread entering her mind, the screams still echoing in her mind.

The door opened, the bright light filling the previously dark room. “Come on out now, hurry!” A deep and gruff voice ordered.

That’s when Brooke’s heart sank. She knew that there would be no escape. Her fate was sealed.

There have been some very good critiques on this thread, I hope this helps! So, here we go! (Of course, YMMV)

Chapter One


Brooke watched the nervous movements that Raine made from across the room, "Brooke watched Raine's nervous movements from across the room." seems to flow a bit better. along with the ten other young girls as they waited. Are the other girls fidgeting or are they also watching Raine? The boys were in the next room over, Brooke knew, having talked to one in the hall using hand signals. This sentence is good but may work as "Brooke knew the boys were in the next room over, having talked to one in the hall earlier with hand signals."
“Numbers seventy-two and seventy-five!” A loud voice bellowed from the other side of the huge white door.

Raine cast a terrified glance at Brooke as one of the ‘nurses’ grabbed her hand and took her beyond the white door,period, I'd say cut "and yet" so that your next sentence could begin with "another" and yet another terrified glance or 'nurse'grabbed Brooke as she struggled to break free,Period here also. This way you can give more weight to Brooke's willingness to do anything to break free. anything to get out of the mess she was in.

“You,” OneI don't believe you need to capitalize one. of the women said with a glance over Raine. “Follow me.” SheSee above said with a smirk as she took a folder from the filing cabinet and forced Raine along the winding corridor, leaving Brooke alone as another woman approached. This sentence momentarily made me rethink this as written from Brooke's POV. Nothing serious, just a thought.

“And you are?” She asked with a disgusted tone, With disgust in her voice, the nurse asked "And you are?" turning toward the filing cabinet to look for her file.
“Number seventy-five.” Brooke said, looking down at the floor. Looking at the floor, Brooke replied "Number seventy five."

“Brooke Whitfield, aged 15, and you have been in this facility for 11 years, correct?” The woman asked in a business-like tone that made Brooke keep that kept Brooke looking at the floor as the guard behind her held her cuffed arms. Brooke's arms or is the guard holding her own, cuffed, arms?

All Brooke could do was nod. The woman turned toward the guard and handed him a file.

“She goes into room 21, further down the hall, you know where it is.” The woman said with a glance of disgust at Brooke. With as much disgust and contempt as you seem to be giving these nurses and guards, it seems as if they wouldn't waste as many words as they do on the girls. A curt response, or a clipped order would convey the underlying bias much better.

The guard nodded as he whisked To me, 'whisked' implies a whimsical jaunt, maybe "hustled" or "shuttled" her down the corridor, going into a room which had another door, which he opened with a smirk. From "going" He placed her in a room with a second door, which he opened with a smirk.

“Number sixty-seven, you come with me.” The guard said, shoving Brooke into the room as he grabbed the other girl and took her out, leaving Brooke in her cuffs, tightening them before leaving. Ok, in conjunction with the paragraph above, you have the guard placing Brooke in a room with a second door which he opens. The way this next paragraph read to me was that the girl and the room Brooke was shoved into were the initial room. I understand that, instead of what I think it is, the action is the guard removing the girl from the second room and placing Brooke there. It just didn't seem to read correctly.

The guard took the girl into the room outside the door and strapped her onto a table, put a piece of tape over her mouth, and motioned for the pair standing in the doorway to come to the table. When did the table get in the anteroom? Where did the people come from?

“The subject is ready.” He said, handing a folder to one of the scientists from the cabinet against the wall, which held numerous documents and files of sorts that many had never seen before.

“Ah, how perfect. Elizabeth Harris, aged 16, known as Lizzie to some girls, known to us as an elaborate escape artist. What procedure did the director wish for us to perform today?” The woman asked, looking up from the folder at the other man.

“Procedure 49. The Director said three of the other subjects had miscarried their children, and the Director wishes for us to stay on target growth.” The other scientist said with a nod.

From the room Brooke was in, she heard everything perfectly. She knew the girl. It was Lizzie. Moving this sentence before the preceding two paragraphs would make it more clear as to the shift between Brooke's POV and the narration. Then you get Brooke's knowledge and a reaction when the doctor says "known as Lizzie."

Suddenly loud and muffled screams filled the room as the whirring of tools started, and then all fell silent. Did they just start and stop? How long did Brooke have to listen to the sounds?

-----

Raine struggled as she was forced onto a table and tied down. The whirring of tools and bleeping of monitors filled the air. Then another person clamped a mask tightly onto her face, filling it with sweet-smelling gas, and watched her with a sharp look on his skunk-like face. A man with a skunk-like face clamped a mask on her and filled it with sweet smelling gas. He watched her with a sharp look as the odor changed. Raine shook with terror and fought against her restraints. She began to scream at the top of her lungs. "NO! HELP ME SOMEBODY PLEASE!" The screamng continued as she convulsed, flailing and scratching at the restraints. But soon the gas turned into a different kind of gas, as Raine struggled and shook with terror, as she started to scream at the top of her lungs, "NO! HELP ME SOMEBODY PLEASE!!!!"She screamed as her body convulsed and shook wildly, her arms scratching frantically at the restraints, and then she grew silent as she fell into a deep sleep.

The man next to her stood up and threw the syringe away into a bucket. I think it would be "a syringe." This is the first one that the reader has seen or heard about, nor do we have any introduction that this man was there. (Unless it is the man with the skunk-like face.)

"My work here is done." He said, glancing at the woman in the corner.

"Good." She said, smirking at him with a nod. "Grandmother would have been pleased."

The man turned and walked out the door with a stamp of his foot in disgust.This made me think he was tap dancing out of the door disgustedly. Sorry, just a funny image the way it read. "Grandmother was an evil and disgusting woman. She did what she did in hatred of that group of people"in hatred of those that escaped" that escaped and freed her prisoners. But I'm going to change that." He whispered fiercely as he cast one more glance at the victim through the open door.Why would he tell his coworker what he was going to do? Or is that phrase meant to be quietly to himself?

Determined, he walked off, knowing he could be a part of this no longer.

-----

Brooke shuddered as she thought of what was happening just outside her door, the pure horror of the screams she had heard sending chills up her spine.

Am I next? Brooke wondered, fear and dread entering her mind, the screams still echoing in her mind.

The door opened, the bright light filling the previously dark room. “Come on out now, hurry!” A deep and gruff voice ordered.

That’s when Brooke’s heart sank. She knew that there would be no escape. Her fate was sealed.

Has the room been dark the whole time? Brooke should have reacted to it. You also don't need a "the," bright light works.

Genre: Dystopian future
Grade: High B/Low A 88-92
Buy or Put back? I'd probably buy, I'd like to see where it was headed.

The story is there, I enjoyed it. :)

Prologue
He bent down to the ground, lungs burning from exhaustion and terror.
This couldn’t be happening. Not now. Not after everything.
His mind raced. No time could be wasted.
He knew if he didn’t do something quick, she would die.
With shaking fingers, Asher moved the ginger hair stuck to the girl’s face. He couldn’t lose her—not this girl he had grown to care about despite his best efforts to avoid it. Her lifeless body screamed to him for help which he tried but failed to give. He had done everything he knew to do, and it wasn’t good enough.
Death crept in to take her away from him.
He fell back on the ground in a sitting position, not taking his eyes away from her. He had to do something. There had to be a way.
With all other options depleted, Asher did something he hadn’t done since he was a small boy. He prayed.





Chapter 1
“Are we there yet?”
“Seriously,” David Andrews laughed from the driver’s seat of the 15-seater van. “Are we two?”
“Apparently Sid is,” he heard a male voice, most likely Sid’s unexpected guest Asher, coming from behind him. David smiled and kept his eyes on the road. Their destination inched closer as the van traveled through the chilly early morning.
David had been driving ever since they had left Grant, Georgia around ten o’clock the night before. Susan Drake, the van’s shotgun rider, had offered several times to drive while he slept, but David had declined each one. Truth be told, he was too excited to sleep. The trip represented the first of its kind at Grant Gospel Church, and its new youth program.
Grant, Georgia’s newest red light at Willow Avenue and Jefferson allowed it to avoid the distinction of being called a “One Light Town”… but just barely. The town’s claim to fame consisted of a former U.S. congressman as a native son, and the smallest ‘Super Wal-mart’ on the planet. Four churches called Grant home, Grant Gospel claimed the biggest spot with fifty-five on the membership roll. Nine of them were in the church van with David cruising toward a weekend of hiking and fun in the Great Smokey Mountains National Park.
David checked the rearview mirror again, smiling at the motley crew behind him. Only a few lights, mostly cellphones and eReaders, lit up the darkness. From the relative quietness and occasional snore, he imagined that most of the teens were sleeping. He couldn’t tell exactly who remained awake, but he had a pretty good idea. He figured he could guess at least one of them right off. A girl named Ruth.
***********
Ruth Harker’s mind was not on sleep. Truth be told, her overly active brain revolved mostly around getting away from home at least for a little while. She had anticipated the hiking trip ever since Mr. Andrews had mentioned it two months before during youth service. She loved the outdoors, and even though the Smokey’s were only an eight hour drive away, she hadn’t been in years. Returning to the mountains at some point in time had been a dream of hers for a while, but this year especially appealed to her.
She needed a vacation away from home, but she found that the farther she got from Georgia, the more guilt she felt. The guilt kept her awake, idly flipping through books on her eReader, not really reading any of them.
At around six a.m., Ruth could see the first glimpses of mountains silhouetted against the early morning sunrise. The dull pink and radiant orange sky around the peaks stood out in stark contrast to the dark mountains. A few red whisps, the color of Ruth’s curly long hair, began filling the sky as well.
Ruth closed her eyes and tried to remember the last time she had seen that sunrise. Immediately, she remembered the day nine years ago it like it was yesterday. Her, her mom, and her dad had all gone on vacation in Gatlinburg, a town right under the mountain. Her dad had waken her up early their last night there to show her the sunrise from their hotel room balcony. To her seven year old eyes, it was magical. Her sixteen year old eyes saw beauty as well but not like before; not like when she had witnessed it with her father.
Ruth shook her head, trying to get those once happy now painful memories out of her brain. She looked over to her left to check on her friend, Carly. Sure enough, the brown haired beauty still snored away, a fact Ruth knew would mortify her. Ruth had no doubts that someone would erroneously think it would be a great idea to aggravate Carly about her loud sleeping habits, and that someone would be named Sid.
******************
“Almost there,” David said to the insomniac few like himself. As the mountains got closer and closer, the anxiety grew inside of him. Had he made the right decision bringing the kids that far away from home? Did they bring everything they needed? Had they needed more chaperones? What would he do if he saw a bear? And had God picked the right person to lead this group that meant so much to him?
As all of the thoughts circled his mind, a bright light coming from the cab made him wince. Someone, and he could probably guess who, had turned on one of the overhead lights. “So, that means we can return to the land of the living, right,” the familiar voice of Sid asked.
“Yes. Yes, you can. Although, your fellow traveling companions might want to bless you out, and not in the most Christian of ways, for blinding them at this unpleasant hour.” David said with a smile.
He caught Sid’s shrug in the rearview. “They’ll get over it, brother,” Sid said, stretching his arms over his head and adjusting his staple, his never-left-behind red cap.
“Wouldn’t be too sure of that,” David laughed under his breath.

(This will be over 1K words. The chapter itself is quite long)

Every city has the human element. New York, being the largest city, has more than most. Wealth and poverty, beauty and ugliness, love and hate – all of these existed hand in hand. In a society where such extremes of love and hate flourished, there was always more money made in trying to destroy enemies than in re-igniting the fires of love. Thus, hitmen roamed all over the city; from shadowy corners that parents often warned their teenage daughters about, to the bright lights of Manhattan. Hitmen were pervasive around New York, and practically ran the city. Different hitmen were better than others, and the better ones commanded higher prices. Being a hired gun was a lucrative industry, and one that Everett Belvidere had lucked out on.

Among streets filled with cars, a single black Porsche stood out amongst the yellow cabs and simpler vehicles. Behind its wheel was Everett Belvidere, who was one of those highly-paid hitmen. A normal person would have thought it impossible to maneuver through this bumper-to-bumper traffic that was endemic of New York streets. Everett, however, had no problem with it, as he recklessly weaved in and out of traffic, cutting people off and watching without a care as cabbies and delivery men shouted, swore and shook their fists at him. Time was money. Somewhere in this city, there was money to be made, and Everett never turned down the opportunity to kill a man and reap a handsome amount for his services.

Today’s job brought him to streets similar to where he lived. Streets with lower-income residences where, unlike in his own neighborhood, the residents often tended to be mired in poverty. There were bodegas on almost every corner and even small chapels inside a few of the buildings. In time, he found his destination – a very nondescript nightclub that could have easily been missed among the multitude of businesses. Parking his car, he donned his sunglasses, dusted off his suit, and stepped in, exuding confidence with each stride.

The club’s interior looked to be a place that was quite low-budget. Framed pictures were strewn all over the walls, with no real order to it. They were pictures of various celebrities with autographs on them. They didn’t have a name to them, however, so Everett just wrote them all off as being printed off from the internet. The tables had scratches all over them, scratches of varying depth and size. Initials and obscenities were carved into them, and Everett could only imagine the drunken stories behind the initials, scratches, chips and other dents. Each table was topped with a single seven-day candle with glass that looked greasy and unclean, as though they were rarely, if ever, changed. Whoever ran the establishment didn’t have the sense of mind to remove the carpet from the floor. It seemed to be red at one point, but now it was a sickening shade of brown, and it made Everett’s mind wonder about the sorts of things that had occurred on this floor, and what sorts of things had rendered this floor into such a repugnant state. The thought came to mind, and Everett had to force the unpleasant thought out. This shabby little hellhole wasn’t worth his time, and if the owner wasn’t talking about anything in terms of pay, Everett was sure that he would stand up and leave. He didn’t like people that had delusions of their own wealth. He knew what wealth was, and some people fancied themselves as millionaires, but had the pocketbooks of paupers.

“The boss’ll see you now,” a burly man in a black shirt walked up to Everett. The bouncer stood only slightly taller than Everett, who was quite tall in his own right. He didn’t much look down at him, but rather looked him in the face, treating the man as an equal. He knew what Everett was there for, and he had no desire to become a statistic. Everett, without acknowledging the bouncer, walked to the office, and slammed the door behind him.

“You require my services?” Everett requested, wanting to know who the fool was that decided to call him up. They may or may not get to hear words that they wanted to hear from Everett. It completely depended on how much money they were willing to offer to the man. The proprietor of the club turned around in his chair to quickly survey the man that he hired.

Everett received the order from the jilted boss and lover to kill this particular woman. The boss passed a photograph to him, with a woman and her name. She was a songstress, a young woman with a gifted voice and a striking face. Her hair was thick and waved, though in this picture, it was clear that she had straightened it beforehand. Her skin was the color of coffee with a hint of cream. Her lips were thin and pink, though slightly turned up as though she were as enigmatic as the Mona Lisa. Her eyes were upturned, giving her a slightly foreign, exotic appearance. She was indeed a black woman, but of indeterminable lineage. Was she biracial? Creole? Everett had a weakness towards black women based on just features and their bodies alone, but something about this one stood out even more to him. The expression that she wore on her face in this photograph of her was both enigmatic and serious, but for a moment, Everett was made silent just by looking at how incredibly beautiful she was. He had slept with women that were better looking than her, but she was indeed captivating.

He looked at the rather ratty looking sugar-daddy, eyed him harshly and took in everything about him. He was a black, small-statured, greasy looking little butterball. He wore a stained tracksuit with a large gold chain hanging from around his neck, and he reeked of marijuana, alcohol and body odor that he seemed to try to cover over with cheap cologne. The man was balding, and with his fat face, Everett was positive that no self-respecting woman would want to wake up to this aberration in the bed with her. In fact, the forgiving influence of alcohol wouldn’t work to make him more attractive.

Everett tightened his lips, arching an eyebrow at the fool. No shit that a woman like this Ingrid wouldn’t allow her to be with him. Women like Ingrid didn’t give men like this the time of day. It was so funny how men that were so abjectly repulsive felt that they were entitled to the most beautiful woman in a room. A guy like this would despise Everett – a man who used women to his own ends and who always had his pick of the litter. Still, a job was a job, and Everett certainly wouldn’t turn it down. Perhaps he could get to know this Ingrid before he killed her.

“Is there any preference to how you would prefer for me to do this job?” Everett sat back on the chair, pulling a cigar from the case of Cuban Cigars and lighting it. “Poison? Stabbing? Strangling? Kidnapping and disappearance? Or just take the easy way out and shoot her?”

The fat man’s eyes blazed. “I’d rather see her poisoned. She’s a fuckin’ dimepiece, mayne, and a face like that…you just don’t fuck it up. She’s gotta be fine as fuck even in the grave. I’m payin’ you good-ass money to make sure that this job is done right, son. She lives in Bed-Stuy and works at the 21 Club. Imma be up there soon to see if you did what I’m payin’ you for.”

Everett glared at the man. “Do you deign to presume that I am less than proficient with my job? You’ve been foolish enough to deal with amateurs for too long a time, and that is your problem. However, allow no confusion in this – I am exceedingly skilled in my job – and if you manage to botch it, it will be your head.” Everett coolly took a drag on the cigar, the sweet smoke permeating the air. “I do hope that such a standard is clear enough to you. I want the first half to be put into an Escrow account in my name – Vincent J. Marcotte – before I start the job, probably sometime tomorrow. I will show you the pictures and such and I’ll allow you to wait a day or two before sending me the remainder. If I don’t get the remainder, my good man…” Everett twirled the cigar in his hand, his voice becoming ever more menacing. It wasn’t even necessary for him to finish his statement.

“Then I think we got ourselves a deal, playa,” the man stuck his hand out for Everett to shake it. Everett immediately stood up and turned around, heading on his way out. He didn’t bother to shake the man’s hand. He would much rather get the job done.

The following evening, with the money Escrowed into his account, the debonair hitman dressed in his suit, and drove down to Bed-Stuy to his victim’s apartment. He kept a look at her picture, and knew that people would recognize her. Pretty women were all over Bed-Stuy, but as special as she was, people would be able to point her out. He parked his Porsche on the side of the street, in front of a large brownstone with the address that he wanted. Stepping out of the car, he showed Ingrid’s picture to a group of young women sitting on the stoop of an ornate brownstone. They pointed at the neighboring rowhouse, telling her him “Third floor. Her last name is Morrison.”

Everett easily walked his way up the obscene flights of stairs, and, after picking the lock, opened the door just enough to where he could see the security chain. ‘This will be easy,’ he chuckled to himself as he easily cut through the chain. In no time, he had finally stepped into a dark apartment, his nose immediately drawn to a very sweet, wonderful scent of flowers and perfume. He looked around the place, though he couldn’t see very much in the dark like this. As he walked to turn on a light and get a feel for the place, he felt something against his head, and the sound of a gun being cocked.

“Don’t move,” a smooth, feminine voice ordered. Everett couldn’t actually move – this woman had the jump on him and if he were to move an inch, she could very well shoot him. Smart one, this lady.

Getting the anhydrous ammonia proved the most difficult part of the process. First he tried to bribe a fellow junkie with some of the winnings he earned on the show, but that doped up fucker never showed. The Sudafed was easy to get. All that took was time and gas money. He knew that it was unwise to go to local pharmacies to get the stuff, so he went to neighboring towns. He would go into the pharmacy, pick out three boxes and walk to the check-out counter. If they asked him for his license—which rarely happened—he would tell them that he forgot it in the car, walk out of the store, and then drive off and try the next one. At twenty pills in a box, he only needed nineteen. That would net him maybe twenty-five to thirty grams of product if he was careful. And he intended to be careful. If tonight worked, he would start the process again tomorrow on a larger scale: he would triple or quadruple the amount of Sudafed he bought.

Three days. It had only been three days, and he jonsed for it like nothing he ever knew. He couldn’t sit down or stay still and he was constantly popping Tylenol for the headache that would not disappear, his poor liver. He was glad that the sleepiness had not started. Maybe he had not gotten to that part of the withdrawal yet, or the coffee was masking it. Damn, that Mike for getting busted. How stupid do you have to be to leave that shit lying around for any Tom, Dick, or Harry to see it from the window? It was his fault that he had to start making his own. Maybe if his head were clear, he would have realized that it would have been safer to find another dealer than try to make his own.

The problem remained getting the anhydrous ammonia. One couldn't just buy it on the street, or walk into a hardware store and ask for it by name. No, it had to be stolen, or you had to be a licensed farmer to get it and even then it was heavily regulated. Since he didn't farm, he had to resort to thievery. He let the hour of midnight come and go before he got into his car and headed out into the country. When he turned off onto a country road, he killed the headlights and drove in complete darkness. He had to find a farm large enough to have need of a large component of the ammonia. Eventually he found it, and he thanked his fortune and lucky stars that he had not been spotted by a cop or some other do-gooder that might call the cops. He drove past the farm and parked his car on the side of the road and climbed a fence and walked through the fields that smelled of fresh fertilizer with a gasoline can in hand. He didn't know if the metal and the chemical would react, or what reaction would occur if they did, but he was so intent on getting the stuff that he did not really care. He had read stories of people that blew themselves up when making the shit, but he figured those people were the idiots of the world, and Darwinism ended up prevailing with them. He didn't consider himself an idiot, but people never really consider themselves as such in the process.

Slinking behind a large barn, a large shadowy structure in the moonlight, he found the object of his obsession: a large white storage tank with the words ANHYDROUS AMMONIA in green letters stenciled one side. Underneath the green stenciling were the words in a red stenciling, INHALATION RISK. He didn’t care. He didn't think that he was going to be breathing the stuff. All he needed was enough to fill the can, and then he would high-tail it off the farm and back home. Looking around, he lowered himself under the nozzle and jutted the gas can under it. A pressure valve jutted out near the base of the tank. He turned it, and heard a distant hissing. He turned the valve further and the hissing grew louder. A pungent odor filled the air around him, and he drew a large breath and turned the vale further. The hiss turned into a wail and a large plume of smoke streamed out of the nozzle.

All of his senses were filled with the sensation of burning. His lungs screamed in pain, he eyes watered in an attempt to flush out the noxious gas that was infiltrating the soft tissues, but in vain. The water reacted with the ammonia creating a powerful base that started eating away at the tissues of his eyes. Blindness came in seconds. Instinctively, he turned the valve closed. Blisters formed all over his face, hands, arms, and all other exposed parts of his body. Breathing became impossible, and he started suffocating before his body hit the ground. He couldn't see the beauty of the sky. The crisp fall night was clear and all of the stars were shining down on him. Wheezing as gasps escaped his body, he blindly looked upwards. He died alone, needing another hit of the drug that lead to his death.

The snow drifted lazily past my head as I leaned out, cigarette in hand. Down below me people rushed, some with packages in hand. Sighing, I lit the cigarette and considered my position. Three days till Year’s End, still hadn’t gotten a present for Lucille, my fiancée.

Really, I should have been one of those rat-like people who were running around buying last minute presents for forgotten loved ones on their lists but instead here I was, smoking and standing around in my boxers, no plans for any sort of gift giving occasion. More than likely, she’d throw a fit for a few weeks, threaten to break off the engagement - not like she’d ever. Too much at stake for her.

I leaned back against the windowsill and thought about ordering one of my underlings to go out and get something nice for the gold-digging bitch. She was a bit more perceptive than her father- poor guy actually thought we were in love- and knew that she was only my beard and that I’d die before consummating anything with her, let alone our sham of a marriage.

I flipped the cigarette out the window and closed it. Making my way back over to the bed for a nap, my enhet rang, filling the room with that annoying bastardization of what once was a good song. Begrudgingly I pulled it out of my pants pocket and answered, my annoyance clear to the underling who had called me.

“Sorry sir! Did I wake you?” he said quickly, realizing from my rude greeting that he had done something wrong.
“No. Why the hell are you calling me? Do I even employ you?” This guy didn’t play the part well enough; he certainly didn’t work for me. Anyone who did would know how much I despised the word sir.

“No sir. I work for the Black Widow; she wanted me to deliver something but I have no idea where you live.” The man’s tone was high and panicky; he had obviously heard some kind of horror story from Vesapian about me.
“Ask her then!” I snapped gruffly, ending the call.

I fell back onto the dirty mattress situated under the half-wall that divided the living room/bedroom from the kitchen. Everyone who visited me thought it was weird that I lived in such a cheap apartment - everyone except for King and Vesapian, seeing as they weren’t much better about their living situations- when I had more than enough money to afford a lavish apartment with a doorman and all that shit.

The shear force of my back hitting the mattress sent a shudder through the floor and knocked loose more plaster from the walls, sending it to join the other pieces in a pile on the floor. Half-asleep, I thought about repairing the quickly deteriorating conditions of the apartment but realized how much effort that’d require.

No way was I going to put any effort into this shit hole. The doorbell rang just as I was about to fall asleep, pissing me off even more. I got up and yanked open the door, stopping the courier in the middle of pushing the button again.

“What the hell do you want?” I growled, narrowing my eyes at the terrified man who had disturbed my slumber. Tugging at his collar nervously, he took a few steps back and asked, “I’m sorry, but are you Daimeon Devique?”

I nodded and he handed me the beautifully wrapped box he had thrown to the side in his haste to get away from me. It was slightly squashed, I noticed as I glared angrily at the cowering man. He eeped and held out a clipboard.

“Puh-please sign this, Mr. Devique,” he stammered, his once proud stance wilting under my intently angry gaze. I quickly scrawled my name on it and shoved it back into his hands. I turned, present in hand, and closed the door behind me.

Giddy as a small child, I read the tag eagerly. In an elegant hand was the words, “To Daimeon. You’ll never guess what it is ;) Love, Lark.”

I tore the neatly wrapped paper off the box and peered inside. There was a card and a smaller box, this one wrapped in duct tape. I went to go get a pair of scissors from the kitchen, laughing all the way. This was just like him, making it difficult for me to get what I wanted.

Finally, I managed to get the last of the duct tape off, revealing a small black box. I opened it and drew in a sharp gasp; he didn’t. The ring glittering dimly in the low light told me he did.

I grabbed the card and opened it. As I had expected, it said only one thing, “Will you marry me, Daimeon?” Suddenly, I was weightless, the ground rushing up to break my fall.

When I woke up, I was surrounded. Vesapian’s troops had stormed the place, obviously in search of the ring. It was one of the seven state treasures; I had no idea why Lark thought he could get away with stealing it.

Vesapian herself sat elegantly on the edge of the windowsill, a hair’s width from falling and dying on the sidewalk. She was watching the passing pedestrians with an intent focus seen only in a hawk preparing to swoop down on an unsuspecting mouse.

She looked up and glanced over at me.
“Look who’s awake. You have a good nap, buddy?”
She was speaking to me in a tone reserved for small children and pets, which was in no way amusing. I snorted and asked,
“How long have you been here?”

Shrugging, she lept back into the apartment and in a surprising show of athleticism, landed on an armchair and tipped it over. She looked up at me and sat upside down in the chair, not willing to exert the effort required to put the chair back.

“Only about an hour or so. Don’t worry, I’ll pay for the door,” she chuckled, gesturing to where the door had been torn from the frame and thrown down the hall. I sighed and asked,
“What are you here for?”

“What, can’t I just show up because I’m lonely? Because I want your companionship? Jeez, what ever happened to hospitality?”
I struggled to not throw her out the window as I said between clenched teeth,
“You. Broke. Into. My. Apartment.”
She pouted and asked, “So?”

That was the last straw. I grabbed her by her pressed, no doubt expensive, white shirt and slapped her across the face. She whimpered at me and suddenly there were three soldiers behind me, guns cocked and at the ready. I dropped her and stepped back.

“Actually, if you must know, I was here to deliver this but fine! Be that way!” She shoved a red paper wrapped present at me as she stormed out of the apartment, fake sobbing the whole way.

Ok, here goes:
(Beware a few choice words)

I. Emma


She stood out, a stark black against the white snow glistening in the afternoon sun. Trudging her way along the sidewalk between the brackish, slushy gray of cleared snow from the road and the stark, unblemished white of the yards. She thought it was quite nice compared to other wintry afternoons in Detroit. For Emma, the sun didn’t always shine. Her trek home from school took her through the suburban McMansions recently left standing, cold and empty. Emma’s neighborhood lay just beyond the subdivisions, Just close enough to make riding the bus, or taking a car, impractical. Just far enough to understand the clear distinction between the kids of those families who were left in the McMansions and herself.

Emma’s sharp contrast made it easy for her classmates to pick her out as they rode by on the buses (the ones more likely to circulate in Emma’s vicinity) and in their cars (the less likely, as their cars were usually upper end and thus they must associate with upper end people as well).

She stood out from the drifts for several reasons. Her personal style verged on Johnny Rotten crossed with a pink bow. Although she was no Nancy, for one she thought Sid and Nancy were dumb, definitely not a punk Romeo and Juliet. Second, because Emma was definitely not heroin chic. She was heavy set with a little baby fat on her tummy and strong arms. Her legs were stout, but not undefined. Emma did not suffer the dreaded “cankles” insult. Not that you could tell anyway, black hi-top Doc Martens laced tight moved into overlaid fishnets with the larger, holier pair pulled over the smaller, less ripped pair. The overlay was one of the only ways Emma dared wear her stockings to school. Although quite lax when it came to a dress code, her school wouldn’t have tolerated the already large spaces in her outer fishnets, especially when combined with the holes from the numerous rips and tears that gaped along her legs.

Over the stockings was a simple black knee length skirt, safety pins adorned the split up her left thigh. The skirt itself was tattered and frayed around the hems, the product of years of duty in the service of personal fashion. Her belt was studded, legit studs in fact, not the Hot Topic shit that popped off if you really had an urge to get at one. Waist up was always a combination of, rain or shine, winter or summer, spring or fall, a thermal and a stretchy shirt with rips and holes.

Over these she would wear any number of t-shirts. Unlike the hipsters who prided themselves on irony or obscurity in their fashion at her school, her tshirts were legit reflections of her interests. When she wore her Sex-Pistols shirt it was because she could feel that Queen could only be saved God, who happened to have a sneer and spiked blond hair. She was a Stooge, a streetwalking cheetah with a hide full of napalm. She was a Ramone, blitzkrieg bopping over the rainbow. Her Sting falsettoed So Lonely and was her own Message in a Bottle. The more black, the better was her decision when it came to clothing, maybe a touch of pink wasn’t so bad though. (She was a competition cheerleader after all. “She didn’t lift weights, she lifted people” said a fundraising t-shirt.)

To finish the look, Emma sported jet black hair and eyeliner to match. She had seen the Distillers once and thought the lead singer, Brodie, was just the fucking coolest. Joan Jett for Emma’s age, although she knew deep down there would never be another Joan Jett.

The only variance in the black, besides the occasional pink or splash of color on one of her t-shirts, was her dad’s military jacket. A faded olive drab, the jacket had seen time overseas in things her dad didn’t talk about much, like, ever. She had seen a plaque commemorating a bronze star once, and vaguely remembered a story her mother told her about a helicopter going down on the base where her dad was stationed. This had been before Emma’s mother was a casualty of the bad days in Detroit. Gentrification had brought the McMansions into her part of the Motor City, erasing (but never completely) the industrial and vicious edge she had always known.

So today, blacked out, with a dash of green, on the way home from school, Emma, fists clenched into the overlong sleeves of her father’s jacket against the cold, trudged home. The usual pit was in her stomach. For about a year Emma had felt a growth inside of her. No, she wasn’t pregnant. Instead, it was an ebbing and flowing emotional growth. She would wake up in the morning generally happy, very well adjusted for a teenage girl from a low-income part of town in a single parent family. She didn’t have boy problems, or catfights to worry about. Everybody was pretty much cool with Emma. She presented, and possessed, a very secure sense of self and people accepted it. Her first few practices had been rough as a freshman, of course. What is new is a threat, and what is misunderstood is definitely a threat to a closed system like cheerleaders. But, Emma, as always won them over by staying true. So what if she liked punk? She could still lift, toss, and base better than most, and she always hit her marks. When she pulled her back tuck before any other freshman on the team, the older, previously bitchy, girls shrugged with a sense of fuck it, she’s good and welcomed her to the fold.

The ebb and flow would usually begin once she got to school, although some days it may have begun earlier if her dad was up and about. She hadn’t really pinned it down exactly though. She knew it wasn’t anxiety, and it wasn’t food related. She wasn’t medicated, and she couldn’t identify any other possible reasons. Most of the time she was fine until she touched, or brushed, or made contact with someone else. Emma had almost narrowed it down to this, but had written it off because the odds of not physically touching someone in high school were astronomical. Halls the size of cattle chutes, friends with no respect for personal space, lockers stacked on lockers with an inch between them and even less for people, made the effort to stay untouched impossible.

Touching was one part she had almost identified, but that didn’t account for the other part that seemed to play a part. Sometimes the growth would stir from a word, or a look, or when she regarded someone. Sometimes it seemed as if the feeling crept in when she was merely in the room with someone, silent and separate as if the feelings she experienced were ambient energies attracted to her as if she was a magnet.

No genius, Emma worked her way through the only explanations she could generate. She had failed to notice people’s mood lightening after encountering her. Her locker buddies over the years had been strikingly good students. At least they were better than they should have been. The years they were not near her locker, with the daily interactions or contact, show a marked decline in discipline, attendance, and grades. It was still Detroit after all, and an almost inner city school until the gentrification had injected new tax money and new standards. As a result, the student population had become almost three quarters middle to upper middle class and the rest pretty severely impoverished and angry, rather than the completely impoverished reason to send your kids to private school it had been before.

Some kids were still angry, poor, and prone to crime, just not the ones who had the good fortune of having a locker near Emma, or even a class with her, or even seeing her in the hall or at lunch. Her teachers had better classes, the teachers themselves thought they were better, and generally the years people had Emma, the punk cheerleader who struggled in math and was only average in everything else, were career years. (When discussing Emma, her teachers would say “She’s not the brightest, but goodness she’s swee-eet.” If they had been in the South, they would have added a “bless her heart.”)

If she had thought about it a little more, beyond merely connecting the growth to contact, or speech, or thoughts, then she would have noticed that no one on her squad had ever really suffered any serious injury. Most cheerleaders carry any number of sprains, tears, or pulls at any given time. Those few who are lucky enough not have broken anything are the definite minority. Forest Hills High School competition cheerleading (Back-to-back-to-back State Champs! Woo!) hadn’t been plagued by the general breaks and sprains that were the bug-a-boo of its rival programs. Several times the trainer had stood shaking his head at the disappearance of concussion symptoms, or the regained resistance of a knee landed on awkwardly. Those injuries which had stuck, had occurred almost always in a manner in which the trainer had to quickly escort the injured cheerleader away from the squad into the arms of the parents to be whisked away to the doctor. (Although those injuries generally disappeared after joining back up with the team.) No one really gave it much attention. It was strange, sure, but not on such a level as to be overtly evident. Because no one else noticed it, Emma most surely did not.

Once all things were considered, Emma still drew a blank. She perceived far more than she understood. She could gauge from the looks on people’s faces their moods. The happy from the sad, the sincere from the insincere. Even her father, a stoic, was not unreadable to Emma. What she knew was that she was often happy until she met up with, or touched somebody. She also understood that people always seemed to leave her happy, or at least some degree happier or better than they were before.

She had been considering this more frequently than usual. Her dad had been different recently but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. As she turned into the deserted lot her house backed up to, separated by a wobbly chain link fence, Emma sniffled and trudged on. She reached the fence, feeling the same wave of sadness, pain, and suffering, growing somehow more firm inside of her. She stepped through the gate, screaming on its rusty, slightly off center hinges. She turned her key in the lock on the cage protecting their inner door from the reality of her neighborhood, glancing twice over her shoulder as her dad had taught her to make sure no one was sneaking up on her, and entered the house.

“Dad?” she called. Knowing full well it was too early for him to be home, but vaguely remembering today’s schedule as different. She went to the refrigerator and grabbed a Mountain Dew. Caffeine was perhaps her only vice. Caffeine and, much to the disgust of her punk friends, saccharine pop music. She opened the can and took a long sip with her eyes closed. A song popped into her head. It was a Rihanna song about cheering the weekend, and how she’d drink to that. So would I, Emma thought, although she had never tried to drink before.

With the tune in her head, she dropped her bags by the door. Both her bookbag and training bag were laden with the essentials. Her bookbag, adorned with buttons, pins, and patches, slumped with the weight of her notebooks and her math book. Her training bag was full of shoes, shorts, tshirts, and bows. They shouldn’t have been remotely close in weight, but the amount of things a teenage girl needs would surprise most people. Enough at least to be equal to what the girl needs to be successful in school. Leaving the bags by the door, and her drink on the table, Emma flitted down the hallway from the kitchen leading to the living room and front door, humming her best Rihanna impersonation. In the foyer she turned and headed upstairs.

At the top she paused considering a few things before she decided on what she wanted to do. Bedroom or Bathroom? Both places had things she needed. But today was different than before. The itch and weight she felt were itchier and heavier than before and she was unsure of what she needed to do. Emma stepped down the hall, passed her bedroom on her left, and entered the bathroom. Closing the door, the humming from the hall broke into a full song. Emma sang the arias of Avril Lavigne laid under the track because she couldn’t quite remember the actual words. Locking the door, Emma turned to the sink and mirror.

Looking back at her was a disheveled mess. Unbeknownst to Emma, during the walk her body had already begun its processes. Her mascara and eyeliner gave off the impression of crying ink. Her hair, so tightly pulled back from practice, had slid off slightly to the left, still a ponytail but loose enough to allow a poof of sorts to grow over her forehead. Her bangs fell in strands along the edges of her face. Her heart dropped at the sight, and what had been easy to resist during the walk, the acceptance of the inevitability of now and what must happen, hit home with full force.

Emma sang. Muted, slower, more off key, but still she sang. As she turned on the faucet and placed a razor under the water growing steadily hotter, she sang. She left Rihanna, and sang her way through a search for a new song. Lines from a dozen songs echoed off the green tiles of the bathroom as she busied herself with preparations. Songs were tried and discarded until one felt right. She had stumbled into classic rock somehow. Her dad had tried everything he could to forge a bond with his daughter since his wife, and her mother, had been shot. Music had been the key.

The first thing I remember was asking father why, cause there were many things I did not know… crooned John Fogerty.

Emma turned back to the mirror, now fogging from the steam rising from the sink. She wiped a streak through the condensation and saw herself again. She had placed a towel beside her on the commode. As she left her own gaze and bent to pick it up, a drop of blood fell from her nose. A single dot on the porcelain, frozen in her mind. It was time.

And daddy always smiled at me, took me by the hand, and said to me someday you’ll understand.

“I hope so Daddy,” she thought and stripped her shirt off. She removed her sports bra and stood topless in the steam humming the song her mind settled on.

“God, I hope so,”

I’m here to tell you now, each and every mother’s son. You better learn it now you better learn it young... the chorus resonated.

She picked up the razor. A double sided insert into an old time razor that had been a gift to her father from her mother one Christmas that had been bought at a high-end shaving shop. It was light in her fingers as she turned the blade down and in a quick motion drew it deeply across her wrist. Sniffling, but still humming, the chorus echoed through her mind:

'Cause someday never comes...

She switched hands and drew another deep line in the meaty part of her forearm. Her hand was slippery with the blood, hot and sticky. As she finished her other arm Emma dropped the blade into the sink. The water was diluting the flowing blood into a pinkish shade. She thought it looked like her bows downstairs. A good thought.

Someday-ee-yay never comes...

Resting her arms on the lip of the sink so the blood poured into the basin, Emma sank to her knees. She rested her forehead against the front of the old porcelain dish and felt the cool surface. She closed her eyes and felt the ebb and flow again. This time the pain and sorrow ebbed, and a sense of release flowed in.

1 Night

I took one breath and I thought I died, then I lived again, and I was never more alive after that. But maybe that was just the toxic, gaseous spew of the city slowly killing the last of my brain cells. Either way, now (and now is the only thing that ever mattered), I felt alive. The choking smog, the glitzy smut, and the aching scent of a story yet to be told or even dreamed hung heavily in the air.

There was a big empty silence in the dark cavity of the city that night. Every artificial star melded into the endless void of moonlight, stone, and steel. My anxious footsteps fell in syncopation, mimicking the long dead rhythm of the night. Ahead, my brother went diving forward into the river of cars and came out the other side screaming with delight. His eyes dared me to follow. They were always daring someone into something.

“Wesley,” I let my voice sail to that pair of daring eyes. “Why are we here?”

“You’ll see,” an equally daring voice replied. He turned around to face me, with his eyes still ablaze. “There’s just this spot I need to show you. It’s just about perfect this time of night.”

“In the middle of Helene at three in the morning?” I ran forward to catch him, and he went whooping through a side alley, raving like a maniac.

“No! On Mars at the crack of dawn! So don’t be late.” I swallowed my curiosity momentarily, and went tearing after him to the dark, silent heart of the alley.

We filled that brooding silence with our roars, ugly symphonies of youthful noise and our own fiery madness. I think the city itself was writhing with the same insane, unadulterated joy that we were. Those roars erupted out of us like beasts in the wilderness, forsaken and hungry, and reverberated out across the twinkling city. In a way, that was exactly what we had become. We walked on and on and on, deeper into the heart of the city and deep enough to be caught by the spell of the underworld.

It was a valley of misshapen art and dust, with “art” being a very generous term. They city was haphazardly thrown together, with odd protruding spires of stone and dilapidated bits of wood adorning the downtown scene. We wandered meaninglessly, but not aimlessly, throughout the once vibrant ruins of the city. But what was left of the city anyway? Brown faded to ochre and weather-berated gray swathed every artificial element of the night. The moonlight reached out its wicked tentacles to illuminate the sad, decaying truth of it all.

“So where exactly are we going?”

“Oh, just shut up for once and enjoy the trip. This is your first time actually sneaking out, after all.”

“Oh yeah, this is just too much fun, leaving my nice, comfortable bed to waltz around a filthy rundown city. Thanks, Wes.”

“I know. I love this city too. Come on, Hector. Saffron Street is just around the corner.” Begrudgingly, I followed my smiling brother to the corner. Somehow I knew that particular night would end this way, with me walking faithfully into the solemn darkness after some smiling maniac.

The city was now just a wraith, a whisper of what had once been a mighty shout to the rest of the world. Around the corner the beggars would still be there, depending on nothing but the kindness of strangers. But in this city, kindness was practically a dead commodity. With every nostalgic footstep we knew that we were in a much different place, a much different time, from the city we knew.

My brother had dragged me out here, but I wanted to go. I wanted something, and I thought I might find it in the city. I didn’t know what I was chasing that night inside the ruinous city. It was something impossible, something either so impossibly profound or simple that it escaped my every desperate reach into the unknown. The chase went beyond the city. It went beyond me.

“Isn’t that where all the whores and drug addicts call home?" Once, we had lived in the city, in one of the ochre-colored apartment buildings with graffiti savagely strewn on the walls. I remembered distinctly being forbidden from venturing to Saffron Street at night, or any time of day, but especially night, and yet, there I was.

“You say that like it's a bad thing. They’re connoisseurs of all things pleasurable to experience. This is just...the Mecca of the underworld. It’s the center of the city. It’s beautiful if you look at it the right way." Wesley’s daring eyes looked wildly around.

"That right way would be with your eyes closed and praying that you're somewhere else, right?"

"Didn’t I tell you to shut up already? You’re not seeing things the right way yet."

We reached the end of the sidewalk, and waltzed across the street to the sound of car horns and aggravated shouts. The silence had been shattered, beautifully. Whatever I was searching for, whatever I had wanted, was fixed somewhere in the stars that captured my gaze. There I was, possessed and enamored by the blank and brilliant stare of the stars. For a moment I saw their brilliance fade and the swirling starlight was instantly replaced by the swiftly approaching car lights. There I was, on Saffron Street, the twisted, sadistic, and beautiful heart of the dilapidated city. Even in the dead of night, the vilest people and their cars still populated the city, ever faithful and lifeless. I was surrounded with life, it was crying out all around me, but I was almost certain I had never felt more alone in my life. With my soul thrashing and yearning with the stars for secrets unspeakable, I wasn’t just alone, I was bored.

“I don’t want to see anything but my eyelids when I curl up in my nice, soft bed!”